Mountain Passes of South Africa!

I am blessed to have one of those dads that does not allow himself to stagnate --- physically, mentally and technologically! When cell-bricks first came out (oops, cell-phones) he was one of the first to sign those inevitably fine-print riddled cell-phone contracts. His business, Autolink, was one of the first independent car dealerships to have their own website -- in 1994 -- triggering a cross-country trend. His highly competitive involvement in racing yachts also allowed for much gadget-buying and brain-stretching with GPSs and the like, and most recently, his GoPro cameras! Even his mountain-biking and 4x4ing involve the GoPros --- and, most memorably - as only grampas can do - a GoPro video of his and Layla's ferris-wheel adventure at the Waterfront. Oh yes - and don't forget the video of Lloyd, the vegan llama who violently snubbed my dad's offerings of biltong with literally litres of the most vile green slime, from head to foot. And then still had to walk the three longest, foul-smelling kilometres back to the caravan to soap the trauma from his skin and memory. Ah! Such is the life of the intrepid, camera-wielding adventurer!

The last year has taken my dad into a whole new creative space, and the culmination of many, many hours of adventuring, filming, researching and editing, is his new website, 'Mountain Passes of South Africa'. (A little bit of background to my dad and his love affair with his Landcruiser: when I returned from the UK in 2006 to find my dad the very proud owner of a 4x4, I was aghast, appalled, ashamed. You see, my dad brought us up as nature purists (aka 'nature snobs' - though for which I am still incredibly thankful):competitive dinghy sailors who looked down upon the wild, noisy motor-boaters and hikers who scorned the lazy, motorised Sunday jollers who we viewed as almost abusing nature. But - the flip-side to this story is that 4x4ers are generally great respecters of nature and eco-enthusiasts, so I have had to revise my previous opinions! My dad's passion for seeking out the more remote mountainous beauties of South Africa is good to behold. It relaxes him immensely, and has inspired his writing and film-making --- pushing his previously unrequited creative needs. Additionally -- and very proud I am -- he brings an incredible about of enjoyment and inspiration to readers of South African travel and adventure mags like Go!, Getaway, Weg!, the Landcruiser Club and many more. So... without further ado, I am off to take a squizz at his most recently uploaded mountain pass adventure - the Pakhuis Pass in my beloved Cederberg!

Spring Into Action!

Spring has arrived --with a rainbow of feathery flourishes, oodles of hope and the most gentle of sunshine. Feathers? What have feathers got to do with the price of eggs? Everything. But, this is a little secret I'm hiding for a few more weeks. So, hold both your thumbs and wish upon a zillion stars for me - because... (*deep, excited breath/sparkling eyes*): this may just be IT for me!

My Spring Diary:

Layla + Nate when they were 18 months old! Nothing better than cousin-cuddles!

1st September: At long last, after more than a month of conjuring up wildly happy hats from feathers, faux birds, silk and lace for Home Of Hope's Spring-themed charity fundraiser, it was time to party-with-heart! With Layla being spoiled by her Aunty Mandy (new Hello Kitty leggings and veritably drowning in aunty-kisses) and co-entertained by Nate: her somewhat Tarzan-esque cousin, I headed up the coast to Blouberg's 'On The Rocks' --- a restaurant, um... on the rocks. Of the less crowded end of Blouberg's beach. And with a view that, um... rocks one's world! The event raised R43 000! (And 103 extremely rowdy, untameable ladies who jabbered relentlessly through all the speeches, but who gave copiously from their deep heart-pockets!) The Home of Hope deserves its own blog post --- but if you have money (even R20 a month, on debit order), toys, clothes or time to gift them, please contact me or them directly (via their website.) I'm going to be teaching the little ones 'creative developmental play', basic literacy and art. And --- more critically-than-even-oxygen, loving them. Get loving, guys!

The view from Pakalolo's, on Blouberg's beachfront.

I was WAAAAAY too early for the function --- and my Facebook status that day says it all: 

  I'm grabbing a luxuriously solitary coffee at my old haunt on Blouberg's beachfront to sit and simply soak up 'my' mountain, and revel in my wild passion for this city that never ceases to delight and inspire me!

2nd September: Church. And then a spontaneous ice-cream -------- and then garlic-riddled lunch at Blouberg'd Primi Piatta. Glorious. Deliciousindulgentextravagant ---- well, just plain YUMMY!

3rd/4th/5th September: My mommy-brain can't remember... (A joke/truth I have probably told too many times already: when Layla was delivered via frighteningly dramatic C-section, the surgeon was in such a mad rush that he took out my brain instead of my placenta. Ya, well no fine...)

6th September: Beckoned seducingly outside by the suddenly warm sun, Layla and I made today #1 of our Gardening Adventure (though I knew I had to, tragically, hold a funeral for my two bonsais which died in this epic Cape winter we just had...) BUT: (my time's running out at the keyboard) our time was cut screeeeeechingly short by Layla's discovery of a sudden inundation of termites ---- of Biblical proportions! 7 minutes of Gardening Adventure Day #1 in total. And no tiny-tree funeral.

Time's run out.

Sympathetic Soutie's (Slightly) Grim Grumblings

Autumn has arrived amidst the bucketing down of a thousand cats and dogs. Dramatic, dark and very, very wet. For the first time in my life I am actually tempted to buy an umbrella! Even seven years in the UK didn't cause me to do the umbrella-thing -- despite its notorious reputation as the rainiest of places. (A red umbrella, brand spanking new, still lurks somewhere in my cupboard: a bon-voyage gift before I left for my second stint in the UK. Suppose the giver thought it an apt gift? I'd have preferred them to have cancelled my flight!)

Today, however, is a delectable 30degC. Now I need an umbrella for the sun! Anyway - my boet arrived in Cape Town this morning for a 4 day visit with his wife and my niece: almost two years old, and meeting her for the first time sans the veil of Facebook.The thoughts I can't seem to squish and squash away into the already overstuffed back corner of my mind are these: I haven't seen Shane in 10 years. Will we see each other again in our lifetime? Will this be the first and last time Layla and her new cousin Kyla see each other? Or are our relationships destined to be lived out and filtered through Facebook? Not an unhappy conundrum I feel like writing about today but should probably be explored. A question rolled around in all of our ex-expat or expat hearts like a sticky, dirty marble we'd prefer to ignore.

I managed to write a (brief) post on my Contemplating My Navel blog this morning - and I touched on the new friendships I have with two non-Soutie expats: a Korean family, and an Indian family. Head over there for a squizz!
Time to get back downstairs and soak up as much time with my brother as I can. Before it's too late. ( Grim, but true, eh?) So, ciao/adios/totsiens till next time.

Wild, Wild Wailing Wanting!

Eish. No blogging in over 2 months of wordlessness. So - where to begin? Hmmm....
Perhaps a few little jottings about the Mother City? Cape Town, the cradle of all that I am, the archive of all my most precious, magical memories.
After two months back in Cape Town, it seems surreal and preposterous that I ever actually chose to live away from it. England for 4, and then another 2 years (reneging on my vow to never return to the muddiest of isles!) A year and a half in Grahamstown in the Eastern Cape -- dry, a little too rustic and quaint for this Capetonian and distinctly and painfully lacking in friends and family. (Sjoe - it feels soooooo good to be writing again.)
'Bananas in Pyjamas' is on the TV, babysitting Layla in her new granny-made buzzy-bee 'tutu' --- so I'll make hay-words while the TV-sun shines!

A lekkerly special adventure I took Layla on, was to meet up with my sisters and Layla's little cousin, at Mouille Point's lighthouse, and walk across to the Blue Train - where I remember being joggled and boggled around inside it, around and around the simple little play-park, the turquoise sea glittering a little way off. HELL of a noisy - to the point of near-pain and temporary tinnitus - Layla adored every minute of it, especially the pitch darkness of the tunnel. Nate, her little cuz (2 months younger than her) wasn't quite as excited about it all - not surprisingly with all that cacophonic rumbling! He had a similar sort of reticence when Layla called him into that yellow sound-pod at the Iziko Museum (remember from all those school outings? the glass submariney thing under the gargantuan whale skeleton?) Layla fell immediately in love with the symphony of whale-song that fills the pod - but Nate would only venture in once, gingerly, with a Marie biscuit for Madame MarineBiologist! Conversely, he is such a rough-and-tumbler - frighteningly fearless - where Layla is hyper-cautious, whining for my hand to climb down even the lowest little step. Amazing, the little people!

After that, it was the V&A Waterfront for lunch and two exhausting tantrums from an overtired prima donna. (No, not me!!) Tantrum #1: That 'Build A Bear' shop. (*groan*) Layla spotted a pink surfboard. And 'wanted' is the most extreme understatement of the century. And Nate just watched his cousin, worried about her and absolutely angelic in his not-wantingness! Tantrum #2: The ferris-wheel. Damnit!! Layla's current l'il passion is the fun-fair. And her sighting of the ferris-wheel ignited another state of 'want' that caused me to hunt through my wallet in frenzied desperation for R40 for the ticket, instantly slapping a silencing smile on her tear-wet face. And then... that crushing claustrophobia of parental realisation that: there was not enough money in my wallet to pay for the ticket, and not enough con-artistry in my arsenal to talk her out of her VERY bitter disappointment. Yebo. Fun at the fair, eh?
Last week, however, I was able to make good on my promise to take her for a ride on the ferris-wheel. (The ticket was R80, by the way. Under 3's go for free.) And - the views from our little spot of circling tourist-heaven left my heart hammering in 'And I live here!' bliss, awe and gratitude.

No more animated (in every sense of the word) bananas bouncing around on the TV, so time to do the 'adios' thing!
Love,
Lisa

The Write Stuff (*snigger-worthy pun*)

Princess Goofy-Ballerina : 30 months old already!

MUCH has been consuming my midnight, noon, morning and every-other-time-of-day oil - from greenly snotty noses, phlegmy coughs (my personal favourite) and crochetty toddlers to writing, writing and more writing! Of course I am  having an absolute ball - but I ache for the day when Layla can go to playschool. (113 days of aching to go, koeksister. Vasbyt en sterkte!)

A very efficient new website for soon-to-be expats, Just Landed, caught my attention on Twitter. Though the editor is keen for me to be a features writer for them, focusing on the South African's experience of living in the UK, I am more busy with writing and guest-blogging than I ever thought I could be! Hopefully we can reach a happy compromise?! Despite the fact that I know I will never be an expat every again (unless kidnapped by force -- and then hopefully by a devilishly handsome Italian who would feed me only dark chocolate, red wine and romance by candlelight in his Tuscan villa) my mission of passion for the expat phenomenon deepens with each home-soil month. Perhaps a book is waiting in the wings?

There are so many of us expatters and ex-expatters (the ones in the UK are the cowpatters!) writing about our journeys and joltings that it proves just how life-changing, mind-opening, heart-growing and trajectory-altering the expat experience is, whether permanent or temporary.

English Snowscape by Uber-African, Dave Rieger

A friend of mine, Dave Rieger, a South African expat in the UK's East Midlands, has also begun writing (at last - and what a treat!) His style? He is expertly cynical satirist with such sophisticated (dry!) humour that it often takes me a mini-eon to catch his quips - but he also pushes my thinking-boundaries. His most recent blog post details a business-related adventure through the mango plantations of Brazil. Being quite the photographer as well, his blog is definitely worth subscribing to! Here is the link to his blog: A Ramble From Mpondondo .

Here are links to my most recent articles (and always juiced up with lots of eye-candy!

My first two blog posts as a writer for Boutique Mademoiselle Vintage (a Canadian e-magazine that specialises in all things vintage)

*Blame It On Chanel
*Two Teaspoons of Wishful Thinking (where I nepotistically but still genuinely celebrated my sister's jewellery business-boutique!)

There have a couple of updates to my own 3 blogs:

*A Self Indulgent Little Yarn
*Expats & Eskimo Kisses
*Sublime, Sublime Simplicity  (farmhouse zen: a recipe with eggs in tomatoes!)

Also recently published at an SA magazine reviewing e-mag, Hy-Se-Sy-Se
headed up by poet&wordsmith, Elsibe Loubser.
*The Metaphysics of Knitting (my story is below the first one!)

As always, I THRIVE on feedback and comments (however cheeky!) So - leave
your thoughts, or even a simple 'x'  as an encouraging kiss!

Grahamstown, Fled (again...)

I'm cramped into the over-packed back of our 4x4 bakkie while Craig navigates us safely from Grahamstown to PE on the notoriously dangerous N2 - terrorised by giant kudu at night, and giant arseholes by day. Overtaking on blind turns is apparently the most fun to be had on this bleak, rainy day in the bundu - and everyone's playing except us! The low-cloud's massively decreased visibility adds a bonus bullet of fun into this Road Russian Roulette. (*eish*)
A few months ago, we were witness to an all too regular South African statistic: a taxi accident that left limbs, and screams, and blood steaming off the summer-tar -- the minibus a crushed accordian of dead and alive. It had only just happened... I desperately wanted to stop, to console or offer my hands in help...but with my little girl in the car, I had to let it go. (At least there were already about 15 cars parked along the side of the road. We crept past too slowly; wordless prayers poured from my eyes: tears.)

(The length of the journey and unrestricted access for a Blackberry addict to her device resulted in the additional 2 photos: my to-do list for when I get my internet set up on my laptop this afternoon (13 months to the day since our arrival back in SA!!) - and my poison for 'ce soir': a Leopard's Leap Shiraz Cinsaut!)
'Men must live and create. Live to the point of tears.' Albert Camus

A-maize-ing!

I guess this should really be a post for my 'Samp & Sushi' blog which is an emaciated little waif of a blog --- and some advice that Blackberried to me yesterday suggested I may just a few too many blogs... So: I'll 'hide' that one -- and if I am overcome by a desire to write about South African food -- I'll do it here, ok?

One of my favourite things is the juncture between culture, food and graphic-design/packaging : and exactly why I chose this packet of Ace porridge from the breakfast shelves in Pick 'n Pay! I certainly know more than a handful of South African who would reject it with scorn for the exact same reason I chose it: it's Africanness. How just looking at it amongst the rest of the Kelloggs and Bokomos tells you about a dry, dusty red road, and the long walk home, her groceries gracefully balanced upon her head, and slumbering toddler upon her back. It must be the unfettered absence of visual seduction: no strong cardboard boxing, or glossy, hallucinogenically gaudy graphics emboldened by brand ambassadors we can't say no to: the jean-size dropping, white leotarded brunette brandishing her tape-measure like an accusing snake, or the 'Mommy, I want ________' cartoon-lures.

For me, the Ace packaging makes me taste the maizey soulfulness of my gran's 'pap en wors'. It sings to me about the samp-and-beans of my schoolday afternoons. Perhaps, though, it is a reminder of poverty: your own? those whose less-ness terrifies you, or exhausts your nights with guilt? I know a few older South Africans who even struggled to digest the concept of cous-cous (pun unfortunately intended) : that it wasn't an 'African' food but an African food. (Do I need to explain that? Leave me a note in 'Comments' if I need to!)

(I've got a horrible boomerang cold, and a dramatically different toddler to entertain solo till 9pm - so best I conserve what brain and body energy I DO have!)

Liefde as altyd en vir ewig, my Suid Afrika,
Lisa

'Men must live and create. Live to the point of tears.' Albert Camus

MY hindsight, YOUR foresight : grab it by the balls!!

As absolutely, bloody marvellous as the Internet is, there are some vile little flaws that daily drive me bananas. For example, just as I finished a painstakingly heartfelt tweaking of a prior blog post and hit ‘publish’, all my changes had vanished. Ka-boom – in a puff of Google-smoke!

C’est la vie, non? A year on into our homecoming, and this is perhaps the lesson we have learned most exquisitely. Now, remember that ‘exquisite’ can relate to both pleasure and pain. And pain there has certainly been. As you will see in my previous post, I was unable to sugarcoat the disappointment and trials of the last 12 months, even though there were a number of cowardly moments when I wanted to delete the post before publishing it. That yellow-streaked pride of mine at being such a devout South African recoiled in horror at my honesty. It screeched, a banshee, in my ear: “Why on EARTH would you hand yourself over on a plate for those expat-wolves that hunt you down? Do you WANT to die a slow, Mzansi death, listening to the cracking and crunching of your bones between their teeth?” But, I had always been honest in my pro-SA liturgies – though that never required courage - only passion and joy. Now, I had to let my pride slither off me, a sad little snake, and be bravely, terrifyingly real.

Being this honest made me realise the coming home is not for the faint-hearted or the cowardly. Coming home requires every ounce of strength, love, compassion and patience you had no idea you were capable of. And the truth is that you don’t possess it. Your homecoming draws it out of you, teardrop by sigh by sob – until, a year later, you find yourself astounded at the deep, exhilarating depths of your heart, where peace is the air you breathe in this canyon of your heart. (Yes, yes, the drama, the drama. But how else could I describe a journey that tears your dreams apart? A journey that unravels who you are, so that you pick up the Ariadne-thread of yourself right at the beginning, knitting yourself together again, in a stronger, more intricately beautiful stitch.)

I wrote that article for you. So that you can reap the rewards of my (kinda humiliating) hindsight. Do not let your heartache overwhelm your head.

1. WAIT for the very best job – IN the town/city that makes your heart sing (and where your mother can drop off a milktart and a box of tissues when you’re sick, or where you can have a family braai every single night if the mood took you, and the piks could sleep in Aunty Mandy’s room while the conversation sizzled hotter then the wors.)

2. And SAVE, SAVE, SAVE, damnit!! When my sister shared a mouldy, grey little flat with a mix of Brazilians, Polish and Aussies in London, she was so hellbent on saving, that she would use only one, papery square of already 1-ply toilet paper --- or drip-dry! (My nugget of wisdom? It may be hellishly miserable for a year, but if you can starve, scrimp, scavenge and save, you will come home to the comfort you deserve.)

Saying that, it really hasn’t been as bleak as I made it out to be in my previous post – I just wrote it on a particularly sad and blue day. So, to even out the little sadnesses, here is a list of incredibly precious South African moments that have blessed my heart in the last 53 weeks:

The wild vastness of the African sky… that if you gaze into it for long enough, you will into its turquoise sea of peace.

Starlit braais in the middle of winter after a balmy, dry day spent in awe of the African sun’s luminous and loving warmth.

Samp-and-beans made especially for me by our nanny who still works for our family, and who used to walk to pick me up from playschool when I was three – and whose cheese snackwiches rival Jamie Oliver’s most gourmet sarnie!

A spectacular moment of Africanness: Regal, graceful Nguni cattle walking across the road --- in the middle of the town, and in the suburbs. The delight of its surreality made me actually slam my brakes on, mouth agape in wonder! (Other variations on this very Eastern Cape thing that continues to be a novelty for this Mother City girl are the wild donkeys let loose to graze the pavements’ grass --- and, on one occasion, to rummage through our garbage bags all the way down our driveway! There have been herds of pedantic goats stuck, undecided, in the middle of our road. Driving back from Joza (the location) and executing my first (immaculate!) emergency stop since my driving test in 1997, so I could protect a mommy-donkey and her little one who decided he needed a drink of milk, and stopped in the middle of the highway for a dawdling suckle. Bonus? Flagging down a passing Department of Roadworks vehicle, I was bursting with pride as out the car spilled smiling and efficient Department of Roadworkers, who – with infinitely gentle patience – coaxed the pair safely across the road. (I was proud because the flak our government gets blinds us all to what they DO get magnificently right! There have actually been many moments of municipal efficiency in my last year here in Grahamstown, and – the odd, random minor catastrophe (though those are only hearsay – and probably a gross exaggeration. *wink*)

I could go on for pages and pages and paaaaaages, but let me say adios for tonight --- and see you sooner rather than later. (I always say that, don’t I? Eish… sorry….) But: there is light at the end of my erratic-blogging-tunnel: I have a benefactor who is gifting me with the blessing of internet so I can write full-time! I can finally have those daily word-parties I’ve been dreaming about --- and make a nice little living from it!

And so, on that triumphant note, see you (I promise) soon.

A little Soutie...

It has taken me a month (or maybe more) to overcome my dread of Blackberry-cramp to write a new blogpost. Sorry, guys. But better late that never, huh?
In the last month I've spent more time in Cape Town and Port Elizabeth than Grahamstown. Craig and I have both been unable to help hating, ever more frustratingly, the winter of our Grahamstonian discontent - hence why we take shelter in our hometowns so often and for so long. And more and often, much to my repatriated pride, I'm beginning to wonder if our decision to flee home was just a wee bit too hasty? Perhaps if we'd rearranged our living and spending arrangements, and stayed on another 2 years, we may have been able to return to South Africa with the ability to buy property : and also to have waited for the best possible job-offers in Port Elizabeth. (I didn't mention settling in Cape Town: my dear, darling husband is VIOLENTLY averse to the apparent iniquity of (my) Mother City... *sigh/adolescent_eye-rolling*) And though these thoughts of a too-hasty-return plague us more and more often, the deep joy and peace of being in Africa, and in the divinely appointed bosom of our wonderful families still (kind of) keeps these almost-doubts at bay.
Our little house, decrepit, devoid of storage so we drown in cyclic chaos and regularly prone to heavy flooding and blocked drains hasn't helped our sense of homecoming serenity. Even my life-creed of: "what is healing but a change in perspective" didn't help, despite the gorgeous idea of Anais Nin's: "In chaos is fertility." Our most recent little domestic crisis is an about-to-overflow septic tank right at our front door!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I'm not a fan of using more than one or two exclamation marks, but this sh*tty problem is the final, final straw. Really.)

When we first got to Grahamstown, we rented a delightfully quaint Settlers cottage with a 'Bible' front door (a wooden cross set into it) and warm, creaky yellowwood floors that gleamed with the polishing of 200 years of feet. (See pic insert) The garden's dappled shade saved us from the dry, summer's heat - and this garden taught me to cherish our indigenous floral heritage --- and to develop a succulents obsession (and a minor cuttings-kleptomania!) We also indulged in almost nightly braais - slap-bang in the middle of 'winter'. Glorious. Heavenly. Utopic!
And then, we moved into the school's accomodation: a miniature section of a boys' hostel, replete with a urinal and two small and low-set basins. Fab. Utterly v*kken fab.

Ag - I really shouldn't complain - but hell's bells: the fact we still pay rent for this humiliation... Aai, aai, aai...
But having to live like this, with pilfering and sloppy builders, floods and frog infestations (I didn't mention that, did I?) is humiliating and exhausting. The other thing about moving into such a tiny little dorpie is that I am so far away from the my family, AND there are no jobs for me as a writer and artist. Unless you are a teacher or lecturer, there is very little scope for a meaningful career.

And so, my advice for those of you planning a homecoming is this: save your geldtjies bedonderd -- and make sure the city or town you choose to settle in contain your family, friends and career opportunities.

PS. A big, big 'sorry' about my unusually sombre approach in this post, and even though I nearly deleted it all (twice!) I felt that we should always give what we have learned to others.

'Men must live and create. Live to the point of tears.' Albert Camus

It has taken me a month (or maybe more) to overcome my dread of Blackberry-cramp to write a new blogpost. Sorry, guys. But better late that never, huh?

In the last month I've spent more time in Cape Town and Port Elizabeth than Grahamstown. Craig and I have both been unable to help hating, ever more frustratingly, the winter of our Grahamstonian discontent - hence why we take shelter in our hometowns so often and for so long.

More and often, much to my repatriated pride, I'm beginning to wonder if our decision to flee home was just a wee bit too hasty? Perhaps if we'd rearranged our living and spending priorities, and stayed on another 2 years, we may have been able to return to South Africa with the ability to buy property : and also to have waited for the best possible job-offers in Port Elizabeth. (Cape Town was my dear, darling husband is VIOLENTLY averse to the apparent iniquity of (my) Mother City... *sigh/adolescent_eye-rolling*) And though these thoughts of a too-hasty-return plague us more and more often, the deep joy and peace of being in Africa, and in the divinely appointed bosom of our wonderful families still (kind of) keeps these almost-doubts at bay.
Our little house, decrepit, devoid of storage so we drown in cyclic chaos and regularly prone to heavy flooding and blocked drains hasn't helped our sense of homecoming serenity. Even my life-creed of: "what is healing but a change in perspective" didn't help, despite the gorgeous idea of Anais Nin's: "In chaos is fertility." Our most recent little domestic crisis is an about-to-overflow septic tank right at our front door!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I'm not a fan of using more than one or two exclamation marks, but this sh*tty problem is the final, final straw. Really.)
When we first got to Grahamstown, we rented a delightfully quaint Settlers cottage with a 'Bible' front door (a wooden cross set into it) and warm, creaky yellowwood floors that gleamed with the polishing of 200 years of feet. The garden's dappled shade saved us from the dry, summer's heat - and this garden taught me to cherish our indigenous floral heritage --- and to develop a succulents obsession (and a minor cuttings-kleptomania!) We also indulged in almost nightly braais - slap-bang in the middle of 'winter'. Glorious. Heavenly. Utopic!
And then, we moved into the school's accomodation: a miniature section of a boys' hostel, replete with a urinal and two small and low-set basins. Fab. Utterly v*kken fab.
Ag - and I really shouldn't complain - but hell's bells: the fact we still pay rent for this humiliation... Aai, aai, aai...
But having to live like this, with pilfering and sloppy builders, floods and frog infestations (I didn't mention that, did I?) is humiliating and exhausting. The other thing about moving into such a tiny little dorpie is that I am so far away from the my family, AND there are no jobs for me as a writer and artist. Unless you are a teacher or lecturer, there is very little scope for a meaningful career.
And so, my advice for those of you planning a homecoming is this: save your geldtjies bedonderd -- and make sure the city or town you choose to settle in contain your family, friends and career opportunities.
(A big, big 'sorry' about my unusually sombre approach in this post, and even though I nearly deleted it all (twice!) I felt that we should always give what we have learned to others.)
'Men must live and create. Live to the point of tears.' Albert Camus

Megamind vs Malema

Laptop dusted in sad neglect on a chair in the lounge, its screen dotted with sticky toddler fingerprints. Why? I'm just too busy: mothering, playing, handcrafting toys from scrap fabrics and mother-of-pearl buttons circa 1890 - 1950 who are supposed to be Megamind and Ben10, making a hopefully exhibit-worthy body of art, tidying up, and gardening: weeding, gingerly avoiding spiders, throwing obese/constantly gorging caterpillars over the wall, nurturing my succulents and their cuttings with obsessive love, mourning the death-by-negligence of my rare 'Serissa foetida'/'thousand stars' 4 year old bonsai, and carefully tending to my baby stinkwood bonsai in green-fingered repentance! (As it is, I'm typing this on my Blackberry at Club Duvet while Layla sleeps next to me!)
Though my heart hungers to write for this country of ours, I just can't seem to find the time. At least I get to talk about it a LOT - and get pro-expatriates thinking, and encourage repatriates or potential repatriates in the return home. But still... I just feel like it's not enough.
Speaking of pro-SA activism, an expat friend of mine just messaged me to ask if I still have Julius Malema's cellphone number. My first reaction was humiliated hurt. Because I failed miserably - letting many fellow patriots down, and delighting many skeptics. Or - DID I fail?
Here follows the messaged chat:
D: ‎​Do you have Malema's cell number still?
Me: ‎​1. It turned out to be a really sh*tty idea.
‎​2. But: it sparked the most amazing healing and transformational debate after my story was published in various newspapers and news blogs both in SA and the UK.
3. It got thousands of South Africans thinking after my interviews were aired on the headline news bulletins on Cape Talk, Radio 2000, Highveld Stereo and Kfm.
‎​4. I made some very special friends.
5. I facilitated some fiery confrontations which started in pain, woundedness, mistrust and disappointedness - and which ended in phenomenal transformation and relational healing.

Sometimes we have to risk looking foolishly, madly, idiotically idealistic to achieve a deeper-lying victory than the first, superficial thrust of our mission.
(Why did I 'fail'? Because I came home. And coming home consumed me entirely: my time, my love, my energy, my mind, my creativity. Being there for my little daughter was critically more important for me than nurturing my revolution of patriotic, open-minded, transforming love. I had to put my ego aside as I chose to fail so I could win. Ah - I'm a saint, aren't I? *wry eyebrow raising*)
And so, with Blackberry hand-cramp setting in, it is time to say adios till my next rare and random pocket of free time.

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A Domestic Affair

Bellville Home Affairs - being chilled to the bone on an already frosty Cape autumn day by an aircon on steroids! Arrived at 8.53am, got parking in a cinch (getting to proudly watch a brisk and efficient municipal team of street cleaners finishing up from what must have been a VERY early start to the day, leaving the streets immaculate!) Saw a bergie's Pick 'n Pay trolley double-deckered with neatly tied bundles of treasure - and instead of it being the eyesore so many South Africans despise with such absent compassion, I let my linger on the sight of Africa. Of my South Africa. As I always say (ad nauseum) : "What is healing but a change in perspective?" So next time something pees you off about our country, do a 'bollemakiesie' and discover the childlike joy of seeing everything upside down!
(A queue of only one more person, so better finish off here, tik-tik-tikking away on my Blackberry which is letting me blog again at last!) Want to tell you next time about: the irony of our UK-born children's Golden Ticket of the apparently divine, worshipped and much coveted British Passport. And my next blogging opportunity after that? My sister's Bantry Bay burgalry!
Ciao, mense - later praat, ne? X
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A is for Apple, Anxiety, Africa

Driving back from Grabouw - the tranquil apple farming valley nestled quietly between mountains that can only be so savagely romantic as to be undeniably South African. (Yip, I'll always be the passionate little soutie drama queen *wink*) I've made absolutely bloody sure to save this as a draft as I go along after my blogging disaster on Sunday... (I typed up what I felt to be one of my most heartfelt pieces ever - and it simply vanished into thin air as I saw Melanie waiting for me in their driveway: AAARGH!!!) My folks drove me from Durbanville to Grabouw for me to see one of my most precious friends 'for one last time': and the bittersweet anxiety of my heart at a): the sweet: finally being together on our home soil after 7 years of what we thought surely an impossible fantasy and... b)the bitter: that it was only the most temporary of realities: Melanie and her little family are merely in a soutie-transit between the UK and Sydney Australia... (My Blackberry battery's running low... So better say ciao from my heartsore little plekkie in Mel's mom's bakkie as she drives me away back to Durbanville...) More later x

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Mngqusho (Can You Click?)

Because food is a passion for me - and because, as South Africans, we have such adventurous palates, I wanted to introduce my newest blog to you: called 'Samp & Sushi' (*wink*) I'll be posting random tidbits of gastromic trivia, taste experiments, South African and 'world food' recipes that are foolproof, sinfully sublime and DEFINITELY not hip-proof!

Have a squizz and... as always: blerry well comment, mense!!

Safrophiliac Moves Back (to SA and her old Soutpiel blog!)

Here are the posts from my 'Safrophilia' blog that just lacked the passionate oomph of this blog!

Friday, March 25, 2011

Patriotic Pelargonium Pride Parade!

After watching Carte Blanche's feature on the German pharmaceutical rape of the Eastern Cape's pelargonium crops, the budding (no pun intended) gardenista in me jumped at the idea of expanding my gardening repertoire from my current succulents obsession, while simultaneously raising awareness about this mass pillage. The local Xhosa whose sole source of income comes from the trade of pelargoniums (for their potent medicinal properties) to the local and foreign pharmaceutical giants are being blindly robbed - specifically by one German company (who have, ironically, always been such avid anti-apartheid supporters...)
But, my bugbear with South Africans (and though it seems to be universal human nature - but I'm picking on ourselves because the health and future country of ours is my life's purpose!) is twofold: that though this kind of corruption has been brought out into the open via the mass-watched medium of Carte Blanche, how many of us will actually step into the breach and take personal responsibility to do something about? And we don't need to fix the problem as a hugely maginficent South African superhero, but we can, as Mother Teresa says: "We can do no great things,
only small things with great love." Do you even ask yourself, when faced with a specifically South African problem or tragedy, ask: "What small thing can I do to help? How can I be a small part of the solution? What small thing can I do - out of great love - for my country and my people?" How many of us use our lack of time to bow out conveniently as a coward? Or say just one person (i.e. ME. YOU) could never hope to make even the slightest dent in the problem? Well... For starters, God has given us creative brains, compassionate hearts and a conquering will. We can CHOOSE to NOT unthinkingly follow the trends of the herd. We can come up with a solution that fits in with our unique personality, talents and situation within the South African social and working scene. Perhaps we could boycott said German pharmaceutical company by not buying their products and also raise awareness among friends and colleagues to do the same. Are you a letter-writer? Blog it. Write to newpapers and magazines - and suggest solutions readers could act on.
Oh yes. My second bugbear about The Pelargonium Problem: did anyone notice it was not a South African source of corruption? So many of us (here and abroad) hang on for dear life to this sick notion that the rest of the 'first' world is NOT corrupt. This is a 'first' world country - that has always professed support for a liberated South Africa - hypocritically robbing the previously oppressed and STILL poverty-stricken among us. Sies, man! Grab our South African reality by the balls - and DO one SMALL thing: for you, for us, for our children. (It's a blerry mission to get a British passport; infinitely easier to do one small thing out of great love.)
Bugbears aside, my passion for succulents never stops growing (too many accidental puns today...) And though I've only ever been partial to roses, I am cultivating (groan *pun*) a new love and respect for our South African flora. Pelargoniums, here I come! (Hey - maybe one of us could donate pelargonium cuttings and seeds to the blighted pelargonium farming community highlighted by Carte Blanche to replace their pillaged stock and save them from spending their depleted livelihood on seeds? And don't so cowardly accuse me of idealism, capiche?)


PS. Another tiny step made with great love and a leap of faith? Read, research, reach out! Discover more at The Pelargonium Project blog!

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Monday, March 21, 2011

Random rambling...

Having neither internet at home nor time to sit at my PC with a cup of coffee to write up a storm, I've decided the best time and place to write is on my Blackberry! And so I shall brave the perilous finger/knuckle/wrist agony that comes from tapping away at the miniature keypad to satisfy my word-lust! (For some reason, I can't upload my posts to my Blogger blogs - and Wordpress just won't install... Grrrrrr!! So quite how I'm going to update from here ANYWAY is still an irritating mystery...)
I'm gatvol with my Safrophilia blog: because the name just seems too generic and not specifically 'me' enough... So I will try to transfer the relevant blog posts to my Soutpiel and Navel blogs sometime this week! I also want to begin writing more magazine and newspaper articles focusing on my obsessive passions du jour : expat vs repatriation, South Africanness, and mothering/parenting issues informed by attachment parenting vs 'breaking them in like a horse' parenting a la Gina Ford. As one of my favourite GP-Mommy-Bloggers says: parenting is not about 'managing an inconvenience'! (See, I am already cantering happily along on my high horse and I'm not even writing a topically specific blog post! As arrogant as it may be perceived to be so opinionated, it is actually a critically vital part of being human and being a self-actualised, unique individual - as long as one's opinions are not a form of approval-seeking copycatism. Opinions are both matters of the heart and the mind, so should also be well-researched and thought through.)
Getting progressively more 'naar' typing here in the backseat of an exceedingly bouncy bakkie, so time to adios before our arrival at the dilapidated but still entertainingly educational Port Elizabeth aquarium!

Sunday, March 20, 2011

The Bitch at the Braai

Yet another month goes by without internet at home. Was it really FOUR months ago that I last blogged here?? So much has happened that, to merely reiterate the cliche, I wouldn't know where to begin! But that doesn't matter because I'm going to leave that all out and bring you up to date on where we are at right now:
We are still living in Grahamstown (Eastern Cape) and I am finally beginning to feel like I belong in this dusty, gossipy little 'city'! At the beginning of December we moved into the accomodation the school converted for us from what used to be a boys' dormitory - hence the lack of internet and phoneline: it all has to be approved by the governing body, yadda-yadda-yadda. Being right across the road from the school means that I have the use of the car because Craig walks to school. Layla and I also spend an hour or so actually at the school - having tea in the staffroom during breaktime, helping Amy* in the library, sitting in on the music lessons, watching the (world class!!) marimba band practise, playing in the primary school's playground etc.
*Amy: Amy and her husband and 18month old Tom are also recently returned from the UK as of three months ago. So watch this space for more confirmation and information that it is the right thing to do to come home!
Anyway - that's all desperately boring compared to what kept me awake last night: what happened during our braai last night!
Picture this: Wors, chicken kebabs, lamb chops. Salad. Garlic bread. Coke. Red wine. Simple, unextravagant fare, but a feast for the average South African. (And if you know what it's like to furtively braai so your British neighbours aren't offended by the braai smoke - and to have driven all the way to the South African shop for astronomically expensive wors - then you will understand just how much more beautiful and meaningful it is to braai on home soil!) And the point of that parenthesis is that the South Africans who entered into the very heated argument with me last night have NEVER lived away from South Africa --- and they are adamant that there is no future here, they want to move overseas etc. (You know the story.)
Anyway, back to what was actually argued about. I can't really even remember what started it all off - but whatever it was snowballed out of control too quickly for me to keep my heart under lock and key. And so it was that I placed my heart on the table for all to see - and I think they mistook it for a lambchop! They stabbed at it with forks and spat it out again: I am distasteful, apparently, in my own particular South African outlook. I was defending the fact that South Africa is quite normal as a country. The particular point-in-fact was the corruption in our government. And when I reflected back at them the recent corruption by MPs in the UK who funnelled money into their own accounts to buy second and third houses for themselves, I was looked at as though I was an inexperienced little child who had no right stepping into their little bitch-and-moan. Ag, there is so much, much more that I want to tell you about this whole thing, but my free-mommy-time is running out (as usual) but I PROMISE to try and write again in the next few days before I forget the specifics of the debate. If only I could have recorded it on camera: it was a perfect microcosm of our whites' political attitudes du jour.
(a little note re: the post title: I am obviously The Bitch at the braai, but the 'bitch' is also the aggressive and apathetic bitch-and-moan. Just thought I should point out to you what a literary genius I am *wink*)
Here is a quote from the novel by Andre Brink I'm reading at the moment, "An Instant in the Wind":
Too white for the truth.
What a brave man to have written this story in 1976... I think that if you can arrive at the point of realising, if you are white, that the truth does frighten you/make you aggressively defensive etc, then you have arrived at a place where you can begin to invest in the present state of our country as a South African. That critical moment of change in perspective in just one mind will ignite the change in the other minds around it. But why is the white mind so lazy and terrified to apprehend the truth then? Hmmm...
Here are some recent pics of our continued and increasing joy and peace at being home.

Granny and Layla share the most special of kisses only grannies and grandchildren share - and something so frustratingly, saddeningly impossible on Skype...

My bedside table: an antique hand-embroidered 'lappie' from my best friend in Cape Town, a silk scarf that belonged to my late mother-in-law, my late grandfather's bottle of Old Spice from the 1960s...

Layla playing with our neighbours, Darry and Lukes, washing the tricycle they have given her. They also lived in the UK for awhile, but are another proud and very happy returned South African family! (We just never managed to make friends like this in our little English village... Lovely friends, but still somehow detached...) It was, um... bloody lonely!! (Apologies to Jody and Dylbo who we gratefully met in the last two months of our stay in the UK!)

Layla's first camping trip in the Wilderness! It was incredibly special to see my little girl experiencing all the magic of these idyllic Wilderness holidays that made my girlhood so magical...

To hear the hero-worship in Layla's hysterical glee as Granny pulled her along in the canoe is something, again, that Skype just fails at heartbreakingly!

And what could replace the perfect 'South Africa as home' combination of the Spur and Granny?!

Layla wouldn't let me put her warm top on before a braai - only 'Teve' (her beloved Uncle Steve) was allowed to!

Adios for now. Another post later this week detailing the attitudes expressed during the Bitch at the Braai.

Liefde,
Lisa

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The Violets in the Mountains have Broken the Rocks...

Grooves: Plush (Rory Eliot - who I had the honour and joy of befriending when I worked as the art director for a fashion brand in Cape Town a few years ago, and we sponsored him and his band in clothes and publicity/gigs.)

Beverage: Earl Grey (it's that delicately decadent bergamot it's scented with... hmmm...) from a white teapot, festooned in painted pink floral filigree - and sipped from a cup handmade by Nosiphiwo: from the forming of the virgin porcelain, to the painting and glazing. (Hence why I recruited her so quickly into the Oodade ranks!)


Weather: deliciously cool, calm and drizzling with a misty rain that transforms my garden into a rainforest paradise!



After my last blog entry about the glories of our Makana municipality, the reactions it catalysed made me realise just how mindblowingly heart-based this whole South Africa/UK is: people react, their hearts volatile, and their brains not quite engaged. Facts are ignored, and fears and ideals blindly embraced. {Because I absolutely avoid conflict whenever possible in my lust to be loved and liked be everyone, writing about such a layered and paradoxical situation is pretty tough. I find myself wanting even those who negate what I have to say to accept the experiences that have shaped my understanding of the 'in vs out' South African dilemma. To accept my facts and feelings as a kind of living parable about how the grass can be greener on the other side only if you water it with your pro-UK convictions, and taking extra-careful care to tend the weeds of homesickness that creep into the garden of your heart, mercilessly.

A nation that destroys its soils destroys itself. Forests are the lungs of
our land, purifying the air and giving fresh strength to our people.
{ Franklin D. Roosevelt }

I refuse to have an emotional attachment to a piece of ground.
At one end of the scale it's called patriotism, at the other end
of the scale it's called gardening.
{ Bob Shaw }

As the gardening guru of the book I'm reading says, "Weeds are a mirror of the condition of the soil - so pay attention to them and use them to read the condition and health of your soil." (I ad-libbed that - sorry, Jane!) Weeds can be suffocated, blow-torched away, pulled out at the roots or poisoned to death. Or, they can be seen for what they are: a symptom of the poor condition of the soil : acknowledged, weeds can be a blessing. Weeds can spur you into redesigning your garden, getting you more in touch with your earth, improving the health of your soil --- and, as a consequence, the fruits it bears. (Let's hope that wasn't too obscure an analogy?!)

The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks.
{ Tennessee Williams }

Anyway, as someone who thrives on getting so messy with paints and glues and other random art materials that it has shocked the socks off some people, I've not really taken the same pleasure in getting dirty in sand and soil. But perhaps that's more to do with my terror of the spiders that lurk behind leaves, ready to pounce! But, since buying The Virgin Gardener and reading my pops-in-law's Jane's Delicious Garden, I've had an epiphany: we are one with the earth. (Not the New-Agey sort of 'One', but 'one' in the sense that ... (*oh gosh* I've been reading an anthology of quotes about gardening -- and they're all so perfect : the most perfect and practical philosophy, that I can't quite find my own words now... And to simply cut+paste a thousand quotes onto this page would be an enormous cheat... I think I'll go away for a few days to dig deep for my own words about this discovery that is slowly changing my life: my outlook, the pace at which I live and love, my priorities... Come back in a few days, ok?)

In the meantime, here are some of the fruits of my labour: each one a miracle that heals, delights, soothes and excites. (My favourite plants right now are succulents - and, quite fortunately so, what with this Eastern Cape drought which means water is too precious to waste on acres of lawn and thirsty plants! When we move into our new little plekkie at the end of the month, I'm going to get rid of most of the lawn and replace it with vegetables and succulents, layed happily between winding paths of stones...)

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Jasmine JazzTea & Municipal Magnificence!

Hot already at 10am. I have the morning to myself - and over the moon about the new look I created for my blog this morning: fresh, happy-happy-happy and real!
Sipping: steaming jasmine green tea.
Grooves: Thelonius Monk
Social State: thought I was alone, but my house has been hijacked through the Trellidor nogal by a lightning-bolt of somebody's errant ginger cat: last time I tried to chase outside for fear of a sneezing/eye-itch attack, we ended up in the bedroom, with him almost getting stuck as he scrambled and slipped on the wood floor to take refuge in the two-inch dusty blackness beneath our bed! (This is the second cat visitation we've had - and probably due to the birdfeeder Layla and I put up in the peach tree in the garden a few days ago... Ah, the cycle of life...)

re: this post-title, I've been wanting to write to our local municipality to thank them for making me a very happy and smug South African citizen. (And before any bitter reposts are slung my way, I will say that - yes - there are some sh*tty bits to South African municipal/governmental issues, but there are also good and bad bits to every other country in the world: e.g. the postcode-lottery in the UK on which hospital you end up in!) Anyway, I'll put my happy experiences in point form for the sake of keeping you here (*wink*)

1. My very first Sunday evening in Grahamstown, and it's time to bath Layla and get some supper on the go. It's the middle of winter, and darkening out. And we are suddenly plunged into a most primal state of electricitynessless! Now what?! Nothing showing on our switchboard. Our neighbours all have electricity. Hmmm... On a Sunday evening, who can we call? Not the Ghostbusters - but the emergency number for the Makana Municipality. Expecting the Electricity Department, someone (damnit, I meant to remember his name!!) answered, "Fire Department. How can I help you?" Turns out Grahamstown is such a small place (a genuine dorpie) that whether your mains have burst or your house is ablaze, all emergencies are routed to the same place! Within 30 minutes, two guys arrived in their Makana Municipality bakkie at our door, looked at the switchboard and had as sorted in no less than 10 minutes! Oh yes, and may I mention they were Xhosa (intelligent, skilled, professional, friendly) and they didn't try to steal or pillage?! (*Very wry chuckle*)

2. Another great moment that made me proud was after 3 months of anxiety about the dangerous crossroads a few metres from our house, seeing a beaming (and sweating!) municipal worker picking up the orange cones (do they have a proper name?) after painting bright, white yield markings on the road! Awesome!!

(Gosh - that tea was good...)

3. After really getting into the brilliant recycling thing in the UK with their red and blue crates, and the way they alternated the black household refuse bin with the brown garden waste bin, I missed the lekker feeling I got from minimising my waste there. In Grahamstown, there are no black bins! I was a bit appalled, and quite ashamed to find myself thinking the 'Welcome To Africa' thought... Seeing the black rubbish bags thrown out into the street each Morning, only to be ripped apart by foraging bergies and dogs, dirty nappies, rotten food and broken glass strewn everywhere, made me angry-sad-confused-deeplydisappointed ---- but it also galvanised me into action! I phoned the municipality's sanitation department, expecting (thanks to news-induced stereotypes) apathy, but was instead met with eagerness and interest, as well as information about a plan to introduce recycling to Grahamstonians who're apparently notoriously hardegat about not bothering to recycle! And what happened? Nothing? Nope. A few weeks later, exactly as promised, my packet of black refuse bags arrived, so that I could spend the money I would normally have spent on black bags on either clear or orange plastic bags, which would then act as the receptacle for all recyclables. These would be collected by the same rubbish truck, but taken to the recycling plant which is overseen by an NGO creating employment and environmental care.Well done, Makana Municipality! And, THANK YOU!!!

4. Because my job at Kip McGrath turned out to be a stunningly empty promise on behalf of it's manager, we haven't been able to pay for medical from Craig's teacher's salary after paying R5 500/month rent: and Layla's ears have tormented her (and me) with sleepless nights and irritable days, so when the GP here said it was imperative she have grommets, we were crestfallen. How would be solve our daughter's pain with no money? But, our kind doctor got us in at the local government hospital as state patients so that an absolutely phenomenal ENT oversaw the initial investigation and operation, and our GP and the other doctor in his practice did the anaesthetic: and all for nothing. (*Sjoe... Wow...*) And to top it all off, every single hospital staff member was impeccably kind and efficient. The building, inside and outside, sparkled with being clean, and cleaned with great care and pride, with lovely art adorning the walls and smiles on every face! The whole Day Of The Grommets is an entirely other story which I'll save the next rainy day - but here is the picture of a completely pain-free Layla, post King Cone ice-cream!

Monday, November 15, 2010

Back Home - 4 months and counting...

Since I last had a chance to write, I decided to send my little princess to playschool 5 mornings a week as the seeming randomness of only going on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays confused her - so as of this week she'll be at school every day, which also means that I can start writing again! (Not being able to write was, and I'm not exaggerating, like drowning. And drowing very, very slowly.)

Twice-a-week updates are what I'm aiming for, though I'd write every single day if I could! But there is so much happening at the moment, that I'll need to use this time that Layla is at school more wisely than I have ever used time!! For example, our house at the school (where we'll only be paying about a fifth of what we pay now (i.e. R5 500/month) and I think/hope that'll include water and electricity as well!) will be ready for us by the end of the month - so I've got to try and pack up our things here without Layla actually seeing me packing the boxes. Twice since we've arrived back from the UK, I've needed to repack our boxes when I was in Cape Town: first, when the boxes arrived in South Africa via Allfreight's fabulous service, and I needed to unpack them to check what was damaged/what I wanted to take with me back to Grahamstown. And then second, when I was in Cape Town two weeks ago, I spent many hot hours in my parents' attic sorting through the random bits of furniture and repacking my stuff for freight-by-truck to Grahamstown. And both times, Layla's anxiety levels skyrocketed upon witnessing this packing of boxes. Seeing just how perceptive and deeply sensitive my child has made me rethink my entire modus operandi of parenting... But more about this at a later stage.

And then there is the matter of me finding work for next year. Perhaps an art teaching position at St Andrews? And if that doesn't pan out, then I'll focus on setting up a studio for the collective/co-operative I've set up with two of my friends. At the moment, we're each working from home, but if I can find a space for us to work from together for next year, then we'd be able to work that much more quickly and efficiently! Our company's name is Oodade which is the Xhosa word for 'sisters'. Inspired by the work my sister commissioned me to do for her space at Kamersvol Geskenke, as well as by the bond of sisterhood I share with my fellow South African women, Nokwayiyo and Nosiphiwo arrived in my life like sunshine and blessings with their grace, warmth, joy and industrious talent! I'll link back here to the Oodade blog I've set up (*wink*)

Not much Safrophilic news there, but I thought I sommer just had to write AND to explain my long absence from these pages.

Friday, October 15, 2010

The Quickest History of an ex-Soutie's Repatriation Ever!

After crashing heavily to earth from quite shitty burnout, I've decided to end all my other blogs and writing commitments in an effort to simplify my life. Hence this new space where I can write about anything and everything in the context of South Africanness (where before I had a blog for my South African concerns, a blog for random generalities, two separate blog for Soutpielness, and a weekly column about motherhood. And on top of it all, that whole Malema project, my 'news revolution' AND all the newspaper articles I was writing and the resulting radio interviews. Eish - no wonder I burned out! Seems as though multitasking is something my female DNA lacks...) And so, I am back with a vengeance: to write purely from a selfish desire, tap-tap-tapping words out to the rhythms of my own particular heart.
A quick history of our first 3.5 months back in South Africa?
1. Living, as a devout Capetonian, in the Eastern Cape for the very first time, has been both intriguing and a bit of a drag. Grahamstown is hot, dry and dusty - and when the wind blows, there is nowhere to escape to (unless you are a student and the Rat & Parrot can slake your thirst/drown your sorrows for you. But I, alas, am too old at 32, too skint of pocket and - I'm not quite sure that a rowdy drinking hole is the most wholesome environment for an excitable 19-month old princess!
2. Craig's job as a primary school teacher at a Model C/government school is fairly peachy, while I was horribly let down by the company that 'promised' me a job upon my arrival in Grahamstown. No such luck. I should have gotten a written and signed commitment from this chick - but instead, she um-ed and aah-ed for weeks while I pestered her for opportunities. Eventually, I did one day of negligently-taught training and then one day of work, whereupon I received a Harry-casual sms saying I needn't come in the following week as the student had changed to another day. Ho-hum (*seething frustration/sense of betrayal*). Because we worked our finances when we were planning to come home to SA to within a hair's breadth of survival versus homelessness, I naively misplaced my trust in this girl in my excitement to return home. And so, with Craig's teacher's salary, our rent of R5 500 (excluding water and electricity) etc etc, we have had to tighten our belts a little more than we thought (I have lost 5kg!) Thankfully, we were able to still afford numerous doctor's appointments for Layla's incessant ear problems, ranging between R220 and R300 (Eastern Cape vs Cape Town prices) as well as all the medicine needed. (We'll get medical aid next year once I am also working.) When she had a bad fall once Saturday evening when I thought she'd broken the occipital bone under her eye, we took her to the clean and efficient-enough government hospital where, contrary to stereotyped doubts, we did not encounter any gunshot/rape/stabbing victims! (I'm sure there are government clinics and hospitals which have plenty of these, but Settlers Hospital made me proud!) I was also able to use the government mental health hospital for free and get free medication. The cherry on the top? Layla is having grommets inserted in a week's time by an absolutely phenomenal ENT specialist -- as a government patient. WOW!
3. Layla goes to a gorgeous little playschool three mornings a week - her classmates adore her as the youngest little soul among them! (She'll probably be fluent in Xhosa by the end of the year!) Her and I walk to school the three mornings a week, stopping to chat to new friends, neighbours and all sorts of warm, kind strangers. (Admittedly, there is a darker side to how Layla struggled with the move back to South Africa, but I'll leave that for another day...)

It's time for me to get my jersery on (freak thunderstorm and perpetual rain yesterday, with icy temperatures after the most summery winter I've ever experienced with highs sometimes of 30deg!) and walk to 'Little Blessings' and see my Layla's eyes light up when she sees me!

Posted by Lisa at 2:15 AM 2 comments