South Africa FOREVER! (last days in the UK, and first days back *home*)

Below lies the depths and shallows of the few thoughts I've managed to find time to scrawl down... If ONLY I had managed to write every day... (*sigh*) Oh well. The writing that follows is quite incomplete - but I'm desperate to let you all know how my first 4 weeks in SA have unfolded! More to follow as and when my dear little pudding Layla allows! (*wink*)

"After I lost my last post to the Web-Gremlins, it was kindly suggested I use Notepad -- and what I love about this app is that it feels like I'm typing on my very own personal typewriter! Granted, it ain't a real vintage one that clack-clacks away with satisfying realness, but it's better than nothing - and at least this one won't run out of ribbon!

Anyway, today represents our 7th last day in England – and I can’t help but think that we will never again set foot on this muddy isle that has been my home for 6 years in an 8 year period. But… that’s what I thought the first time I left the UK for home, so perhaps I should not be so hasty with my wild supposings! Admittedly, my reason for returning to the UK was to study for a very concise two year period, and then take my newly acquired knowledge and skills back to South Africa (where this particular Masters degree is not offered.) But, a number of factors conspired to abbreviate this dream, and it was replaced by an even greater dream: we became parents to the most phenomenally delightful and inspiring little soul who taught me everything I needed to know about creating the fulfilment that evaded me for 31 quite tedious and searching years! Never before have I loved, laughed and cried with such ferocity as I do now that I am Layla’s mother. What a joy, what a miracle! Anyway, I am blabbing about something else entirely now – a topic for the book I am going to write about the Soutpiel experience --- so save up your pennies and look out for it on Amazon! (*wink*)
Last night, in a bid to squeeze in as much time with my friends as possible, I conjured up a feast from the dregs in our freezer – texting Anne and Lorraine: “I’ll supply the supper, you guys supply the plonk!” And what fine plonk they supplied – and in such fabulous abundance! Two bottles of Australian red, and one French white (which is still in my fridge, awaiting its role as gift for our dinner hosts tomorrow night: the neighbours we’ve been meaning to do dinner/braai with for 2 years running, and it took us leaving the country to spur us all into action and make a date! Crazy.) Anyway, I was bitterly disappointed when Anne sms’d me to say they’d be late: I was in an inconsolable state of dire craving for the promised vino after a day of such aggravated stress that, when Craig asked me how my day was, I venomously spat out the following maxim: “I would rather have my most stressful university exam over than relive today.” (And that’s being pretty damn brave – because the exam in question was an English exam I was devastatingly unprepared for – and was so excruciatingly nervous that I ended up dry-retching in the loos at least 3 times during the 3 hour paper! That’s one of the problems with being a perfectionist; I ended up with a 90% average for that paper, so the moral of the story is … oh dear, I’m getting side-tracked again!) Supper was: four decadently huge cloves of fresh, crushed garlic gently warmed in lashings and lashings of butter, lightly salted and scented delicately with ground black pepper and just a hint of chilli. On the stove, I threw two packs of capalleti (Microsoft Word is trying to tell me capalleti should be ‘cataleptic’ though it’s the perfect word to describe my state of mind earlier that day trying to make those blasted phone-calls, but more about that later!) filled with prosciutto di Parma and mozzarella, which I boiled to soft, melting perfection, drained and then tossed in the butter and garlic. Our aunt, who is taking over our lease and moved in last night with her husband and two teenage boys, brought all her herbs and lettuces to transplant into the garden here, and her selection of mint, chives and parsley was just perfect for my spontaneous night of cooking – and after plucking a very generous handful of the freshest parsley from outside the kitchen door, I snipped it all up with my trusty kitchen scissors, missing my mezza luna in storage in Cape Town but with so much less angst than normal, with only 7 days to go… Although I’ve never been a big parsely fan, making me automatically think of that verlep piece of parsely they used to stick on top of the packs of raw mince in Pick ‘n Pay, it was the most surprisingly perfect herb to accessorise the pasta with!
When Anne and Lorraine eventually did arrive, Layla was blessedly asleep and we sat outside in what can only be described as an evening so quintessentially English in its birdsong, bleating sheep in the nearby field, the soft warmth of lilac night, and all perfumed by sun-kissed roses and orange blossoms, that I suffered what can only be called pangs of nostalgia at the thought of leaving this English idyll.


Monday. 6 days to go. CRISIS – acceptance and strength that can be developed? One-room living ; no internet.

The lack of initiative of call-centre staff… Tesco car insurance etc. EXCEPT: Allfreight. 5 days to go, and I am incredibly frazzled, frustrated and exhausted – at the end of my tether. Layla… No cell reception in house – have to ask neighbour to use her landline. E-on overcharged despite my call on Friday. On the verge of tears. Brittle.

Tuesday. 4 days to go. Yesterday, my friend Jodie whisked me off to Kettering so I could cash a cheque – and all on a very tight schedule what with us closing our account on Thursday. (Layla is asleep still – and not surprising after heading to bed at 11pm last night! Goodbye drinks with Laura, Jules and Wends: Old’s pub The White Horse, and then pub-hopped to our ‘local’ for food. The barmen – the one sitting outside in the front saying we must have a safe journey. And then the broken-armed one and his bizarre surliness/friendliness: ‘curt’. The old man next to us rolling his eyes and listening in to our conversation. Must again attempt to tie up the loose ends after I gave up yesterday with Tesco Car Insurance: the call-centre chick told me to I should have hung on longer until someone answered the phone on Friday – after I ranted at her about the fact that they have now charged us another month when I didn’t want them to but couldn’t get through to them on Friday…. I was so angry I was shaking and LIVID. Whatever happened to that thing called ‘service’ by employees who were hired for their initiative? And then Craig comes home and doesn’t understand quite why making these phonecalls is such an incredibly difficult thing. I was hurt that he didn’t give me the support I needed but merely threw solution after solution at me, when all I needed was for him to hug me close and ask me to tell him, in all its gory, anguished detail, about how bloody stupid the people on the other end of the phone are, how nerve-wrackingly trying Layla was, how upset I was… Today I will try again – at Maggie’s house.
Lay awake till past 1am. The oppressive heat, and being trapped in our little room. Listening to the soft whispering of Maggie’s water feature, and further in the distance, the church bells tolling midnight. Mentally mapping out my day, I remembered I needed my list back from Dinee, and in case I missed her in the morning, I clambered out of bed, fumbled for a pen in the dark, and not finding one, went to the bathroom with my eyeliner – but it was too blunt to write more than the D of Dinee, so out came Craig’s shaving foam which I smeared across the mirror, and inscribed my very uncryptic message with a piece of Layla’s foam toy seaweed – and was intercepted by a venomous looking spider which I promptly dispatched with a blast of furniture polish, drowned in liquid handsoap and then swooshed down the basin drain!
Thursday. 1 July 2010. Just two sleeps until the day we fly, and then that night of semi-slumber on the plane. Last time, Layla slept on my chest, breastfeeding often due to the bizarrely different circumstances and the dry, dry air. This time, she’ll probably want to play,…………………Moms and Tots party.

20 July 2010, Tuesday. I am desperately sorry I didn’t steal the time from who-knows-where to jot down the facts and feelings in those last days in Walgrave. It was a manic, manic time – and my first week back home in Cape Town pretty much matched its level of frustration, exhaustion, emotion and constant activity (mostly in the forms of organising and looking after Layla.)

I sent my mom an sms yesterday saying, “I’ve had more fun in one day here in the middle of winter than in 6 years in the UK!” At 27deg, who would have thought it was winter?! Layla asked after her daddy all day long. And this morning, woke up asking for him, and we managed to at least catch him as he was was locking himself out the door – but Layla was inconsolable in having to say goodbye. If there was one thing I would re-do about that first week in SA, it would be sticking close to Craig’s side: Layla struggled terribly with missing him. (I’ve managed to find Finlay the Fire Engine on SABC3, and she’s plonksed down in a chair watching in televised bliss – one of her few constants that remind her of her first..)
Library/ pep and jet.

Much later, sipping a glass of vino and scoffing the last of Layla’s leftover French toast to the magnificent cacophony of Radio Algoa and Layla’s bathtime screeches. (How did I manage to convince Craig to give me some much needed (understatement) time-out by bathing Layla? Hmmm… I didn’t employ any of the usual female wiles, e.g. lustrously batted eyelashes etc. so perhaps it was the stain of unhinged mania colouring my voice and eyes that did the trick?

22 July 2010, Thursday – and I see the clock on my laptop is still set to English time… Somehow I quite like this little connection to my former life in Walgrave, Northamptonshire so for the meantime, I’ll leave my clock set an hour late. Layla’s having a zizz after a long night spent soothing her through her teething: this time, it’s her eye teeth. And after these are through, I think all that’s left for us to endure are her second set of molars! Spur has a special for Monday evenings here: buy one, get one free (how very English!) so, with Layla in tow, we reacquainted ourselves with the delights of beef burgers and the world’s greasiestly delicious onion rings – and, new to the Spur recipe of success: wireless! My ageing laptop died a number of times during start-up and for no apparent reason I could fathom, until it made its final irritating exit just as I managed to log onto my Facebook. Grrrrrr! Oh, for a snazzy, new notebook (*sigh*)! There is just so much I need to have documented in the way of facts and feelings in terms of this move back home – but it was such an intense period of time, jampacked with organising, (un)packing and hellos and goodbyes that there was, excrutiatingly, no time to even jot down a line or two in my journal. Were it not for the Layla, the move would have been infinitely easier, so if you’re contemplating a Groot Trek of your own, do it before the bambinos arrive on the scene!

Looking back to more than a month ago when our boxes arrived from Allfreight, I realise I’m going to have to tackle writing about it all in an ‘organic’ sort of way, instead of systematically and chronologically, because if I start at the very beginning, I will never get to today! And so, let me tell you about how today started:
After Layla’s sizzling temperature and teething pain had me (and her) up in the earliest hours of this morning, I finally managed to give her something to bring her temperature down and soothe her back to sleep, and we lay cuddled together till nearly 10am when a sharp rat-tat-tat at the door woke us. Decidedly unglam in my jarmies and non-salon bed-head, a smiling middle-aged woman introduced herself to me in a gush of welcoming – and invited Layla and I to lunch with her and our other older lady neighbours at the French Quarter. And as temptingly divine as that sounded to someone so detrimentally deprived of luxury, I refrained on various accounts too boring to mention here. But said middle-aged neighbour didn’t merely arrive to a)introduce herself and b)invite me to lunch, but also to c)tell me about the near-burglary that happened last night to our neighbours just across the road from us – a married couple our age with no kids but a noisy hamster! Louise and Brad had been watching a DVD on their laptop in bed, the random noises Louise heard being casually blamed on the hamster and their washing machine – until the outside motion-sensor light slammed on and voila, there was an unwelcome interloper, knife blindingly shiny against his hat-to-shoes blackness. (Now, I use that word ‘blackness’ with deliberate caution – but I’ll get back to this later.) Rugby-induced foot blister and all, Brad (limping today) in all his shouting glory, charged after the man down the road, while his wife got the apparently breathtakingly efficient local security company, Hi-Tech, to haul their asses down to the crime scene! The sweet ol’ duck warned me to keep my security gates locked at all times and to keep the panic-button on hand (i.e. around my neck). Awful. Admittedly, in my accentuated state of homecoming bliss, I’ve overlooked being as security-conscious as I maybe should be – so maybe this was a timely little wake-up call for me. One of my biggest bugbears about this whole ‘The Crime’ vibe is that so often the fear that so many of us allow ourselves to succumb to is just as destructive to ourselves as individuals/a collective as an actual mugging or burglary. And please, I’m most definitely not underplaying the trauma violent crime exacts upon us, but the daily, unconscious fear that robs us of our present joy is so devastating that it has the power to destroy our future as a nation. One of short stories for Matric English was called ‘Once Upon a Time’ by Nadine Gordimer – and it describes a young (white) family who, in an attempt to protect themselves from violent intruders, crown their walls with coils upon coils of barbed wire, alarming their house with a wailing siren should anyone arrive uninvited. Their little boy, chasing the family cat, ends up getting himself caught in the very barbed wire that was intended to protect him, and each wrench and twist to escape wraps him up tighter in its bloody embrace. His tortured screams are confused with the house alarm by his parents – a sick, sad irony but which rings with a poignantly South African truth: “*********quote about fear************”. And so much about the fear we cultivate as South Africans is intrinsically wrapped up in our apprehension of blackness as whites. And hoo boy, don’t the media just abuse this notion to sell more papers and advertising?! Using the word, ‘cultivate’, in relation to fear describes how fear is something that is a) growing and b) needs feeding and tending/attention for it to thrive. And it is more like a weed than a rare orchid in that it runs destructively out of control in the blink of an eye, is ugly to behold and painfully riddled with spiky thorns; and once in the garden of your heart, almost impossible to get rid of. But, as any seasoned gardener can profess, once you recognise and then accept there is a problem (not pretending, through denial, that the weeds are a delightful fynbos hybrid to be prized), diligent and daily weeding is the simple remedy that requires only commitment and love. “Love casts out all fear,” is something I’ve been trying my whole life to completely grasp in my relationship with God, but only right now, this warm winter’s Grahamstown morning while my daughter sleeps and my jasmine green tea cools, as I wrote those words about how fear is like weeds, do I so fully understand, in my heart and in my head, how true love banishes fear.
Because so many people have accused me of rose-tinted idealism in my understanding of the South African condition, I’ve wrestled with their accusing questions of, “Let’s see what you have to say when you’re robbed/raped/hijacked!” And honestly, I can only say that I will be angry, terrified, traumatised, bleeding/..."

(and, I am SO sorry that there is nothing more, but more WILL be posted up here as soon as I possibly can! COMMENTS PLEASE!!! They make each word worthwhile!)

Below is a pic of Layla and I mere minutes before our departure for Heathrow!

The Last EVER Blog Post on English Soil?!

With our internet connection stopping on the 23rd, this may be last blog post for awhile... Read about the boxes, the tears --- and the JOY!
"Only 14 Days till Mzansiness!" (Homecoming Revolution's blog for expats and returning South Africans called 'African Souls')
PS. This is my landlord's wife, Katie, when we had them over for supper the other night... The goodbyes are, perhaps, even more painful and stressful than the logistical organising and actual move...

'n Doos of Twee

'n Doos of twee - and our packing-up is suddenly a million times easier! Visit my article for Homecoming Revolution's African Souls.

How To Return From Exile!

Sjoe. So much to do - and only 5 weeks of time left to do it in! Mind you, not that I'm complaining! The sooner we can get on that plane, the better. All that stands between me and Heathrow, Terminal 5, is an endless list of loose-ends to tie up. (Needless to say, this miles-long list is quite welcome in its sense of signalling 'the final chapter' after I made a rather radical decision to begin packing up six whole months ago - and the house has been this kind of topsy-turvy, semi-packed chaos ever since: something I do not recommend at all to those of you planning your own Groot Trek.)

1. The car. Our sweet little blue Fiat Panda needed an MOT (plus new tyre!) and a year's worth of tax, and don't even talk to me about the insurance: and all just a month before our EDA. Eish... what a monumental waste of 250 Big Ones.

2. Phoning all the utilities etc. to explain we're leaving the UK (forever! YAHOO!): i.e. water, electricity/gas, council tax, Virgin (broadband, tv), BT (phone)

3. At least we don't have an ounce of debt - so the banking side of things is easy-peasy. But Craig has had to organise that his post-dated salaries go into his brother's UK account who can then transfer it to us in SA.

4. Furniture: I have four incredibly precious pieces of furniture that I wish with ALL my heart I could send home, but the shipping costs (even for half a container) was just too expensive, so I am going to have to find loving homes for these beautiful things. (I've run out of time to eBay them - but I reckon I could've gotten some nice cash for 'em if I'd been a bit more on the ball!) On the plus side, Craig discovered a company that can ship four boxes home for us (door-to-door) for only 150 GBP (and I better order them tomorrow! *where are those Post-it notes when you them?!*) In these four boxes will go Craig's rather gargantuan collection of Stephen King books: an altar to his impassioned devotion to this writer of some really brilliant stories, and... some totally crap ones! That leaves me with three boxes into which will go my little antique cups/saucers, lovingly folded scraps of rich, raw silk, crochet hooks, an eclectic family of books, my journals, some of Layla's tiny newborn clothes I can hardly remember her being able to fit into...

5. Our landlord, a feisty fishing fanatic (owns two fishing/hunting shops and is currently adventuring in Cuba, hunting down bone-fish!) bought the house we live in the year Craig and I were born! And - he also had a pet rabbit, and - his bunny's favourite spot was also the cool stone tiles around the fireplace! Anyway, he is an utter darling - and because we haven't had any estate agents involved (as well as no officially documented lease!) we haven't had to worry about sorting all of that out.

6. Um... I can't really remember everything off the top of my head - but I feel pretty much on top of it all. A nice feeling, really. Oh yes! We'll be renting a gorgeous old Settlers Cottage with lustrously warm yellow-wood floors and an exciting little garden for Layla to explore - and then we've also found a perfect car: air-con (for Layla - but I'm hell of a grateful too!), CD player (WOOHOO!) and low mileage. I'll tell you what: this whole move has been so, so exciting - and such a pleasure to organise: but really, it's only thanks to the people we've gone out of their way to help us! Adele Barnard must be the world's most thoughtful and kind (and hard-working) estate agent; Stacey (my future boss and first new friend in G-town) who runs Kip McGrath in Grahamstown, and Trygve Roberts from Autolink!

(Someone once gave me a card in which they scrawled, "travel light, and travel far." And as long as I have Layla, I am home.

Pimp My Ride! (guest blogger)

After my dad's 4x4 adventure in and around the Eastern Cape's Baviaanskloof, he wrote this epically hilarious piece I just had to share! Here it is *wink*. Enjoy!

I have been wanting to experience the Baviaanskloof for many years.Perhaps it was the hint of a sore throat two days before departure that promised all would not be nirvana. Much has been written about the Baviaanskloof so I will pass the superlatives by for this story and focus on the people in our group. To be honest, it was the weirdest collection of bodies and souls I have yet had the pleasure of observing.

Our final evening around the campfire is on schedule. The stage is set for some pleasant bonhomie including the inevitable “strafdop” procedure and the burning of an absurd amount of wood. That alone had me wondering – Why do we do that? The outdoor folk, the environmentalists, the protectors of nature, the carbon kids. Why do we build a braai fire so large that bacon and eggs can still be done 10 hours later without adding a single log? Maybe the same reason we drive a 4x4 that consumes fuel at a rate of four and a half kilometers for every one liter of fuel?

So we are sitting there, in the African style, intensely focused on the roaring flames as the river rustles softly by in the darkness behind us, with the croaking of frogs and the zapping of bumble-bee sized mosquitoes, helping the Whiskey soak quietly into the primordial, inner mind. A group of strangers who have travelled the glorious Baviaanskloof together for three days, yet we barely know each other names. The weather is kind for late April and the brandewyn and red wine have gone through round three, (or was if four?) as everyone starts to finally relax. We are eight vehicles. I need to explain the group dynamic to help you understand what is coming next. There are three Land Rover Defenders (Allan, Guillermo and Steven) ; one Land Rover Discovery3 (Pietman), one Pajero DiD SWB (Henry) ; One Nissan Patrol LWB bakkie (George) , one Nissan XTrail (Tony) and my solitary Toyota Land Cruiser 105 GX. Names have been changed to protect the victims of what will surely be construed as public slander by the end of this story. Let’s start with the Defenders. I have some questions. Why do the owners like to attach so many items to the outside of their vehicles? There were spades, axes, gas bottles, jerry cans for each type of fuel, more jerry cans for water, roof top tents, gas bottles, ladders, huge spot lamps, Hi-lift jacks, cables to protect the windscreen from flailing branches, a few extra spare wheels, tool boxes, ammo boxes and all manner of quasi-military type kit tied or clamped on in the most ingenious fashion. The latest Defender trend is to cover the HiLift jack, axe, spade and gas bottle with a stout canvas cover. I am puzzled. For vehicles already notoriously heavy on fuel, they reduce the existing brick like (with apologies to Corobrick) aerodynamics of a Defender to a level akin to a camel loaded for a Gobi desert crossing. Why? Then there is the issue of the CG (Centre of Gravity). One only has to look at a Defender from behind to see that this thing will roll easily. But now they add so much k*k on the roof that the CG careers right off the scale. Smart? Mmmmmm.....I think I will let you decide that. Then I figured it all out. There are two types of 4x4 owners. Minimalists and maximalists. The first group take everything that is necessary but pack it in such a way that their vehicles don’t look like they have just emerged from a Sumatran jungle covered with mud and Camel man stickers with a long haired, white bearded driver throwing mosquito nets at the locals. And the last part of that sentence more or less describes what the maximalists like to achieve. A deep seated need to advertise the fact that........ I AM A CAMEL MAN!!!!!!

Later during the trip, there were a few muddy puddles by the roadside. I watched in my rear-view mirror and sure enough, all the vehicles studiously avoided driving through the mud, except for the three Defender drivers. Why? Because I want to to be a Camel Man. Bwaaahhhhaaah. I had one of the Defender drivers chat to me on the second day into the trip. He asked me how we managed to get by on so little. Where was my roof rack? And my spare fuel? And my water? And my hi-lift jack? And my spade? ....... “It’s all there”, I reassured him.” If I can’t get it into the Cruiser, it stays at home.” I remove the back seat and am left with a very large self contained packing space. I have no sliding packing systems. Everything I could possibly need fits comfortably inside the Cruiser and there is still enough space left to take almost twice the volume of kit, should I need to. Why take empty jerry cans or even full ones, with you on a trip where one has more than sufficient fuel to last easily for the entire trip? Suddenly this 4x4 owner was confronted with some very basic common sense. He didn’t answer but resorted to some very puzzled frowning and head scratching. The Land Rover Discovery3 as well as the Pajero owner, had (like me) nothing attached to the outside of their 4x4’s. No roof carrier and no roof top tent. That got me onto the second part of my theory which is that not all Land Rover owners are maximalists. It appears to be a Defender thing. Chatting to Pietman (Discovery3) I was astonished to listen to the pretzel logic of his product defence. "The reason the Land Rovers break half shafts so easily is a built in form of self protection so you don't damage the diff" He went on to say: "I have a light in my roof which goes on if I hit a bump too fast. It is the early Land Rover warning system to slow down" I am convinced he was serious. Then there is this brand new, black, Nissan X Trail. The ground clearance when loaded up is about 100mm. On the back window there are stickers of international flags – lots of them – about 60 in total, including the new SA flag, covering about half the rear window. Why? I ended up asking lots of those ‘why?’ questions during the trip. I can’t help it. The owner is 62 and sports a spectacularly low slung pot belly on an otherwise ordinary frame. He is a pleasant, nice person who chain smokes. He has decided, on initial sighting, that I am targeted as his new best friend. Now let me tell you, anyone that knows me understands my abhorrence of cigarette smoke. I was to be subjected to endless tales of self importance for the entire trip at each stop surrounded by clouds of recycled smoke. And then there's that first thing in the morning 'climb out the tent, light a fag, stretch, fart, good morning' routine which makes me want to run for the hills. We will get back to Tony later in this story. He has two kids inside the black X Trail – they are his grand children. He proudly informs me (he is one of those smokers who has acquired the ability to talk, smoke and breathe all at the same time hands free without removing the cigarette from his lips) that he has invented a wonderful device so as to avoid pollution and prevent forest fires. He explains further: “You see – you take an old beer or Coke tin and fill one quarter with water. Then you tie this onto the air vent on the dashboard with a cable tie. Then you can extinguish your stompies safely and without polluting the environment (which he pronounced enviament). “That is very clever” my wife said to him, coupled with a quick glance to me which said “Don’t you dare!” At that point I was about to ask him about his grand children having to endure passive smoking, but I rephrased it as a silent WHY? OK. Where was I? Oh yes, the campfire. Defender #2 driver, Giuseppe, at this point decides he would like to know what occupation each person does. So we go round the group like a bunch of drug rehab patients saying: “My name is Robby. I’m a car dealer” and so on. Each of these profession confessions is in turn interjected by some very witty remarks from Giuseppe. There are 16 of us sitting around the campfire. So we go.....car dealer, fashion designer, tour guide, meteorologist, vintner, bicycle mechanic, bicycle shop owner (which is bicycle mechanic’s wife), wine distributor, marketer, restaurant owner and finally the moment of truth for the XTrail owner. “And what do you do Tony?” asks Giuseppe. “Are you retired?” Laughter... “I am a pimp” “Ja, ja....come on. No seriously, what do you do?” “Seriously. I am a pimp. I own a brothel in the city.” Guiseppe: “Can my wife get a job with you. She is 40” Tony: “Sorry. Seriously. She’s too old” No more laughter. You could have heard a pin drop as the sounds of the fire burning seemed abnormally loud. He went on to explain further.... “I make good money. My new car is paid for in cash. My grand kids go to a private school. “ It was time for a topic change and probably just as well that everyone was inebriated at that stage. Did I forget to mention he was wearing a T shirt made from the old South African flag? There was more but not for telling here......So maybe I will buy a new carbon bicycle from Guiseppe and I might well sample the pasta at Guillermo’s restaurant, but I think the massage parlour will have to be deleted from my contact list. I’ll be buggered if I am going to fund the paint repairs on that black X Trail. The Baviaanskloof? Why? Because it is magnificent and I will be returning on my own or with a few friends. It was dry with a few wettish river crossings but absolutely nothing that could not have been done in a bakkie. We camped at Herons Cliff on the final night – a sort of B grade campsite with fairly basic facilities. Nearby there is an obstacle course which most of us went to play on later on the final day. The Camel men made a big hooh-hah about how effective their traction control systems were as they all successfully, amidst multi attempts, clouds of dust and stones, managed the fairly steep ascent with two nice axle twisters thrown in. I waited till last, then showed them just how capable the Cruiser is as I idled up the obstacle without a single wheel spin. They were subdued after that, but I did get a strafdop later, for being cocky. Defenders indeed. The weather was great. 25 to 31C during the day and -1 to 8 degrees at night. Having a sore throat and head cold made for grumpy nights sleep with SWAMBO wanting to “put me out of my snoring, gasping misery” by smothering me with a pillow. She later confessed that the only thing that kept her from executing (excuse the pun) her plan was the knowledge that I had not yet signed the new will. Now I know why! People are fascinating......

Adrenaline Addiction?! Not just for Bungee Jumpers!

Awhile ago, I wrote a post about the difference in crime between South Africa and the threat of terrorism here in England. The main point I tried to make was that I could, to a degree, rationalise someone who was brought up in such dire poverty that crime was all he knew - as opposed to a terrorist killing on behalf of his chosen ideology. THIS got me into serious hot water with a South African ex-pat who attacked me for my short-sighted view of terrorists, saying: "You cannot understand why someone would make a statement for a political ideology but can understand children being killed for no apparent reason," and saying terrorists are 'freedom fighters'. Admittedly, I rashly used the word 'humanity' to describe the human element in our poverty-related crime such as hunger, fear, the need for shelter etc. and it was this that was misinterpreted by a few readers. Needless to say, I've at least been able to apologise for my thoughtless choice of word, thanks to the wonders of the 'comment' blog function! (Read the blog post and comments here to add your own *important* opinion.)
Today I am going to have to backtrack over my very own words - and if only there was a rewind button or virtual Tipp-Ex in Life - because I don't think I can honestly stand by what I said about our crime in South Africa since accidentally reading two devastating news clips that have left me reeling, and with tears. Normally, I refuse to read the news in a positive boycotting of what I see as the media's unnecessary thirst and glorification of blood - i.e. anything that resembles scandal, murder, assault, corruption, abuse, you name it, and the media relies on our bloodlust to sell advertising and column centiimetres. I prefer, thank you very much, to not ruin my day, so perfect with potential, with the horrors of 'the news'. My husband says I am unrealistic, but I honestly believe there has got to be a more constructive way of presenting what is actually important to us as a nation. I'm going to post the two links here for you to follow if you have a strong stomach - and if you are able to see why I have posted it.

And here's why. An experiment: mindfully read the two articles - paying very close attention to what happens to your heart rate, your breathing, if you begin to sweat, if you have a surge of adrenaline, what your most honest thoughts are, and your emotional state. (If you have the guts, please leave a record of it in the 'comments' section at the end of this post!)
Did you notice an initial sharp intake of breath? Perhaps your heart lurched forward as it was flooded with adrenaline? Palms sweaty, maybe? Did you think about how lucky you are to be 'safe', have electric-fencing or how you should get some - as in NOW?!
What I am proposing is that with the advent of the media and now its literal explosive presence and seeming inescapability, we have become adrenaline junkies. We live from fix to fix, from one shocking news report to the next. Tough to digest? I just Googled 'adrenaline addictive' and - sjoe! Go on - try it. And maybe, just maybe, you might be able to honest enough with yourself to admit that yes, the news keeps us informed, but I do not need to feast upon the terrors and tragedies of others. I can choose to tune it out. I can choose to not read these articles. And if you're afraid of 'losing touch with the world', ask yourself these two questions: if, after I make sure I and my family are as safe as is reasonable,
1. How did people live, say 200 years ago, without the kind of news we crave and are bombarded with on a moment-by-moment basis?
2. Why do I feel such a compulsive need to feel in control of 'the world' by knowing what's supposedly 'happening'?
The answer lies in a cycle of addiction to adrenaline. And the hallmark of an addict? Denial. The answer to recovery (and serenity) lies in our ability to be so honest with ourselves that we can come to a point of accepting we are addicted, and then - choosing to help ourselves.
Here are the two links: Parents and Baby. (Please, brave souls, leave your observations in the comments box.)
PS. Adrenaline Addicts Anonymous.

Braais, boerewors and beer!

Ah! Spring has arrived magnificently early to adorn the memories of our last 9.5 weeks in England with happy nostalgia! Truly - yesterday was absolute English perfection; so much so that I had faintest whisper of regret that we'd be leaving so soon.
After months upon dreary month where the sun rises late and sets chillingly, perversely early, the sudden onset of spring and its 4am sunrise (almost!) dispels any memory of the perpetual winter darkness. And the sunsets... the gloriously late sunsets! It is this that makes the English summer so delicious, where the gentle warmth of the day sidles on late into the night, so that you find yourself sitting outside, blissfully daydreaming your way past your bedtime. But I'm getting stuck in poetic humdrum here - so let me tell you about yesterday and what was so perfectly English about it.
Layla and I waltzed down the stairs to find a blanket spread out on the grass, lamb chops defrosting on the garden bench (our boerewors supplies depleted) and a visibly ecstatic Craig sunning himself like a literate lizard, Stephen King book in hand. (To my horror and rampant frustration, Craig continues to worship the sun as if there were no such thing as skin cancer. AAARRRGH!!!) Anyway, after a quick rifle through the fridge, I decided a quick trip to the One Stop was in order! But then, relief like the coldest beer on a hot day flooded over me in as I remembered that our village now boasted its very own 'country store'. More like a deli with fresh veg, fruit, herbs, spices and racks of the most marvellous breads and fresh rolls, the exuberant and helpful owner, Lee, makes you feel as if you are in Franschoek! It has a certain 'Cape Town' vibe about it in its layout and ambience - so much so that I am blissed out into thinking I am back home already! (Lee's going to be opening out the back and the front of the store into a cafe - so at long blerry last I will have a place to go and boer with a cup of coffee! There are two pubs within walking distance of our front door, but the typical pub atmosphere with its frumpish dourness just wouldn't satisfy that constant craving I have for the kind of coffee culture we are so lucky to have in South Africa. The biggest problem, for me, with English pubs is not so much the olde worlde decor or the beer-guzzling patrons leaning against the bar as if they were holding each other up, but the simple fact that it feels too... exotic. I feel uncomfortably out of sorts in a pub - a 'sore thumb', if you will. Every single time (and perhaps I am overly sensitive) I enter a pub, I feel as if the usually close-knit beer-guzzlers turn around to stare, long and hard, in territorial defence of their turf. I even feel as if I have to talk quietly for fear of being teased out as a usurper! Ja, okay - I admit that's pretty ridiculous...) Ag no - I'm getting sidetracked again into complaining about being in England when, as I wandered along the blossom-strewn road to the shop yesterday, I had wanted to write about how beautiful and peaceful our little village is. And now I've run out of time. (Craig just got back after a trip to Kettering for what looks like twenty packs of boerewors! He saw how warm and sunny today promised to be, and he got a bee in his Eastern Cape bonnet and decided we had to braai --- again!)
PS. To make up for the fact that I didn't write about the loveliness of English village life, I've put up some pics of our village as evidence :)