Planes, trains, automobiles & witches

Big plane, shuttle, little plane, bus, train, car! The kids and I sat on the train to my parent’s house in São Teotonio listing the different forms of transport we would have to use to get to our destination. After being awake for almost 20 hours and extremely sleep deprived, I’m actually surprised I was still capable of coherent thought.

The beauty about being near the end of a voyage is that you get to appreciate the personalities that entered into it to make it unique. For example, the Spanish male air host who berated an older man who wasn’t stowing his carry-on luggage quickly enough, blocking the aisle. OK that in itself may not be interesting, but he did it in Spanish, and I understood what he said, that gave me a little thrill. Add Spanish to my linguistic repertoire.

Hubby will never let me forget that I, in my single-minded ideal to get us to my parents home, almost left him with all the bags, no money, without a passport and of course not able to speak Portuguese at the Entre-Campos Train Station in Lisbon. When the train arrived it went past us stopping about 100 metres away from where were waiting, I grabbed a child in each hand and ran for it. I’m sure that at some point during my sprint I did turn back and check that he was following, dragging three bags with him, I love my husband after all. OK, so maybe I only checked once I had already boarded, sometimes I have serious tunnel vision. We all got on safely and found our allotted seats without much difficulty, except for some fellow passengers who had luggage battered knees or elbows (in a country of short men he looked like a behemoth. One day I overheard a little girl point out to her mom how big his legs were). I was teased for the next two hours on the train, then ratted out to my Dad for being a negligent wife.

When we are children we have certain characters that appear in our lives that scare the hell out of us till we become teenagers and hopefully outgrow them. Thanks go to the unremembered adult who took me and my siblings to see a drive-in movie called ‘Scanners’ where the baddy makes peoples heads explode, very intelligent, not! I saw it on E-TV recently, very, very cheesy in a late 70’s kind of way but I digress.

While being teased by hubby, who should board the train but a witch! When I was little my mom would buy me books of fairy tales, I don’t know where she got them but they all had that lurid brightness that we now associate with the 1980’s. The illustrations were harsh and didn’t hold back, when the wolfs stomach got cut open for Granny to come out in Little Red Riding Hood, blood and guts were everywhere. The witch that Hansel pushed into the oven was covered in warts, had those crooked arthritic fingers that tested poor cage-bound Gretel for weight gain and was clad from Kappie covered head to toe in black. Still gives me the shivers. Well that’s who got on the train, you can ask Hubby I almost had a coughing fit trying to point her out to him. She dragged two engorged black bin bags along with her, probably filled with dismembered Gretel look-alikes! When she couldn’t find space in the tiny bag storage section she harassed the teenagers nearest the door for being so insensitive and using it all. Then she dragged her bags down the aisle and sat in the seat behind me. I felt those beady malevolent eyes on my back till I disembarked. Maybe she was just someone’s Gran who’d had a bad day but I prefer to remember it my way, as the witch who got on the train to Funcheira, my childhood fears revisited.

Overall, it was a wonderful start to our trip and only the beginning of our Portuguese adventure.

Things I love about Gauteng, South Africa.

A trip overseas a couple of years ago made me realise all the things that I loved about South Africa. I’ve kept my list simple but if you are a cynic like hubby you’ll be saying, “Yes, but…” I went through it with him and he shot down every one. The point is, it’s the little things that make the biggest difference between them and us.

 People here have easy smiles, I can be thinking about something funny the kids did, have a smile on my face, look up and the person I’m looking at will smile too.

 I dread going to any government department, the only bright spark in the otherwise harrowing ordeal is that I know that while I am standing in the queue I will start a conversation with someone and at the end, I’ll know all about their lives, I’ll know about their children, husbands and maybe even their hopes and dreams. It’s a veritable smorgasbord for a writer because they are someone I wouldn’t ordinarily have a conversation with.

Once when I was renewing my license a jolly black man wandered up and down the line chatting with all and sundry, he teased the white people for how much we spent on food. According to him, he only needed meat, vegetables and pap to feed his huge family. He just couldn’t understand why we spent so much on cheese. We were kept entertained for three hours with his humorous indignation and jokes.

 If we see people acting strange or doing something wrong, like a taxi going over a painted island to get to the front of the traffic, it doesn’t matter what colour we are we will do a little shake of the head or a roll of the eyes, we are bound in solidarity against injustice. If someone’s dress sticks out of a car door or a door is slightly ajar you can be sure that by the end of your journey another driver has pointed, gestured, and waved in your direction to tell you about it.

 We are a very touchy feely country, we aren’t afraid to stroke the faces of other peoples children, pat their heads or take their hands if they are crying or in distress. Outside my sons school a woman who was obviously a maid stopped me and asked for help. Her employer had moved, it was her first day at the new house and she was dreadfully lost and in a panic. I calmed her down, drove her to the nearest garage, phoned her employer and gave her directions to the maids location. I was swallowed in a hug that engulfed me totally, it felt wonderful, familiar, and genuine.

 While I was overseas I had to go a government department, there I noticed a few massive differences. They didn’t speak to one another, where we are verbose and loud, they were sullen. No matter where one goes government departments are always the same. The queues are long and people are there because they have to be not because they want to be. How one treats your fellow man while in that situation to me shows how you feel about others at your basic instinct levels. In S.A. it is normal to ask those in front and behind of you to hold your place if nature calls or if you want to ask an official if you are in the correct line. When you come back, even if you were away ten minutes your spot will still be there.

Overseas I sat next to a woman who was obviously in some discomfort; I said I would hold her seat while she went to the toilet, saying that a woman who was standing nearby could sit down in the meantime just to get off her feet. The woman I had offered the chair too growled at me saying that they didn’t do that there. I shrugged and kept my mouth shut for the rest of my incarceration. In time, the woman had to leave and she lost her seat. No courtesy and we’re the third world country!

 Lastly, I love that when I go shopping someone will be singing to himself or herself in the aisle. Sometimes they just hum a tune or whistle to themselves. Other times they’ll have a strong beautiful voice, singing a gospel song, sharing the joy that they feel while singing it. I’ve caught myself humming along to an oldie at the Pick & Pay, there’s no embarrassment when someone hears me, they know I’m content and they’re OK with it, besides they probably do it themselves every so often.

This list is just the beginning, as soon as I’ve posted it I’m sure that I’ll think of ten more things I appreciate about living here. We humans look for the positive in all situations. Hubby would say “We are just frogs in a pot, and the waters getting hotter” I’m much more positive, I love that we are diverse and yet still have so much in common. Let’s hope that others feel like I do.

The 'Exam High'

I’ve never been high. I don’t mean altitude high I mean narcotics high. Sure I’ve had the funny gas that the dentists give you that makes the world spin and sound reverberate. Or had the sensation of total relaxation one gets when you come out of anaesthesia, but I’ve never tried illicit substances. Confessing this may not give me the right to comment, but from all the information that I hear and see from other sources I can imagine what its like. I’ve watched Trainspotting a couple of times, ok so maybe that’s not a great example, I don’t have any strange ‘baby crawling across the ceiling’ hallucinations. I once knew a girl who partook in various banned substances, which should mean I’m a druggie by association?

When I write exams I get a buzz, so if getting high means that a person feels a rush of adrenaline, heart palpitations and a heightened sense of their environment then I get high as a kite. Writing the actual exam is an extreme experience, you push your body mentally and physically to its limits in the race to beat the clock. Hands cramp, shoulders tense and the brain is stretched trying to remember facts and figures.

As with any drug there has to be a time when the high wears off. With the ‘exam high’ that happens about three hours after writing. You have gone through your paper ten times, berated yourself for not including information that would have guaranteed a distinction and finally convinced yourself that you have failed. Then a slow mellow anguish settles in as you await your results, you are irritable and irrational with family members, you lose weight worrying and are just not your normal happy self. These symptoms are what we as parents are told to look for as signs of addiction. I know I’m addicted because while I’m studying for said exams I’m already going through the prescribed list of subjects looking for my next fix.

My critics (hubby specifically) have commented that I am addicted to stress and not exams and that maybe I should stop studying because I may kill myself but what does he know. I want this natural high; I crave it. I have the benefit of getting more brain cells instead of losing some, ok if it’s really stress I will lose a few. Knowing all this, knowledge is still my drug of choice.

Procrastinating as usual!

To all and sundry who read this blog,

I know I've been shockingly lax in posting articles, I do have a valid excuse. I'm writing exams, getting son number 1 enrolled in a new school and generally procrastinating. I plea for your indulgence. Just a little while longer and I'll be back to my old entertaining self.

Much love and hugs,

Yours always,
M

The joys of dating.

I was chatting to my new mother-in-law at a family get together. As usual when the men are wondering around outside either checking out the garden or talking about manly things that can’t get spoken about when women are around, women talk about men. We compare their good and bad points and try to ‘one up’ each other with the things they do, ‘What! He really did that? Well mine did this!’ We talk about the kids in the same tone so I guess there aren’t too many degrees of separation between the two in our eyes. Conversation shifted to the pre-husband years and my mother-in-law who has been single for longer than I’ve been alive told us about her internet dating adventure.

Judy wanted to meet a good Christian man so she joined a Christian dating website. She’s a charismatic woman who speaks her mind, is funny, vivacious and doesn’t hold back if she feels something needs to be said. She had several suitors who tried to woo her but finally she whittled it down to a couple of men and those she began to interrogate, I mean correspond with. One especially had all the qualities she wanted in a prospective husband, Christianity, class, charisma and cash of course. They spent hours talking telephonically and online. One day the issue of marriage came up and he said that he was ready to make a commitment and go to the next level in their virtual relationship but he needed to speak honestly about something.

He took a deep breath, explained once again that he really liked her and she needed to promise that she would never divulge his secret. Meekly he asked if she could accept a man with a quirk. Judy replied that he could trust her and she would try to be open-minded but it obviously depended on what exactly the ‘quirk’ turned out to be. He took a deep breath and asked if she would mind a man who dressed up in her clothing. She told us she was speechless, what does one say to something like that? He waited. Finally she said honestly that she didn’t think that was something that she could get over, and broke off the relationship. I think they were both too embarrassed after that anyway. She confided in me that even though she wasn’t a small woman she was worried about a few things. What if he looked better in her clothes than she did? She would hate it if he stretched her clothes, she was protective over her wardrobe and she didn’t want to share.

We obviously agreed we wouldn’t want to share our clothing either, besides both our huge husbands would look ridiculous, thank goodness. On second thoughts it might be wonderful to raid someone else’s wardrobe; I think men spend more money on themselves without that “I just spent my salary on a handbag” sick guilty feeling. Can you just imagine the designer clothing she missed out on?

Proud to be South African

Last week was the 20th anniversary of Nelson Mandelas release from prison. The media teemed with individuals who were sharing their experiences about that historic event. It made me remember how my family was feeling at the time. My parents are immigrants from Mozambique so the mood was ambivalent when we heard about the unbanning of the ANC.

My father being the eternal optimist had stayed in Lourenco Marques always hoping that things would get better. The social dynamic in Mozambique had been very different to that in South Africa in the 1970’s there was more of a class system, my father had gone to university with future President Chisano, so he believed that sanity would prevail. He was wrong. Mobs were going through middle class neighbourhoods looting and killing. When they got to our house my parents manservant, Orlando lied and told them that there wasn’t anyone home. We had hidden in the crawl space between the ceiling and the roof tiles. I was three and my father never let me forget that a black man had saved our lives.

We fled the country in 1975 and arrived in Johannesburg with whatever belongings fit into a white Mini Minor, the guards at the border having taken whatever they felt was the property of ‘the people’. My earliest memory is driving through into South Africa that night and it raining so much that the water seeped into the red interior of the car. The civil war started very soon after that.

We were lucky, God and fate conspired and our meagre savings, like the forty fishes, stretched. I know that the apartheid regime favoured my white father in finding a job but what you must remember is that the Afrikaners saw all other cultures besides their own as being lower. He worked late all the time and most weekends but when he was around, he spent all that time with us, and I was privileged enough to have a mother that didn’t work.

I remember watching an episode of The Cosby Show in which a poster saying Free Mandela was on the inside of one of the kid’s bedroom doors. I turned to my Dad and commented proudly that we were being noticed, he told me not to be too happy things could so easily go the wrong way.

The images of Nelson and Winnie Mandela walking hand in hand down the dusty road are ingrained in my 19-year-old brain, Alex Jay on Radio 5 talking with admiration about meeting Mr Mandela who was humble, stately and forgiving. We were filled with excitement at the prospect of a new freer multi coloured future.

I feel that South Africa has been incredibly lucky to be in the position we are in now without going through the horrific transition of war. The conspiracy theorist in me says that the ANC’s armed struggle and the National Party’s realisation that the path that our country was taking could not be sustained for much longer were not enough of a catalyst to bring about the changes in the early nineties. Huge amounts of cash must have changed hands. We all have our price, I wonder what Mr de Klerks was, he and his new wife bought an island in Greece after he left SA politics with plenty of money left over I’m sure. If someone’s money bought us a ‘Get out of war free card’ then I’m eternally grateful.

Terminally late.

My friends organised a picnic at the Walter Sisulu Botanical Gardens, we were all supposed to meet at 1pm at the usual spot. A well shaded area that’s close enough to the toilets so that we don’t have to schlep too far with the kids when they need to go and to the restaurant if we need to buy extra drinks or ice cream.

I tried to be on time, I really did. Ok so I got up later than I normally do at 9am and then cooked a large breakfast for the gardener and ourselves. Hubby had asked me the night before to give him a haircut, and because he had it done the boys got theirs cut too. I could have sent them to the Barber but being a cheapskate I do it myself, they look all right, they don’t have that ‘I put a bowl on the head and cut around it’ look or the ‘military brat’ look, but then I’m biased. By the time I’d finished it was 12:30 and I still had to make us all lunch and pack the picnic. Well, we only got to the Botanical Gardens at 2pm.

Now, I didn’t go through the above just to get sympathy about how busy my life is or that I’m terrible at time management (my Dad insists I am). The point I was trying to make is that I’m always late and there is always a valid excuse. What I want to try to figure out is why? Before I had the kids I was always early, my watch was set ten minutes ahead and I so whenever I had a meeting I was there on time. After the kids and the pudding brains it all went south.

My watch is still set five minutes ahead but all I do is minus that off the time to get the actual time and there goes that contingency. I could blame the kids, anyone who is a mom will understand how much nagging and whining and ‘wait I have to get the…’ before we even get to the car. If only it were that simple. I, in my personal capacity, childless and husbandless am always late. Kathy from the library book club knows if she gets a lift with me, she won’t be on time. We get to Karate with only seconds to spare and the kids will have to run to the class.

Oprah once told us how she was constantly late for her workout sessions and how her trainer said; ’When you are late you disrespect me and my time’. I don’t think I do that, I try, I really do!!! I have a theory, it’s the universe that’s conspiring against me, it wants me to appreciate the moments I’m in. To live in the now and not worry about the future and being on time. Well that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

The Exclusive Book sale.

Twice a year an event occurs which eclipses all in my world, the Exclusive Book sale. The universe in its eternal wisdom has placed the first sale just a day before my birthday and funny enough the second 2 weeks after my husbands. A month before it starts my body craves books; I go into a bookstore just to smell the ink, a mini fix before the real event.

As a member of the Fanatics club, I get to go to the preview on the night before the official start of the sale. A week prior to that children and husband are organised, nothing left to chance. Only another addict can comprehend how I’m feeling. My heart pounds, I don’t sleep, I’m jittery and I mention the sale at least once a day. The sale starts at 5pm and by 4pm I’ve reminded hubby to come home on time, I don’t want to be later than 5:30 and trust me that’s a huge compromise. If he’s late I’m unusually irritable, even angry.

By the time I get there I feel calm, I take a deep breath and start browsing, my fingers slip over spines, feeling their smooth un-creased virginity. Old friends call to me reminding me how much I enjoyed their company, new authors promise a better thrill. ‘I love you long time’, they purr.

I’m a methodical shopper. I start on one end and then slowly shuffle along making sure I don’t miss a book. There is solidarity with the other browsers, we recognise our fellow addicts. We dance around each other, getting closer and trading places with a quick step. Our eyes never leaving the tables, we don’t want to lose our place. Within half an hour, my arms are full. A man who is an obvious a newbie asks sarcastically if I want a trolley and then just looks at me when I say yes please. I have this silly demented grin on my face and he backs away slowly, aware of my madness.

I’m not an indiscriminate shopper I don’t buy everything I grab, I have a system, but that doesn’t stop me from spending too much as usual.

I normally go alone but this year Selina joins me. She’d arrived early and had already bought her books by the time I got there, but as a fellow addict by the time I’ve finished more titles have caught her eye and once again her arms are full too. I see the gleam in her eye at finding that novel that she’d wanted, but didn’t want to pay R250. The darting looks from table to table wondering what she’d missed. Finally, with a sigh we pay, and go have something to eat, ragged and weak from our ordeal, coming down from our high, bags laden.

I know that I’m not alone in my mania. We may not have the same addictions but I recognise the look on my sister’s face when she goes past a shoe shop, my husband’s glee at walking into a hardware store. It’s ok to have a little hit every once in a while as long as you don’t make a habit of it.

A Jewish tale.

Tomorrow is A.K. my Tai chi instructors birthday so after class a few of us went for breakfast. Shelley, a Bulgarian Jew, who reminds me of an eccentric Italian mama, told us a story on why man lives for so long. Imagine it being told in a heavy Bulgarian accent to appreciate the full effect.

When God was creating the earth, He gave every animal a lifespan of twenty years and that included man. When mans twenty years were almost up he went to God and begged for a longer life. He had loved his life so much that he wanted to live for more than his allotted years. God shook His head and told man that it wouldn’t be fair to all the other animals if He made an exception for man. This made man very sad.

A few days later horse went to God and asked if He could make his life shorter. All he did was work and twenty years was too long to pull a plough and the cart. Please could he live for ten years and donate the other ten to man. God said He’d think it over.

Later donkey came to God and asked if his life could be made shorter by eight years and if he could donate the rest to man. Donkey was tired of carrying goods from place to place and he couldn’t bear to work so hard for another eight years.

Pig also saw God and asked for his life to be reduced, all he did was eat and he was bored, but God could give his remaining years to man. Rabbit asked the same thing, he was scared of the world, there were too many problems, and once again, he offered man his excess years.

A few more animals did the same and after God had added all the years’ together, man would get to live to 120 years old. God decided to grant them their wish. That is how man learned to live his first twenty years, with no cares and happiness. His next one hundred years; he worked hard like a horse, carried many burdens like the donkey, ate like a pig and was scared of life like the rabbit.

I loved the story even though it’s cynical like most Jewish tales.

Addicted to book clubs?

I am a book addict (a bibliophile) and somehow I’ve become involved in three book clubs. I don’t really know how it happened they just sucked me in! Being part of these is another way to feed my habit, I am introduced to authors I never would have thought of reading, and they are fun too.

The first one that I joined was at my local library and it’s members are mostly over sixty, only Gwynneth the librarian and I are under fifty. It’s a comforting book club to belong to, no judgements, nobody competes for status we are all just there for one another. When Willie went to hospital, the ladies knew it was all right to call and ask me to drive them there for a visit. These women take one another at face value and are willing to go the extra mile. They are super supportive and always quick with encouragement. We talk about books, kids and grandkids, growing old gracefully and the hobbies they do to keep busy, which is mostly knitting. When I grow up, I want to be just like them.

I joined the second book club through an acquaintance, we started chatting about books during Joshes swimming class and she asked if I would like to join her for her ‘Books and Wine’ book club. I generally don’t drink so I was reluctant to go. Most of the book clubs I’d heard about involved mostly drinking and not much about books, and this one was no exception. Most of the members are German and we all know they love to go large when it comes to alcohol. Their redeeming factor was that despite the overindulgence they have fantastic personalities. Each girl (in true role reversal I’m one of the oldest in the group) is a professional, among them there’s a pilot, a nurse, a graphic designer and a teacher all are intelligent and competent. Most of us have children around the same ages so despite the cultural differences we have that in common. We talk about what’s happening in the world, our husbands, families and money. Sometimes I think we’re a little jealous of each other’s lives and the status held by some but our commonality holds us together. Plus they’re great fun, I laugh a lot when I’m there. After a while, I started to notice something strange, most of the girls at this book club seemed to have an older, better twin in my library book club. They are like the same people living in an alternate older universe.

My last and third book club was actually started by my friend Nisa and I, we wanted to get together some of our buddies and read something of substance. I have eclectic tastes and I tend towards the contemporary. It is here that I met the closest I’ve come to a literary soul mate. Selina and I love to read strange stuff. She’s challenged me with unusual novels and I hope I’ve done the same with her; she’s not as adventurous as I am but we’ll get there. Nisa is only just starting to get into the literate swing of things but we can count on her to say, “I haven’t read the book but I loved the movie.” We’re mostly Portuguese, which means we’re loud! It’s a peppermint tea and coffee book club, no alcohol. Funny I laugh as much if not louder with this bunch of girls and they’re just as professional as book club 2.

I think I belong to these because I needed to meet wonderful characters, great strong women who vary in age and class, all willing to give of themselves and have a lot of fun doing it.

Gone to the dogs.

During the fireworks season my 12-year-old Daschund, Ally goes berserk. In previous years I’ve tried other things to keep her calm that haven’t worked, and this year I went to the vet to get something.

Who tests those little pills? Do they actually test them or are they just extremely expensive placebos for pet owners. You are lulled into a false sense of security that your pets will be drugged into a stupor and sleep through the whole explosive night. Recalling the conversation with the vet, he did say that each dog has a different reaction and that some don’t get affected at all… ahhh the plot thickens. Make me pay for the examination of two dogs, he wouldn’t give me medication without checking their hearts (R500) then give me sugar pills (R30 each). When they don’t work say, “Well I told you this might happen.” The start of a conspiracy theory, I think I should call Carte Blanche.

The vet recommended that I give the doggies the pills at 10pm, which meant that I’d have to leave the party, give them the pills and then drive back. My Dad was worried about drunk drivers and suggested I bring the dogs along, Dad can be very convincing, I agreed. The party started, the company was great; the conversation brilliant, the food tasty, the laughter and drinks flowed. Before we knew it, midnight struck and the fireworks started. My parents have a fantastic view of the city and suburbs and so we get the 360-degree visual display with accompanying stereo sound experience. It drives the dogs in the neighbourhood nuts and I was one of those doggy moms who stressed the whole of the New Year’s party.

Not only did Ally not become a calm, anaesthetised canine, even though I gave her both pills, she managed from the time we arrived at 8pm until we left at 3:30am to disrupt my evening. She scratched at the door so much she managed to remove the weather-strip. She barked, whined and tried to lick her gummy toothless way through the window. Mostly the guests ignored her and just put the music louder. My other daschie, Scratch accompanied her the whole night with his barking, locked away in another room. More stress for me.

My friend Selina, the psychologist would say I did it to myself; I chose to stress about how I thought people would react. At 11:30pm I grabbed her leash and we were attached to ourselves for the rest of the night. We made an odd twosome when I kissed hubby and the kids Happy New Year. Thinking back, the only people affected were my Dad and I. So that’s where I get the worrywart gene from!