lost in soweto

Oh wait, before that I got lost in Nyanga.
Well, my Uber driver swore he was not lost but the multi-car pile-up in the middle of a 4-way intersection rapidly filling up with buses, kids, goats and pedestrians peeling out of cars to take their chances on foot felt a lot like lost.
Nyanga is the 'murder capital' of South Africa. My Uber driver kept asking me if I was okay and when I promised him I was (I really was, everyone in the situation - except maybe the goats - were intent on only one thing, getting out of the situation, and nothing felt threatening at all), he chuckled and said if he had tourists in the car they'd be crying by now ha ha.
I made him promise to never get into that situation with tourists, even if it was (usually) the quickest route to the airport.

I got to the airport in time for my pre-Joburg oh-seven-hundred manicure and got to Joburg in time to pick up my hired car and set off for Soweto. My little Renault Kwid (Quip?) had sat nav and a nice jolly English man periodically told me what to do.
Joburg freeways have only two speeds: crawling suicidal depression speed, and terrifying homicidal death wish. I alternated between the two.

Everything was going fine, my exit coming up on the left, when Jolly English Sat Nav man instructed me to stay going straight. 5km later I decided he was talking bollocks and while attempting to change direction via complex spaghetti junctions I loaded Google Maps with Laconic American Lady to see what her opinion was.
She and English man argued for a while - Him: You have gone off course, turn back now. Her: Continue straight - until I managed to turn his volume down, and Laconic American Lady boldly directed me straight into the heart of Soweto and a blocked off, non-existent road.

Soweto is massive, like a city on its own, but not the kind of place you dither around in looking lost. Staying cool, I followed a line of other cars diverting around the blocked off road. I followed those cars down a dirt track, through the heart of a very poor settlement, round a bend, through a field, over an embankment, a ramp over the pavement and viola! arrived at my destination.

Thank goodness Soweto is fairly flat, and from a distance I could see the iconic Orlando Towers - an old coal-fired power station - the University of Joburg campus I was headed to was just nearby...

Later that day my Kwid wouldn't start ... no idea why not ... but I got a new car delivered (sans hubcaps when they realised I was staying in Soweto ha ha) and made my way with Laconic American Lady to the Soweto Hotel.
Again she took me off course (in her defense she took me to the pin, which was off course) and this time, with the light fading and the exertions of the day taking their toll, I wasn't feeling nearly as adventurous and brave. And instead resigned myself to driving around in circles swearing outrageously at her, Google Maps, the architects of apartheid, the necessity of work, being self-employed, night time, the universe in general, hired cars and just fucking everything. Until I stumbled upon the hotel quite by accident - a massive concrete block on Walter Sisulu Square - and stood for a moment enjoying the light from my balcony and marveling at the wonder of this country of ours.

It's a pretty weird and wonderful place when you're able to stay still long enough to absorb it.

the great thirst

It sounds like a David Attenborough episode - The Great Thirst - maybe the one in which we watched in horror as a baby elephant slowly shriveled away and died because the rains didn't come in time?

Or maybe it sounds like a sci-fi movie - The Great Thirst - in which water is a dwindling resource and one of the most beautiful cities in the world is slowly crumbling apart as residents flee and businesses crash because the rains didn't come in time?

Or maybe it's a song - The Great Thirst - a melodic melancholic yearning for water, for lushness ... a cracked and rasping voice singing of dust, drought and despair, because the rains didn't come in time?

What it really is, is our coming reality.

The drought which has been growing in severity for the last 3 years is now well and truly upon us. We have been told to prepare for Day Zero.
(cue music: dunt duh daaaaaaa)
Day Zero sounds even more like a sci-fi movie doesn't it?

And it's hard to believe when you're sitting on the stoep with a block of ice melting in your glass of Chenin and the lake water lapping at your feet ... but as of Friday it is predicted that 21 April (UPDATE: apparently 12 April is the new date) will be the day that our dam capacity will be too low to support the city and the central water system for Cape Town will be turned off - and remain off until the winter rains (fingers crossed) bring substantial water back to our dams - some say this could take 6 months.
Day Zero. For 180 plus days, or thereabout.

How do you prepare for such an event? I mean, WTAF right?

As always, some are luckier than others. As always, people start showing great creativity and resourcefulness in times of trouble.
And, as always, one realises pretty quickly how much less one can use, how much more one can do without.

Laundry, while we still have water, gets done on shorter cycles, capturing the rinse water and using it for the first wash of the next cycle (thank goodness for top loaders).
Toilets, while we still have water, get left to only be flushed two or three times a day, and never with potable water, always with grey (thank goodness for our shower over bath and how easy this makes capturing all shower water).
Dishes can be wiped with paper towel, faces (and hands and feet and well, everything) can be wiped with face wipes, clothes and bedding can be hung out to air and reworn/reused, cars can stay dirty, windows smeared and opaque, houseplants can live on dribbles of leftover tea, hair can be sprayed with dry shampoo, corn and pasta and potatoes can be boiled in the same water, which once cooled can nurture a few more potted plants. Lawns can die. Swimming pools can sink and fester. Floors can survive with a good sweep and a spot clean.
Middle-class civilisation can do without all the perceived trappings of normality and convenience. We can survive more than we think.

But it's not easy. Lugging water is hard work, thinking about water use is time-consuming, continually reminding children to conserve water requires a delicate balance of making sure they're doing their bit but not freaking them out with too much doomsday hype.

And yet this drought is the greatest illustration of white privilege ever - just down the road from us live hundreds of people who have NEVER had a home with running water, a flush loo or a hot tap. Queuing for water, going without, going dirty, is a daily reality for millions of families around the world.

I get to sit on my stoep with a chilled glass of wine and puzzle this out. I have a rain tank (albeit empty) which (hopefully) will fill when the rains come (fingers crossed) and give us water before the taps come back on, I have family with a borehole, resources to buy and transport 25l water drums back and forth once a week to collect water from them for cleaning and flushing, I can buy bottled water, I can take my family out of the city to have a break from it all should it come to that.

As my girlfriends and I like to remind ourselves as we puzzle out the daily conundrums of living with minimal water, as we swap tips and advice and support each other - after this, for there will be an after this, we will be fucking hardcore. And our taps will come back on, and we will remain the lucky ones.

Husband went to Johannesburg on business for a day, brought back some water for our weekend whisky ice.
Good husband.

muizenberg festival

There was a festival in our hood this last week. Music, art, traders, an Open Studio Tour and more ...

I'm a little burned from the annual Observatory Festival which, while fun in places, general descended into a wind-swept display of public drunkenness and desperation from the crafters who'd been over-charged for their stalls and promised lots of well-heeled customers, not the rabble of students after cheap beer and street people having their best.day.ever - all of it covered in a layer of grime and generally viewed through a plastic shopping bag wrapped 'round your face by the wind.
Get the picture?

But .... Muizenberg Festival was nothing like that. Maybe a little windy, and there may have been some drinking, ahem, but it was largely a community-driven celebration of local talent with a good dose of quirk and lots of fun.

We joined the parade on Saturday morning and frankly, if your heart's not stirred by drums and trumpets and belly-dancers with giant silver wings you're just an old fart really.
Stella hitched a ride on a friendly penguin - my brother, who just got engaged to that lovely lady top right! Happy penguin, happy us!
Then a performance by a children's theatre group, with this astounding heron puppet, and a walkabout Studio tour - 25 stops full of arty and bizarre offerings - and later there were free slush puppies (with optional rum for the grown-ups) and a jumping castle under a sprinkler system for the kiddies in the backyard of one of the local shops.

It felt ... friendly. And that was nice.

And here's a thing ... the couple offering the free slush puppy/jumping castle/kiddie fest (an 'activation' they called it) I realised after a while were this couple, and I was touched and inspired at the proof that life, even when you can't imagine that it will, does go on.

the big one

It finally came.

'Mum, there's something I've been meaning to ask you for years. If a lady wants to have a baby does she just decide to get pregnant, or is there something she must do first?'

Thanks to Sir David Attenborough she's had the science down pat since she was 3. She's known all this time about ovaries and that she's born with her lifetime supply of eggs. She knows about menstruation, she knows that animals mate, she even knows how twins come about. She was just missing this key piece of the puzzle.

Luckily I've had my answer ready for years so despite also making school snacks and with 5 minutes left until we had to race out the door, I think I gave her a fairly coherent, simple and manageable answer.

She was suitably amazed. Her eyes got the slightly glazed look she has when turning inward to absorb new and fascinating information, and then she came back to earth in a rush - eyes shining now, and rushed off calling: 'Steeelllaaaaaaa!'
Info that astounding has to be shared right?
And while there's a part of me that felt her sister, at just 4 and a half, was maybe not quite ready for the low down, I certainly wasn't going to ask Frieda to keep it a secret. My biggest goal on this is to make sure the space exists for both girls to ask me (or each other) anything, anytime, for ever.
Channels of communication = open.

What broke my heart a little bit though, was overhearing this conversation later ...
Stella: 'Feeda, we can't marry each other hey?'
Frieda: 'No silly!'
Stella: 'And we can't marry the same person hey?'
Frieda: 'No, of course not!'
Pause.
Then Stella: 'But Feeda, we'll still be friends hey?'

Oh my baby, that gradual realisation that she and her big sister won't always live in such comfy unison, sharing a room, a life, a home.
Big moments for small people.

There's been some follow up questions, and age-appropriate books have subtly been introduced. For a few days it was a hot topic but that's petered out, for now.

Someone said I made it seem so easy, talking about sex with my children. It wasn't particularly, but it also wasn't as difficult as I'd anticipated. I've got girl children (though it really shouldn't be any different if they were boys) and they've got to grow up this crazy world - it's terribly important to me that I give them as many tools with which to do that as possible. I think a healthy, open policy on sex talk is one of the best they can have.

Which is why I was so disturbed to eavesdrop on a conversation on Facebook this morning. A mum had been asked The Big One and fluffed it. No judgement there, it's a really hard talk to have, but what freaked me out were some of her friends responses as to what they'd told their kids.
Ranging from 'you're too young to know', to 'mummies pray and then Jesus brings them a baby'!

And we wonder why there's so much sex confusion and mismanagement in the world ... oi vey.

a few of my favourite things

Julie did this today, much more artfully and better lit than me, but I had to play along so did a quick whip around the house with my camera before we lost all light (it's an unseasonably grey and rainy day here, 'summer rain' coincidentally being one of my other favourite things ...).

my silver and gold (and some white gold) rings, and some of my adored yellow glass collection

my beloved Shy Girl by Frank van Reenen

my growing Lego minifig collection, inspired again by Julie ... got a couple of gaps to fill yet. Yay!

there are a couple of interlopers in the collection, incl. Mr Frosty - he's awesome

Nguni cattle poster. I adore Nguni's, have I mentioned Husband's promised to buy me one one day?

my Liesel Trautmann ceramics ... I have a growing collection

Tord Boontje Garland, draped around the light on our stairwell

And I haven't even pictured these sneakers or these or this fabulous awesomeness ... I often get despondent that I don't have cash to buy nice things, this was a timely reminder that I already have some very nice things indeed!

in which I did some weird huru-guru hippie shit which didn't necessarily work but hey we sold so maybe it did

We sold our house yesterday.

Almost a month to the day after it went on the market. My FB time-line is full of congratulations that it happened so fast. 'Cos it did right?
Just because it felt like a million years to us doesn't mean it wasn't a short month in the real world, an even shorter month in the world of property sales.

4 show houses, about 15 other house visits, MEGA chocolate and ka-ching, it's done.

I didn't cope with it very well though. Insomnia, comfort eating, general crabbiness - wasn't my best month of the year by any means.

One day, after I had a little moan, a friend messaged me suggesting I consider a little 'house-selling ritual' that she swore by, citing examples of people who'd sold houses under dire circumstances after doing it. I'm not really into that kind of thing but I liked the basic premise of her idea - that one needed to let go emotionally, or 'release' one's home, before it would sell.
Considering I came home to this house as a new bride, invested so much time and effort renovating it, spent nearly 9 years here with my husbandguy, brought both our babies home from hospital here - ja, I've definitely been very emotionally invested.

So I gave it a bash. I gathered items which represented my home - frangi-pani's from the front garden, a lemon from the back, a splinter of wood from our beloved floors, a shirt both girls wore as babies - then, as per the instructions, I filled a basin with water and pushed the items in, holding them under while quietly chanting 'I release you, I release you, I release you.' My take on the alleged Islamic divorce practise of old.

Then I pulled the plug and let the water, and the ties that bind, drain away.

10 days later the house is sold. I can't really credit the ritual. If we'd sold the next day I would've been intrigued, but as it is I'm not wholly convinced.
But it did make me think about the house, and my relationship with it, and it did make me consciously try to let go. All of which is good, and necessary.

So now, eyes forward. And emotional reserves ready to embrace a lot of change - houses, schools, rhythms of our day. Now to think about establishing a new relationship, with a new house, and wondering what milestones we'll celebrate there.

Can you see her? Just peeking around the enormous tree, her jetty sticking out into the water? Behind the arb stranger standing fishing on the point? Looming quietly in the mist?

Hello new house.

oh my god I hope he's right

Twelve years ago, lazing around with the weekend papers, husband turned to me and said; 'I think I've found our cat.'
We'd just recently moved into our own place, our first place with no housemates, and getting a cat seemed the next logical step.

The ad read: 1 year old black cat. Female. Half Siamese. R50.

This was the information he was basing his statement on, he couldn't explain it, but he was convinced he was right.
And he was. She was, is, and will always be, the perfect cat for us.

3 weeks ago, lazing around with the internets ('cos that's the way the world now works), husband turned to me and said; 'I think I've found our house.'
I sat up and took heed.

It's in a part of town we'd never before considered, it wouldn't make his commute to work any easier, it doesn't put us in the catchment area for any great schools, it would place us a distance away from some of our favourite people ... but it has a garden and a view and the promise of a lifestyle we just can't resist.

We emailed the agent and heard back the next day that an offer had already been placed, it was basically off the market.
We went there the following Sunday, looked at another couple of houses in the area on show. Then, just to rub salt in the wound, we drove past The One. As we got out of the car a fish eagle called in the sky above.
We sighed and drove home.

A week later, a call from the agent. You know where this is going right? The potential buyers were having marital problems, they might be pulling out.

We went away for 6 days, spent some of that time wondering about The One. Wondering whether it was thinking about us too.

Back home to discover the original offer had fallen through, but an English couple were 'very interested' in the house. Naturally they'd be paying pounds, cash. We couldn't compete.
We sighed.

Then, they decided not to place an offer. The house, The One, the one with the fish eagles and the lake and the garden and the double garage workroom and the staggeringly high mortgage, was officially back on the market.

Guess I don't need to tell you how we went to see it. How we laughed in horror and delight at how much it reminded us of our current place when we first bought it. How we thrilled at the potential and despaired at the kitchen. How we met, giggling, in the bathroom as the agent was taking us around and grinned at each other, husband whispering 'It's crap but I love it.'
How we stood in silence in front of the lake at the bottom of the lawn and listened to the water birds and in our minds, pushed off our canoe and paddled off into the estuary.

We placed an offer. It's been accepted. We have to sell our current house first so we're not there quite yet. But we're closer than we ever thought we'd be.

There's a 13 year old black cat purring on my lap. I think she'll like it there.

got air

We're just back from our annual family retreat - the 7th year we've been back to the same house out near Hermanus for a birthday celebration weekend in March.

My Grandad passed away last week. My sister-in-law's been really ill with glandular fever. Our baby turned 2 last weekend. It's been a busy, emotional time.
But despite all that, the weekend was light. Easy. Fun and relaxing.
'Cos that's what family should (mostly) be.

better monday

After a weekend filled with some crappy international and personal news, this was a welcome sight this morning.

Though when taking photos of our lovely mountain view, I do wish our neighbour wasn't quite so security conscious.

school fees

He started off with a random act of neighbourliness, a small gesture which clearly put me at ease and established him as a decent enough fellow.
And then, despite later discovering that there was a warning notice up at our local mini-mart and a number of items recently published in the local rag (which I never read), I fell for his routine like the famed fishie, and let him into our house which he left, 5 minutes later, with a cell phone. Not his own.

It seems he even used one of his standard stories, about needing to clear branches from the phone line behind our house. A brilliant tactic in the light of how harden we are towards tales of hard-times and hungry children, I never fall for those anymore but someone offering to make my life easier? Yes please.

He was personable, nice, pleasant to the kids. He spoke very fast, which rang a distant warning bell, but my charitable brain thought he was just a considerate guy not wanting to inconvenience his neighbours more than necessary.

When I reported the incident to the police I was told my report was one of three in our area this weekend - all sounding like the same guy. At least I'm not the only dumb-ass on the block, I'm in illustrious company with the chairperson of the Neighbourhood Watch no less. Now that's embarrassing!

School fees my husband calls it. The price paid for lessons learned. Sadly the lesson in this case is to be more suspicious, even of nice people.
It goes against my grain and I hate that it's a reality in my life.

Other realities of the weekend:
'Cos misery apparently does love company we also had no hot water for 48 hours  - bust geyser - and Stella popped 2 molars - no sleep for me.
But, because the world, and Observatory, is a place of eternal dichotomy, I was again reminded of how comforting it is to live in a community. I walked round to a friend's for a blissfully long soak in her bathtub at midday and lay there listening to the hum of her sewing machine. Later I walked the girls down to my brother's house to bath them. Every (legit) neighbour and friend we encountered was sympathetic and displayed that curious bent for humour we South Africans have developed for times such as these.
It's a funny old world.

And. The weather has been wonderful, I'm in flip-flops at 9pm, we had Cesar Salad for dinner, husband realised a dream purchasing a 1976 Honda cafe racer, we finally got a new ironing board, there's a week of fun ahead. Silver linings hey, gotta keep your eye on them.

use your kind words

The ever wonderful Krista from ~my life as i see it~ has this line inviting one to leave comments.

Use your kind words.


Krista is the kind of blogger I wish I was; infrequent but when she does post every one is a gem, well-considered, prosaic, thought-provoking and gentle.
I feel like she asks us to respect that, to tread lightly, to be our best selves.

For isn't that was using kind words really is? To be your best self, to be respectful, to think before you blurt.

I've been thinking about this recently as Stella starts to develop language. To understand words, link them with images, become more aware of subtle tone, emotive inflections, to mimic and express herself in more and more ways.
I'm dusting off the skills I largely learnt from my Mum when Frieda was at this stage.
Stella and I sit together 'reading' a book. On a page of farmyard animals I ask her, 'Where's the duck?'.
She points to a sheep.
I smile encouragingly and say 'That's a sheep, he goes baa, isn't he lovely and woolly. Here's a duck, swimming in the water, quack quack.'
She quacks and points to the duck, 'quack quack quack'.
There is no negativity in this space, no harsh words, nothing shrill or grating.

Sometimes I rue that my words to Frieda, and hers to me, are not always as kind. But then I remember that they're kinder than they have been in the past, kinder than they will no doubt be at some stage in the future.
Kind in all the ways that really matter. This is an ever-changing process.

And I have to giggle that Stella's first 'phrase' is 'bag 'og', said with a little menacing finger in the air, whenever our poor hounded bull-terrier enters the room.
Not all of one's words are kind, and one can't be expected to stick to the kind ones all the time right?

But ...

Recently I witnessed a woman I know speaking to her husband in the most revolting and patronising manner. I wouldn't speak like that to our dog, no matter how many times she'd shat on the bathroom floor.
I don't know the circumstances of the altercation, and while I believe that no one truly knows the inner workings of someone else's relationship, I do know that to speak to another human being in that tone reveals a total lack of respect. And that made me sad.
And it was in front of their children and mine. That made me sadder.

The next day I stood behind a man at a pay-parking stattion. His coin kept dropping through, rejected by the machine. He kept trying, the machine kept denying and eventually, instead of the exasperated huffy sigh I was expecting, he threw back his head and laughed, catching myself and the growing queue behind me unawares, making us all smile too.
As he walked away to try another station I noticed he was wearing a dog-collar. Not being a man of god I couldn't say whether that was what made all the difference, but I could tell he was, in his head, using his kind words.

Such a small thought, but such a vital one. Use your kind words. I bet you'll hear them spoken back to you.

millions of children are assuming everything is amazing and will always be that way *

The other day we visited our favourite place and I packed a small chocolate bunny in our picnic. I told Frieda we were going to practice egg-hunting and hid it while she closed her eyes and counted to ten.
Then I did the whole 'cooler, warmer, very warm' thing until she returned victorious with her prize and plopped down onto the blanket next to her sister (still as yet unaware of the joys and lifelong relationship with chocolate she will no doubt embark on in the near future) to unwrap it.

Holding its plump chocolately goodness in her hand she turned to me with a grin and said, 'And when I've finished Mum I'm going to hide an Easter egg for you to find.'
'Oh, I didn't bring another one sweetie, but that's ok, enjoy yours.'

There was a long pause as she looked at me earnestly. And then, with only the smallest trace of reluctance flickering deep inside her big blue eyes she said, very seriously, 'Well then you can have half of mine Mum.'
Could you hear the sound of my heart breaking into a million shards of love and tenderness?

Could there be a greater act of love from a nearly 4 year old?

* from the Manifesto of Encouragement , one of those things I'm usually deeply cynical and boring about, but this line got me - and a couple more over there if I must be honest.

Remember to stop and view the world through the eyes of children. There is no happier place.

feeling the vibe ...

One week 'til kick-off and just suddenly, you can feel the vibe ...

Gone are the beaded flowers and animals usually sold at the traffic lights, now all the vendors are selling flags.
Big flags and small, flag 'socks' to fit rearview mirrors, small flags for car aerials, bigger ones to clip on your windows. Almost every car on the road has one of the above, many have all!
My favourite are the cars, especially black lux vehicles, with two flags fluttering on either side, a look formerly reserved for heads of state and VIP cars.

Houses are flying the flag, businesses have giant ones. Flagged caps, bags, I've even seen sparkly alice-bands with two small flags bouncing from them (want one) - South Africans are letting it all hang out, and it's fabulous.

Americans are probably completely used to this proud and prominent display of the national flag, the strange feeling of stopping at the lights next to a fellow citizen with whom one probably has nothing in common besides that you're both proudly displaying your country's flag.
You'd think we should be used to it, we were (mostly) all so proud of our New Flag in 1994.
But it's only now, and prompted by that great unifyer: sport, that it's become so prolific.

Here's hoping we keep the flags flying long after the World Cup. Let's try and keep the vibe, it's a good one.

colourfast

Observatory is often referred to as 'colourful'. A nice word, a word used to paint over the exceedingly grimy cracks in this old suburb's facade. A bright and cheery word to describe a 'burb which could in all fairness also be called 'grimy', 'seedy', 'rough' and yup, let's be honest here: 'skanky'.
There are other nice words used by estate-agents and the like to describe this old Grande Dame of Cape Town ~ 'bohemian' is a favourite, 'diverse' is a nice trendy one, 'unique' is utterly transparent in its patronising glibness.

Obs is Obs, she embodies and defies all of the above labels, and warrants far more too, good and bad. But 'colourful' is the one she deserves the most, not least of all in the most literal sense of the word. Colour. Full.

 

  

  

  

 

She might not be no pot o' gold, but she's home. For now. 

give chance a chance

Many, many years ago a friend of mine was involved with a Rasta. He was a sweet guy (the Rasta), well-intentioned, gentle, but just not into what you'd call, er ... climbing the corporate ladder. Or .. building a career. Or, indeed, working. At all.
While my friend worked herself to exhaustion serving tables and such-like to pay the rent etc, his response to her queries about what (the fuck) he was planning to do about earning some money was simply: Jah will provide. An answer which sent her into fits of hissing rage until one day she had one of those light bulb moments: Jah was providing. Jah had provided her to take care of him.
Maybe her problem was not putting enough faith in Jah.
Anyhoo, she didn't really hang about to test that theory and needless to say they're no longer together. Thank Jah.

The rest of this post isn't really related to that, except maybe I'd like to illustrate what a real slacker looks like before I make the following confession. And also 'cos I think its a cool story.
But the actual point I'm trying to get to is that sometimes I'm a bit of a chancer. I'm a bit of a 'what will be, will be' kind of bird, a bit of an annoying 'oh well something will work out' person. It's not like I'm lying around all day smoking joints and expecting others to take care of the world (but god, sorry, Jah, doesn't that sound attractive sometimes?), but occassionally I refuse to get het up about something until I know it's time to invest that energy, sometimes I'm ok with letting a situation 'play itself out'. One of my favourite phrases too I might add.

Quick, an example, lest it seems that I'm that kind of person.

I was once event-coordinating a major government meeting in Johannesburg. There would be many VIPS in attendance and ego's strutting about and it was imperative that the whole event run like a well-oiled machine. The flights, the airport-transfers, the tech, the catering, the protocol - no detail was to be left to chance. And I was all over it. I had more information about each of the attending delegates than their family doctors; I had ID numbers and seat preferences, I had dietary hang-ups and next-of-kin's details, I had blood types (yes, seriously) and model numbers and, jeez, I practically knew who wore boxers or briefs, g-strings or boy shorts.
And then, a week or two before the event, I got a call from some well-meaning PA to tell me that her boss (one of the main speakers), had developed an allergy to, get this: black pepper, and please could I ensure that all her meals were guaranteed black pepper free. Um, sure.
And also, no.
I just could not face having to deal with that one. I mean, can you just hear the conversation with the caterer's? I'd made sure everything was halaal, I had varied and interesting vegetarian options going, I'd ordered in the required 3 strict kosher meals from an external Jewish caterer, there were lactose and wheat free options on the menu, but no black pepper? FFS.

So I just didn't. Deal with it I mean. I just let it 'play itself out'. I thought you know, on the day I'll serve her a plate of salad with no seasoning and say 'there you go darlin', because really, if you're unfortunate enough to have some dietary requirement that specific, then bring your own frikkin' lunch see.
And get this: two days before the meeting she withdraw her attendance. 'Much regret' yada yada, and I had a smug little giggle and once again confirmed for myself that sometimes its just not worth getting your knickers in a knot until you know its really time to do so.

An attitude which has, I must confess, time and again worked for me. To the point that sometimes I've felt a little bad, just a little mind you, and wondered whether I'm not tempting fate with this laissez faire attitude. Are the gods of chance saving up a big one to wang me with when I least expect it? Maybe. But in the meantime, its an outlook which is still working for me.

And so, a scant week or so before Frieda's nanny goes on her annual leave, and in the face of starting another part-time contract on top of my existing one (and thereby doubling my work hours), and after lazily sending a couple of mails and (barely) looking into a couple of options for temporary childcare, the solution has just fallen, quite beautifully, into my lap. A stand-in nanny, with credible references and just one month free between two contracts, was recommended to me (thanks H!) and will be starting next week.

Jah Chance will provide!

one city : two bizarrely different experiences : both with pampering

Part the One: 

I'm driving by myself, with a mild hangover, and that niggly feeling that my hair is not as clean as it could be, through Parklands (est. 2000). A sprawl of a 'burb with endless same-same streets of 'modern' 'architecture' and bland gardens.

I'm on my way to a 'Girl's Morning'. A tea, hosted by a not-awfully-close-but-nice-friend, to which a bunch of us have been invited to eat cake and hang out and hear a couple of 'low-key' presentations by other acquaintances of this not-awfully-close-but-nice-friend who sell things. You know, like a Tupperware party. (Omg you guys! While googling that link I stumbled upon this fascinating fact I had to share: Did you know that somewhere in the world, a Tupperware party starts every 2.2 seconds? - wtf?!).

Anyhoo, it sounded harmless enough, and who'd turn down an opportunity to hang out, sans child, with a bunch of other chicks and eat cake on a rainy Saturday morning right? Also, the morning was to culminate in a promised pole-dancing lesson (yup, dancing. around a pole. all erotic like. in front of a bunch of strangers). Hmmm. Cake + girls + pole-dancing. It all kinda sparked my curiousity.

So I finally get there, after a couple of wrong turns and a low-blood sugar moment which forced me to consume 2 of the cupcakes I was taking to the tea, I get there and after a glass of champagne and a cup of coffee simultaneously, I'm feeling much better. Until the first presentation that is.

Now I'm not really a big body-image girl. I'm not big into make-up and treatments and grooming and suchlike. I live in Cape Town see. And maybe I've been living under a big ole rock but I'd never before heard of Nu Skin. I didn't know about the home Galv@nic Spa System (and, no jokes, I'm using that '@' on purpose 'cos I've got a nasty feeling this might just be the anti-christ and I don't want them finding me), and I'd been blissfully unaware of Age-Loc(k) technology. And I really, really wish I'd stayed that way.

I could've done without an hour of horse-shit by two women who looked not-unlike plastic dolls, with unnaturally smooth and unlined, unmarked, unreal skin, telling me that they worked for a company who had discovered the 'science' of stopping the aging process completely. That I was no longer doomed to a future of looking 'old and haggard like my grandmother'. That I should go home and take a really good look at my face in the mirror that night and 'decide what my youth is worth to me'. It sounded like something from Oryx and Crake. And it gave me the chills.

And it went on for what seemed like days. Thereby making me run out of time to attend the pole-dancing lesson. Which was, however, maybe not such a bad thing.

As the Nu-skin clones went on and on and on and on and on and on and on.... the pole-dancing 'team' arrived, and luckily from where I was sitting I could see into the front hall to witness this fascinating ensemble. First came a tall attractive young thing clad in Lycra (the pole dancer), then came a middle-aged creepy looking dude with the pole (her handler?), then came a trashy looking blond middle-aged woman with really, really bad genes jeans (um... her mother?) and then came an even trashier looking stringy-haired ancient looking crone with too-red smeared lipstick (her grandmother??). Is it a family business and they travel in a pack, pimping their youngest whilst the others go around with a hat? Did they all come along for the free cake? 

Have I entered an alternate reality in which everyone has become either a genetically enhanced version of Meryl Streep with bad plastic surgery or a wizen and tasteless parody of that overly-tanned old woman in There's Something About Mary? Is this Oryx & Crake??

I eat two bite-sized chicken pies, a revoltingly delicious glacéd cherry wrapped in bacon, a slice of lemon meringue pie and a chocolate brownie and leave, a little shaken.

Part the Two (later that day):

I'm driving, with Frieda, hangover has left in search of fresh victim, hair is starting to behave. I'm driving through Athlone, an old CT suburb, one filled with history and controversy.

I'm on my way to a Baby Shower for an old colleague. We've been out of touch the last few years, but once worked (and played) really well together. She's had a rocky history of a semi-arranged marriage, adultery and divorce and has finally married her true love (after some resistance from her family and his conversion to Islam) and is expecting their first child after a long battle to conceive. It feels like a bit of a modern day fairytale to me. 

The Shower is a surprise and I arrive knowing no-one. But Frieda and I are welcomed into the hostesses home and instantly plied with food and tea and entertainment from the young cousins. The aunties and friends steadily arrive, all bearing platters and pots and baskets of food, and the room quickly fills to capacity, Frieda being indulged and kissed and made to walk around in a tiny pair of pink plastic heels (provided especially for her, I despaired but obviously she loved them).

The mum-to-be arrived and wept to see us all. The women of her family (ranging in age from 13 to 78) embraced her and cried as well. A few made spontaneous speeches about how they welcomed this child and rejoiced that the couple would finally be blessed. We all cried. And ate. And laughed. And reminisced.

We were a funny old bunch of mixed faces and lifestyles, but we easily found enough in common to while away an afternoon, and when the cousins revealed with much giggling that some beauty-school graduate friends of theirs had arrived to give us all pedicures and facials, the whole room erupted in squeals. And soon all of us, some of whom clearly had weekly grooming appointments and some who had never had anyone else wash their feet, were lounging around in states of undress, being pampered and spoiled. Even Frieda had a little foot scrub (walking in heels is hard work as any gal will tell you!).

I got my toenails painted, ate two chocolate eclairs, a heap of fresh fruit, any number of chilli-bites and a couple of hundred pretzels and left.

Reeling in the bizarreness of this diverse city, the oddness of my day, and the fact that despite everything, all girls like a little pampering!

smile for change

Here's one of my favourite things:

A local 'copy shop' (i.e. digital printing, photocopying, litho, scanning place) has come up with this great job creation initiative.

They produce a really simple black & white, A4, 3 fold flyer called 'Funny Money', filled with jokes and funny sketches, and then give them -for free- to unemployed guys to sell at the traffic lights. There seem to be some rules, and I've yet to find a Funny Money vendor who doesn't abide by them.

1. they must be friendly - and often the vendors take this one step further and dress up or wear silly wigs to get into the 'we're in the business of selling funny' vibe

2. they can't charge a specific price - they've received the flyers for free and therefore accept whatever someone's willing to pay for a chuckle

3. if a motorist shows that they've already bought the latest edition from someone else - the (surely disappointed) vendor thanks them with a big smile for supporting the project

The copy shop in question invites the public to submit jokes, and the humour ranges from seriously naive to nice and irreverent - something for everyone.

Everything about this project rocks my world, and is the most perfect example of the best kind of social upliftment: small business draws public into job creation scheme while empowering and improving the lives of normal guys who just want to feed their families. All while having a laugh.

Smile for Change. Couldn't be more apt.

And my favourite joke from the last few editions?

Tag line: Every office should have one. 

parents say the darndest things

For a while I've wanted to do a shout-out to all the mummy (and daddy) bloggers I read, and love. One of the fundamental lessons of parenting is how very, very, many ways there are of doing this job, and one of the earliest lessons learnt is that there's only one way for you to do it: your way.

The path to comparative parenting is fraught with angst and self-loathing. Don't go there. Find your feet. Forge your own way. Fall over. Have a cry. Dust yourself off. Set out again. Repeat. To infinity and beyond.

But do listen, read, laugh, puke, judge, stand in awe and generally keep your eyes and ears open to how others do. For you can only learn. And you'll often be entertained, inspired, moved and motivated. This ole blogosphere is so good for all that.

So check out my blogging mama's on the right. They're a strange mix, but each of them speaks to me. Which is an indication of how eclectic my parenting style is if nothing else!

I love to laugh with amalah. She has a turn of phrase which cuts right to my funny bone, even while dealing with some pretty tough parenting challenges.

Girls Gone Child sometimes makes me laugh, often makes me think - the best kind.

Inchmark just makes me stand slack-jawed in the face of her meticulous needle-work. Her advent calendar is something else... And I love her regular posts on the library books she and her children are reading. I've seen many old friends there.

And then there's SouleMama. So much is said about her, and its all so deserved. While I don't aspire to her life (4 kids!), or relate to some of it - home-schooling, home births - her blog is a place I love to visit, and I always come away feeling peaceful and positive. Her's are the posts I read last thing before going to bed.

There's lots of other bloggers I love who blog about parenting in between other life things (so I didn't include them on my blogging mama's list exclusively). Sweet Juniper is a Dad with some of the luckiest kids in the world, just for being his. Eyeblog is another calm and restful haven I like to visit, Tara is a great Mum. Super Fiona is just starting out with her gorgeous Hallam.

And then there's Petunia Face. I've a major blog crush on her right now. She's just so dang honest. And insightful. But I heard a rumour she recently posted about toads, so I won't be going round there for a few days....

They say it takes a village to raise a child. I think the same should apply to parents. Thanks everyone for sharing your stories!

writing on the walls

I've mentioned before how much I like living in a part of town where people paint on the walls. In a suburb of thinkers, students, activists and drama queens ~ many of whom seem to like to live out loud.

I've also said how I love that South Africans have such a strong tradition of political commentary, often expressed through satire. This trait kept many people sane through the apartheid years, and I'm pleased the trend still seems to be alive and well.

This professionally printed poster went up in a random shop window within days of South Africa refusing the Dalai Lama a visa, and remains there still.

Ja, wtf was up with that?? 

And then, just days after we got our new President (he of a dubious legal past), these went up all over the 'burb. 

And I had to include this one, also a new addition. A simple Peace sign. Nice.

Of course I nearly stood in dog poo twice while taking these pics, and I drove from site to site 'cos I didn't want to risk walking with my camera on my own. And I got some broken glass lodged in my shoe. 

But hey, sometimes I think I'd still rather bear all that than live in a suburb filled with fake Tuscan architecture and whiny middle-class whingers.

and now it's our turn

Election Day next Wednesday!

And after the political turbulence of the last year or so, this is a much anticipated day indeed.

The recent announcement by the National Prosecuting Authority that all fraud charges against Jacob Zuma have been dropped kind of cancelled out the last hope that he might not become our next President. Now it seems he will. We're in for some interesting times indeed.

And I really do feel that's the only way to forge ahead into the future. To take this on as the next 'interesting' (don't you love how all-encompassing that word can be? How it can say everything and nothing? A bit like 'working together to make a better life for all' ... ), sorry where was I? Oh yes, the next 'interesting' phase in a political history which has, at the very least, never, ever been boring. 

What I have been greatly enjoying about our politics recently is the upswell in political satire. Something which we became really good at during the apartheid years, a lot of satirists took a back-seat in deference to celebrating our wildly optimistic Rainbow Nation. Ah those heady days in the mid 1990's when even the razor-sharp wit of Pieter Dirk-Uys was tempered a little, and we would joke about how comics such as he would now have to dig deep for their material. Turns out not so deep at all.

For inevitably (and how could we really for a moment have believed that just because we had a unique political situation we'd have unique politicians?) and quite swiftly, a host of new preposterous buffoons presented themselves, like virgins at a coming-out ball, to be flayed alive by that good ole SA sense of humour which never fails to make one laugh, even when sometimes you think you should be crying.

Zapiro must undoubtedly be our finest right now. Proof thereof being that JZ himself is trying to bring a defamation suit against him - guess he struck a nerve huh? The marvellous Evita is still getting it right every time, and whole new waves of younger South African stand-ups and public commentators are regularly making us chortle.

But there's an even more recent trend, a deliciously dangerous one, of uncompromisingly ripping-off election slogans and posters, an underground movement which really does hark back to the bad old days.

Let's hope this is as close as we come.

And on a bit more serious note, our big weekly publication, the Mail & Guardian, has posted this poll on their website. By answering a few questions about key current issues facing SA at the moment, the poll will tell you who it thinks you should be, or are most likely to, vote for next Wednesday. The questions are very astute, and if nothing else will get you thinking. And you may even be quite surprised by the results.

Here's hoping there's some surprises in the election results in general. Stranger things have happened in this bizarre country of ours.