A Visit with an old Friend

I have just re-read a classic – My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. When I finished it this morning I felt a deep pleasure that started in my very middle and rose all the way up to manifest in a huge grin. I felt the satisfaction settle like a cloak over me.  Every bit of it was as good as I remembered. With a few words, Durrell was able to transport me right into his madly, chaotic, eccentric family on the equally mad, chaotic and eccentric island of Corfu. It was like meeting up with an old friend and finding that we could pick up exactly where we left off. Although I think that this time I read it with far more appreciation of the descriptive passages that he is so good at. 

I had an urge to share it with my children although I am not sure how well he will stand up to vampires, dragons and other unearthly creatures. Nevertheless, I cornered them with a few passages I could not resist reading out aloud.

... we…fled from the gloom of the English summer like a flock of migrating swallows ... 
... France rain-washed and sorrowful, Switzerland like a Christmas cake, Italy exuberant, noisy and smelly, were passed…
... the cypress-trees undulated gently in the breeze, as if they were busily painting the sky a still brighter blue for our arrival...

And that’s only in the first 20 pages or so.

I found myself laughing out loud at hilarious descriptions of his family and other characters who passed through his life while they were in Greece. I have stuck little coloured post-its all over the book to go back to ruminate over.  Ah, the simple pleasures in life! 

The 50th Anniversary Edition of My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell is published by Puffin 

The Gift of Friendship

I value the women in my life. The gift of having someone who listens when you open up, supports and cheers you on when life's disappointments get you down, and who celebrates the joy of being alive with you, is one that should not be taken for granted.

I am fortunate to have a few women in my life who I can call friends.  There is the friend who I know will cajole me into laughing my way out of difficulty. There's the friend who will take charge, like a mother hen and organise when necessary. There are friends I can share the responsibilities of motherhood with, and the friends I can show my wild, outrageous Aquarian side to. There are those who inspire me and those who keep me young.

Different friends suit different times in my life. They come in different sizes, shapes and with different temperaments. Sometimes I find myself thinking about the space I am in and the friend I need, like one would choose a track of music to listen to or a book to read. My friends are like the family I have chosen. We share a bond that is born out of shared joy, sorrow and whatever it takes to deal with the blows that life sometimes throw at us. Long ago I learned that it was necessary to gather around me the people who build me up, support and nurture me, not people who tear me down. 

Whenever I have had the privilege of sitting down in a circle with some of the women I know, it amazes me how each one brings their own flavour to the gathering. It is exactly because we are so different that we can support each other - the mothers, grandmothers, career women, nurturers, cooks, givers and doers - sharing wisdom and experience. We emerge with our batteries recharged, ready to create the the small corners of peace in our home and our community.

It's not black and white

South Africa isn't Black and White. It's Grey. Foreigners have asked me numerous times for clarity about some or other issue (which never arises where they come from) and I find myself juggling wildly different responses in an attempt to explain the "local" viewpoint. There is no clear answer to many questions.

For one, how do you describe a typical South African to anyone? We are such a hodge-podge of cultures, religions, traditions and value systems and it is going to be a while before we breakdown into that "melting pot" that everyone calls our country. You may eat pap and vleis or curry, live in the country or at the sea, click or bray through a language, speak loudly on buses or genteelly drink tea at the Nellie. We once met a group of wealthy young Americans on our travels through Italy. They immediately assumed that we were of those South Africans who didn’t know how to use a washing machine because we have legions of servants. Wonder who they had been hanging out with.

And then there are more serious issues. Someone pointed out to me that nowhere in the world does the government provide free housing for people. I agree hat you value something more when you have worked for it, contributed to it and earned it. But on the other hand, we have such a huge backlog and people in such dire need of a basic roof over their heads (never mind an enclosed toilet) that we really need to just pitch in and get them housed. How else will we level the playing fields?

Similarly, I listened while a foreign friend had a little rant about why South Africans have to qualify people according to race as in "a Black guy came walking into the room". I'm afraid, this has been ingrained into our brains and vocabularies - a person's "race" put him into a box that described everything from the language he spoke, the place he lived, maybe even his job and the car he drove. 

So having come this far without a “Hotel Rwanda” or a “Holocaust”, I think that we should get on with making this a great country and find our own identity. We cannot be neatly boxed (in spite of the previous regime doing their utmost) – indeed we probably won’t fit into that melting pot without boiling over. But we will be proudly South African. Already the next generation is moving away from the labels. I have never heard my children refer to their friends as a white kid or a black kid; they seem to have little difficulty finding other adjectives.

On Turning 18

My daughter turned 18 two days ago. She is in her final year of school and the world is her oyster. Over the years she has put together quite an impressive CV. She has met queens and presidents, dug trenches in rural villages, been interviewed on television and the radio, and travelled to some of the most exotic places in the world. She is excited about registering to vote and getting her driver's licence. She has decisions to make about what and where she wants to study.  Someone asked me if I remember what it was like when I turned 18. It was nothing like that.

At 18 I had completed school (in those days we started school a year earlier) and was embarking on a very different voyage. In the apartheid days it was no easy feat being accepted to the mainly "white" University of Cape Town and I needed to acquire a permit. 

Entering university was such a cultural onslaught - I might as well have been in a different country. The campus was huge - I think my school could have fitted into the Jagger Hall. There were lecture halls and sports centres,  different campuses, buses shuttling back and forth, and more "white" people than I had ever seen in my life. And I was able to sit next to them in class, on the bus and in the library.  There were students from all over the country and beyond its borders. Read more about that experience by clicking on this link -  http://saaray-livinginsa.blogspot.com/2010/09/of-black-alumni-and-other-apartheid.html.

I caught buses and trains to campus, wrote out assignments (which I researched in the library in BOOKS!) by hand (or typed them on my dad's typewriter; and no, it was not electric). I could not register to vote. My identity book classified me by race. Overseas travel was some far off fantasy (in fact, I was almost thirty before I went overseas for the first time).

But how exciting to have lived in an era where there have been so many changes. How fortunate to be able to see our children have opportunities and privileges we only dreamt of. And how blessed to have children who use those opportunities and privileges to make a difference.