We'll Always Have Paris

14 years ago when we dined at restaurants without a drive-through, watched full-length feature films (at the cinema) and slept an uninterrupted eight hours – my husband promised he’d take me to Paris for my birthday. I was so besotted with him I’d have happily skipped to the McDonalds on the Hounslow High Street if he’d suggested as much. But the idea of Paris made my 19-year-old heart swoon. Paris was for grownups. Paris was proper. I could have a Big Mac any day, but sipping a velvety French wine in front of the Eiffel Tower wasn’t an experience available on any Ronald McDonald’s menu board. Sadly we didn’t make it to Paris that year. Life happened and the trip was put on hold. Until this year. 14 years later than scheduled - somewhat wiser (him) a lot more wrinkled (me) we finally set off our Paris adventure. Just the two of us.

We caught the Eurostar from Kings Cross on a rainy Saturday morning and arrived just before lunch in a sunny Paris. The trip took two hours. I fell asleep in Britain and awoke in France. We arrived at the Gare du Nord station amidst a frenzy of excited tourists. We were no different - my husband had taken 200 pictures before we’d even left the UK. Not unlike a pair of giddy teenagers, armed with a bag each, a camera and the Citymapper app, we set off to see as much of Paris as we possibly could in just 24 hours. We were en route to buy Metro tickets, when I spotted a serious wad of cash lying on the platform. My husband was taking pictures of the sky at the time and so the next 30 minutes were very tricky trying to locate the loot’s owner in a swarm of people few of whom spoke English. Eventually we were able to reunite a very thankful Japanese man with his holiday money – nearly £300’s worth of cash. I’ll hazard a guess that his next purchase was a fanny pack. We figured the reunion we’d initiated between a man and his cash was a good omen. For us. And the Japanese man of course.

The Gare du Nord station is not the best introduction to Paris. It’s ugly, smells of pee and there are groups of pickpocketing yobs that steal from you under the ruse of seeking directions. “Speak Engrish, speak Engrish” is what they chant while a piece of tattered paper is thrust under your nose and you are unwittingly relieved of your wallet and cellphone. We saw this con virtually happen in front of us – fortunately the overwhelmed lady had the presence of mind to scream like a banshee and within seconds the mob had dispersed.  At any station we visited thereafter whenever someone approached us with “speak Engrish, speak Engrish”, we’d back away and like a foghorn I’d proclaim, “No, get away. Leave us alone.” In language with a lot more colour – too colourful in fact for me to type. I tried. It was bad. I felt like a right git though when a lady approached me and she’d barely got her words out before I verbally assaulted her and legged it. Only to have my husband come around the corner a couple of minutes later holding her map of Paris pointing her in the direction of the train she was looking for.  A genuinely lost tourist in a Paris station… Who’d have thought it? Not me. Clearly.

I’ve always been rather cynical about historical buildings. Yes they were built a long time ago. Yes they’re famous. Yes they’re pretty. Yes, ok. I get it. But I had to swallow every last chunk of that cynicism – when I actually stood at the foot of the Eiffel Tower and looked up. And it wasn’t just the structure itself – which is obviously impressive. Mind-blowing in fact. The real magic was being a part of a crowd of hundreds of people on that day. People who had all made their individual journeys from various parts of the world to visit the same site. To share in the collective awe. My best friend asked me to describe the highlight of the trip – and I can honestly say that it was picnicking on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower sharing a bottle of French wine with my husband. Sitting amidst groups of happy people at the foot of one of the world’s most iconic feats of architecture. Watching people pose for that umpteenth picture with the tower as a backdrop. Children playing. Snatches of conversation in a variety of accents. The sound of laughter. The experience transcended age, gender and nationality. We were one collective happy mass. The atmosphere on that afternoon was something I’ll never forget.

Ok so the Notre Dame Cathedral was pretty good too. The Louvre. The Arc de Triomphe. The Opera. All incredible. All worth the hype. Paris is a beautiful city. There’s no doubt about it. We soaked in all the sights. Drank too much wine. Ate way too much cheese. Paris delivered. And we were happy to receive.

We were seated on the bottom of a double decker tube en route to the Louvre when a South African family tumbled into our carriage, moments before the doors closed. Dad led the charge trying to maintain the illusion delusion of being in control. Mom looked harassed, hair disheveled, tired eyes. Three (!!) boys trailed in the couple’s wake. Ranging in age from approximately nine to around three years. They fell into their seats. Mom and Dad rested weary heads and closed their eyes. There was a moment of calm. Then Oldest son opened his backpack and took out a bottle of water. Younger son asked Mum for water. Mum shrugged and raised her hands in apology. There was no more. Older son handed his over to younger to share. Naturally Middle son wanted water too. Younger took a sip and handed it to Middle who in turn took a sip. Older son asked for it back. Younger son wanted more. Middle son proceeded to deliberately finish the rest of the water. A fight ensued. Chaos. Parents intervened. Cajoled. Bargained. Bribed. I averted my eyes from the scene – knowing how desperate I feel when my children have a public meltdown and there are witnesses. My husband and I looked at each other knowingly. Shared relief and sympathy. The couple looked apologetically in our direction. Embarrassed by the disturbance their brood had unleashed. To them we were a couple alone, free and unencumbered in Paris. We sat with two bags, a camera and each other. No additional baggage. In that moment, we could easily have been that couple from 14 years ago. And I have to be honest, on that train, on that day, we basked in the pretence. We had travelled light – in every sense of the word. And it was good.

It was an hour later that we saw a figure skater in the piazza outside the Louvre – performing the most incredible tricks. My husband turned to me and said excitedly, “Wouldn’t Ollie just love to see this! And wouldn’t the Gabs go wild chasing all of these pigeons?” Sublime Paris was all ours for a brief moment in time. After an idyllic 24 hours though, we were happy to leave La Ville-Lumière - The City of Light. And head back home. Back to our chaos. The cheeky little pair of them.

My Africa

I’ve never been a typical tourist in Africa. I’ve never been on safari. Never travelled through the bush on the back of a landy. Never visited multiple African countries. I’ve never spent time observing different African cultures. I’ve been a city slicker virtually my entire life – apart from a few early years on farms when I was too young to remember. I avoid sand and mud if I can help it. Snakes are the devil. Frogs aren’t far behind. Spiders I can handle. Walking is good, but not too far and don’t call it hiking. Hiking I don’t do. The shoes are ugly and to me unless there’s a destination, what’s the point? I don’t watch nature programs because it’s too traumatic for me to see a defenseless buck being mauled by a lion. I keep thinking that the buck was another buck’s baby and could be a mother to her own baby buck. I’m not brave in the wild. I scream. I cry. Most traditional African food makes me gag unless its phutu or samp. Mopani worms, no thanks. Boiled goat, Kapenta – pass. I need a clean flushing toilet. Running water. And electricity. And a bed raised off the floor. At all times. I would rather stay at home than sleep in a tent. In a word, I am a wuss. I am the biggest nature wuss you’ve ever come across. I am Africa’s bastard child. 

But something about the quote above really moves me. It may be because I’m trying to build a life in a foreign country. It may be because I miss my home, my family, the familiar. Either way – the quote and image above makes me proud to hail from Africa. Proud to be an African. Even though I’m her bastard child. Even though I’m terrified of most of her nature and pretty much all of her wildlife. 


This got me thinking about what it actually means to be African? How do we make this connection to the continent of our birth and what nurtures it? It is family for sure. It is shared experience in a place one calls home. The traditions and cultures one shares – whatever these may be. Whether it’s a Sunday roast every week, a trip to a restaurant to celebrate happy news or a cultural ceremony in one’s backyard. Being a part of a family unit and a broader community helps to define one, shape identity, root one in a world where the boundaries don’t exist except as governments have created them.

As a child, I spent many happy family holidays along the Kwa-Zulu Natal south coast. Net fishing with my cousins in rock pools, body surfing with my sister in the shorebreak, picking mussels with my uncle, scouring the beach in search of a prized cowry. Sunbathing with my mom. Inevitably nursing sunburn that evening. Honing my skill at making Irish coffees for my aunt. Walking alongside cornfields whilst visiting my grandparents in the KZN interior, eating oranges or sneaking Wilson toffees from the stash in my grandfather’s pocket. Sitting in a warm cosy kitchen watching while my Gran made crumpets. Weekend day trips to the local dam, waterskiing and enjoying braais in the sun. The smell of charcoal and Tabard. Christmas Days spent lolling in a swimming pool, eating too much food and the nervous anticipation of Father Christmas. Chlorine and sun cream, gammon and mince pies, Quality Street chocolates. Learning to drive with my Dad along dusty Eastern Cape backroads or sitting on the back of his motorbike with the wind in my hair. Unbearably hot and humid afternoons in Pietermaritzburg where the air sits in a haze until there’s a release and the heavens finally open. The smell after a storm; organic but with a lingering trace of the city…tarmac, car fumes, smog.

As an adult, I think of carefree picnics at Barley Beach or Signal Hill in Cape Town. Beautiful scenes of sea and land and the point at which they meet. Mountains and valleys in the Winelands. The Helderberg. Greens and browns in perfect harmony. The golden Highveld in Johannesburg. Vibrant purple Jacarandas in Pretoria. The quaint KZN Midlands. The whooshing sound of Howick Falls. The Umgeni River’s slow journey to the sea. The spectacular Kloof Gorge, the panoramic outlook across the Krantzkloof Nature Reserve. The Berea’s palm trees and harbour views. The majestic ranges in the Drakensberg, the quiet Underberg and picturesque rolling hills of Ixopo. The yellow beaches of the South Coast. The enticing blue waters of the Dolphin Coast. The arid Karoo and her striking lonely beauty. The views of pancake flat land as one drives the back route through the Free State to the Cape. The peaks and valleys of the Transkei. The distinctive flora of the Eastern Cape, the aloes that dot the landscape in an orange flash of colour. Electric thunderstorms and multi-coloured rainbows. Sunrises with promise and sunsets rich with the blessing of a full day.

This is my Africa. These memories and the experiences I hold in my heart. They are a living record of the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met. These memories reflect laughter, joy, family, friendship and a life lived. These memories are all that make me African. Offer me a valid passport to land of my birth. I may not have seen the Big Five. I may not have ridden an elephant, watched a wildebeest migration in the Maasai Mara or spotted a leopard in the Serengeti. I may not have camped alongside the Okavango Delta or rafted down the Zambezi. But My Africa is just as magical. It belongs to me. And I carry it with me always.

Idiot Abroad Seeks Signs

Signs are everywhere here. I don’t mean signs from Jesus or the ones in your head that you think mean you should take a lotto ticket. I’m referring to actual signs. On buildings. On the Tube. At the train station. On the highways. They’re intended, I suppose, to help the clueless types like me and the tourists from Uzbekistan or China find our way around without bothering the police. The police in London have enough to deal with. If the local news is anything to go by, they’re chasing chav teenagers who stab and beat each other to death in the streets at nighttime. Just like feral little monkeys – except less cute and more rabid. Unleashing me onto the London Underground is like taking a new puppy to the Vatican. It just shouldn’t be done. There’s going to be barking. And pee. And a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth. And I’m not talking about the dog.

I am the most unsophisticated traveller I know. Forget idiot abroad, I am idiot at home. I have downloaded a mobile app that literally guides me to my intended destination. The little man flashes his field of vision and I follow it like a dim-witted sheep. Recently I have been required to venture into the depths of Londontown to meet with clients for work. This means panic stations as I try to figure out the logistics required to reach each destination. Piccadilly Line (or Piccalilli Line as I call it) Circle Line, City Line, District Line, overground, underground. So many routes, so many colours, directions headed east or west, the London Underground Tube Map looks like a psychedelic drawing by that creepy kid in the white dress with the limp hair from The Ring. To me it’s disturbing and completely devoid of logic. To 29 million other travellers, it appears to hold some meaning. Funny that.

The Citymapper mobile app is a godsend for directionless cretins like me. I find myself literally holding my phone in front of me as I follow the directions. I look like the Queen of tools though. The mummy pose never quite made it to the high street – although when I look at twerking that surprises me somehow. When first I was following my dude on my screen, I worried that my phone was too visible and someone might nick it so I tried to be discreet and hold it lower, which meant I smashed into people, bins, poles. A class act indeed. I’d bumped into every trashcan in Euston, ten mobsters and as many Russian mail-order brides, before it suddenly dawned on that I wasn’t in Africa. I didn’t need my cellphone buried deep in my bra or safely stowed in my handbag looped 8 times around my shoulder. People I pass here are either thumbing on their phones or Spotifying through their earphones. Mobile phones are as common as Miley Cyrus’s performance at the MTV Music Awards last Sunday. No one swipes out of your hand here. I’ve got more chance of being knifed because I rammed into someone. A cellphone smash and grab Saffa style is very unlikely. Theft is another kind of weird in London - I recently heard of someone who was mugged on the Tube and her assailant asked for a hug after he’d taken her cash. He stole her cellphone, but did her the courtesy of removing her sim card so she’d keep her contacts. The whole transaction was was very polite and efficient. Very British. Poms don’t like mess or fuss. Even thieving ones it appears.

So by the time I arrive at each meeting, I feel as though I’ve given birth. And the proper way. Not my wussy Caesar births. I hope to breeze into each meeting fresh and confident. The truth is I scream in, head for the nearest loo, mop my brow, change out of my slops into proper shoes and give my underarms special attention with a fire hydrant sized deo I carry. There’s nothing bright or breezy about that.

When you’re vulnerable you take note of the signs. I’ve learnt that I mustn’t force my body in between the train’s doors when they’re closing. I mustn’t run for the train. I mustn’t stand with my daughter’s pram too close to the edge of the platform. I must mind the gap. I must watch my possessions on the train. I mustn’t litter. I must give up my seat for either an aged, disabled, pregnant person or one carrying a child. Or any of that combination thereof I’m guessing. I mustn’t vandalise the Tube. I must carry my ticket at all times. I can’t throw myself off the platform. Nor can I throw any item or person off the platform. Unless you’re a destructive, absent-minded, selfish, disrespectful, suicidal or homicidal manic, these signs seem pretty straightforward. Only sign I haven’t come across yet is one that reads: “Lost? Clueless? Foreign? Come and talk to me. I’ll help. You can cry. It’s ok.” I’ll keep looking for it. It’ll be the sign that I head to every time. My default sign.

Last weekend, we were driving on a highway from Cambridge back to Windsor. Every so often there are signs for what they call “Services” where you pull over and can refuel in petrol, coffee and all manner of overpriced road-trip fare. The British version of Shell Ultracity or Engen Quikstop. We stopped soon into our journey because my son was starting to wig out and his motion sickness meds hadn’t reduced him to the same zombie state that they’d achieved for my daughter. We couldn’t dump him on the side of the A11, which is what we wanted to do. So we figured we’d feed him instead. I bought a 500ml coke zero which I drank pretty much before we’d left the parking lot. After 15 minutes of travel small-talk, I said to my husband “I really need the loo. I wonder where the next Services sign is?” Considering that we’d just pulled off at one, my chances of another anytime soon were slim. I kept hoping though as we drove that a sign would come. Hope turned to desperation. And then it got ugly.

It was when I had reached gooseflesh and tingly hair stage that I suggested that we pull over on the side of the highway. My husband chuckled until he realised that I was ‘ready to pee in seat now’ serious. He said, “Sal, this is England. You can’t just pull over and pee on the side of the road. It’s not done. People don’t do that here. I’ve never even seen a car on the shoulder of the highway, let alone someone squatting. There are probably cameras anyway.” He carried on driving - smugly confident that I’d been suitably shamed into holding it for just a little bit longer. I took the opportunity to remind him he had two options. He could witness his wife wet herself in a car 40 minutes from home and spend the next 50 years with that mental image. Or he could pull over and risk the highway patrol arresting me for dropping my drawers. He pulled over. I had the fastest wee of my life, perched in between two open car doors, protecting as best I could my lily white derriere from highway view. My husband slouched lower in his seat like a gangsta, pretending to have no knowledge of what was happening to his left. I vaulted back into the car and we were off. I had polluted the blessed English countryside. And there were no police sirens wailing in hot pursuit. No coppers with truncheons. The sky did not fall Chicken Little. Fancy that. Guess what we saw though literally two minutes after pulling back onto the highway? Yip you guessed it – the Services sign. Taunting in its overtness.

So I’m six months in – and clearly no wiser to any signs. Literal or otherwise. I got stung by a nettle on Monday. Stung by a hornet on Wednesday. Is that a sign of more stings to come? One more perhaps? Or have I been stung enough? I joked that the third sting may be SARS as I’ve got to submit my tax return soon. Or it could be a sign from the British traffic police that my indecent exposure and desecration of a public road was captured by one of the 19 million cameras along the highway routes in the UK. They know what I did. They will come for me in their own time. Once they’ve got some manpower after chasing the knife-wielding yobs. I’ll watch out for any sign of their arrival. Then I’ll hide. Probably in a Tube Station with a couple million tourists. Until then – I’m all signed out. Clearly.