Relocate. Rinse. Repeat

So we’re moving house. Again. It seems the last three times in three years weren’t enough. The universe reckons one more would be a laugh. Four for the win, ek se. We’re a little frazzled by the whole fiasco. I didn’t greet the news of having to relocate our three ferals and all our earthly possessions with much grace. No surprises there. I had a massive tantrum after my husband called to drop the bombshell. And then I sobbed with hysterical heaving and hiccuping, as I do. My little boy was so frightened, he started too. A sympathy sob for his mama, bless his heart. We were in the car outside the Tesco after the school run on a regular Monday morning. I then proceeded to do a week’s grocery shop with a traumatised puffy-eyed baby boy clinging to my neck like a vervet monkey and mascara lines emblazoned down my face that I only saw three hours later. No one batted an eyelid though. This is Britain. I also appear to have developed a weird rash on my face and neck. And four mouth ulcers. And a pain in my sternum, not unlike what I imagine is the start of a heart-attack, but without the actual heart-attack.

Physical foibles and gratuity for coronary no-show aside, I now have my grown-up pantie on and I've got a grip. And I’m trucking forward. What else is one to do? Tis the reality of renting, innit. We deal with it. Or live in our car. And our car simply isn’t big enough.

The benefit of moving physical form four times in three years is that one acquires certain skills. We’re somewhat sussed when it comes to shipping up and shunting off.

1) Have less stuff. We regularly recycle our kids’ toys, clothes and crap belongings. Mostly without their knowledge. “Oh that dolly! She’s gone on a holiday. And she’s having such a lovely time, she’s probably going to stay a while longer. Like forever.”

2) Sentimenal stuff is still just stuff. I’ve struggled a lot with this. But at the end of the day, exactly how many of your kid’s drawings/reports/cards/random-stuff-they-drew-for-you can you actually keep? You can't keep it all. There's simply too much. You'll end up on reality TV where they park a skip outside your front door and a woman with a clipboard has to make her way through all the piles of your hoard. And there's soft music and lots of hugs and everyone ends up crying.
A good friend of mine gave me a tip about precious artwork that you feel too bad to bin. She uses it as gift-wrapping. What an ingenious idea, I thought. It’s delightfully personal, it saves cash, time and you’re legitimately making use of paper that lurks around, gathering dust and cluttering cupboards.

3) Make friends with the removals crew. They’re the chaps who’re physically hauling around the guts of your home. Best you be nice. Also when you’re a repeat customer as often as we are, it helps to have service with a smile and banter about how much your collective brethren have grown.

4) Leave a couple of days overlap between your move-in and check-out dates. It gives you some valuable breathing room. No planning is ever sufficient – the moving beast runs deeper and wider than you initially forecast.

5) Don’t move too far, if you can help it. We’ve literally moved within a 3km radius three times. It's cheaper of course. But it’s also helpful when you’re hauling carload after carload of random gear you’ve forgotten to pack from the garden shed or camping equipment stashed in the loft.

6) Don’t get rid of your moving boxes. Pack them flat and store them. You never know when you’ll need them again. You can’t just go to the supermarket here and grab some boxes from the recycling at the back. For reasons of health and safety, it's not allowed. I'm not entirely sure why. There must be latent bird flu or some ebola-esque virus that the folks who like to lick the inside of cardboard boxes may be exposed to. On top of their other issues.
Anyway, so you need to buy boxes. As in pay actual money. And they get delivered. Not without irony, in other boxes. I got too cocky when we moved into our current house and I sent our set of boxes to the recycling, figuring we wouldn’t need them again. Fooled me twice, shame on me. We’ve now just forked out £70 for a new set. I’m keeping these babies under my mattress. They’re worth more than at least one of my kids. Possibly two.

7) Give your broadband/TV/line rental provider as much warning as possible to schedule the re-installation in your new place. We’ve been slow off the mark with this, every time. As a result, with our last move we endured a week without internet or TV before paying through our teeth for wifi from a private network selling off chunks before the installation guy came and I heard the hallelujah chorus in my head. We nearly didn’t make it though. Forget the stress of moving. I could move every month. Raising kids without broadband or beebees on the other hand, forget it. I don't have that level of skill. My mothering simply doesn’t stretch that far.

8) Pack light. Have more boxes and less stuff in each box. Sounds counter-intuitive but there’s nothing worse than seeing a box with its bottom fallen out and all your stuff splayed out in all its glory for the world to see. The indignity is appalling. And moving day is fraught with enough trauma. Also, always invest in double-wall boxes - it's all about adequate under-carriage support. For moving - and so much more.

9) Be nice to your neighbours. This is very relevant in Britain where you can see, hear and pretty much smell them from all angles. They’re the peeps you turn to when you’ve run out of visitor’s permits, halloween treats or need space in front of your house for the removal van. We’ve hit the jackpot with our neighbours in Windsor. Ok, so yes there’s the Queen – and she’s pretty special I'm led to believe. But as far as commoners go, we’ve had lovely, friendly people on all sides who we've even liked enough to braai with - the ultimate South African endorsement.

10) Just roll with it. All the carnage and chaos. All the inconvenience and the this-is-so-kak-I-can't-possibly-cope. It passes. I promise.
For me, hopefully the ulcers, rash and pre-heart-attack do too. I have new neighbours to meet. Psychotic Saffa mother to three feral children who share a penchant for frolicking buck-naked brandishing sticks and who scream like they're being murdered... is enough of a challenge for my new resident status pending approval. Not sure I can add any more freak to that show.
Time and a new postcode will tell. Until then, we move. Forward.

Bye bye Bourne Avenue. Thank you for the mouse cupboard, enormous bath and such happy memories. We'll miss you and all your residents.

Hello new home. Thank you for the bin. Front and centre, ready and waiting. Be gentle on us please. We may be feral, but we're fragile, friendly folk too.

All Roads Lead To The Place of the Elephant

There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. *

When I envisage my birthplace, these words echo in my head. Even though I wasn’t actually born in Ixopo. I was born 50 miles away. In a city called Pietermaritzburg. Named after two chaps Piet Retief and Gert Maritz who were Voortrekkers – farmers from the Cape who, in 1840, went in search of new land. Greener pastures and all. They found it. A place nestled in a picturesque valley at the foot of range of spectacular mountains. With flowing rivers and good soil. The whole shebang. A veritable real estate jackpot. If we were talking New York, Donald Trump would’ve been all over it. In between polling for presidency and pissing off a whole lot of Islamic folk.

Piet and Gert weren’t the only fellas to find this lush posse. The Zulu people did too. First. The Zulus named it Umgungundlovu, which means “Place of the Elephant”. I must admit, I prefer the Zulu name; it rolls off the tongue a little better. Also I like elephants. Majestic, empathetic and beautiful creatures they are. To me, elephants are blessed with the wisdom of all of Africa’s deepest secrets.

Whatever the name, this place holds the memories of my childhood.
Running in the veld. Plotting alternate realities in my mind. The long, dry grass whipping at my knees. Skittish of the snakes and wild animals that my mother warned me were lurking behind the koppies.
The warm Berg wind that rushed from the stately Drakensberg Mountains through my hair, whispering a story. Omniscient and reassuring like an old friend who knew me well.
Sundays at Midmar Dam waterskiing until my body ached and I fell asleep in the car on the way home, sunburnt but sated.
Watching the mysterious Umgeni River, a thick brown snake of water making her way to the sea, confident of the journey she would face. Never missing a turn.
Afternoon thunderstorms, the air charged with anticipation at the welcomed release of rainfall to cool and revitalise.
Green hills in the summer, turned golden in the autumn and winter.
Blue skies as far as the eye could see.
My view framed by hills that stretched far and wide into the mountains.
Warm starry nights filled with promise and magic. Upon which I launched all my childhood hopes and dreams.

Pietermaritzburg, Umgungundlovu or Sleepy Hollow as the locals call it.
Whatever the name, this place to me will always be a one-word description.
No matter how many continents, oceans or miles separate us.
To me, this place is home.
The home rooted in my heart.

* The opening sentences of the novel Cry The Beloved Country, written by Alan Paton, 1948.

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Ref: Gossipguy: https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19282536