The God of Small Things…must have been British

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy is a novel I really enjoyed. It’s the story about how a series of small things can have a big impact on a person’s behaviour and their life. Ok so this is a simplistic description of a rather complex and controversial plot, but it works for me in this context so I’m rolling with it. Small is a word that I’ve come to know very well these past several months in the UK. Where we live, space is a commodity as rare and valuable as spice was in the 16th century. Today you can buy pepper at the corner shop but there ain’t no way come hell or Hackney you’ll able to find any structure bigger than 150smq that isn’t a library or a museum. And naturally I don’t refer to the properties owned by Her Majesty and all her royal tributaries. Castles and palaces don’t count. I'm talking about what applies to us common folk. The more modest territory of semis, terraced houses, bungalows et al.

When it comes to dealing with space in the UK, your South African roots will show if…

- Your neighbours are dining al fresco and you’re embarrassed that you can hear every word of their conversation. And they live four houses down.
- You can’t squeeze a coin between the cars parked on any given street. They’re that close. You’re horrified that you need a degree in geometry and an advanced driver’s license to work out the angles involved in some parking manoevres. And even then, you still wouldn’t have the balls or cheek to attempt those moves yourself.
- You marvel at the sight of how bicycles are stored on the balconies of apartment blocks. One wheel precariously propped over the edge. I have to avert my eyes from the imagined carnage of bicycles dropping to the ground like those hotdogs on Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
- You’re horrified that upon entering a lift, 10 people will trail in behind you. As the lift doors are about to close, another eight will sneak in. Even after you’ve started breathing into your handbag, one more will join the crowd.
- Your mind boggles at the ubiquity of three or four storey homes - where there’s a kitchen in the basement and a bedroom in the loft. You walk up two flights of stairs from your kitchen to enjoy a cup of tea in your lounge. You need hiking gear and a healthy appetite to haul a midnight feast up your bedroom.
- You’re stumped by the design and home décor challenge of the long narrow rooms in typically British houses. It will never be ok to climb into your bed from the bottom because it’s neatly slotted in between two walls. Never.
- You feel completely violated on a Tube packed with commuters when someone stands so close to you that you can feel their breath on your neck. And you get unsolicited butterfly kisses on your cheek.
- You’re amused that beds, couches, coffee tables, futons – all come with built-in storage space. Even storage comes with extra storage.
- You’re shocked in a coffee shop when other diners will brazenly sit down and fill the unoccupied space at table you’re sharing with someone. Possession is not nine tenths of the law in the UK. Space is.
- You’re disturbed by the fact that in most open plan offices in London you can hear every stage of your colleague’s peristalsis as they digest their lunch. You can also watch a five o’clock shadow grow. You sit that close to Fred from Accounts or Lauren in IT.
- You’re dumbstruck that you can boil the kettle and mow your lawn in time to make a hot beverage. Your lawn is that small. Your kitchen is that close to your lawn.
- The blind acceptance of queues astounds you. Waiting 2 hours for a ride on the Fire Engine at Legoland is no problem for Brits. No one, but you, proclaims: “This is ridiculous. Waiting two hours for a 30 second ride. Bloody waste of time.” No one tries to consult management. The queue remains. People keep joining it.
- You’re freaked out by how the shops are always packed. All of the time. There is no off-peak. And no one minds. Everyone just gets on with it. Personally I take issue with choosing a brand of tampons alongside a geriatric man who’s shopping for nosehair clippers. But then that’s just me. And only me it seems.
- You’re mortified to discover that campervans and boathouses are not just for the downtrodden or down on their luck. Scores of folk of middle-class standing choose to live in a home they can also use as a mode of transportation. And I have to reiterate. They choose this. A conscious decision has been made to have a bed that can double up as a table where one eats, or a work surface where one cuts the fat off one's chicken thighs. A sink where one washes one's face in the morning. And then one's dishes after breakfast.
- You have an urge to call the RSPCA when you see a fully-grown Golden Retriever being led out of a terraced house. Just when you’ve suspended your disbelief – out trots another dog. The Brits keep their pets indoors. No matter the breed of dog. No matter the size of dog. Or the size of their house. And it’s perfectly legal.
- You find it completely insane that vegetables are grown in communal areas called allotments. People mission with garden tools to a plot of land that they don’t own to fiddle with a few fruit and veg. And someone can just nick their harvest at any time. What’s the point? How obsessed with 'organic' can one person actually be?
- You get road rage by how common it is to have to reverse to go forward on a street to allow another car to pass. Why is it a road if two cars can’t travel on it at once?

Space is not a commodity the Poms worry about it. They don’t miss it, because they’ve never had it. You can’t lament the size of your home to a Brit who’s never lived anywhere else. They just don’t get it. Like rusks, biltong and boerewors, it’s a completely foreign subject matter. For us Saffas, space is an attribute of life that we take for granted. On the day we hauled our seven suitcases on to the hearth of our modest (euphemism for teeny tiny) new home – my son walked through the front door, took the five steps into the living area and said “where’s the rest of the house?” Seven months down the line, he happily shares a box room with his sister. They sleep on top of each other on a single bunk bed. He swims in the bath instead of our swimming pool in Africa and climbs the wooden fence in our garden instead of his beloved tree. He’s adapted to small.

So have we. We’ve discovered it’s now ok to shower in what can best be described as a time capsule. You just can’t drop your showel gel. You will eventually learn to sleep with the sounds of Avatar or Tomorrow Never Dies blaring in surround sound from someone’s Friday night movie night. You just need to build the plot into your dreams. You’ll become accustomed to the cars grinding their gears in your street in attempts to perfect 16-point maneuvers to fit into a parking space the width of a lamppost. You’ll learn to eavesdrop from your bed on conversations held at 2am on the street. Go back to sleep if they're boring. Listen a little longer if they're the rants of a drunken couple. Our perspective has changed. Our world-view has grown, but our home-view has shrunk. We’re trying small on for size – and it’s slowly starting to fit.

A mobile home... outside an immobile home. Go figure.

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.

The Gift of Gabriella

When I was pregnant with our second child, I was expecting a boy. To me this was fact. I had no medical proof of the gender. I didn’t want or need any. I had my own special powers. I innately believed that the little being I was carrying was a boy. And for me, this belief was enough. I gave him a name. He was to be Alexander, after my late grandfather Alexander Robert Trevor Gray. I bought blue paint for the nursery. I even painted a whole wall myself before my ever-pragmatic husband intervened and toned the blue to a more gender-neutral grey. I kept aside all my eldest’s clothes. I envisaged another version of my son. I prepared myself for the arrival of our little boy. Somewhere in my psyche I’d convinced myself that I wouldn’t ever have girls. I’d be a mom to boys. That was that. I had nothing against girls. I just didn’t think that I’d be a good mother to a girl. I figured that boys were simple. Girls were complex. I wasn’t adept at complex – so simple is what I’d get. I had it all figured out.

At around 8am on the 1st of November 2011, our gynecologist delivered our healthy 3.75-kilogram baby. Into my arms he presented a dark haired, chubby-cheeked little girl. A little girl! I was in complete and utter shock. I’m ashamed to admit that for a while in that post-delivery drug-induced state, I actually believed that there had been a mix-up. Someone else had my boy. And I had been mistakenly given this little girl. She wasn’t mine. Despite my insane protests, I was kindly reassured that there was no mistake. She’d come from me. She was my baby. She was the complete antithesis of what I’d imagined. Of what I’d expected. My son was a bald, skinny and quiet little chap. He barely made a peep when he was born. I was holding a baby with a mop of dark hair, she was chubby and she screamed like a banshee the moment she'd drawn her first breath. And she was a girl. The anesthetist remarked “she’s a feisty one your daughter”. My daughter! The sound of that word ‘daughter’ was so foreign. In my mind I kept repeating, “I have a daughter, I have a daughter.” While my husband went with the nurse to bath her while I was being stitched, I wept. I wept at the shock of it all. I wept for being so stupid. For being so stubborn. For failing to honour her with the proper welcome into the world that she deserved. For allowing my own fears and insecurities to rob her of the first nurturing embrace she needed. For the shell-shocked fumble she ended up getting. On that morning in that theatre room of Parklands Hospital, I made a couple of vows. I vowed that I would get over myself. To her I vowed that she would be loved. She was my daughter. I was her mother. She would be loved.

And so began the process of getting to know my little girl. Of her getting to know me. Learning how to be her mother - a role that’s an ever-evolving journey rather than a destination absolute. I have written a lot about the wisdom I’ve gained from our son. The lessons I’m received from from him on how to live with feeling, to express oneself honestly no matter how difficult or painful. Truth is that I’ve also been taught so much from a little girl who I never gave the courtesy of a place in my imagined destiny. In just shy of two years of life, she’s shown me that love can be unconditional. She’s shown me that happiness can be found in a smile, a laugh, a song and a dance. There’s such uncomplicated joy in our little girl, it positively radiates from her. She’s been such a comfort in this time of transition. She’s been a constant for me. A constant source of delight. I understand that we’ve got a long journey ahead. Our relationship will go through seasons and not all of them will be good. Some will be tough. But I can honestly say that I’ve been blessed with a little soul who has taught me that happiness is a choice. No matter where one is. A million miles from normal. Under the most foreign of circumstance. One can choose to take the good from life. Find the positives. Belt out the Lumineers’ Ho Hey and dance around the living room like a lunatic with two littlies in tow. Jump on the bed and have tickle-fests after bath. Sing the Barney song in the car. Play peek-a-boo until it’s not possible to do it even just one more time. Moments of joy are everywhere. In the mundane. In the routine. They’re not just reserved for special occasions.



When I get home in the evening, I open the front door and every day without fail, there will be a little body that slams like a rocket into my legs. A greeting of giddy glee and pure unadulterated delight. I lift her into my arms she rests her head on my chest. She’s all big blue eyes, blonde curls and soft skin. “Love you”, I whisper. To which she replies, “Mommy I love you much. I love you most.” 



I never wanted a little girl. Now I cannot imagine a life without this girl. My daughter. We’re far away from that theatre room in Parklands Hospital. In so many ways. We’ve travelled a great distance together. I look forward to the rest of the journey with this precious gift. A beautiful happy little girl called Gabriella who has taught me to laugh more and worry less.

The Start of the European Appreciation Project - Spain, Siestas and Shedloads of Sick

Travel is one of the biggest bonuses that Adventure 20-13 affords us. We’re a plane, train or automobile ride away from Europe and all the culture, cubism or Caesar you can shake a stick at. We may though be better off with the States as our proverbial travel backyard. I say this because our son only ever wants pink milk and slap chips. At any time. In any country. I want to project an image of myself as a refined and cultured embodiment of a good education and a keen interest in history and world affairs. The truth is that I’m quite rude, very crass and wouldn’t know my Gauguin from my Guttoso if they gonked me on the backside. I fit better in America – just as well as my son’s palette it seems. Despite physicality to the contrary, we’re clearly related.

I resolve however to persevere with Europe and make headway into my mission to take in her sights and understand more of her sensibilities. If only to be in a stronger position to geographically pinpoint where each of her countries is located on the world map. Something I confess I am not currently able to do. And I did Geography for Matric. Yes, I know…Hit me Baby one more Time. # Homage-reluctantly-paid-to-Britney-Spears.

For our maiden European Appreciation voyage, we were fortunate enough to be hosted en masse for a week by our friend at her family home in Valencia. A beautiful four bedroom casita set in the rural hills in a region known as Olocau. Big enough to house our brood and the chaos we create and sturdy enough for the same reason. We had a week full of sunshine, swimming and off-the-beaten-track Spain. I’ve condensed my experience into a couple of memories that stand out. You’ll notice very little culture. But shedloads of chaos. Funny that.

• On our departure day, our four-year-old son was randomly searched at customs at Heathrow. A waifish little chap buffered between beefy security amidst a bustling airport is a sight to behold I tell you. He was curtly asked to remove his shoes. Taken aside. And then frisked. He took it all in his stride though. Cool as a cucumber as he was patted down by Attila the Hun. I wanted to ask the guard what he possibly could be packing on such a slight little frame? Bombs from Honey I Shrunk the Kids? Cocaine for little people? I withheld comment though. For once. Probably for the best.

• I tried to smuggle in a litre of milk for my daughter in my hand luggage. My more seasoned travel companions made me remove it before the security police laughed me all the way to the sink. What’s wrong with a little milk on a plane? A lot apparently.

• In Spain, driving on the right side of the road isn’t right. Neither are traffic circles when you approach them from the wrong side. We had a baptism of fire navigating the highways of Madrid en route to Valencia – a three hour journey. My husband lost five kilograms in perspiration and my friend and I toned our glutes with butt clenches at every circle, every entry and exit to a different highway and all the driving in between.

• Tom, the disembodied monosyllabic man who speaks over the satellite navigator app, is a douchebag. Exit to the right does not actually mean to the nearest right. It means at a right approaching at some point. So don’t get into the right lane. Stay in the middle until you miss your exit and you’re treated to the ‘recalculating jingle’. We got a little lost in the dark in an industrial estate in Madrid. We nearly killed Tom there. And left him in one of the 18 alleys he wrongfully took us through. It would’ve served him right. Fortunately lady luck smiled on us weary travellers and with a few blatant disregards of Tom’s cockeyed directions, we made it out. It was touch and go for a while though.

• On this very same car journey to Valencia from Madrid we had to stay awake to remind my husband to stay on the right side of the road. This was so we could stay alive. To achieve a semblance of consciousness, we spoke a lot of crap and ate a lot of crap. I spent much of the journey talking about the most psychotic murder documentaries I’d watched. Driving in the dark in a foreign country with a palpable fear of dying via road death, it somehow seemed an appropriate topic.

• The serial killer theme was given more context by the public toilets that were our pit-stops en route. Pit being the operative word. Spanish toilets make the South African toilets you get at home affairs look larney. They’re proper rank.

• According to the song from the musical My Fair Lady, The rain in Spain falls mainly on the Plain. Just not in Valencia. And not in August.  We packed 23 kilos of clothing for four of us, including nappies. Which I figured was pretty impressive. After having condensed our lives into seven suitcases – I proudly believed I had the packing thing waxed. Baggage beast slayed. Truth is, we could’ve packed a single change of clothing, a bathing suit and a towel each and we’d have been sorted for a week. It was over 30 degrees every day. My jeans and hoodie mocked me in the cupboard the entire week. I could practically hear the ‘nah-nah-nah-nah-nah’.

• The Spanish locals are in awe of children with blonde hair. Friendly locals patted our children’s heads everywhere we went. Not unlike in a petting zoo come to think of it.  But with less bread and fewer animals. And no cages.

• Few locals speak English in the rural parts of Spain. Thanks to our Spanish-heritage friend, we learnt to say "La cuenta por favor” which means “Check please”. But we did have issues with ordering an iced coffee that literally arrived as black coffee with ice. Looked like a glass of coke. Tasted like jet fuel. At least we could pay for it though.

• My culinary journey with tapas was born and then promptly died shortly after birth. We had two slimy fishy dishes served at a local restaurant which I gave a good go, but I’m not a fan of white soggy fish or slimy fish skin. So I ate a whole lot of bread and cheese. I was also very enthusiastic about the olives and chorizo. And the authentic paella that our host made on our last night. I committed culinary suicide akin to say squirting tomato sauce on truffles - when I made wraps for padkos with the leftover paella and added mustard and balsamic glaze to ‘season’. # Just-Not-Done.

• We drank a lot. Spanish beer is good and very reasonable priced. A quaffable bottle of Rioja sets you back about 2 Euro, which is less than the cost of the tolls on the highway. And it’s not battery acid. It’s very good. My advice – whatever you think you’ll drink, double it. When in Spain…

• The Spaniards take their siestas very seriously. Between the hours of 2 and 5pm, everything shuts down. Literally. Shutters are closed. Shades are drawn. You’ll struggle to get ice if your tongue was on fire during this time. Petrol is even harder to come by. Best place to be is lying prostrate on a lilo in a swimming pool. The pool will come in handy if you do manage to set your tongue on fire.

• Our return trip to Madrid airport for our flight back to the UK was…I’ll just say eventful. We set off at sparrows anticipating that douchebag Tom would lead us along the path of temptation and deliver us to evil. We were wrong. About Tom. He was uncharacteristically compliant. But we did encounter evil. And it came in the form of child vomit. Our two year old started retching approximately 20 minutes into the three hour journey and as if on queue in some pantomime for the seriously disturbed, my son followed suit. They vomited like you see on the movies. Like that scene in Bridemaids. Except not as funny. Not funny at all. We’re talking projectile vomit. All over their laps, the seats – I even found chunks in my handbag. We pulled over at the nearest exit. Changed their clothes. Cleaned as best we could. Then set off to catch our flight. The vomiting continued though. Pretty much the rest of the way. I ended up using a plastic biscuit tub to alternate catching the sick between each child’s up-chuck. When it was a well-timed tandem vom session, I used my hand as a cup. It was one of those moments where I had to remind myself that I chose motherhood. The two feral ones exist at least in part because of me. They didn’t choose me as their mother any more than I had any say whatsoever over their wussy lack of ability to hold their solids and liquids in a moving vehicle. Like a mantra, I kept reminding myself of this fact. If I hadn’t, you’d have certainly spotted two kotch-riddled little blondies on the side of a highway on the outskirts of Madrid brandishing a sign “Free to Good Homes”. I kid you not. It was that bad.

• To bid an authentic adiós or chau to Spain – we could only do it by making a scene at the airport. It’s just how we roll. No poise. No class. Just a shambolic dogshow all the way. In efforts to find my son…yip you guessed it… pink milk and chips, we trawled the airport. We eventually gave up and settled for doughnuts. No less yank but easier to come by at Madrid Airport for some reason. Afterwards we decided to buy some perfume for Granny Gail at Duty Free. Then we suddenly realised that our flight was boarding. Then we couldn’t find the gate. Then we started running. We eventually screeched to the boarding gate waving our children in the hopes they’d have mercy on the stupid tourists. We made it by a hair’s breadth. Grim faced crew waved us in and we did the aisle walk of shame in front of 200 passengers already strapped in and ready to go. Oh and I failed to mention… I had puke on my skirt. In my hair. And in my bag. A class act indeed. Watch out Europe – there’s a special breed of ‘culture’ heading your way. The Cook family.

Residency Revelations and Doing it Your Way - Your Best Way

So we were invited to a braai this past weekend. By a lovely South African couple who’ve been in the UK for 3 years. Present were the most Saffas gathered in one place we’ve seen since we queued through customs at Oliver Tambo Airport in March. We had a smorgasbord of locals representing the SA provincial trifecta of Jozi, the Mother City and good ol’ Durbs by the Sea. At every turn in this modest sized garden in the heart of Surrey, you’d encounter at least 20 home-growners jabbering away in conversations peppered with words like  “bru” “hey” “shot” and “yah”. Jock backslapping and friendly banter aplenty. The temperature hovered at a respectable 26 degrees. Beer and wine flowed as fast as the unbridled accents. The smell of boerewors wafted in the air. The children frolicked in a paddling pool. Buck-naked. Rotund and dimpled little bodies lathered in sunscreen, expressing delightful squeals of joy and shrieks of laughter. There were even two dogs doing the rounds looking for a stray sausage or an abandoned plate to pounce on. Every African can picture this. You can close your eyes and see it. Smell it. Taste it. Feel it. It’s a visceral memory we all share. It evokes home. Images of happy summer times with friends and family. The South African braai will always hold this for us. This afternoon was no different. It was the perfect setting for a perfect afternoon.

Except something cast a pall on this day. Not the weather this time. Not an arrogant Aussie or a self-righteous Brit. Miraculously it wasn’t one of our children either: puking in the paddling pool, clubbing another child in the face or destroying property. Thank goodness for small mercies. The source of our instant downer was the fact that virtually every couple we met (besides our hosts) absolutely hated life in the UK. We’re talking depressed and desperate hate here. Each couple took turns to confess their plans to head back to South Africa as soon as possible. No one enjoyed living here. “I fecking hate this hole.”“We’re outta here bru, as soon as we can” was the common sentiment. These aren’t newcomers either. They’re current residents of the United Kingdom. People who’ve committed in excess of seven years of hard graft, sworn allegiance to good old Lizzy and her posse and have absolutely no intention of remaining in Britain beyond what is necessary in their personal circumstance. Many have even had children here. Laaitjies who’re born to 100% South Africans, however their birthright offers them an undisputed claim to British heritage that will be wholly honoured and acknowledged by aforementioned Queen and country.

For us newbie 5 month olds with our freshly severed umbilical cord to Africa still tender and sore, it was shattering. We left the braai that evening feeling disheartened. And a little sad. We felt that perhaps we didn’t get the memo. We’d missed the boat. Did they know something that we didn’t? Why after 10 years in a country where a couple have been able to secure good jobs, purchase property, raise healthy children, enjoy travel, develop a network of friends – would their automatic default setting be to return to South Africa? And for little justification beyond, “We hate it here. We’ve always hated it here” and “We miss our family.” Is it really that terrible here? And if it really is so bad, why in the hell would you stay for 10 years?

I admit that I’m no stranger to the popular practice that sees Saffas arrive in the UK, achieve residency status, make some money and then head back to South Africa with the currency exchange rate in their favour and the sun on their back. Surely though there’s a little something called life somewhere in that equation. Tucked in between all the visas and residency permits. The hard slog and the homesickness. There is life in there. And under these circumstances is one really living it? At what cost? And for what gain? A passport to travel in Europe, a couple more zeros in one’s bank account. Hardly seems worth it to me. Certainly when it’s stacked up against the misery one needs to endure to achieve it. I can also appreciate that there’s a tricky lady called nostalgia who creeps into this equation with a pair of rose-tinted glasses on her nose. She starts making her presence known to Saffas pretty much the moment they arrive in a foreign land. She creates a hazy utopia, paints a pretty picture of life in SA that’s a mirage of unrealistic expectation. She cultivates a sense of ‘grass is greener’ and in this garden plants crafty little seeds of doubt that grow into mother-ass sized weeds that can choke you. John Wyndham’s Day of the Triffids springs to mind here. We did this book as a set work in Standard 7 English and I’ve spent 18 years looking for a context to reference it. Finally! Anyway, back to Lady Nostalgia. She’s dangerous. To give life in a new land a fighting chance, one needs to keep her banished until she can be enjoyed responsibly. Kind of like cane and crème soda. Lovely in moderation, but a complete dogshow if you over-indulge.

By no means do we possess the elixir of knowledge on how to handle living in a foreign country. We’re struggling just like everyone else. We’re taking strain with our new reality that sees virtually everyone we know and love located at best a 10-hour plane ride away over the expanse of an entire continent. We’re making this thing up as we go along. We’re doing our best. Through our experience on Saturday though, we’ve resolved that we’ll be damned if we’re going to be sitting at braai in 10 years time as residents of Britain bemoaning how bleak life is. Bitter and depressed. Lamenting about how we can’t wait to return to the land of our birth. No way bru. If we are still here in 10 years time, this will be home. We refuse to live life in future tense. We see enough tragedy and heartbreak of lives cut short, of destinies unfulfilled. If life is bleak here for us, we go back to South Africa. End of story. Finished and klaar as my Gran would say. Residency or not. We owe that to our children. We owe that to ourselves. And in a way, we owe that to Britain.

I’ll end off in the words of good old Frank, who’s eloquently managed to sum up the point of what I’ve attempted to achieve in the 1000-odd words before this. The point of it all. To strive to live with little regret. To do it your way. Your best way. Whatever that is. My sincerest wish is that it’s not being sad in a place that you hate away from everyone you love. I cannot conceive of anything that would be worth that.

“My friend, I'll say it clear I'll state my case, of which I'm certain. 
I've lived a life that's full. I traveled each and ev'ry highway.
And more, much more than this, I did it my way. 

Regrets, I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention. 
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption. 
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway. And more, much more than this, I did it my way.” - Frank Sinatra

Our children. Doing it their way.