Fuck Purpose

This whole self-improvement thing has me by the balls. I cannot remember a time when I was not constantly trying to remind myself to have “less of this” or “more of that” or “exercise more” or “eat less” or some other self-flagellating version of admonishment or the other. So having someone else on my case about similar issues does not go down well. I suppose because I’m my own worst critic, I don’t take kindly to external criticism in general. As providence would have it, I spend a large part of my life with a woman who cannot help but correct, criticise and “advise”. The irony. So I’m getting there. It’s been a long, hard road but I plod on. I knew someone once who said that, professionally at the very least, one should add a new skill to one’s portfolio every year. Egads. Between relationship angst, demanding kids (and equally demanding school curricula), piles of bills, rising debt, soul-destroying day jobs and equally draining house-mates, WHO HAS THE TIME FOR NEW SKILLS? Let alone one every year. My sweet child, in her 8 year old innocence, pipes up yesterday, ” Mum, we haven’t been to the beach since JANUARY!!!! Does this mean we’re NEVER going back??!!”
Aaah. Childhood. When the December holidays seemed to last forever, and so did Chappies bubblegum. When Casablanca was about a man giving up a woman because he loved her too much. Posters of Tom Cruise in Top Gun alongside Bob Marley Swinging back his dreads on my wall. Radio 5 with Shadow Stevens on balmy Saturday mornings. 5am fishing expeditions with my dad, and mum’s signature onion and sardines in buttered white bread waiting in the cooler. Sitting on the beach, watching the sun come up whilst stuffing our faces with cold watermelon slices. The explosion of that first kiss, first love, and first heartbreak. When every emotion was intense, electrifying, all-consuming and cathartic.
And then we grew up. And discovered that Rick (Casablanca) was actually a selfish bastard who was only thinking of himself. The posters frayed and tore and were eventually replaced with new coats of paint and family photos. We now know what the sunrise looks like so we sleep in. Experience is replaced with apathy. We’re constantly on the search for new experiences, the next rush, the next thing trending. In this age of information where the media constantly bombards the consumer with ideas of lifestyles, food choices, fashion statements, who to be, what to sound like, what to do, when to do it and how quickly to do it, we obsess with new ways of connecting and sharing experiences that often teeter on the brink of mundane. “Brian NoGood has checked in at Toilet Cubicle C with Emile Fuckwit and Cecil M Becile”… That picture of your large minneola really made my day. Thanks… I am SOOO pleased that you posted 108 photos of your 3 year old doing absolutely bugger-all on the lounge floor….And so on. We covet new gadgets, games and electronics. E-books and hands-free everything. Movies at home in HD. Whilst the earth slowly dies. In the midst of this digital chaos, what is the plight of the simple ‘best version of me’? Searching for nirvana. Believing in something. Fuck figuring out why I’m here; that ever-elusive sense of ‘purpose’. I’m sure I’ll think about it when I’m languishing on my death bed, waiting for that hooded bastard to brandish his sickle over my frail form. Right now, all I need is a small place to plant my vegetables, read old books by candlelight, and sleep the sleep of the free.

#Sent from my mobile phone. Please excuse brevity and typos.

The Road is Long…

So I boarded the green and yellow machine, both excited and anxious for the journey ahead. The heat was stifling; the idiot in charge had obviously decided that air was not a basic need for lower class travellers who couldn’t afford air travel. S waved to her smiling father through the plexiglass whilst a small cockroach drunkenly navigated its way along the gritty windowsill. Good times.

Let be known that despite the bitter edge to this beginning, this trip was symbolic of too many positives to dampen my spirits. It heralded my burgeoning emancipation from a life I had allowed to atrophy; from a city that during winter, insisted upon pretending it was much further north of the equator, and from a job that was starting to gnaw at my delicate nerves when I wasn’t looking. S and I finally agreed on a pair of seats and settled down amongst our comforts; the engine rumbled to life, and we were off.

As we trundled through the desolate landscape, my thoughts exhaled and settled into a comfortable chair (no relation to the one I was on, by any means). If this was a movie, would it be the beginning or the end? Who would play me?

 A large Indian man who smelled of Axe and mutton curry pushed his ample frame past me, painfully reminding me how ridiculously narrow the aisle was. In the spirit of camaraderie borne of a ridiculous need to connect with one’s fellow travellers (I get this from my mother, I think), I looked up and smiled, silently assuring my new friend that I was okay, that I had another shoulder which I was sure would see me through the next four years or so. He stopped and gave me the once over, instantly causing a sensation in my stomach similar to that which the window cockroach had instilled earlier. He grinned, and I was somewhat reassured that should this prize and I hook up, fall madly in love and live the rest of our lives together, I could save most of the African countries from starvation if I just sold one of his teeth on the black market. Suddenly, I missed the cockroach…

An hour later, S and I had exhausted her writing reader as well as all 6 nursery rhyme books that weighed a ton and that I had cleverly (or so I had thought) lugged along in my handbag. At this point, I was desperately grasping at the age-old tactic of “Gasp! Look there S! What’s that?!” which had seized to distract her at least a year ago. Her responses were mildly interested and always the same, “Ummm…cows, Mama??” After settling her bored frame down again, this time with a game on my cell phone, I looked around. A lady slumped across the aisle wrapped in a tartan winter blanket (no, seriously), clutching a Tropika in one hand and a large packet of Simba chips (a necessary accompaniment to previous) was staring fixedly ahead, a frown of intense concentration on her forehead. I followed her gaze to a small TV screen mounted on the roof a few seats ahead of us. A baby hollered somewhere behind us. I could smell the strong onion stench of stale sweat from the man in front of me, and the seat I was occupying was clearly manufactured for people with irregularly shaped backsides. But as I watched the familiar Paramount peak appear, I realized that escape was a hand. I stared at the screen and waited…

There is something to be said for owners of these ‘luxury coaches’ in that they have mastered the art of deception. Sorry, the art of advertising. Learning the language of marketing is relatively easy. The course consists of a practical component only and is only a day long, but once you pass, you have the distinguished accolade of being able to for ever see through those nauseating TV advertisements heralding the ‘New Era In Luxury Travel’. This is just a sampling of what I learned:

1.      “…Our new fleet of luxury coaches…” actually means, “…we have resprayed all our old busses…”.

2.      “…Affordable travel…” actually means,“…we have priced it to just below the cost of a plane ticket, which we know you can’t afford so quit whining and buy it.”

3.      “Our highly trained crew who are always at your service…” actually means “…at the very least, they are all wearing the same uniform, so you will know who to scream at when your bus arrives an hour after its scheduled time”.

4.      “Full on-board facilities for your convenience…” actually means “…” Our toilets are small enough for you to urinate in only. Whilst standing. Without being able to remove your pants…” (which, if the smell emanating down the aisles is anything to go by, is what everyone does anyway).

5.      And finally, “Our on board entertainment will accompany you throughout your journey…” actually means “Our on board entertainment will accompany you throughout your journey…” They are not kidding about this. Knight Rider-The Movie was followed by Terminator 3, which was followed by Mad Max 1 AND 2, all played at ear-splitting volumes calculated to terrify the most placid of weary travelers, on equipment specifically designed to not handle speed bumps. Or DVDs.

Our Friendly Driver Zayne, stopped at a Shell Ultra City approximately 2 hours away from our destination, for the purpose of ‘additional refreshment’. The nature of this stop was to supplement the original refreshments which were served an hour before (a packet of artificial biscuits and the smallest cup of instant coffee I had ever seen, the latter filled to the brim so that its drinker is completely incapacitated once in possession thereof, and where one’s only reprieve is to quickly sip the offending brew, which quickly results in a scalding that will guarantee one’s inability to taste anything for a the rest of the day, which makes the biscuits edible; a cunning plan, I know). Sofiya and I decide to make the best of the 20 minutes we were given. Gathering our essentials, we raced across the parking lot to the store (pant! pant! 15 minutes), frantically scanned the junk-laden shelves, picked up junk, then abandoned them in favour of other more nutritious-looking junk, then left the lot, and settled on other junk, then took our place in the queue to the till (pant! sweat! Eeeek! 8 minutes). Sofiya then decided to abandon her mother in favour of cashew nuts causing her mother to lose her place in the ever lengthening queue (gasp! 5 minutes); we rejoined the queue, paid a whopping R21 for a 30g bag of chips and a small packet of cashew nuts, then raced back to our Innovator in Luxury Travel with seconds to spare. We were stopped at the door by Our Friendly Driver Zayne (well, actually, it was the Attar of Roses and the stench of all the dead and decaying small animals that had accompanied his journey from the orient) stopped us in our tracks. He beamed beatifically (Ghana, Angola, Ethiopia at a push, I mused) and happily said, “I’m making good time eh?!! After leaving so late an’ all, I’m making good time??!” I nodded and smiled, sheepishly doing what I always do when put on the spot with no words to save me, “Say hello to the nice man Sofs..” He ignored my attempt to deflect his charm and flicked his head at me, “Where you from?”

Now I have always toyed at possible answers to this question, often in the privacy and safety of my own thoughts. “Outer space” has often topped the list, followed by a possible “the loins of my father”, with “the joy is in the journey, not the origin nor the destination” coming in at a close philosophical third. Thankfully, people were starting to return from their spending sprees and I was granted reprieve from Florist of Arabia.

The rest of the trip passed in a blur. I have a vague memory (I’ve blocked it out, I’m sure; the mind is a wondrous thing) of the smell of deep-fried chicken and greasy pies, S laying across my lap, breathing softly, the sexy sounds of REM in my head, pleasantly drowning out the horror of Mel Gibson revving his road warrior in all his pixellated glory. I recall how my spirits lifted as Berea Phamacy, Stanger  Street and Ilanga Wholesalers flashed past through the grimy windows. I could smell the salty air and breathed again. A nasal voice droned through the coaches speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Durban. Please make sure that all your belongings are with you when you leave (as opposed to with someone else, I supposed). We hope you enjoyed your time with us. Thank you.”

Sigh…

– That was four years ago and S is now 7 years old. She has no memory of the day. And we didn’t go back.

Eskimos & a Hundred Different Words for Toast

I reached into the bread bag and pulled out two slices. You call that one sandwich. I cut it and call it two. Green and fluffy mould on the crust. Urrggh. Two fresh slices in the toaster (one sandwich, not two).  I stared silently through the window at the brick wall outside, waiting, tasting the nectar thoughts in my nightscape. Out they popped, shocking me sane. Like when you giggle sometimes making me think of the boy you must have been. So there’s smoked salmon spread and cream cheese. Not your favourites. Asparagus (you like those) and smoked mussels (these you don’t). Mmmm. Sipped some coffee with the delicious morsels of fishy food you’d likely crinkle your nose at. The one that would probably look great adorned with a stud. Not surprising really. Your clothes wear you, I think. I’d want to wear you too. Like a new dress. Crisp and sweet smelling. Toast tastes good in the mornings. And afternoons. And late at night. Like you. Dried bread crumbs in bed though, more pain than pleasure. Not like your chest hairs scraping across my cheek when you pull me into your rubber heat. Buttered toast. Now that’s something else. Guess I’ll have to try that another day.

Maybe.

No more mouldy toast to spill my life.

Take a bite. And chew. Slowly.

What is this I see?

The pilot announces that all passengers receive a free cup of Douwe Egberts coffee. This was, in all honesty, the moment I awoke, en route to Johannesburg on a 1-time flight. The coffee didn’t arrive. The flight attendants literally smiled and served every person on every seat before us, and then hit ‘reverse’ as soon as they finished with the people in front of us. (The bespectacled gentleman in front of me actually gave me a triumphant look as the attendants retreated; I, of course, was pretending to study the overhead console, interesting as it was, and ignored him.)

We arrived in a rather cold Gauteng (well, not really, 15 degrees celsius at that time of the morning , um 9.30 I think) and made our way to the most beautiful, quaint, I-wanna-bring-the-kids-and-live-here guesthouse in the heart of Melville. Leon van Wyk, the owner, was gracious and courteous to a fault, setting out fresh fruit, coffee and tea facilities, breakfast cereals, and most importantly, an assurance that nobody else had booked for the nights we had so we had the house to ourselves. Party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Well. Not really. What it meant was that we could be us, without having to avoid anyone else’s gaze. Getting old has it’s downsides benefits. 😀

Moving on, we discovered two amazing establishments since our arrival. Liberation Cafe’ started literally three weeks ago  by owner Dwayne and his unnamed other. Think wonderfully eclectic decor (Tom reclined in a gorgeous red gynaecologist’s examination chair and I on a reworked, cushioned speaker box.) Dwayne constantly came over to check on our comfort levels, and with conversation starter 80’s vids playing on the big screen (Wham’s Club Tropicana porno-Speedo’s and all), we were loving all of it!

The highlight of the day was our visit to Sophiatown Bar & Restaurant on the popular 7th Ave in Melville. Durban has never seen the likes of this. Classy decor and personable seating and lighting (Tom and I sat at a pillar-booth, single candle lighting at our table) and the most inspirational images of previous residents of Sophiatown (unknown and celebrity alike) adorning the walls and menus. Lucia Mthiyane (vocals) and Friends entertained us; I had huge issues with the fact that she had the type of voice that could bring a man (and some liberal-minded women) to their knees but sang her heart and soul out then between her vocal verses sat down unceremoniously at her table and chatted to he friend. I explained to Tom that the disconnect was too much for me. Talent like Lucia’s, is a dime a dozen. If you cannot understand that you need to seduce your audience, you are lost.  In essence though, I will absolutely go back. The food was excellent (T had the lamb chops with chips and a sishebo sauce and I had the lamb curry with rice and traditional butternut and spinach). Authentic township food and prepared traditionally to boot. Not cheap so I’d save it for a special occasion. It is certainly worth it.

Anyway, we’re off to Nelspruit tomorrow, so there are more stories to follow. For now,I must get back to my Tom. He’s been left to his own devices for far too long and I miss his voice. Be in touch soon. F.

Discovering the Past

I recently summoned up all the will in my reluctant frame and headed over to my childhood home to gather and collect all my parents’ personal effects that my otherwise disinterested sibling had thus far ignored. I lost both my parents in the last five years and only now was able to face them, and their lives without breaking down in a puddle of tears. My little girl’s memory of her granny, though limited to a span of merely two years of her 7 year old life, is still as fresh as ever, and her squeals of delighted at recognising bits and pieces of Nana and Nani was enough to convince me that my visit was a long time coming.

I have only managed in the past few days to go through approximately a 16th of the hoard Tom, Sophie and I lugged home that night so there will definitely be more posts to come. I discovered too late that my memory of my mother as domestic goddess, chef supreme, queen nurturer and fierce lioness was limited to say the least as I’m discovering more of her everyday.

This stylish image was taken in Botanic Gardens, Durban, 1960 when my mum was 25 years old. I would love to do a “then and now” shoot but fear that my mug will pale in comparison!

I still remember how proficient she was at everything she undertook. I suppose it came from a life of working hard to get what she wanted. Having lost her father when she was 16, my mother left school and ventured out to work to support her family of 9. Yes, they did make them in large numbers back then. In the space of a few short years, she accomplished the following:

• Enrolled in night school to complete her matric (or Grade 12 as it is now called)
• Got a diploma in bookkeeping
• Landed a decent, if not well paid job as a bookkeeper for a prestigious retail group
• Sent her mother to India, Saudia Arabia and Goa 3 times on all expenses paid trips
• Supported her family
• Managed to look gorgeous through it all

The most hilarious feat though, was avoiding my dad’s advances for four years until she eventually gave in and married the poor man in 1970. He loved telling us that story. Look at that grin!

My favourite photo so far is this one and this is how I remember her till the day she died (that’s me she holding). See that look and smile on her face? She always had it on. Even after anger and much yelling (like me, she was a yeller), there was always that face lurking just around the corner, waiting to be delivered with a warm hug and the soft smell of perfume. Rabia Hussain. What a legendary, beautiful soul. My journey of discovery has just begun. And I retract. It’s not too late. Love you mum.

What Durban does in the Morning

Everyone and anyone who has lived in and loved this sunshine city will tell you that it takes a while for its people to get going in the morning. I blame this city for the fact that I only really wake up at around ten, at my desk at work, befuddled that I got there to begin with. Nonetheless, I allowed my beautiful other to convince my VERY reluctant form to crawl out of bed at 5am one Saturday morning to accompany him to the beach where he does his daily morning run. Do I run I hear you ask? Only if I’m in mortal danger. Tom and I are polar oppposites in this regard. He loves exercise like I love food. More on these hot topics later. Back to the beach. Armed with my trusted camera (it was the only thing that convinced me to tag along), I braved the outdoors. And Battery Beach. And never looked back. The Durban Morning Ocean is nothing short of breathtaking. The Simpson’s Sky, the sun glinting off the water turning the sea into swathes of silver and grey shantung. It’s a place that makes your soul swell and your physicality shrink. Just another reason why this love affair won’t end.