Category: Ramblings

I’m often asked where I’m from because my accent has become a hybrid of all the places I’ve lived. I sound British but still say ja instead of yes and use words like braai (pronounced bry, like fry) instead of BBQ.

It’s made me think of all the weird nuances from each place I’ve lived. Let’s start at the beginning: South Africa. South Africans are called Saffas, for short.

TIME:

Africa-time is a thing and there are units of measurement specific to South Africa, which make NO sense outside of the borders. The 3 most common units of time are now now, just now and later.

Now now can be anywhere between a minute and a month. If you’re busy on a quick phone call and someone is trying to attract your attention, you’ll be with them now now.

On the other hand, if you’re busy cooking dinner and your friend wants to meet up afterwards, you’ll be with them just now. Just now is longer than now now but not as long as later. Later is later, just now is before then, but not as immediate as now now. All Saffas understand exactly what someone means depending on the context of the situation. In one situation now now means immediately. In another situation, it’s ‘give me 20 minutes.’ They just know and there’s very rarely confusion.

BBQ’s:

Saffas don’t barbecue. We braai. No, they’re not even close to the same thing. A braai takes hours. There’s wood to burn, coals to stoke, beers to drink and a whole bunch of conversation before any kind of cooking can happen.

A bring-&-braai is part of the social fabric of South African life. You take your meat and booze to someone else’s house and slap it on their braai. When some Saffa friends of mine in England suggested a bring & braai, their English friends reacted as if England had just run out of tea. Total shock and horror. ‘Bring our own food?!’ Yes, bring your own food. Booze too, thanks!

The host provides the rolls, salads and sodas; everything else is every man for himself. Everyone’s booze gets parked in the kitchen and becomes a communal stash. The unspoken rule is you don’t drink someone else’s booze unless you contributed some of your own to the collective pile because that’s just rude. You also drink down, meaning if you bought in cheap booze, you only drink on the same level of booze you contributed. Don’t bring in a cheap bottle of scotch, then sail into the 18yr old Glenfiddich. You won’t be invited back.

You cook and then sit around the fire with your food on paper plates and a drink in hand. It works completely differently in US & UK. Saffas eat their braai with their hands, cutlery is only for salads. It’s not a sit-at-the-dining-table affair.

HOMES:

Saffas generally have rather high walls around their homes. It’s mostly a security thing, with many houses looking like fortified military compounds surrounded by 6 ft walls topped with razor wire. A fence in the UK is usually a hedge about a foot high than you can step over and in the US there are frequently no fences between properties. It’s all just open, which continues to blow my mind 6 years later.

There are no barred windows in the US or UK that I’ve seen. SA has everything barred; windows and doors.

POPPING IN & TALKING TO EVERYONE:

People rarely make arrangements in advance to meet up. If you’re in someone’s neighbourhood, you pop in for coffee. Sometimes you ring them a few minutes ahead and it’s ‘Are you home? I’m popping in for coffee.’ Done. No worries.

The Brits don’t pop in. Ever. Arrangements are made way in advance and under great duress. An unscheduled knock at the door has everyone crouching out of sight, silently not breathing until the person has gone away. Then wait an extra 20 minutes just to be sure they’ve left. NEVER pop in unannounced.

Muricans can conduct entire conversations on their front doorstep. Unless you’re family, don’t assume because they know you, they will invite you in. It’s the weirdest thing. Popping in is also not encouraged. It’s very hard as a Saffa to grasp this concept because we’ve been popping in all over the place since birth.

If a friend is sick, you visit and take food. So what if they’re contagious, you go. Win, lose, shit or bust, you visit. UK, not so much. Germs, you say? Get well soon mate and see you much later! Stateside, people don’t offer to visit, you have to ask, and in my opinion, if I have to ask you to check up on me, you can keep it. That was something that really bothered me after surgery. I couldn’t get around and not a single friend stopped by to visit. ‘Why didn’t you ask?’ Uh… I’m not going to beg you to come and visit. While it’s very much a cultural thing, it changed my opinion on friendships here and I’m more guarded around people.

Saffas will also strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere, especially with another Saffa outside of South Africa. Instant friends. There’s nothing more awkward than trying that in England. If you ever want half a train car to yourself, or even a full bench seat on the bus, start randomly talking to the person next to you. They’ll probably get off at the next stop even if it isn’t the one they wanted. Brits can be crammed like cattle into the Tube, with their noses crammed into someone else’s armpits for the duration of their commute, but unsolicited conversation? Dear God, no! Americans are generally game for a chat, especially if you have an accent. They LOVE accents so talk to everyone, they’ll mostly think it’s great. The conversation will likely center around where you’re from, but they’re super friendly so it’s cool.

Rice is a regular accompaniment at mealtimes in SA. Sunday roasts will include roast potatoes, rice and gravy. We never need an excuse to eat rice and gravy. In the UK, rice is eaten with curry. Stateside, it’s with Chinese food. Curry isn’t a huge thing here.

THE BEACH:

Saffas will drive all the way to a perfectly good sandy beach and park. Then sit in their car the entire time watching the sea. Brits will drive to a beach covered in pebbles, set up their tents and towels and feign comfort. I tried this once and even making gaps in the pebbles to put my boobs into, I couldn’t get comfy. The Brits have mastered discomfort and it’s pretty damn impressive. Stateside, there’s no coastline within 800 miles of where I live so I have no idea what beach etiquette is here.

If we’re spending the day at the beach, it looks like we’re moving house. We pack everything. Coolers, braai, enough food to feed a small village, a radio *for if you can’t park close enough to the beach to hear your car radio*, gazebo/tent/umbrella, lots of towels, spare clothes and water for the dog.

Saffas tend to swim in t-shirts a lot of the time. It keeps your shoulders from being incinerated by the sun when you forget to top up your sunscreen. In the US, swimming in clothing is often on the Prohibited List of swimming pool rules. No swimming in clothes allowed. I haven’t quite figured out why. Maybe it’s something to do with the colours running in the water? Who knows…… If the Brits are swimming, then it’s balls to the wall, no t-shirts! Summer is 5 minutes long so if it’s warm enough to swim, NO CLOTHES REQUIRED!

We also call swimwear either a cozzie or a costume. I was talking to some colleagues stateside and mentioned I’d packed a costume for my trip to South Carolina and it was met with ‘Are you going to a themed party?’ No, a swimming costume. ‘Like you’re dressing up as a swimmer?’ Huh? No, the thing you swim in. ‘Oh, you mean a swimsuit?’ Yes, one of those. Costume does not translate to anything other than a Halloween outfit here. They were rolled up laughing at me while I was laughing at them. Immigrant problems 🙂

Welcome to South Africa!

 

Recently I’ve had a number of comments mentioning that I do not monetize my blog and should consider doing so. Some of the comments are very obviously spam and are flagged as such, but others seem to be genuine people. While I appreciate the sentiment, it’s really not the point of this blog.

I blog because I enjoy writing. Yes, I love writing manually and would prefer not to use some online program to write my content. Each writer’s voice is unique and cannot be replicated by software. There have been many blogs that have grabbed my interest over the years and over time, they started adding ads, banners and pop ups. It becomes incredibly difficult and frustrating to navigate around that and eventually I stop following them because it’s irritating. It sucks to lose the meaningful content but the irritation that comes with trying to read it ends up outweighing the value of the content. It’s that exact reason why I refuse to do the same to mine.

When the time comes where I can make money writing, there are platforms for that and I’ll make use of them. This blog is solely to house my ramblings and pet projects. I intend to keep it that way.

To anyone reading this and to those who pop by regularly, thank you! Thank-you for taking the time out of your day to check in and I hope you find something useful or meaningful in here. Maybe even a little nudge to take a chance on finding happiness in the life you were made to live.

Have a brilliant day and don’t forget to look up once in a while. I did yesterday and there was a perfect red rose lying in the grass next to the tracks. Beauty really can be found in the oddest places…

 

I finally took my own advice and bust myself out of my cell and left fear behind. After my sister hounding my ass, and my friend giving me a deadline, I finally set up an account with a stock agency and sent in my pics.

13 went in, 1 declined so far, and 3 accepted! The rest are still undecided. I’m SOOOOOOOOOO happy I screamed WOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOO in my car on the way home. Yes. Out loud. In traffic. After years of sitting on the fence, my sister kicked me off it and it’s done. Why did I wait so long? It wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t terrifying. It was just a bit time consuming and oh, so worth it!

Whether they are successful or mediocre doesn’t matter. What matters is that they exist outside of myself and my hard-drive and they’re out there. If you’re sitting on the fence about your dream, just take a chance. Yes, it’s easier said than done but honey, if my pansy-ass can do it, then so can you. We can be shit-scared terrified together and we’ll celebrate on the other side when it becomes a reality.

I’m officially a photographer. Not a famous one, but my photos are finally out there, existing in public and that makes me a photographer. That makes me part of who I’ve always wanted to be and it feels so damn fantastic right now, I can’t stop smiling!

The first step really is the longest stride, but always remember, the time will pass anyway.

Happiness is a fairly nebulous concept. It can include everything, nothing and every combination in between. Each person’s formula for it is different but it’s almost guaranteed that everyone alive wants it, to some degree or another. I mean, no-one wants to be miserable, right? So that would mean they would choose happiness if given a choice.

I haven’t quite figured out my entire happiness formula yet; it’s more of a constant work in progress. Parts of my formula include moody seas, mountains, simplicity, balance, happy relationships with my friends and family. FREEDOM. Scotland contains quite a few of those elements, which is why it keeps calling me back.

I’d love a life where I could write, take photos & travel and make a living doing those things. A life where my time is my own with no schedule to live to; where I’m no more fixed than a leaf floating down a river, free to go where life takes me. Instead I’m anchored in one place, to one job, in one life. Life isn’t smooth sailing, it’s not meant to be. If I had to draw a comparison, I’d choose a hurricane. Total mayhem and carnage, chaos and madness, followed by a period of calm for a while, then it all kicks off again.

When we anchor ourselves to one fixed outcome, we’re a bit like a boat in hurricane. When the seas rise, our boat is tied to a short rope and we cannot rise with the water. We can only go as far as the rope allows, and if the rope isn’t long enough the boat will sink or it will snap. Either way, it’s a pretty shitty scenario.

Being free to float with life’s waves, there’s a fairly good chance we can ride out the waves if we stay balanced. Without balance, the boat will tip over and sink anyway. Balance and flexibility are the keys.

Debt is an anchor with a very short rope. We are leashed to our jobs in the hope it will keep the sea of debt from drowning us. The constant onslaught of advertising keeps us wanting more things, more stuff, the trappings of ‘success’ and each time we fall prey to ‘stuff’, the shorter that rope gets.

Don’t get me wrong, this is not a judgment against possessions. It’s a call to evaluate your happiness formula. If happiness is building a comfortable life with all the creature comforts and luxuries, then absolutely do it! Always choose happiness, no matter what shape that comes in for you. My disclaimer here is don’t let the price you pay for that happiness be an anchor tying you to a bad thing. You cannot buy happiness with debt. The debt might buy you a pretty fancy boat but remember, being fancy didn’t save the Titanic. Bad luck and shitty planning can have dire consequences, no matter how big and safe you think your boat is.

There is security in being neatly anchored in a harbour and that’s absolutely OK. We’re not meant to want the same things in life; that’s the party. I’m a no-anchor kinda gal, which terrifies my family regularly because they are mostly safely-in-the-harbour people. They love me anyway even while I’m sawing through the last anchor rope holding me here.

If you need an anchor, roots, a steady shelter, then my only request is: find things that make your rope longer so you can ride out the storms. Anything that shortens that rope is a huge fat minus sign in your happiness formula. ADD rope, don’t minus it away. The longer your rope, the easier it is to ride over the waves because trust me, there will ALWAYS be waves.

Something I’ve been asked many times over the years is ‘Isn’t it difficult moving to a new place and starting again?’

Well that depends on which thing you’re looking at. Yes and no.

When you’ve made up your mind that you’re going to pack up and move to a new place, be it another country or just a new city in the same country, your reason for making the move will be a huge factor in the Yes/No category. So does your level of attachment to the place you’re leaving. If you have a tight tie to the place you’re living in now, then severing those ties will be difficult, no matter how green the grass is at the new destination. Leaving friends and family behind can be painful if you’re used to seeing each other constantly.

I’m the emotional equivalent of barbed wire so leaving things behind has never been a deciding factor in my moves. Don’t get me wrong; I miss my friends and family sometimes but I can stand alone without them if I need to, even while I sob into my wine.

If you’re moving because you want a change of scenery/found your dream job/following the love of your life/want a better quality of life, then no, it’s not difficult. Maybe a tad uncomfortable, but not difficult. You have to get comfortable being uncomfortable.

When you’re making a change as drastic as emigrating/relocating, then you already know going in, that certain things are going to change so those things are not unexpected. The job, home, neighbourhood, people, culture, transport, language and possibly foods are all going to be different in the new place.

It’s the little things you don’t expect that blow holes in your resolve. I moved from an English-speaking country, to another English-speaking country, then again to a third English-speaking country and the language changed completely. I didn’t expect that and it was a difficult transition initially in each place. What was Maizena in one place, was cornflour in the next place and cornstarch in the third. Going to the grocery store in a new place and attempting to explain to some poor unsuspecting individual what you’re looking for is painful. Does it come in a box, tin, packet, what colour is the packaging? I DON’T KNOW!! A roll was a bap and then a bun. A multitude of things have been lost in translation at each stop.

While it’s perfectly acceptable to ‘bum a fag’ from someone in England, you’ll probably be sued in the US for using that terminology to ask someone for a cigarette. I asked the receptionist at work for a plaster and it was met with ‘like plaster to put on the walls?’ No. To put on the finger that’s bleeding all over your desk. ‘Oh you mean a Band-aid.’ Sure, if that’s the technical term, then yes, one of those please.

Something as simple as going to the store for bread and milk was dead easy in SA. Do you want white or brown bread? Sliced/unsliced? Milk is fat-free, 2% or full-cream.

Well…….. stateside it takes 95 decisions to pick up those 2 items. Bread you say…? Well lady, do you want white, brown, rye, wholegrain, multi-grain, gluten-free, square, round, bagel, bun, pita, herbs/no herbs, ciabatta, long bun, round bun, pre-sliced, cheese-topped and which cheese, low-cal, low-carb, artisanal? There’s a whole aisle just for bread, go nuts. Take your time, no rush.

Milk…… dear God. Do you want fat-free, whole-milk, almond milk (sweetened, unsweetened, flavoured, unflavoured), goat milk, soy milk, vitamin D, 2%, skimmed, semi-skimmed, organic, in a glass bottle, plastic container, what size do you need that container or would you prefer a carton?, coffee-creamer because there’s hazelnut, French vanilla, chocolate, mint, Irish creme, mocha, salted caramel, pumpkin (yes you read that right!), Italian creme, creme brulee, or just original if you’re undecided.

Bread and milk alone have caused complete melt-downs at the grocery store because all I want is standard army-issue bread and milk. And if you’re also buying cheese, seriously, get that first because by the time you’ve made a decision on that, your milk will have passed its sell-by date so pick that up fresh on the way out. Some cheeses age really well so that’s an added bonus as it will age perfectly while you decide on the bread you’re going to put it on.

Not knowing which store sells what is another thing that’s been especially difficult with each move. Finding an apartment is child’s play when measured against the mayhem of finding a place to buy a saucepan.

Thankfully SA and UK were both Commonwealth countries so quite a bit of their terminology was the same but that’s not to say there wasn’t confusion along the line. A flap-jack in SA is a crumpet in UK and a UK flap-jack is a crunchie in SA. A scone in UK is a biscuit stateside and there’s honest to God no substitute for what an American calls a scone. Scones do not come in triangles and absolutely DO NOT have corners!

Getting stateside and seeing biscuits and gravy on the menu made me puke in my mouth a little because who the hell puts gravy on a chocolate-chip biscuit?! Which leads to biscuits being cookies, scones being biscuits and biscuits with gravy being surprisingly good.

Ordering chips stateside only to be asked ‘what flavour chips would you like ma’am?’ Uh…. hot on a plate, what other flavour could there possibly be?! Oh you mean fries…….. Sure. Yes. Those. A whole plate full. Thanks. Do you have vinegar? *blank stare* So that’s a no on the vinegar then.

Tomato and basil crisps…… Wrong. On all 3 words. Tomayto and baysil chips is what I was meant to ask for.

Those things will break your brain when you relocate so seriously, be prepared because this is the type of stuff they DON’T tell you when you clear Customs at the plane station. It will be your greatest challenge and triumph once you master it.

In preparation of my intended move home to Scotland, I’ve started following multiple Scottish pages on Facebook and let me tell ya, scored top marks on a quiz on ‘which of these words do you understand.’ I’m prepared this time. I can almost speak fluent crazy so it’s only a matter of finding a job and a city to call home now.

Picking a country, packing your bags, booking a ticket and organising a lift to the airport is simple but be warned: there be madness past those gates.

 

 

Social media is inundated with #blacklivesmatter; which is then countered with #alllivesmatter.

Yes, all lives should matter, but they currently don’t matter equally. There’s an implied ‘too’ at the end of #blacklivesmatter.

As a white South African, I know about the stigma of being a racist. White = racist in SA; it’s one of the reasons I left because you can call me a lot of things but NEVER call me a liar or a racist. I’ll straight up lose my shit.

My brother & I were fortunate enough to go to a private Catholic school in the 80’s, which was multi-racial before it was legal in SA. We grew up not knowing what apartheid was. It was a concept that only really hit home when we went to the regular public high school and our friends weren’t allowed to go there until they opened the schools 3 years later. Don’t bloody call me racist!

Seeing what’s going on in the US and it’s the same but without an official name. It’s not labeled so it’s somehow OK to push people around and treat them as less under the guise of something else. LIFE MATTERS. It doesn’t matter whose life it is. At the moment, some lives are valued less than others because the outer packaging comes in a different shade.

What the bloody hell is wrong with people?! How is it, that as the most evolved species *and I use that term lightly!* are we this pathetic and destructive?!

In SA apartheid created a system where entire demographics were excluded from basic education. They’re reaping the toll of that decision now. In the US, people have access to the same education system yet still cannot find a way to live with people that don’t have the same reflections they do. WHY?!

The candidates running for office terrify the bejesus out of me because it’s a case of which flavour of madness do you want to sign up for over the next 4 years. Neither.

Aggression and anger are at max level mental right now and it’s breaking me on the inside. Y’all are at a 12, I need you at a 2. Calm the hell down!

In a country that prides itself on defending the weak and rescuing those who have no voice, HOW THE BLEEDING HELL is this still happening?!

Advice is a splendid thing. Most times. There’s the usual unwanted advice; usually dispensed by some well-meaning individual and then there’s the advice you actually ask for.

Lately I’ve asked for advice from different perspectives; Brexit has thrown a spanner in the works so having a few varied opinions on the matter seemed like a good idea. Well, it wasn’t.

The advice itself is pretty solid, but the state of confusion it’s left behind is shite. Hearing rational people suggest that I NOT relocate for a while has crushed my spirit. The idea of staying here one month longer than the time I set for myself has all but wiped out my will to live because I know they’re making sense. These are people who care about me and my well-being and I love them for it.

My sanity has taken a hit and I feel myself circling the black hole of depression. I can’t sleep, I don’t care about anything, I’m angry, I hate people and my brain/mouth filters are malfunctioning on a level that any Scotsman would be proud of. There’s no patience left to deal with anyone or anything else.

Each time I’ve switched countries the decision to do so came from a purely emotional point of view; logic followed during the actual relocation. Each time things fell into place and I landed on my feet after the transition period into a new culture. This time I’ve applied logic first and let me tell you, it sucks sweaty balls! The idea of renewing my lease and staying in my job makes me want to step in front of the express train.

While navigating this internal chaos there are still friends around me who need constant validation. There’s nothing left to give those friends right now. No, I can’t keep telling you what you want to hear about your guy and no, I can’t pretend to care it matters to me right now. Accept what is or change it but stop repeating the same conversation hoping I’ll tell you what you want to hear. I’m finding it very difficult to give a toss about other people’s sex lives while mine has been on ice for longer than I care to admit.

It’s time to take my own advice. Accept what is or change it. If the job ticks me off, it has to go. If this place grates my carrot, it needs to change. If the call back to Scotland will not be silenced under the volume of helpful advice then I need to heed it and go. Yes, this could be the dumbest thing I’ve done in years but I can get over dumb. Regret, not so much.

 

Let me tell you something for nothing; being 40 rocks! This is so clichéd but the weight of other peoples’ expectations and opinions was miraculously left on the other side of 40. Maybe it’s because it was my first birthday as Me; maybe after 40 you really do not give a flying fig. Who cares, I’m loving it!

We’ve discussed my Lists before; there’s a list for everything. I’ve been doodling them for years. When I designed the Ideal Me a few years back, one of the things was dressing differently and basically ditching pants/trousers in favour of dresses because I hate pants. So that’s what I’ve done. Haven’t worn a single pair of pants yet in this vintage and I reckon this should be a permanent state of affairs. Wind, rain, blizzard or sun; dresses and skirts it is! *Maybe a pair of leggings under my dress on windy days because I’d hate to flash a bus of unsuspecting commuters in Chicago!*

The holistic nutritionist gave me a detox to do 2 weeks ago and we have a follow up this afternoon; 6 lbs. gone so far. The first few days were awful; it was touch and go about high fiving someone in the head with a brick. Headaches, bloating, discomfort and general misery. Thankfully that passed and after a week of my body rebelling against the madness, things settled down.

Thanks to my London ‘husband’ I have some new recipes that actually fitted in with the eating plan. Why that guy isn’t a chef I’ll never know. He perused my pantry over Skype and had me hauling out spices and ingredients I had no clue how to use. We did a Thai green curry with tuna steaks sliced Chinese-style instead of chicken and it was incredible! I have the recipe doodled somewhere so I’ll be making it again. I’ll post the recipe and pics when I do.

Since returning to my 4 Rooms project, things have definitely turned around.  Having daily rituals that involve the Spiritual side of living has made an incredible difference. Simple things like journaling, meditating, even if only for a few minutes and going back to checking in with my intuition for decisions instead of making all my decisions from a strictly mental-only approach. The key to balance is in the room you neglect the most.

Brexit has certainly complicated things from a relocation point of view. Sure, it could still work but we’re in uncharted territory here so realistically, who knows what it will look like once the dust settles and we tally up the score.

Because I’m slightly weird I put the question of relocation to the Runes. Well……

1: Examine your motives for wanting change.

2: Do not be hasty in your decisions or attempt to go beyond where you have not yet begun. This will create a bigger problem than the one you’re attempting to resolve.

3: Live an ordinary life in an extraordinary way.

4: Point yourself in the direction you wish to go and wait on the will of heaven.

5: Pulling on the leaves does not make a plant grow faster – patience is called for. Plant the seeds you wish to nurture and attend to the work of self-change. The rest will come in its time.

Keep cleaning out your 4 rooms and let the rest take care of itself for now.