Frivolous Friday: The British Obsession With The Weather: Careful, It's Catchy

I come from a country with a reputation for year round sunshine. In fact, I grew up to the strains of a radio commercial (we didn't have TV back in South Africa then) that went like this: "We love braaivleis (barbecued meat), rugby, sunny skies and Chevrolet.

Then I moved to Cape Town and all that changed. But Cape Town is in South Africa, I hear you say.

Windmill: Taken by Andrew White

True. But Cape Town has the worst climate in Africa. No contest. It's so bad that us Capetonians often claim that our beloved Mother City doesn't actually have climate. It has weather. Often four different types in one day.

When you add a winter of howling gales, horizontal rain, and miserable cold that starts in May and petters out at the end of November into the mix, you begin to understand why Capetonians don't boast about the weather. Much. You see, even in winter we do get the occasional  - and I do mean occasional - perfect, windless, sunny day that makes us forgive the other 240 miserable ones. That's when we really start bragging.

Come summer, the gloating stops because now Cape Town is at its magnificent worst. December brings more wind: Chilling gales that come howling off the Southern Atlantic, keeping everything decidedly cold. They also make a trip to the beach an exercise in endurance, dodging sandstorms. But by the beginning of January all that changes with temperatures now soaring deep into the 90s and often topping the 100s. Then, just when we think we will expire, Autumn comes, bringing March and April, two perfect months. And the whole cycle starts again.

But in all the years I lived there, I never had a weather app on my phone. (Okay, one comes standard on the iPhone, but I never used it) I also never hung out with people to whom the vagaries of the weather are the primary topic of every conversation.

Cape Town: The Mother City

So imagine my surprise when I arrived in England to discover that every conversation - whether on the radio, in the supermarket, at a friend's house, at church, anywhere - is proceeded by a loooong discussion on the weather. And being England - another country with positively foul weather - you can imagine how depressing those discussion can be. And the English absolutely relish it. I swear, nothing gives the weatherman more pleasure than to announce that: "It will be a dull day, with ice to start, gales by lunchtime, rain by tea, and, oh yes, don't forget to cover the plants because air frost will follow."

Worse even than that, my weather app now has scuff marks from the number of times I look at it a day. It's like the bodysnatchers came past, taking Capetonian me with them, leaving this weather obsessed shadow behind.

Ah, dear me, brain rot. I've been here way to long.

Have a fun weekend.

Cheers
Gwynn


PS: My husband Andrew jokes that it's highly possible that the mapmakers got the shape of England wrong . . . Who can tell? There are so few clear days on which to check.

Frivolous Friday: Are we defined by what we eat?

Definitely. Food, that all important stuff not only keeps us alive, but it defines us too.  Huh. You maybe, but not me, I hear you think. Well, imagine this: An Indian without curry. Or the English without roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. The mind barely goes there. Even us South Africans have our favourites. What would life be without koeksisters, boerewors, bunny chow and All Gold Tomato Sauce? In a word: MISERABLE. And I don't even like boerewors. But there, I've said it: life is miserable without them because food is part of what defines us, telling us how to see ourselves. It provides us with home from which we then build our homes. Deep stuff. 

But as an aside, in case you think I'm being literal, I don't see really myself as a stukkie wors, exactly. (Translated from Afrikaans, a stukkie wors is piece of boerewors sausage. See glossary below. For the uninitiated, boerewors is a South African institution a bit like sunshine, rugby and Nelson Mandela. It's total sacrilege to admit to not liking it. People have been stoned for less.)

But, I digress.

Before I came to England, I had no idea how important food and shopping for food was. In the past, I would sally down to my local supermarket, grab a trolley (shopping cart, for my American readers), and breeze down the aisles, chucking in familiar products as I went. An entire monthly grocery shop for a family of five would be done in twenty minutes. Half an hour tops. I admit, I'm a very predictable shopper with a list in my head that I hardly ever deviate from. My world would collapse if they ever dared rearrange the supermarket shelves . . .

And that was the main problem when I arrived in England.

Picture Aladdin stumbling into the robbers' cave.
See his expression.
Hear his whoop of delight.
Then freeze the frame.
Now tell him he has twenty minutes to fill his trolley with everything he thinks he needs for a month. Sure, he'll just grab at the brightest, sparkliest bling. Who wouldn't? 
Fast forward to him getting home, parking his magic carpet in the garage, and unpacking his haul. Watch his delight turn to consternation.
Hear him gasp, "How in heaven's name am I supposed to live - feed a family - on this lot? Where's the pre-chopped butternut squash we eat once a week? Or those really useful packs of pre-made chicken ala king sauce that are always so handy when I'm in a rush?" 
Feel the slap from the cold hand of reality. 
Gone. All of them. 

Nothing in Tescos, or Sainsbury's or any of the UK stores look ANYTHING like what I used to buy back in South Africa. Even the Cadbury's chocolate tastes different. So now a twenty minute shop has become an epic - almost like trying to find the Holy Grail. 

In the beginning, I actually cleared my diary for shopping day. And then there's the humiliation . . . yes, the humiliation of standing for ten minutes staring at the peanut butter, wondering which tasted anywhere near as good as Yum Yum. The other shoppers would look at me like I was some kind of peanut butter pervert. I shudder to imagine what they were thinking exactly . . . 

When I shared my shopping nightmare with my sister-in-law, Kaz, she told me of a South Africa woman she knew who actually broke down and cried at the tomato sauce aisle in a store in Perth, Australia. I feel for you, sister! By the way, like half the rest of South Africa, Kaz and my bother moved to Perth, Australia a few years ago. 

But months on, I have to admit, it's not all bad.

We didn't have Bakewell tarts back home, or easily accessible Doctor Pepper, or really cheap Terry's Chocolate Orange. 

Bakewell Tarts. A very good reason for moving to England

I guess one must count one's blessings. Or, as as those people filled with annoyingly positive optimism would say:  Bloom where you're planted. 

My roots are still a little on the fragile side, but I'm getting there.

Enjoy the weekend. And for my South African readers - have a braai for me!
Cheers
Gwynn


Glossary of Terms
koeksister: An amazingly delicious, super-sweet, deep-fried, plated doughnut dunked in syrup. Served chilled. To die for.

Boerewors: A greasy, highly spiced sausage, often barbecued - or as we say in South Africa, braaied - and usually served in a hot dog roll. The smell of braaiing boerie hangs heavy in the air over the suburbs of South Africa, especially over weekends.

Bunny chow: Another food designed to slam your arteries shut. Usually bought as takeout, bunny chow consists of a hollowed-out half loaf of bread - usually white - filled with vegetable or meat curry. Nothing beats coming back from a really long camping trip in the bush, stopping at the first take-away, (usually reeking of rancid cooking oil) buying a bunny chow and plunking down on the pavement to eat it with your fingers. Now that's civilization.

All Gold Tomato Sauce: The best brand of tomato sauce - ketchup - in the universe. No exaggeration.

Yum Yum: See comment above about All Gold Tomato sauce, only here it applies to peanut butter.

Click Here

Frivolous Friday: The Difference between South Africans and the English.

I know, I know, political correctness says we should embrace similarities, not differences, but sometimes the differences are so glaring that to ignore them would be like pretending the freight train barreling down the track towards you isn't really moving. That's just daft and I try not to do daft. Too often at least. But still, here I go into the shunting yard of national quirks and idiosyncrasies of both South Africans and the English. (Please go easy on me in the comments section.)

In my last Frivolous Friday post I mentioned English accents and how unspeakably difficult it sometimes is to figure out what people are saying. Well, it seems the knife cuts both ways. South Africans have accents too, apparently.

Of course I knew that before I came to England. I mean, I can recognise a guttural Afrikaans accent thick with rolled r's and g's anywhere. Not to mention a quirky Cape Coloured accent filled with 'jay's' and 'nay's. Or a black accent peppered with 'wekers' and 'eishes'. But I never thought I had a South African accent. No siree, I was exempt, because back home most people asked if I came from England. Now everywhere I go people ask if I'm from South Africa. How weird is that?

But one thing that having an accent does do is open doors to interesting conversations. Like the differences between the English and the South Africans.

Did you know that the English think us South Africans brash? A bit like Americans and Australians apparently. In fact, just by writing this post, I'm probably being 'brash'. But you must understand, the English would never actually use the word 'brash'. That is far too in your face. 'Brash' is what South Africans would say. My English friends gently accuse me of being 'direct'. That is not necessarily a compliment.

That is not the only difference between us. There is another that has taken me almost seven months to figure out. You see, where a South African would use one word to explain something, the English will use seven. That is being polite. Longwinded, but polite. Back in South Africa, we say why use seven when one will do? See? Brash.

Now I'm in England I have become ever conscious of how I am perceived. After all, I do want to become part of the nation. So suppressing the urge to speak bluntly and to express strong opinions has become a daily quest. I admit, I'm not very good at it yet, but watch this space . . . who knows, one day I might even be as English as the English: self-depreciating, with razor-sharp sarcasm delivered with a deadpan face. That would be a fine thing.

Enjoy your weekend.

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: The Art of Re-Inventing Yourself

I'm a firm believer that life is lived in chapters. For me, the best chapters are those that allow me to reinvent myself. Those opportunities are few and far between and therefore all the more cherished. I have less than a week left in South Africa and I am now so excited - like a child on Christmas morning.  It's like I have been given a beautifully wrapped gift, filled with new beginnings.  I can't wait to rip it open (I'm definitely not one of those protect-the-paper people) and start playing. Who knows what I'll find? Who knows how I will change? I don't have the answers. All I do know is that I can't wait.

And the photo? You northerners (I have very few days left in which to say that!) may be basking in the summer sun, but us folk on the southern tip of Africa are in the grips of winter. A mild one, I must admit. But this week a vicious cold front swept in with driving rain, cold and wind. When it all cleared, we woke up to this  . . .

The Hottentot-Holland mountain range 

The little town where I live nestles in the shadows of these mountains. It's a view I will miss. . .  Bring on the rolling hills of England.

Have a wonderful weekend everyone

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: I'm better at hello than goodbye

In the movie, Out of Africa, Karen Blixen, one of my all time greatest heroines, immortalized the phrase: "I'm better at hello than goodbye."

I know how she feels. With my move to the UK now imminent, I'm suddenly so aware of what I'm leaving behind on the African continent. I don't even want to mention my friends or my beloved aunt and mother-in-law, my last remaining family here. The loss of you all is just too painful to consider. So, I allow my mind to drift to other, less tangible things, but no less painful . . .

That eerie royal-blue sky just before a thunderstorm when the light is so vivid all the colours stand out in bold relief. The Jacaranda trees, shining purple and almost too brilliant to look at against that sky . . .

The smell of the dust when the first raindrops, the size of shiny coins, splatter the ground. A burnt smell, almost like ozone after a lightning strike . . .

Lightning . . . that incredible cosmic pyrotechnic display that entertained me as a child and thrills me as an adult . . .

Catching the first whiff of the evening campfire, that indescribable smell of burning mopani or camel thorn wood, that spells closure of the day . . .

Insane sunsets . . .  purple, orange, pink, red, black and blue. Yes blue, as the day fades and the night claims the sky. Venus, always first, looks down on us, cold and uncaring . . .

Steak cooked on the coals. The aroma of bread or a cake baking . . . Birthdays spent in the bush, complete with frosting on the cake, balloons and candles . . .

Long evenings around the fire. Laughter. Songs. Every world problem solved . . .

Even longer walks into the bush to see the stars. All sixty billion spangled galaxies there on display in a sky unpolluted by anything but dust . . . Humbling. Uplifting. Inspiring . . .

The heady scent of wild sage perfuming in the night air . . . Nights filled with the promise of hyena, genet and other noctural visitors to the campsite . . .

The smell of elephant dung, shouting wild, free, open spaces in a language that is unequivocal . . .

The azure sky - not milky-white as one sees so often in the northern hemisphere - arched above, stretching on forever, home to soaring eagles and squabbling sparrows. Endless. Unchanging.
Home . . .


Have a wonderful weekend.

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: Elephant Hugs

It's a week ago since I abandoned the family and shot off down the coast to Knysna to see my aunt. See post explaining all here. Anyway, while I was there, we visited the Knysna Elephant Park. The Tsitsikamama Forest near Knysna used to be home to hundreds of elephants, but poaching and hunting have brought the natural herd to the point of extinction. (There are still wild elephants in the forest, but in numbers so small you can probably count them on one hand) So, enter the Knysna Elephant Park. 

At this sanctuary rescued elephants are ambassadors for the entire ellie species. Visitors, like us, are able to touch these giants. You can even get an ellie cuddle - like I did from this six-year-old baby boy. Standing next to him, rubbing his leathery, bristled skin was thrilling. 

Me, getting hugged by an elephant

Being shadowed by his giant matriarch Sally? Not such fun. 

Me and Sally

That was just plain intimidating. She is HUGE. Her legs are like oak trees  - and you can imagine if one of those fell on you.

South Africa has one of the largest, most viable elephant populations left in the world, but due to limited habitat and elephants natural tendency to wreck their environment, the South African Wildlife Department run regular culls to keep the herds healthy. This controversial programme does result in orphans. The Knynsa Elephant Park is just one place where these babies find homes. 

Do I agree with culling? 

I believe elephants are akin to dogs, dolphins and whales when it comes to pure intelligence. I lived for a year in the Okavango Delta in Botswana where wild elephants were as common as sparrows. They visited my home daily, ripping up trees, threatening to flatten my house, entertaining Andrew and my guests with their incredible - and often dangerous - antics. I adore them. They are without doubt my favourite wild creature. 

But I have also seen them amble through a forest, snapping the trees like they were matchsticks, moving on without even feeding, leaving total devastation behind them. This natural behaviour seriously threatens their own and other animals viability. In the day when Africa was theirs, it didn't matter, but now with people, governments and borders, that lifestyle just isn't an option. So, sadly, yes, I do believe in controlled culling by humane wildlife experts. And thank heavens for places like Knysna Elephant Park who step in and help with the casualties when things go terribly wrong.

Hope you like my pics. Have a happy weekend.

cheers

Gwynn

PS. Don't forget to drop in and visit Elisa for her Frivolous Friday.

Frivolous Friday: Flying The Coop!

Welcome to the weekend! And what a good weekend it's going to be. I'm abandoning my family to Andrew and am heading off down the coast for some R&R. My aunt lives in a gorgeous coastal town named Knysna (silent K), where artists, writers and dreamers collect. It's where I'm headed. (My aunt also happens to be a brilliant cook. Even better!)

The Knysna coastline, known locally as the Garden Route, is one of the most beautiful in the country. Pity my pics don't do it justice!

The Heads at Knysna

A lonely Beach below the Heads in Kysna

And the Knysna food speciality? Oysters. Great . . . if you like snot in shells.

Bordering Knysa is the Tsitsikamma Forest (don't ask me to explain the pronunciation of that San Bushman name) home to the elusive forest elephants. Tsitsikamma also hosts many fascinating myths and legends, some of which have been immortalized in the powerful writings of Daleen Matthee, one of South African's greatest storytellers.

So here's to the weekend. I won't be posting for a while because this is me signing out until Monday.

cheers and be happy
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: Africa Love - Madiba

Happy weekend everyone. 

Being a bookish person, it goes without saying that I love a good hero. Well, today I want to pay tribute to a giant amongst men . . .

Nelson Mandela

or as we know him at home by his clan name,

Madiba

I was a child when I first heard the name 'Nelson Mandela'. At that time (deep in the seventies in South Africa) his name was a swear word, spoken with hate by the politicians of the day. Mandela was the man who had started Umkhonto wie Sizwe - the Sword of the Nation - the armed wing of the banned African National Congress political party. He had launched the armed struggle against the white Apartheid government by bombing military targets. He was enemy number one, and all South Africans were told to sleep easy because he had been captured, convicted of treason, and slung behind bars on Robben Island for life. 

By the time I got to Varsity in the eighties my world view had changed. As a political science and African history student, I was privileged to read some the Umkhonto literature as well as other banned treaties, which gave me a different picture of Mandela. Here he was sanctified, elevated almost to godlike status.

I was wise enough to know that the man who had sought peace all his life until being forced into violence by a tyrannical regime fitted somewhere in the middle of these two poles. 

I spent the first part of the eighties with my Varsity room mate and other friends at her holiday home in Bloubergstand overlooking Robben Island. Many a bottle of red wine was consumed debating the plight - and the rights and wrongs - of the political prisoners held in captivity there. I watched as my brothers march to war as conscripts in the fight against the 'Black Struggle'. But regardless of our political beliefs, there was one truth we could never escape: we white South Africans were the pariahs of the world.

Then in 1990 the impossible happened. Years of economic sanctions and civil unrest forced a change of government. F.W de Klerk, a leader with insight and empathy, came to power, opening the door for the release of Mandela and all the other political prisoners. South Africa waited with held breath as the gates of Victor Verster prison opened and this enigma named Nelson Mandela walked free for the first time in 27 years. 

For as long as I live, I will never forget his first speech where he spoke of peace and reconciliation with the white minority. I believe he single-handely averted a full-blown civil war in this country.

Mandela was elected as our first black political leader, but served only one term - a pointed lesson to other African political leaders who cling tenaciously to power long after their bloom has faded.

Now, our nation again holds its breath as ninety-five-year-old Madiba lies in hospital, fighting for his life against the 'Old Man's Friend'. Part of me wants him to slip away peacefully into the night to his deserved rest, another clings to him, needing him as our icon who holds our Rainbow Nation together.

Whatever happens, it is in God's hand. Or as his grandson is quoted as saying his 'fate lies with God and our ancestors.'

Happy Friday everyone. I hope you have a great weekend.

Cheers

Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: Africa Love 21 June 2013

Welcome to the Winter Solstice! Yes, I know, even though I’m playing along with the Midsummer Eve’s Giveaway hop, it’s actually midwinter here is South Africa. That always brings to mind hearty stews, weight-packing soups and comfort puddings. So, for my Frivolous Friday offering, I’m sharing a recipe with you. 

Bobotie - otherwise know as a spicy, mouth-wateringly delicious casserole made with ground beef and spices, topped with an egg custard. It is one of my absolute favourite South African culinary delights, and it will definitely be going to the UK with me. (And no, it does not contain crocodile or Mopani worms, considered delicacies by some South Africans)

An ancient recipe, Bobotie reached the southern shores of Africa during the Sixteen-somethings. Since then, it has become a mainstay in our Rainbow Nation culture. And whom do we have to thank? Malaysian slaves sold to the colonists at the Cape of Good Hope (not much hope for those poor people). Anyway, if I want to earn Brownie points with my kids, I dish up this for dins.

Bobotie

So how do you make this exotic dish?

1. Grab yourself some ground beef or lamb.

2. Chop up an onion. Sauté in butter with a couple of cloves of garlic, some fresh ginger, a teaspoon each of coriander and cumin, and half a teaspoon of turmeric.

3. Chuck in the meat. Salt to taste.

4. Add a handful each of apricots/raisins, and almonds.

5. Now it gets weird . . . Mush in two slices of white bread soaked in two tablespoons of milk and vinegar. I know, I know, it sounds gross. Don’t be fooled, it’s fantastic.

6. Cook through and then pop into an ovenproof dish.

7. Make custard topping by beating three eggs and a cup of milk together. Pour over meat. Decorate topping with a few bay leaves and bake at 180C until the custard has set.

Serve with yellow rice, chutney and sambals. (chopped bananas, chopped cucumber, chopped peppers, etc.) To make yellow rice: add a teaspoon of turmeric to your cooking water. Rice will come out the colour of saffron. If you like sweet things, add a handful of raisins)

I hope you enjoy it as much as we do.

Cheers

Gwynn

PS. Elisa almost got run over this week. Check out her FF to find out more.

Frivolous Friday: Things I love about Africa 14 June 2013

It’s Friday! Yah!

Time to kick back and relax – with a book. Talk about being predictable.

For this week’s Frivolous Friday, I’m focusing on an African positive. 

It’s always a laugh when travelling overseas because the first question people ask when they hear I come from Africa is: “Do you have lions and elephants roaming the streets?” I immediately picture the grass hut they think I live in.

So, to answer your question . . . no, I don’t live in a grass hut. Neither do I have wild animals trawling through my neighbourhood. Unless you can call the tsotsis (a local word for criminals) armed with stolen weapons and homemade knives predators. Actually, come to think of it, we do call them predators. Amongst a lot of other derogatory terms.

We have to go to game reserves and national parks to see these magnificant creatures.

Another conversation that always raises a smile goes something like this . . . 

Ignorant foreigner: “So, you’re from South Africa. That’s just awesome.”

Me: “Yeah. I guess it’s pretty cool.”

Ignorant foreigner: “So tell me, where in Africa is South Africa?

Me: *stares blankly*

Ignorant foreigner: “Is it near Kenya?”

Me: “Er . . . Kenya is in East Africa, about three thousand miles from us.”

Ignorant Foreigner: *undeterred* “Oh, is it? Then are you close to Ghana?”

Me: *trying hard not to roll eyes* “Not exactly. Ghana is in West Africa. About three thousand miles away in the opposite direction.”

Ignorant foreigner: “Right. I knew that.” *long pause* “So where is South Africa exactly?”

Me: *smiling now* “In the south. Southern tip of the continent actually . . . “

I hope you like my lion pic. Andrew took it on one of his many travels. And talking about travels, some months ago I posted a Frivolous Friday on my brother Tom’s ride across Africa on a bicycle. See link here. Well, he and Andrew (my husband) are making a TV series about the adventure. Andrew is driving his 4x4 vehicle and Tom is on his bicycle.

They’ve put together a Kickstarter campaign to raise funds for the production. If you are interested in helping two crazy guys make an amazing adventure travel, internet-based TV series, then please click on this link. If you like what you see, don’t be shy to share the news.

Have an awesome weekend.

Cheers

Gwynn

PS. I did live in a grass hut once for about a year, and I did have wild animals raiding the kitchen, but I’ll share more about that adventure in a future post.

PPS: Don't forget to drop into Elisa to see her Frivolous Friday.

Frivolous Friday: Things I Hate About Africa

Welcome to the weekend . . .  and to June! I still can't get my head around the idea that half the year is almost gone. It's almost scary. Or am I the only one to feel that?

Anyway, from the post title you can see I'm divulging another of my pet peeves about living in Africa.

Honestly, it often feels like I'm stranded at the very last table at the very last restaurant at the very end of the universe. (Thank you, Douglas Adams! If you haven't read his hysterically funny book Restaurant at the End of the Universe (Goodreads), then you really should)

But I digress.

Living in Africa is anything but funny when it comes to trying to be part of the modern world.

For example . . . Since I first understood the word 'computer', I've used a Mac. So when eReaders came out you'd think it would be logical for me to buy an iPad (or Mini .  . . droooooool). Too right. But I didn't. I got a Kindle. The reason? You cannot access the iTunes store in South Africa. Why? Protectionism of our music, film and book industries, apparently. But still we can download from Amazon . . .  if we're prepared to pay an extra $2.00 on every purchase as punishment for not living in the US. Never figured that, but still, grrrrrr.

Then movies . . .  Our new releases coincide with the launch of the DVD in the States and Europe. Okay, maybe not quite so bad, but you get the picture.

And books? We wait months, literally, for new books to hit our shores. Goddess by Josephine Angelini (Goodreads) (hotly anticipated by my daughters) released in the USA on the 28 May 2013, but we'll only get it in October. Thank goodness for Book Depository who will deliver books for free.

These are just some of the irritations which come with living in Africa. Compared to so many others I can mention, they are probably minor, but for completeness, they needed a mention.

Next week, it's back to the positives. Thanks for stopping by. Don't be scared to enter my Giveaway for Perception by Lee Strauss - who knows, you might just win.

Cheers
Gwynn
P.S. Elisa had a 'senior moment' last week and forgot to post her FF. I'm sure she's got together today. Call in on her. It's bound to be fun.

Frivolous Friday: Things I Love About Africa

It's weekend! And it couldn't come soon enough!

As promised in my last Frivolous Friday post, I'm focusing on an African positive today. 

One of the things I love about this continent are the legends. Trust me, there is a supernatural explanation for just about everything. 

I also love African trees, especially when they come with a legend attached. 

So my all-time favourite tree happens to the incredible Baobab. 

Andrew took this on the Makadikgadi Salt Pan in Botswana

The San people (used to be called Bushmen, but that's now politically incorrect) have a wonderful story about how the Baobab came to be. It goes like this . . . 

Long, long ago when the Creator made the Kalahari, he planted the Baobab tree in a prime spot next to a lake. At first the tree was very happy, at least until the incessant wind stopped and it caught a glimpse of itself in the water.

Shocked by its obese trunk, insignificant flowers and lack of foliage, it immediately demanded that The Creator get back on the job and it give it a makeover.

The Creator poked his head out from behind a cloud and asked if the hippo was beautiful? (No) Or if the hyena had a pretty voice? (Definitely not) So why then should the Baobab be worried about something as shallow as looks?

Still the the Baobab whinged. And whinged.

Finally, in a fit of pique, The Creator grabbed it by the trunk, ripped it out the ground and flung it into the most desolate corner of the Kalahari. It landed on its head with its roots in the air and there it has stayed forever.

Looking at the tree you can see where the San got that idea from.

Another story has it that The Creator gave each animal its own tree. The Baobab was given to the hyena. Disgusted with the fat, ugly offering, the hyena yanked it out the ground and turned it on its head.

Fun, these stories, aren't they?

But for all that the Baobab may look a bit odd, it's a very valuable tree. The bark is used for making cloth and rope, the locals eat the leaves and the seed pods, which are stuffed with Vitamin C. A bit like a camel, the fleshy pulp in the trunk also carries water, which can be bled in times of drought. There is even a huge Baobab that has been hollowed out and is used for a pub!

However, none of these explain my love for this tree. My reason are more simple. Baobab trees are always found in desolate locations, far from human settlement, and I love being in the wilderness.

 

I will definitely miss Baobabs when I arrive in England. So, to fill the gap, I asked a friend to make me my very own tree to take with me. He's a street artist and he makes and sell objects like this . . .

This wire tree will occupy pride of place in my new home in Oxford, reminding me always of what I left behind in Africa.

Enjoy your weekend. Be safe. Have fun. And read lots. I know I plan to.

cheers
Gwynn
As usual drop by an see what Elisa has up for her FF.

Frivolous Friday: Things I Hate About Africa

Happy Weekend! I Hope you have something fun planned. 

In my last Frivolous Friday post, I said I'd be focusing on all the things I love and hate about living in Africa. This week I look at a negative . . .

In a word:

I'm ashamed to say that parts of my homeland South Africa have the dubious honour of being known as the rape and murder capital of the world. Lovely.

Sadly, crime is not just limited to the criminals. Too many of our cops, business leaders and government officials are part of it too, a scenario summed up beautifully in this joke I found on my Facebook feed. I hope you don't have to be an South African to understand it. 

Well, here goes . . . 

Zolani, Sipho, Andiswa and Zakele were cruising down the highway in a flashy red BMW when they spotted a roadblock. With a sigh, Zolani, who was driving, stopped. 

The metro cop on duty sauntered up to the car window and said, "Congratulations! Because you're wearing your seat belts, you've just won R5,000 in the Arrive Alive safety competition."
Zolani could hardly believe his luck."What are you going to do with your cash?" asked the cop.

"Eish! I'm going to get a driver's license," Zolani answered.

"Aauw!" yelled Sipho from the passenger seat. "Please sir, don't listen to him. He always tries to be smart when he's drunk!"

With all this noise, Andiswa woke up in the back seat. He took one look at the cop and moaned, "Yoh! Guys, I told you, stealing the BMW was a bad, bad idea. We should have taken the red Ford! But you are always so cleva!"

At that moment, they heard a  knock coming from the trunk and Zakele's voice called out: "Are we over the border yet?"

The cop rubbed his hands together, saying, "Okay, my brothers. How are we sharing this R5,000?"

Jokes apart, crime is not funny. 

For the last twenty years we've adapted to living in a country where our house is surrounded by six foot walls, razor wire and electric fences. We have even got used to setting the burglar alarm every night before bed. That alarm is linked to a rapid response company who will send out armed guards to rescue us if the criminals decide it's our turn to be targeted for face makeovers and wealth redistribution. All this we have coped with and accepted for years - crazy, hey? But government corruption is something new and insidious that one cannot fight with alarm systems and armed guards. Corruption destroys the very fabric of society (or what's left of it), causing citizens to loose hope and business to grind to a stop. Everyone suffers.

So crime is of the things I hate about living on a continent plagued with grinding poverty and unscrupulous, avaricious leaders who do little or nothing to lift the prospects of the masses. It's a major reason we're moving to the UK. 

Next Friday I promise to post something positive. Until then, have a magical week.

cheers
Gwynn
PS. As usual, don't forget to check in with Elisa to see what she's doing this Friday.

Frivolous Friday: Why I love Africa

Happy Friday to you all.

As you know, for the last couple of Fridays I've been whinging about my house move. Thankfully we are now in our new home. However this upheaval was just an interim shift pending a much bigger migration.

At the end of July, my family and I are leaving the African continent for the UK. For Andrew, it is a return to the land of his nativity. For me? I'm being wrenched up by my roots.

So I thought I'd devote my next few Frivolous Fridays to all the things I love and hate about being an African. (I may not have black skin, but this continent has been the only home I've know since birth) Today I thought I'd start on a positive note.

AFRICA LOVE

I love that we live in a world where first world medicine (The first ever heart transplant took place in South Africa) rubs shoulders with tribal medicine, administered by traditional healers - sangomas.

At the risk of sounding gross, I had to have a routine colonoscopy some months ago. (Both my parents died of colon cancer, so every few years I subject myself to that indignity. Happily, I will live to write another day.)

Anyway, the point of this personal disclosure is this . . . After leaving the state-of-the-art medical facility where a doctor shoved a camera up my rear-end to look at my innards, I found this under my car windscreen wiper . . .

There seems to be nothing this man can't do! And all for the princely sum of fifty bucks. (I won't tell you what my surgeon charged. . . )

The amazing thing is that the majority of South Africans would rather visit Dr Tembo than a western doctor. In their minds, their disgruntled ancestors or evil spirits are at the root of all illness or misfortune. Bacteria and viruses just don't feature. As a writer, I get so much inspiration from that.

I know that sounds strange to us Westerners, but it wasn't so long ago that our ancestors would have thought my specialist surgeon was more of a quack than Dr. Tembo. They'd probably have welcomed Dr Tembo with open arms, after burning my guy at the stake for sorcery . . .

I love that there is place for both of these belief systems here. It makes life so interesting and I will definitely miss that.

Cheers
Gwynneth

P.S. Don't forget to check out Elisa's Frivolous Friday at: http://lostinsidethecovers.wordpress.com

Frivolous Friday: 8 March

It's been a stressful week filled with sick kids and husband who had one too many dentist appointments. Need I say any more? I am now in escape mode. Big Time. Hence my choice of pictures for today. I wish I was at this godforsaken spot in the Namibian desert, surrounded by nothing but silence. A one man tent, a chair, and a few book would suit me just fine.

That car (a Packard, last built in 1959) has probably been there for decades. I can't help but wonder how it ended up in one of the remotest parts of southern Africa.

What brought the travellers here? Where did they go after the fire? Would they have survived the terrible trek across the desert to safety?  I'm sure there is a novel in there somewhere.
Maybe one day . . .

Here's to the weekend. I for one have earned it. I hope yours is special too.

Cheers
Gwynneth
P.S. For another look at Friday, don't forget to check out Elisa at: http://lostinsidethecovers.wordpress.com

Frivolous Friday - 1 March

It's weekend at last! Although that said, this week went by in a blur.

I had planned something totally different for this Frivolous Friday and then I saw this little movie on my Facebook feed and I couldn't resist sharing it with you.

It's short - about a minute and half - and pokes fun - in a truly African way - at all of us fast food junkies. Have a laugh. I certainly did.

Fast food? Me? Nah. Well maybe the odd pizza . . . I'll never look like that leopard!

Have a great weekend.
Cheers
Gwynneth

And don't forget to check out Elisa's Frivolous Friday at: http://lostinsidethecovers.wordpress.com

Gratitude Thursday #1

I saw this meme on Cathy's blog I Am A Reader, Not A Writer and I couldn't resist it. 2013 is my gratitude year and I'm constantly working on putting a gratitude spin on everything - both good and bad - that happens in my life. So this meme was logical for me. Thank you Cathy.

Today I'm very grateful that I was home when the water pipe in my bathroom burst. It's amazing how quickly a room can flood with the pressure of a small town reservoir behind it!

Thankfully Andrew and I were home (sleeping actually - it was in the middle of the night) so we could deal with it before the whole house flooded.

We spent the day without water, waiting for the plumber. That taught me gratitude too.

Millions of women in Africa spend every day of their lives walking to and from communal water points to collect water for their families. They have learned to carry heavy buckets on their heads, leaving their arms free to carry babies. How grateful am I that I do not have to do that daily. Because I don't want to use other people's pics without permission, I've given you a link to a picture of just such women.

What are you grateful for to today?

Cheers
Gwynneth

Frivolous Friday #3

Living in South Africa I get to see some amazing wild life. That said, we always laugh at foreigners who think we have lions and elephants wandering down our streets. I promise, it’s not like that. I have to leave the urban areas and go into the bush to see wild animals! Luckily southern Africa as a whole is richly endowed with game reserves. So today I thought I’d share some pictures of a very grumpy elephant with you. These were taken in Kruger National Park in South Africa by my husband Andrew. Enjoy!

 I really don't know what that road sign did to offend, but he was having none of it.

Have an amazing weekend
Cheers
Gwynneth

P.S: Don’t forget to drop into Elisa at http://lostinsidethecovers.wordpress.com She’s got a great chocolate cake recipe going to day . . .

Frivolous Friday #2

Welcome to another Frivolous Friday.

Living in South Africa is certainly interesting. Our Rainbow Nation (as we call ourselves) share 11 different official languages and almost as many distinct cultures. This diversity is reflected in our every day lives.

Just ten minutes from my home, I can shop for Beluga caviar, Prada shoes, and Channel no 5 at a world class mall, complete with marble floors and high-tech lights. Or I can go browse the local markets, buying fresh fish straight off the back of a pickup truck parked at the wharf. Or meat straight off the hoof at a make-shift butcher.

Fish sold off the back of a truck.

Typical African meat seller.

When my brother (he's been living in England for twenty-odd years) saw this meat market, he freaked, saying that the boys in Brussels (the bureaucrates who rule Europe) would turn blue if one the local supermarkets decided to adopt this for their butchery section!

I think it just adds to the colour and charm that is Africa.

(Just so you know, I don't wear Prada, hate caviar and only occasionally indulge in the perfume. Channel no 5 is my favourite)

Cheers
Gwynneth

 P.S Don't forget to check out my inspiration for this feature: http://lostinsidethecovers.wordpress.com