Joburg Expat

Finding a Good Car Insurance

2012-02-11T07:30:00.000+02:00

I often get asked if I can recommend any providers for car insurance. I can't, really. All we did when we arrived in South Africa is ask our bank to give us a quote (banks often have an insurance brokerage arm). Which is how we came to use Hollard as our insurance for both household goods and the car, but I can't tell you if they are particularly good or bad. They were just the most convenient, and I think the price range is somewhere in the middle.

However, I was writing a "Buying a Car in South Africa" column for Expat Arrivals, and needed to recommend insurance providers. Which is when I came across a very useful website I thought I'd share with you, called Car Insurance South Africa. It has links to the various providers, tips on insurance and road assistance, and a handy list to print out telling you what to do in case of an accident.

And finally, ever in search of finding ways to make a living as a starving blogger (I am pausing briefly to let you laugh), I was looking at various insurance companies to contact for advertising on my site, and I found one who has an affiliate program. Which is why I"m placing their ad right here:

Please know that I have no experience with them whatsoever, but they will pay me for selling their insurance. If you try them out and have experiences to share, please let me know!

Creepy Creatures of South Africa

2012-02-10T07:46:00.000+02:00

I've told you about the beautiful weather. I've gushed on about Expat Joys to expect. I can't say enough good things about our school.

But I have neglected to warn you of this natural disaster found in South Africa, and particularly, for some odd reason, in Johannesburg: The Parktown Prawn. If you want to get a good look at one, go over to Martina's blog. Does that make your blood curl? Make you want to cancel the relocation agent and the tickets? I don't blame you.

So I was looking out over our beautiful pool this morning, and what should I spot lurking on the bottom?

As you know, I take pride in our pool. I can spot something wrong with it from a hundred miles away. Sure enough, the close-up revealed that there was a foreign intruder in it.

What a lovely creature in our pool

What now? The pole with the net would be the way to go, except my coffee guests arrived at the door that very moment. It would have to wait until later.

But of course later, it was gone. Good? No, terrible! Because that could only mean one thing - that monster was now hidden somewhere in the netherworld of pool piping, either clogging up some filter in its entirety, or, worse yet, disintegrated into bits and pieces... Okay, sorry, I should have put a "read at your own peril" warning at the beginning of this post.

There was nothing to do but to go search for it. Luckily, my first hunch proved true, and it was trapped near the weir basket. Although why it wasn't IN the weir basked is beyond me. Unless there is ANOTHER one somewhere?

I didn't tell you about this part when explaining pool care, did I?

The problem with this situation: the pole with the net was way too big for such a small opening. What would you have done, I ask you? I guess I could have gone for some shovel. Or tongs. Or the pool toy bucket in hopes of finding something useful there. But, you see, I'm lazy, more so than being grossed out by gross stuff floating in my pool, so I did what was the most expedient: Reached in, grabbed the thing by its leg, and flung it as far and wide into the flowerbed as I could.

I hope the cat won't come dragging it back.

And yes, that algae needs some serious attention.

Six Things to Know about Renewing your Vehicle License Disk

2012-02-08T07:09:00.000+02:00

I recently read somewhere that stories are more likely to be read when their titles contain numbers, as in "101 Ways to Lose Weight." So you might have to suffer through a spat of such headlines on my blog while I test this theory.

But since I'm a nice person, I'll come right out and tell you the six things to know instead of making you suffer through the rest of my story, the telling of which you have learned by now is never brief.

South African vehicle registrations (aka license disks, the little round thing on your windshield) must be renewed every year
You will receive a renewal notice in the mail
You have a thirty-day grace period
Renewals must be done in person at a post office or at the licensing office (yep, the glorious place you might remember from my Tips on Buying a Car in South Africa)
Call ahead at the post office of your choice to determine if their vehicle registration is operational (might want to read the story after all to find out why)
The fee must be paid for in cash

The story went thusly (I've been made to read a lot of Dr. Seuss to the girls lately, can you tell?): When Noisette (whom these things are addressed to, because, if you'll remember, I couldn't do anything in my name at the time I was signing up for all these things, because my visa wasn't permanent enough) put the renewal notice for the car registration on my desk, I just about had a heart attack, thinking it was another traffic ticket, because the issuing agency is AARTO in both cases. Okay, not really a heart attack, I do get these tickets all the time. But still, my thoughts weren't very pleasant.

Then, to my surprise, I noticed it was the renewal notice, not a ticket. I put it in my purse, making a mental note to stop by the post office on Rivonia, which is the place where I renewed it without major problems last year. In fact, I remember being surprised how easy it was and that I didn't need to show anything in terms of personal identification. Which is actually amazing in a country where you learn your passport number by heart after just two weeks, because you need it so often.

This morning I was in the vicinity, so I decided to get it over with. I entered the post office, saw the "License Renewals at Counter 1" sign, stood in line for a while, and then remembered that I needed to note the car's mileage on the form. So out I went again, copied the mileage from the odometer, and went back to my queue. Except when I get to the front, I saw that "Counter 1" had a sign attached to it, saying that the vehicle registration program was currently offline, "sorry for the inconvenience."

So far so good. These things are expected in Africa. But what now? I recalled that the Leaping Frog post office next to Checkers has a vehicle registration counter, and do you know why I recalled that? Because that is the one I went to last year, but then their system wasn't working. Surely, however, it would be working now, it being a year later and all.

Except of course it wasn't working there either. And you know what? I could swear the little dog-eared paper saying it was out of order was the exact same one I spotted there last year. This is actually not surprising at all. Things stopping to work and never being fixed again is such a commonplace occurrence in these parts that one barely even pauses to think how extraordinary that actually is.

Determined by now to come home with this item checked off my list at all cost, I asked the lady where else I might go, half expecting she'd send me back to Rivonia. But no, it's the Lonehill post office I should go to, I was told, the one next to Nedbank, they were operational.

Very doubtful this would work out as promised, I made my way to Lonehill, found the post office as described, and stood in the shortest line. Except, the longer I stood there, waiting for a lady who asked a bazillion questions about the package she was mailing, I had second thoughts. Why was everyone else queuing in the line next to me? I craned my neck to see if any of the counters had any signs about license renewals, but couldn't find anything but a notice that all payments must be made in cash.

This is the precise moment when I had another near heart attack. Cash? I had completely forgotten that tidbit of information from a year ago. Luckily, a quick scan of my wallet revealed that I had over R1000, an occurrence that is actually very unusual, but one that made me very happy at that moment because it was more than enough to pay for the renewal. Except if they looked up the fines I hadn't paid yet, an idea that subsequently struck me while I was - still - waiting.

When the lady in front of me was finally done, I stepped up to the counter. As I was half expecting, I was sent to the next counter. Somehow everybody in line had seemed to know this fact eluding me, and I realized with horror that the line at THAT counter was now four people long. A quick calculation based on my observation of that line's progress revealed that I'd have to wait about 32 minutes for my turn. But the woman at the front of that line had pity on me and waved me in. I pretty much gushed over with gratitude, but when she revealed to me that this was her FIFTH try to pay HER license renewal, I felt slightly ashamed. My three tries, you see, were nothing special. I still have much to learn about The Art of Patience.

We soon had a conversation going in our queue about the best way of paying these pesky things. A gentleman volunteered that maybe we should go to the licensing office in Randburg after all, though none of us wants to go back after our first acquaintance with it, because everybody is going to the post office, leaving the licensing office virtually deserted. I wondered if there wasn't a way to pay it online, but was told that no, that was impossible, since you needed to be given the disk in return, and who would want to trust the mail to deliver that.

It turns out I got my disk fairly quickly and no, they didn't run a check against outstanding tickets (another argument against the licensing office, where they well might do exactly that). When I arrived home, I checked if there wasn't an online payment option after all, so I could tell you about it, but there isn't. What I did find, however, was this website educating the public about AARTO and your rights versus them. I recommend you look at it. It advises, among other things, that you do not have to pay your traffic fines unless they are sent to you by registered mail, something the JMPD never does. So technically all your speeding fines are unlawful. I"m not sure I want to rely on that, because what if you get pulled over and they run a check on the system? I actually spoke with someone the other day who spent a night in jail for speeding, and it didn't sound pleasant. Although I'm pretty sure I'd get a lot of pageviews for "I spent a night in a South African jail."

You be your own judge. I just thought I'd pass it on.

Oh, and by the way, don't think your to-do is crossed off the list once you've gotten your new disk. The major part is still in front of you: Getting the darn sticker with the old disk off your windshield! Please excuse me while I go scrape some more...

A Pair of New Boots... And a Countdown

2012-02-07T06:25:00.000+02:00

I did it. I bought my hiking boots for Kilimanjaro.

As I've said earlier, Mount Kilimanjaro has been in the back of my mind from before we even moved here, and the idea of standing on The Roof of Africa before we leave gives me goose bumps. Not that we have plans to leave anytime soon, but just in case.

The boots are pretty much it so far, but nevertheless it feels different now. It feels like I'm in. Let the countdown begin. I have seven months to go till that fateful first week of September 2012.

No reason to fret yet, other than a nagging feeling of now needing to start a new blog counting down the days, like everyone attempting a Kili ascent seems to be doing. And finding a worthy cause on behalf of which to now start collection donations.

Well, I can barely keep up with this blog, so for better or worse you're going to have to put up with me making the occasional Kili post right here. All I'll consent to is creating a new category called Kili Trip which you will find on the right under Topics of Interest, should you wish to follow my Kili musings directly. I know I know, not one of the most creative names for my new venture, but under the new motto of Pretty Good is Good Enough found in my New Year's Resolutions, Kili Trip will have to do for now. So, no thanks, special Kili blog. I see it just like a vacation home: Some people love to have one, or several, but to me the only thing that comes to mind when thinking of a vacation home is: "I've got to take care of ANOTHER one of those?"

The reason I bought the hiking boots now rather than later is twofold. 1) They were on sale at the moment, and this being South Africa, where shoes of any kind are inordinately expensive, shoe sales demand your immediate attention. And 2) they should be broken in before the trip. I have plans to put them on in the mornings and walk to school with the kids (and perhaps even carry their bags, though definitely NOT on my head), but for the week I've had these boots, they have been sitting in the closet and the kids have been walking to school by themselves. See, that's why I bought them so early, so that I could have plenty of time to procrastinate.

I also bought a day pack.

The day pack is the only reason I, who is not known to want to go hiking, ever, am even contemplating this crazy undertaking. Let me explain.

It seems like scaling a mountain, and not just any mountain but one of a certain magnitude, is something one should have on one's bucket list. Well, I'm never going anywhere where my toes will freeze off or where I'll have to scale sheer rock or ice faces, so most of the eligible mountains are already not making the cut right there. But Kili, being close to the equator, doesn't seem all that threatening. And what's best of all, this being Africa, a Kili expedition comes with plenty of help. Mainly this means someone else is going to carry my bag, leaving me with just a little day pack for a jacket, water and camera. For the rest we were told to pack a duffel bag, which the porters will then carry on their heads.

I cannot wait to take a picture of this, because I'm still working on a "Africans carrying stuff on their heads" post. Except they will probably be way ahead of me jogging up the mountain, and I will never even see them.

By the way, in case you're wondering, I've put on the hiking boots. If I start this early, maybe there is a chance they'll be broken in by sitting at the computer and writing my blog.

Another Adventure... Or Another Folly?

2012-02-06T08:54:00.000+02:00

You might recall that Zax had the adventure of his lifetime when he got to do a bungy jump off the Bloukrans Bridge last June. We considered ourselves progressive parents - even though I had to gulp down big chunks of freaked-out-ness while taking pictures from afar and editing the video afterwards - and followed up with another adventure-type birthday gift (because Zax never seems to actually want anything, with the possible exception of being left alone): A tandem skydive.

This was before the news of the woman whose rope snapped while doing a bungy jump at Vic Falls spread around the world, or I would have nixed this new endeavor in its infancy, I can assure you that. You could make the point that bungy jumping has nothing in common with skydiving. But hello? They both involve ropes, and trusting someone to have made sure the ropes are working and tied correctly. Have you seen the video?

Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck - I'll just keep saying it to make up for them editing it out. If this is the one time to say F.U.C.K., in big bold capital letters, this is it (oh the blessings of being your own editor). I get physically sick just watching it and thinking this might have been my son. FUCK! Needless to say, I haven't been back to the Bloukrans video.

In any case, we knew nothing of this when a few weekends ago we were peacefully driving towards Witbank, a place now called Ekuhurleni in one of those twists of South African post-apartheid renaming that baffles the newly- and not-so-newly-arrived expat to no end, what with one sign promising Ekuhurleni, causing you to barely avoid running your car into the ditch because it takes so long to read the freaking word, the next one Witbank, then another one Ekuhurleni again - how the hell do you pronounce that? Oops, excuse all the swearing. I seem to have opened the floodgates. And I seem to be rambling...

There isn't actually much else to the story. Everything went well. Nothing snapped, except perhaps Zax's patience when it turned out we had to wait for over an hour past the appointed time in a rather crappy looking place until both plane and skydiver were ready. And he did enjoy himself tremendously.

Which is just as well, because this will be the last such adventure in a looooooong time, I promise you. I still haven't been able to watch, let alone edit, the video, but the following pictures will tell you the story almost as well, without the wind and the noise.

The briefing

The plane

The critical assessment of the plane

The last chance to turn around and flee

The spectators

What the...? Oh, that's not their plane, it's a stunt plane. Whew!

The takeoff

The ascent

The place the plane was last seen at

The patient photographer

A parachute

Another parachute - s*#t, which one is ours?

The approach

Zax hates this picture. I have to say I'm with him on that!

The landing

The cleanup - Let me get away from this fast, this looks like work

Would you do it again?

Robots and Condoms

2012-02-04T06:49:00.000+02:00

No, this isn't some perverse fantasy of mine, in case you were wondering if I'd gone off my rocker. It's just that the two of them - robots and condoms - go perfectly together if you put them in the context of South African governance. Bear with me and I'll tell you why.

I came across this article in the New York Times the other day about a mass recall of condoms issued by the ANC during their recent 100-year celebrations because some of them had been found to be faulty. 1.35 million to be exact.

In a country where AIDS has disrupted so many families this is no laughing matter, but all I could think of when I was reading this (after briefly trying to envision the logistics of handing out 1.35 million condoms) was this: Why expect condoms to work if traffic lights don't? So people can go and practice safe sex just to get killed afterwards on a road that is anything but safe?

It's the beginning of February and the year is about five weeks old. For at least three out of those five weeks, one or several of the traffic lights - called robots in South African lingo - on the short stretch of William Nicol between us and the highway were out of commission. The one at Fourways Crossing came on briefly for a half day about mid-January, then was out again. There is a robot on Witkoppen that hasn't been working for three months.

A typical South African road scene, with robot out in the background.

To understand what this means for safety, you have to know that when a robot breaks down here, no one comes to direct traffic. Or at least only rarely. There you will find yourself at a 6-way highway interchange, trying to figure out in which order everyone is moving to see when it might be your turn. Often you only get across by making a bold move, pursued by furious honking. I have to say, I'm actually impressed by how well this lawless mess usually works out, but it's still no way for a country that boasts the largest and most modern economy of an entire continent.

No one really seems to know why the robots break so much more often than elsewhere. There is definitely a correlation with rain. Leaky robots? Just like leaky condoms, right? Or perhaps it's the lightening typically coming with the rain here in Joburg. Some say it's the cables being stolen, which would also explain why the robots hardly ever even blink red, as they should when malfunctioning. Another theory is that robots run on SIM cards instead of being hard wired, and that those are stolen to be used for phone banking transactions.

Whatever the reason, Joburg's dead robots are a huge annoyance most of the time, bringing already slow traffic during rush-hour to a complete standstill, but they also pose a danger. At night you simply miss them altogether, and sometimes they are only half malfunctioning, with one side showing green while the other is out. If you recall, I've written THAT story and how it ended already. If you're an expat worried about moving to South Africa because of its crime rate, think again. The real danger here are traffic accidents, not muggings or break-ins.

South Africa seems to have a quality problem. Whether it is ensuring that there is a system in place whereby robots are monitored and maintained around the clock or making sure condoms don't rip, somebody is not doing their job. In the case of robots, their breaking down is one thing, but the inability (or frankly unwillingness) of city officials to implement a quick response system is another.

In a country with one of the highest road accident rates, you would think that more effort on the government's behalf would be spent on ensuring working robots at all times, and dispatching traffic cops ASAP - after all, there are bazillions of them running radar traps, so why not just move the guy sitting under the bridge with his radar gun to the next intersection? - if one is reported broken. Yes, I suppose you can put this in perspective by looking at other countries that are even worse off. Traffic in India seems to be completely lawless from what I've heard, and someone told me in Zimbabwe they steal the colored covers of traffic lights, so that you can't distinguish green from yellow and red.

But this is South Africa. A name that should evoke pride among its people and envy in its neighbors. Lately, the emotion I've mostly had about South Africa is shame.

And im sure those unfortunate men who found themselves looking at a ripped condom were harboring feelings of an entirely different magnitude.

By Special Delivery from America

2012-02-03T07:00:00.000+02:00

I was feeling panicky. I was baking muffins, big giant muffins, and what did I see in my cupboard? Or rather, what did I NOT see enough of in my cupboard? Muffin liners. Yikes! Everybody knows that for a proper muffin you need a paper cup, it's just not the same without one. Plus then you scrub your pan like crazy afterwards.

If you've been reading this blog, you will know that my relationship with South Africa regarding baking supplies is a bit strained. We just don't seem to see eye to eye, the two of us. Finding paper muffin liners for regular size muffins would be enough of a challenge, I'm sure, but I knew there was not even a sliver of hope of finding liners for those jumbo muffin cups I have. I have them from the U.S. of course, and I ordered them from Amazon together with the liners I was now running out of. What to do?

Nothing much, it turns out. For who do you think came to the rescue? A reader, of course! We had been emailing back and forth for a while about this and that expat question, and now he was planning a business trip to South Africa prior to moving here. More or less just at the moment I was standing there staring at my muffin cup situation, I received another email with estimated travel dates and did I need anything from the U.S.? Muffin cups, was my immediate reply. You have never seen me type so fast. And drammamine non-drowsy, s'il-vous-plait - that had also been in the back of my mind.

So at the end of last week, I received my muffin cups via personal delivery. Thank you Ian! He must have overestimated my baking prowess, because he brought me an entire stack of muffin cups. Six boxes of 48 cups each, to be precise. Each double batch makes twelve muffins, so I now have enough cups for 24 double batches. That's a lot of giant muffins. Anybody have any good muffin recipes? Noisette, for one, will be very pleased with my newfound muffin mania. Except if I make the bran kind, so please don't bother with those if indeed you have a recipe to share. The nutella cupcakes I made the other day were more to his liking.

These are my jumbo lemon poppyseed muffins. Except I forgot the actual poppyseeds
in some of them, causing another slight panic because "lemon muffins" just doesn't
sound very good, even though I can assure you they taste delicious all the same.

My stack of muffin cups via door-to-door delivery from Amazon (and Ian:-)

It now occurs to me that perhaps I should keep an updated wishlist on Amazon and publish it here on my blog in regular intervals.

Frequently Asked Questions about Moving to South Africa

2012-02-01T07:00:00.000+02:00

I realized the other day that I have been terribly remiss in updating my FAQ section (found at the top of the page). Here I had been answering questions left and right posed by prospective expats, but I never actually formalized my answers for this blog.

So I thought I'd dash in and quickly update it - on the daily list I'm now writing thanks to my resolutions for 2012 it appeared as a 2-hour block - but of course I should have known that it would become a much bigger project. I'd start with one, then realize something else was missing, and then I'd want to provide links to both my own blog posts and outside sources. Needless to say, it took almost a week, especially after I had updated a big chunk and my computer froze. It turns out blog posts are updated continually in Blogger, but pages not so much.

Anyway, I won't ramble longer, just have a look at Joburg Expat's New and Improved FAQ Page. I'd love to hear your feedback, and, most importantly, let me know if I've missed anything.

Hiring Domestic Help

2012-01-30T12:45:00.002+02:00

I was working on the FAQ section of this blog - which admittedly still leaves a few questions unanswered - and realized it needed something on domestic help. I remembered I had written an entire article about it on Expatica, so I thought I'd reproduce it for this blog for your reference:

Having domestic help, otherwise also called a maid, is the one thing you will absolutely cherish in South Africa. There is a little bit of paperwork to deal with, which, considering a government agency is involved, cannot be much fun. But I will walk you through the process, and it will be well worth it because having domestic help is simply wonderful. Just think – I’m sitting here researching and typing expat advice columns while my laundry is being ironed and my bathrooms cleaned!

Almost all well-to-do or actually what we would consider middle class South Africans employ domestic workers – housekeepers, nannies, gardeners, etc – and as an expat, so will you. In fact, you will be expected to, because this will give a valuable job to someone who most likely will support a family of eight with it. As soon as you will have moved into your house, people will come knocking at your door for jobs. This will be the one and only item on your moving-in list where things will progress swiftly, I can promise you. That is why it is best to put some thought to this topic ahead of time, because otherwise you might end up with an arrangement that doesn't actually fit with your lifestyle. Will you want someone coming in several times a week? Or will you want her to live with you full-time? In that case, she will occupy the domestic quarter, something most houses here are equipped with (if typically not very spacious), and you will also be responsible for her food. Are you looking for someone mainly to clean, or also to watch your children? Just know that whatever you hire her for, she WILL spend a fair amount of time on ironing, whether you think that’s necessary or not. It’s just the Law Of Domestic Workers.

The best way to find good domestic help is to hire someone who’s worked for another expat family before. There are agencies you can contact as well, such as Marvellous Maids, but they charge a fee for the referral. While they do perform a background check, I personally think the best background check is for you to talk with the previous employer and find out whether and why they were happy with her work. If you’re moving into the Dainfern area of Johannesburg (a prime expat location), try to get a hold of the weekly Dainfern newsletter (most estate agents will have access to that), which has an excellent classifieds section advertising domestic workers.

So you’ve found a maid – now what? Judging from my own experience, I would have just told you, wonderful, you’re all set, happily ever after. But I’ve asked around and read up on the topic, and there is a bit of legal stuff you should know about. Domestic workers are protected by law (which is a good thing) and all rules and regulations regarding domestic workers can be found on the Department of Labour website. I’d encourage you to read through the various guides, but don’t be frustrated if it seems a bit much to remember. Basically, there is a minimum wage (around ZAR 1,500 per month according to my calculations), and there are rules regarding work hours, overtime, annual leave, public holidays, pay slips, unemployment insurance, and termination. Most employers (especially us expats who typically have never had anyone working for us and are often uncomfortable with the very idea of someone serving us) would not abuse those basic rules in the first place.

Typical salaries for domestic workers range from R1500 to R3000 per month for working Mon-Fri from 8-5. What you pay might depend on the skill level, i.e. in addition to cleaning does she cook and babysit and perhaps even drive. But just think about this for a moment: R1500 is about $215. The only reason, in my mind, to NOT pay your maid at the upper salary range from the start, is to leave room for raises or the occasional help she will need when, say, a relative has died, a child gets sick, or her house is leaking. For a live-in maid you typically also provide the food, which I can tell you right now will mainly consist of mealie pap (porridge made from corn), plus furnishings for her room, and perhaps the occasional doctor’s visit, since there is no insurance to speak of.

There is, however, the UIF, South Africa’s unemployment fund. As an employer of a domestic, you have to pay 1% of his/her salary into it on a monthly basis. The employee has to make a contribution (also 1%) as well, but in most cases this is paid by the employer (since you can be almost certain it will never be paid if you don’t do it), making it a total of 2%. When you first employ a domestic, you must register him/her with the Department of Labour, which can easily be done by visiting the UIF website. You will find two forms there, the UI-8D and the UI-19. Complete both of these and fax them to the number provided, and within a week or so you will receive a uFiling number, which you can then use to set up your online account. After that, you will be notified every month when a new payment is due, and you can pay it directly via the uFiling website, or via bank transfer.

There are services that handle all domestic payroll affairs for a small fee (around R20 per month), such as UIFsolutions, and if you want to make absolutely sure everything you do is by the book, you should use such a company. But in my mind setting up a uFiling account and making your monthly payments is very easy. I have a reminder in my calendar to pay my domestic (via electronic funds transfer) and process my uFiling payment at the end of each month, and it takes less than five minutes. I also have a pre-printed payslip on file that I have her sign upon receipt of the money, just so that there is a record. She scoffed at this at first, thinking I thought her dishonest or not trusting her somehow, but I was firm and told her it was for her own benefit as well as mine.

I’m often asked whether a contract is needed for your domestic. Yes, as per the Department of Labour, a contract is required, and you will find the details on their website. But I’ve also heard of cases where the existence of a contract made it extremely difficult to terminate a maid, even when the cause was stealing. On the other hand, you have to make your UIF payments (there is a stiff penalty for failure to do so) so your domestic is already registered with the Department of Labor, and it probably makes sense to write down your basic expectations in contract form. I would just make sure to spell out reasons for termination in it. If you use an agency as mentioned above for your UIF payments, they will also provide a contract.

What you should also make sure of before you hire a domestic worker is that she is South African or, if not, in the country legally as a permanent resident with working papers. Otherwise, she might disappear one day because she has to catch a taxi to the border and renew her visa there by paying a bribe. You hear many of those storie. Make sure you spend some time interviewing her and checking her ID, and have her come work for you on a temporary basis first, to get an opportunity to watch her and specify exactly what it is you want done - and what not! The only issue we ever had was with the latter; my kids felt a bit harassed for having to keep their rooms picked up at all times of the day and when the constant chastising turned into arguments, I had to have a talk with my domestic to back off the kids and reduce vacuum cleaning to just once or twice a week! Black South Africans are generally very kind with a great sense of humor, but they are also a proud people who want to be taken seriously. An experienced maid will have her routine and if you want things done a certain way, it is best to talk about all those upfront, or perhaps have regular meetings to address any changes.

Since you’ve probably never had the luxury of someone cleaning up after you around the clock, you actually won’t know what exactly it is you want done. And you might be uncomfortable at the very thought of someone working around you all day and another person (in addition to your kids and spouse) for you to “manage.” But having domestic help here in South Africa is also a wonderful opportunity to get a glimpse into an entirely different culture and gain an appreciation for all walks of life. I’ve occasionally been on the most eye-opening expeditions to help my maid with something or other, and we often share a laugh together.

So while you’re busy packing up and filing visa applications and saying your good-byes at home, take some time to think about your future South African life with domestic help. And remember, as you're scrubbing cement-like toothpaste out of your child’s sink once again – it might be your last for a while!

Further reading:

Hiring the Right Domestic Help
The Life of a Domestic Worker

The Destructive Power of Nature

2012-01-27T11:55:00.000+02:00

You might remember that not very long ago we stayed in a beautiful game lodge near Kruger Park, Kitara Camp. I've written about Don and Lee-Anne, the couple managing the game lodge, and what it feels like living their kind of life. And I've written about the lodge itself, the way we were spoiled there, and how we got to see our first leopard.

Well, Kitara as we know it is gone. Swept away by the surging Klaserie River during a huge rain storm just a few short weeks ago. "At some point, we watched one of the couches floating down the river," were Lee-Anne's words. The same fate must have befallen these patio chairs we so luxuriously lounged in during our lazy afternoons:

Our favorite spot in between game drives - all of it gone. See the bar in the background?

This is what's left of that bar

We feel incredibly lucky a) to have had the privilege to stay at beautiful Kitara while it was still there, and b) to not have traveled there about one or two weeks after we did, or we would have been IN that rainstorm.

I've posted some before and after pictures below. See for yourself and you'll understand why I feel so sad about the flooding of Kitara.

That's me sitting by the pool with my book and taking in the view

No more pool, no more deck, no more umbrellas

Klaserie River December 30, 2011, spakling under a lush canopy of trees

Klaserie River mid/end January, 2012, a wide stream with sandy banks

Dinner in the boma

That boma now

I don't have a before picture of this, but let me just say the bathrooms were beautiful!

I can't imagine what this "causeway" over the river looks like now - the water already
looked raging to me back in Decmeber, when there had been almost no rain until then.
Photo credit: Impatience

It just goes to show what incredible power can be unleashed by nature, and how helpless we are in the face of it. We've witnessed the incredible beauty of nature while staying at Kitara, and I guess this is the other half of the coin. You can't have only half of nature.

My heart goes out to Don and Lee-Anne as well as the owners of Kitara and the other camps in the vicinity now also rendered useless due to the bad state all the roads are in. May they have the strength and patience to rebuild it all. I know it will ultimately be more beautiful than before.

I hope all of you reading this will remember Kitara, follow their progress here, and here, and make a plan to visit as soon as it re-opens.

Expat Tip: How to Choose your Post Box

2012-01-26T08:54:00.000+02:00

It just occurred to me that I should tell you more about choosing the right post box, which is one of the things you will (or, if not, should) have on your moving-in to-do list.

The reason this occurred to me now was because - what else - I was having another one of those South African "running-errands-and-not-getting-anything-checked-off-my-to-do-list" days. And it had to do with the post office.

Post boxes where we get our mail. Oh, and you could sit
on that inviting bench and watch passers-by!

For weeks leading up to today I had been toting around a little blue slip from the postal service, telling me that a package that hadn't fit into our post box was waiting at the post office to be picked up. Yep, that would be just around the right time for a Christmas present we had been waiting for, about a month late, so nothing out of the ordinary there. But which post office? This is where you realize you're living in Africa - the slip doesn't actually mention the post office. There is a stamp on it from the post office, but it's illegible.

Past experience told me it would be at the Dainfern post office, the one on Cedar Road in that crappy little shopping center that is mainly noticeable for its shuttered-up store fronts and broken window panes telling of past break-ins. Not my favorite place to be. Plus it's on "that other side" where I don't go often. The place I DO go often is where my actual post box is located, right at the entrance of our neighborhood, and, wouldn't you know it, there is even an actual post office there. However, for some reason our mail is held at the OTHER post office, NOT the one right next to the post boxes as you might think. Every day as I was getting groceries or my mail, I would eye our little post office longingly, wishing that little blue slip was theirs. But I didn't go in. I had been there too many times before and was always sent to "the other side."

Today I had finally accumulated enough errands for "the other side" to make a post office visit worthwhile. I was already in a less than stellar mood when I arrived there, because earlier the pharmacy hadn't had in stock what I needed, the bank machine had been out of order (I guess I should count myself fortunate it didn't also swallow my card as has happened before), and the sheet music I had ordered, oh, only six weeks ago, was still not in stock ("it is coming from overseas, mam" - as if that explains it all). Also, this morning Jabulani couldn't find his diving manual, after having lost his blazer yesterday and his locker key and gate access card the day before that. Somehow, when boys turn thirteen, their brain goes missing. I wonder where it goes. Wait, I don't think I want to imagine exactly where it goes. Anyway, you can perhaps understand why my typically abundant patience was wearing a bit thin around the edges.

So do you know what the lady at the post office told me when I gave her the little blue slip? Not right away though, only after rummaging in the back for ages? "So sorry, we don't use these slips any longer, this must be from the other post office, the one on the other side." What? This IS "the other side!" I wanted to yell at her. Apparently, what happened is that they changed the postal codes, unbeknownst to anyone and most certainly not communicated in any way, so that now my little oh so convenient post office on OUR side actually IS the one holding our mail, which is how it should have been all along. I also found out that I've been using the wrong postal code for ages. Apparently there is one for our street address and a different one for our post box, and I had been using neither one of those. But I think I'll have to ask at least two more people before I settle on any one of them.

They DID have my package at our little post office, which by no means I could be sure of, so all was well in the end. I jut couldn't believe I had been passing within mere feet from my package for weeks!

So, for the promised tip on mailboxes:

Select one at a place that is safe, and a place you go to every day. If it's too far out of your way, you end up never checking it, which is actually just as well because not much mail seems to arrive here in the first place.
Don't assume the post office next to your post box is the one associated with it. Make sure you find out which post code is associated with both your street address and your post box, it might make the mail get there faster (though faster is a relative term, plus I sometimes doubt the postal codes are even used here in South Africa, because every postal employee you ask about your post code tells you a different answer).
Apply for it early and renew it on time when you get the notice. You don't want to lose a convenient post box once you have it.
Don't actually change your official address to your South African post box. It's fine for local mail (and I suppose Christmas cards, if you're okay with them getting here around February) but if possible keep an overseas address for all your "home" mail, especially financial statements and such. You don't want to get that call from your bank asking you if it's okay to transfer $10,000 to Nigeria.

For more information on postal matters, check out:

Postal Service in South Africa

SAPO - Passing the test!

I Might Have Spoken Too Soon: Fraud in the South African Postal Service

This is Africa: How a Half-Day Errand Became a Month-Long Quest in Joburg And What I Learned from Nelson Mandela

2012-01-24T10:00:00.000+02:00

This is Africa. Have I said that before? Actually, I've once been chastised by a reader for saying that (when complaining about inefficiency), because by extension I'm saying that all Africans are inefficient when of course there is no such thing as one type of "African." But then again there are many things I love about Africa that I have raved about on this blog, and no one so far is complaining about my undifferentiated praise of Africa. So as long as I have "This is Africa" kind of days, I will keep saying it, thank you very much. Plus, it also makes for such good writing material.

So the errand I was so frustrated about yesterday started out with a Christmas present over a month ago. I wanted to get these canvas prints made for Noisette:

To go on this spot on the wall next to my insurmountable picture hanging project from a while ago, if you'll remember:

When you read the chronology of what was to follow, perhaps you'll agree with me that this project was a wee bit agonizing.

Dec 10: Emailed the pictures to QPhoto, an outfit I'd been very happy with previously, mainly for their prompt service. I mailed them to the same person I had spoken with before, and asked for the same size prints mounted in the same style. Then I left for our vacation at Island Water Villas, looking forward to the prints being done when we got back.

Dec 15: Received a voice message, asking all sorts of questions about size and style, exactly all the things I'd already specified, but still pleased that they seemed to be on top of things by calling me. I should mention here that in order to receive said message and make any outbound phone calls, my phone and I had to go on a hike like this:

up this hill behind our house, the only place near us with a cell phone signal:

I made about five trips up the hill, but to no avail. QPhoto could not be reached again.

Dec 19: Back home, contacted QPhoto again and actually reached someone, who promised she'd send me an invoice with the exact price so that I could make a deposit, after which the prints would be made. However, they wouldn't be ready before Christmas, plus they could no longer be picked up at Design Quarter (close to here) but at their new location at Mandela Square (far from here).

Dec 27: No longer in a hurry because Christmas had come and go, I followed up once again to request the invoice. Made payment. Waited. Was very tempted to check "QPhoto" off my to-do list but knew better and left it on.

Jan 5: Called again to check status. Confusion over who was in charge, but promise to call me back "now now." Waited in vain.

Jan 12: Found QPhoto still on my to-do list, called again, and lo and behold was told the prints were done and sent to Mandela Square. Asked when they were sent and was told "today," so decided to give it a few more days.

Jan 13: Called Mandela Square location whether my prints had arrived but they hadn't. Called QPhoto main line again and they now said the prints were "just now" being finished, to be sent the very next day.

Jan 18: Was in the vicinity anyway so called Mandela Square again and was told that yes, my two prints were ready for pickup. Drove there, had trouble finding parking, and squeezed into a semi-legal spot:

Took the elevator up to the 4th floor of the West Tower as instructed, and followed the signs:

Holy cow, how many more corners could I possibly have to turn in this labyrinth of the West Tower? When I finally did find QPhoto, you will have already guessed what happened next: They DIDN'T have my prints. "We only have two prints for Tina, not for Sine - so sorry, you sounded like Tina on the phone."

I think in my old life in the U.S. I would have been ready to strangle someone at this point. But This is Africa. Everything ended fine. The lady was very friendly and offered to have her driver deliver the prints right to my house as soon as she got them from the QPhoto head office. I was genuinely happy at such great service. I wasn't even very upset about the time I had wasted. When in Africa, one learns to accept fate and let bygones be bygones. On the way back to the parking garage I discovered this really cool coffee place with a beautiful view over Mandela Square:

And I got to take this picture - something I'd been meaning to post on this blog - of one of Joburg's (or, rather, Sandton's) icons, the statue of Nelson Mandela:

And then it hit me: If Nelson Mandela could sit in prison for 27 years and not be mad at anyone afterwards, surely I should be able to chase after QPhoto for a month and not be mad at anyone afterwards.

I felt nothing but serenity the rest of the day.

Jan 19: The pictures were indeed delivered. The driver insisted I check them before he left, and wouldn't you know it, they were not quite what I had ordered, the frame being deeper and the sides printed black instead of white. He offered to take them back to have them redone. I could see it all unraveling yet another time, like in the movie Groundhog Day. No thanks, I informed him politely, I'll keep them.

But now I regret that the picture sourcing project is finished. Because what will be next?

The insurmountable picture hanging project, of course!

South Africa SO Needs a Pottery Barn!

2012-01-23T07:00:00.000+02:00

I get a lot of feedback from readers who love my stories about a) being stopped by the police and b) shopping. How is it that such mundane topics can stir so much interest?

Since I can't really control the police thing - it happens all by itself without my aid plenty of times, trust me - I'll focus on the shopping today. Or the lack thereof, depending on how you look at it.

Well, remember how I resolved to get more organized this year? What I meant then was time management, but what sent me shopping yesterday was organizing my physical space. I hate when things don't have a home, or when they do have a home but the kids insist on putting it somewhere else. One such thing at our house is the pile of musical notes crowding the top of the piano and pretty much the area of a squash court around the piano. Everybody has different pieces from different books to practice, and no one can ever find anything.

Well, there is a perfect wall space next to the piano, where one of these things would fit very nicely:

Unfortunately, it's already in use elsewhere in our house. I'm pretty sure it's from Pottery Barn Kids. Have I already told you how much I miss Amazon.com? Only a half a million times? Well, I miss Pottery Barn almost as much. Although I shouldn't even give them a plug here, because if you're in South Africa, you will note that their website is blocked for us. You can't even look at their stuff without the hassle of a proxy server.

So back to local shopping. Meaning my problem already starts with: What do you call this thing? Officially I think it's a library rack. I'm now envisioning going into one of Joburg's furniture stores asking "Do you have any library racks?" Nope, that's not going to get anywhere, don't even have to try it. I'd meet blank stares followed by "So sorry, we're out of stock at the moment." I've already tried that adventure with night lights and such.

I've so far been to Look and Listen (good place for CD and DVD storage solutions, but no library racks) and Plasticland (good place for plastic storage containers but nothing in the form of racks, although I'd be perfectly happy with a plastic one). And my next step would have been to approach my Zimbabwean friends at the street corner with some cash to buy wood and hopefully make me something to spec, much in the way I solved my shoe storage problem when we first got here.

But, as so often in Africa, an easier solution offered itself over coffee with some friends. One of them was busy explaining her new business, a website geared towards the interior decorating market modeled after Restoration Hardware, and when I asked her about library racks, she not only immediately understood what I meant but a few hours later had found something similar from one of her suppliers:

I'm not sure if the width will work and if that ledge is high enough to keep the notes from falling off, but I am thrilled just to have found a new source of this type of furniture. She sent me some other cool storage solutions as well:

I would have killed for that entryway coat rack when we first moved here. It's got four of each, and I have four kids - how perfect would that have been?

Needless to say, I'm now a big fan of her website, which is called Net Decor. It's pretty much the first of its kind, as the online market is still very much in its infancy in South Africa. Net Decor is still in the process of growing to a full range of products, but go check it out, I'm sure you'll love what's there.

It's Not Stealing - You Don't Need All That Oil in Your Engine Anyway!

2012-01-21T06:45:00.000+02:00

I've told you before about getting your car serviced in South Africa and the need to remove all your valuables from your car before dropping it off, but recently I encountered a whole new dimension to this.

We were driving back from the Kruger Park, through beautiful landscapes on roads winding up and down mountains, along more than one steep rock face that had me wondering when was the last time (or, more pressingly, when would be the next time) that those huge boulders littering the side of the road had come hurtling down the mountain. There was no safety net whatsoever.

But my concern over the boulders soon faded when something beeped, and a warning message to check oil levels appeared on the dashboard. As luck would have it, this was Noisette's car, but Noisette was not actually in the car. This is the pattern in our family when it comes to any kind of emergency, like snakes in the garage or squirrels in the chimney or all thirteen smoke alarms going off at two a.m. Noisette has a knack for disappearing when the going gets rough or when there is blood involved (or dirty diapers or vomit, for that matter, but that is another story).

Luckily this wasn't a real crisis. After all, the car was running just fine. It was probably just all that going up and down that made the oil level fluctuate. But we stopped at the next garage (gas station, if you're American) just in case, and indeed the oil level turned out to be at the minimum. I didn't think twice about why this might be, but as usually happens here in Africa, another customer ambled over to find out what was going on and offer his advice. Which was this: "A new car like this, especially a Mercedes, should never be out of oil if you've been servicing it regularly - someone's been skimping you on the oil at the dealership."

What?

You see, that's where South Africa gets you again and again. You think you've been living here long enough to know what to expect, but your thinking doesn't even go into some directions that it should be going. I would never even think someone at the car dealership could siphon off oil on the side to sell it later, but now that I have this image in my head, it makes perfect sense. Most people won't know that oil is missing until much later, and then they'll just assume it's time for more oil. So it's really just such a little thing, why not do it? The fact that's it dishonest doesn't seem to bother people, and getting caught for it is highly unlikely. You could always explain it away with sloppiness, which god knows you can find plenty of in South Africa.

I've now developed a certain routine with Fourways Audi, the dealership I take my own car to (by virtue of being closest). I go there about once every few months because oil is leaking from my engine (get the irony - Noisette's car is missing oil but not leaking, my car is leaking oil but not missing any...). Whenever the patch in my garage gets too big, it's time to make another appointment. I drink my cappuccino there, get my ride home, enjoy my day without having to do any errands, and get picked up again in the afternoon, at which point I'm told that "It's definitely been fixed this time, somebody didn't screw the oil plug in correctly last time." Except next time it might be "Somebody screwed the oil plug in too tightly last time, breaking the seal" or "They put in too much oil last time, causing an overflow." The last time I was there to have the wheels re-balanced (the need for which arises from driving against curbs, something I've become quite the expert at), I found out at the end of the day that the rebalancing machine was broken and likely would remain so for the next three months. By now I don't even bother to gasp at the idea of something being broken for three months.

But this is sunny Africa, and there is always an upside to everything. No one cleans my car so well as the guys at Fourways Audi, every time I leave my car with them. And so far it's been absolutely free. Provided I don't leave any valuables in there.

My sparkling clean car after yet another service

They clean everything, inside and out. And they clean "out" everything:-)

We Are Rich!

2012-01-19T06:58:00.000+02:00

Who knew that we'd have to come to Africa to finally be rich. And I don't mean just normal rich, I mean super rich. Fifty trillion dollars and counting. You know how they keep talking about the super-rich in the U.S., the 1% of the population who have like 20% of the wealth? Well, I bet you they don't have fifty trillion dollars like we do.

That must make us something like the 0.01%. The 0.01% who are actually dumb enough to pay 5 Euros for a pile of worthless bills. But I love the feeling to have handled that much money just once in my life. I mean, did you see how many zeroes that is? I don't think I've ever seen a number that big in print, anywhere.

Read any book about Zimbabwe, and you will learn that the above bill was not an unusual sight just a few years ago. It might have bought you a drink at some point in time, but only if you were quick enough to spend it before it was even more worthless. People would walk around with briefcases full of money and use entire stacks of bills with rubber bands around them to pay for simple transactions. I think their reserve bank took it up to the 100 trillion dollar note before the cost of the paper it was printed on became prohibitive and the entire currency was scrapped. If you travel to Zimbabwe nowadays, you have to bring US dollars or Euros, even Rands.

If you look at these bills closely, you will see that their issue dates just span a few short months. Some actually have expiration dates on them. Imagine having to look at your dollars, to see if any of them don't expire anytime soon, like that gallon of milk you've had in the fridge too long. Whoopsie, guess I've gotta throw that one out!

History always repeats itself. I remember my grandmother telling stories of pushing wheelbarrows full of cash at the end of each week after payday, rushing to the bakery to get a loaf of bread while it was still only a million mark. If you waited too long, you'd only get a half a loaf of bread because the price had gone up. This, of course, was during the Weimar Republic, a dark chapter in Germany's history but not nearly as dark as what was to follow.

That is what it has come to in Zimbabwe today.

My Resolutions for 2012

2012-01-18T10:00:00.000+02:00

Yes, yes, it's already far into January. But considering the fact that I'm just now receiving the bulk of Christmas cards, you can't really say that I'm behind in terms of New Year's resolutions. Remember, we operate on African time here.

But now that I'm done looking back at the old year, and the kids are back in school (yay!), it is indeed high time I thought about 2012. What I really need is a resolution.

I'm not good at making resolutions, and even worse at working on them. But I just read an article that said people who make resolutions have a far higher chance of achieving their goals than people who don't, especially when making them in public. So I hate to bore you but you will have to serve as "the public" for my resolutions for 2012.

Never fear, I will keep them easy (the article also said not to set the goals too high). One fun one and one not-so-fun one. Here goes for the not-so-fun one:

1) Get organized

Yeah I know, I say that every year and it seems all I'm achieving is getting less organized, not more. Have I mentioned that we keep moving every two years? Doesn't 'make things easier in the organization department. Anyway, I decided another list is in order, which I've taped to my desk and displayed for you here. Sorry to those folks who are waiting for emails or wanting to have coffee. I might have to make some exceptions. And I know Noisette will suggest I add "cook dinner" and "tidy up house."

Have I bored you to death already? Well, here is the fun one:

2) Become a travel agent

No, not for real, what I mean is embrace being the full-time family travel agent I have already become anyway. All I have to do is quit complaining about packing and cheerfully set to planning how we can spend the kids' college funds on trips this year to a) the Orange River (border to Namibia) for rafting, b) Botswana, c) Franschhoek (a repeat, we need more wine!), d) the Seychelles (or we'd settle for a repeat of Mauritius and some more chocolate moussse), e) Kilimanjaro (to climb - Zax now says he's definitely in, though Noisette is out), and finally f) the U.S. (the kids' request). Stay tuned. My reward for all that planning will be to have more stuff to write about.

The Elephant Whisperer

2012-01-17T07:00:00.000+02:00

I know exactly what you're now saying. How on Earth can she be reviewing yet another book? Which presumably she has actually read? (yes, I do read all of them). If you're not asking, I'm sure Noisette is. How on Earth can she have time to read when she always claims she's so busy there is no time to put dinner on the table? Well. Most of my reading and writing occurs (or doesn't occur, because I'm too tired) after I'm done doing all the unseen and uncelebrated and unappreciated things one does when one has four kids (but not always cooking a proper dinner, it's true).

I really did get a lot of reading done over the holidays, because that's pretty much the only thing you can squeeze in with a perpetually full house, and I've also given up on the New York Times for the moment, so I don't know what's going on in U.S. politics. Not that I'm missing anything, I'm told. Judging by the stack of books by my bed, however, you wouldn't know that I'm making any kind of progress. It just keeps growing!

Anyway - ever since arriving here, several friends have recommended this book called The Elephant Whisperer, so when I happened upon it at Scoobs the other day, I decided to give it a try. It's really a worthwhile read. Although the title is a bit misleading, because it immediately makes you think of the Horse Whisperer, and it has none of that cheesy chick-flick quality. It's actually a rather serious book. What it's mostly about is a guy (Lawrence Anthony, the author) who runs a game reserve here in South Africa, and all the challenges and adventures such a job brings with it - building fences, taking care of sick animals, removing snakes, negotiating with the surrounding tribes regarding land use, fighting off poachers, and, hence the title, introducing a new herd of elephants. What makes these elephants special is the fact that they were banned from their previous game reserve because they were regarded as dangerous, and had Lawrence not taken them in, they would have all been shot. In the end, he succeeds in appeasing them by establishing an incredible bond first with the herd's matriarch and then the other members, but not without some huge obstacles and setbacks. (Incidentally, Lawrence Anthony later embarked on another adventure in order to save the animals of the Baghdad Zoo at the outbreak of the Iraq war in 2003, which he chronicled in Babylon's Ark, another book on my reading list).

Elephant walking straight at us in Welgevonden Game Reserve, October 2011

What I like about The Elephant Whisperer is the insight it allows into a game ranger's life. When you live in South Africa you invariably end up going on a safari, and there you invariably meet highly interesting people who choose to make a living in the bush, something that never ceases to fascinate me (see A Life in the Bush Managing a Game Lodge). And it also makes you appreciate how immensely smart elephants really are - which I think is a big reason they are so fascinating - and how dangerous they can also be, especially if one doesn't read the signals correctly.

The same elephant right in front of our vehicle. Makes you feel very small!

I hadn't found a home yet for a video clip taken of the above elephant by fellow lodger Daniel at Jamila Lodge in Welgevonden Game Reserve, so I will insert it here, because it conveys more than still pictures. I think it fits perfectly with the story of the Elephant Whisperer, who frequently had to make a stand against a charging elephant, which I can assure you makes for a very tense moment, even if you're sitting up high in a game drive vehicle.

South Africa's Great Shame

2012-01-15T06:00:00.000+02:00

After finishing yet another one of Peter Godwin's excellent books, The Fear, I cannot help but think that South Africa and its ANC leadership - just having celebrated themselves jubilantly during the ANC 100-year birthday festivities in Bloemfontein - has much to answer for. Granted, they cannot be blamed for the existence of Robert Mugabe, nor for his increasingly lunatic and megalomaniac behavior, but they could have wielded their considerable influence on this continent to much more effect.

What's happened in Zimbabwe over the last thirty years is a shame. It used to be one of Africa's most affluent countries, with the highest literacy rate and a vibrant agriculture sector that was the envy of the world. And there was so much hope. Hope among both blacks and whites for their new country after the end of white minority rule and civil war in 1980. The Fear and When a Crocodile Eats the Sun are well-written books chronicling the slow and steady erosion of this hope during Zimbabwe's subsequent decline, leaving only hardship, misery, and, well, fear. The Fear in particular is not an easy book to stomach. The atrocities Godwin describes are horrific, and there are too many to count. Each time you think it can't get worse, but it does. And there is really no end in sight.

It all started with the massacres in Matabeleland, engineered by Mugabe and his henchmen to take out the entire leadership of an opposing faction. Then the same tactics were used against Morgan Tsvangirai and his Movement for Democratic Change when they were perceived as a new threat. There were beatings, kidnappings, burnings, torture, and worse, while most of the white-owned farms were being seized and let go to waste, their owners chased away or arrested.

As a result, Zimbabwe has experienced a torrential brain drain, leaving the country even more depleted. Whoever can manage leaves the country and tries to make a new life somewhere else in the ever expanding diaspora, typically distinguishing themselves with their excellent education and work ethic. And yet there are those who choose to stay and soldier on, despite the destitute conditions and the personal risk they are running of falling afoul of the state, just by exercising their right to vote or perhaps simply by being members of a rival tribe.

And where has South Africa been for all of this? How could these former freedom fighters, struggling for decades for their rights against a repressive regime, forget their own history to such an extent that they don't recognize another people's plight right next door? Do they really kid themselves into believing that this is different, because it's a black dictator and not a white-run government that is guilty of too many human rights abuses to keep count?

More than any other country, South Africa has the standing to be a moral beacon for the rest of Africa. More than anyone else, its leaders should know that fighting against injustices in one's country only ever has a chance if the outside world is not only aware, but presses forward with sanctions and other political and economic tools. If South Africa had recognized the 2008 elections in Zimbabwe for what they were, a thorough repudiation of its leadership, despite severe repression and torture of opposition candidates and voters, it might have forced out Mugabe and his generals, instead of half-heartedly brokering a power-sharing deal that almost had no chance from the very beginning. To this day, the violence toward anyone associated with Morgan Tsvangirai and the MDC continues, public figures are arrested and purged and voters intimidated or worse, all against the backdrop of a bankrupt country run by thugs only interested in their own enrichment.

Short of forcing regime change, South Africa might at least have pressed for the banning of diamonds from Zimbabwe, which have become almost the sole income of Mugabe's military junta. It might have recognized that siding with Gaddafi was the wrong thing to do in Lybia. It might have recognized the plight of the Tibetan people by allowing the Dalai Lama to visit last year. But in all these cases, it chose expedience over doing what was right. And, for all I know, I might even violate the new secrecy bill writing about these very things.

As most of you will know, I have come to love this country more than most any other place on Earth. But this moral failure is a dark blotch on my image of it.

Shame on you, South Africa.

Do You Have Any Other Shopping to Do While Waiting?

2012-01-13T06:00:00.000+02:00

As I've told you before, going shopping is always a bigger errand here in South Africa than you will expect. Or I guess I should put this in relative terms and qualify it with "when coming from America, or possibly Europe." If you're coming from, I don't now, Ghana, you might find South African shopping a breeze.

Anyway, I was on another one of my typical South African shopping outings the other day, and about halfway through I couldn't decide whether to laugh out loud or find a place to sit and write it all down, because I had lost track about what it was I had set out to do.

The only thing I really needed was malaria tablets for our trip to Klaserie Game Reserve. I had called ahead at the doctor's office, which is located in Broadacres Shopping Centre, and the prescriptions were ready to be picked up. So I went there first, not without grabbing my grocery list, as the Superspar is right next door to the doctor's, and there is always something I like to get at Superspar. Plus the repair slip for Jabulani's remote controlled helicopter (which is in a perpetual state of broken-ness, not surprising if you've ever seen him fly it) because the repair shop for THAT is behind the Spar.

The doctor, of course, didn't have the prescription ready, so I sat down to wait. Nothing unexpected here. I briefly considered passing the time in the pharmacy next door, but given the fact that I needed my prescription for the pharmacy, I chose to wait, then went to the pharmacy.

South African pharmacies, on a normal day, will actually surprise you if you're coming from the U.S. They usually fill your prescriptions right then and there. But there is something about malaria scripts, especially if you bring them for six people, that overwhelms even the best pharmacist around here, what with having to figure out the number of days and then the number of tablets for different age kids needing different dosages. Never mind that the doctor typically does all of the hard math required and all the pharmacist has to do is count up to 36 or something like that. Just trust me when I say it's best to budget plenty of time for that particular errand should you ever have a need for it.

Which is why, as expected, I found myself tapping my foot faster and faster standing at the counter waiting for those pills at Clicks. The clerk, noticing my impatience - which is rare, because people here are typically so patient, they don't know what impatience is - politely asked: "Do you have any other shopping to do while you wait?"

So I decided to go to the helicopter place to pick up the helicopter. Except when I got there, there was no record of it anywhere on their pile of - admittedly disorganized - repair slips, and the old man who handles repairs and who I had dropped it off with, had stepped out. "Could you do any other shopping around here first and come back in twenty minutes?" was the advice I got.

Since I hadn't spent enough time yet for the pharmacy to come through, I decided to get a few groceries in the meantime. It was two days until Christmas, and I needed a nice roast, which was a perfect project for the Spar butchery. My problem with roasts here is that while they might have the same cuts of meat I am familiar with, they most definitely don't call them the same. A beef tenderloin or filet mignon is just "fillet," pronounced the same way as "millet." Somehow that always turns me off the filet right there. And what I wanted that day was chuck roast, perfect for slow-roasting in your oven all day. Never mind that your kitchen is about a hundred degrees already at Christmastime in South Africa, and that running your oven for four hours nonstop is really the last thing you want to do. I half-heartedly browsed the roast selection but of course nothing looked remotely like chuck roast, so I asked. We don't have that, was the answer. But after living here for two years I have learned that you need to ask at least three people before giving up, so I pushed on and struck gold in that I caught a glimpse of the head butcher rushing past. If you see someone rushing in South Africa, you can always assume that they are competent. Competent people have a purpose, and people with a purpose move fast.

The head butcher was a grizzled but sprightly man, who was delighted to discuss meats with me. I described what I wanted, and his face lit up. "I haven't had anybody ask me for a chuck roast in seven years!" he exclaimed, but assured me it could be done, and with a cheerful "Why don't you do some other shopping in the meantime while we get it ready for you" he rushed off. I feebly called "But THIS is ALREADY my other shopping" after him, but he was already gone, blood-splattered apron and all.

At this point I was starting to panic. I was facing the prospect of returning home with NOTHING checked off on my list, because I started running out of time. This is my worst nightmare. I live by making lists and checking things off of them, and the more frazzled I get, the more I want to write down to-dos. I think the need for that exponentially increases with each child you bear. If I had had any more babies, I'm sure I'd put "go to toilet" on a daily list.

My whole ordeal that day reminded me of a nursery rhyme of sorts we learned as kids in Germany, called "Der Bauer schickt den Jockel aus." It's about the farmer sending out Jockel to cut the oats. Jockel doesn't want to cut the oats and doesn't return, so the farmer sends out the stable boy to find Jockel, so Jockel can cut the oats. The stable boy of course remains at large as well, so the farmer, growing increasingly desperate, keeps sending out messengers from the ox to the witch and the executioner (seems like German nursery rhymes are just as bloody as English ones) to bring back the previous envoy, all the way back to Jockel. That's how I felt, except I was the one being sent places: From the pharmacy to the remote control place to the butcher and on and on, making my eventual path back more and more difficult to remember, which of course is the whole point of those stories.

I honestly can't recall in which order I wrapped up all my loose ends but I did get a lot of walking done that day. Somehow, the helicopter was found, which is a miracle, because even the old man was overwhelmed when looking at all his shelves with countless helicopters in different states of disassembly. At Clicks, all 120 malaria pills were eventually counted, although I had to go back yet another time to get the actual receipts with the correct names on them for reimbursement purposes, making me spend more money on unneeded drugstore items just to pass the time while waiting yet again.

And the roast ended up truly delicious. That alone was worth the entire day.

Stalking the Elusive Leopard

2012-01-11T07:00:00.000+02:00

At the end of my interview with Donovan and Leanne at Kitara Camp, I promised you an update on whether we finally found our leopard, so here it comes.

We were full of expectations as we set off in the direction of Kruger Park shortly before the New Year. As anyone will tell you, Kruger Park is THE place to see leopards. I'm not sure why this is true. And technically, we weren't actually going to Kruger Park. Kitara Camp is in Klaserie Nature Reserve, which is a private game reserve next to Timbavati and Kruger Park. Kruger Park, of course, is huge. In fact, it's the same size as all of Israel. But even Klaserie is impressive in size at 60,000 hectares, which tells me absolutely nothing because I've never mastered the art of area measurements, but it's similar in size to Madikwe Game Reserve, which I know is huge because we've driven through it. Or rather through parts of it.

The cool thing about Klaserie is that nothing is fenced in. It just sits there adjacent to Kruger Park (which also isn't fenced in) and so every living thing wandering around Kruger Park is perfectly at leisure to saunter on over to Klaserie Game Reserve. Somehow this makes viewing the animals extra special. Only when you know there is no fence do you truly appreciate the enormity of what you get to see. In Madikwe, we used to drive along the fence to see if we could find a pack of wild dogs (who like to hunt their prey for miles and miles and often end up cornering it at the fence). I don't know about you, but that man-made fence right there, and the implication that nothing keeps the game reserve managers from stocking all the animals they want, definitely put a tamper on my enthusiasm.

Well, in Klaserie everything you see there is truly wild. Not that it makes a difference for leopards whether there is a fence or not. They can climb anything and no fence will keep them in. Which is another reason why leopards are so extra special and by far the hardest of the Big Five to spot.

By day two and our third game drive (you typically get one morning - EARLY morning - and evening game drive for each night you stay), we had seen three of the Big Five. One fleeting rhino, which I didn't bother to take a picture of, many elephants, and lots and lots of buffaloes (which you'll remember we spent considerable time in pursuit of a year ago).

This reminds me of those unsmiling family portraits of the olden days

We also spotted the usual suspects - plenty of antelopes, zebras, giraffes, and birds...

Grey Louries posing for us

Impalas on the run (yes I know, not the pinnacle of skillful photography but I love this pic)

A pair of hornbills

More family portraits - almost as if WE were the attraction the animals were staring at

Giraffe chewing on... a bone! It's not often you get to see that

Wildebeest family - I really have to turn some of these into sepia and
compare them to my ancestors! An idea for another blog post already...

...took our own family portrait...

Well, almost family

...and had some other cool sightings:

But WHERE was the leopard? We were bouncing along a dried riverbed that evening, happily discussing the incredible buffalo water- and mud bath we had just witnessed, when the conversation, inevitably, veered once again to the leopard. "Well, it could be right there behind a tree and we'd never know it," was Noisette's analysis.

I swear it was right at that moment that we heard a rustling on our right, and one of the kids shouted "something's there!" We looked, but all we could see was a blur disappearing fast into the dense brush.This is where it comes in handy to have a guide. First, to tell you where to look, and second, to tell you what it is you are seeing (or not really seeing, in my case). Just go and try for yourself:

Would you have looked twice at the spot under that tree?

I don't blame you if you didn't see a thing. But it's there, slightly to the left of the middle of the picture. And yes, it's a leopard. A she-leopard, so we're informed, though how this can possibly be gathered from such scant evidence is beyond me. Then again, much of what these trackers and game drivers know and see is incomprehensible. Noisette was the one with the 400-lens that afternoon, so he managed to get a better record of our brief leopard fame. Sorry folks, that's the best we could do!

Darkness falls quickly in Africa, so what looks like a perfectly fine late
afternoon shotabove needed a powerful flash just moments later

Still, we're absolutely elated we got to see this rarest of predators. Or if not rare, extremely skilled at staying hidden. Interestingly, we didn't see any lions at all this time around, when before, in Madikwe, they could easily be spotted just lying by the road, full-bellied and lazy and without a care in the world.

But that's just what's beautiful every single time you go into the bush. You never know what you're going to see, and there is always something new to learn.

More pics - click on slide show to see larger images

Safari in the Bedroom

2012-01-09T07:00:00.000+02:00

No no, don't imagine anything naughty going on. I know you did. But I just wanted to give you an update on my Christmas-gift-for-Noisette project, which if you remember involved some last minute heroics on my part pulling it all off. I got the elephant done in the nick of time, rushed it off to the picture framing place (which only had a few frames to select from because anything more fancy was only available in the new year), and miraculously got it back on Christmas Eve.

I always feel slightly guilty giving gifts that then require a massive amount of work on behalf of the gift receiver (see The Insurmountable Picture Hanging Project, though in that case I, the gift giver, was the one wielding the drill) but Noisette didn't complain, and the pictures are now hung on the big wall next to our bed, filling it perfectly, exactly where I had envisioned them.

I've now got my safari in the bedroom. Maybe the gift was more for myself than anybody else?

If you're interested, many of these drawings and other paintings of mine can be ordered from Imagekind.

Ordering from Amazon in South Africa

2012-01-07T20:21:00.000+02:00

Too bad we don't live in Brazil. I would have loved to title a post Amazon in the Amazon. But nevertheless the question beckons: How do you order from Amazon when you live in South Africa, which might as well be some piranha-infested creek up the Amazon, as far as the ease of online ordering is concerned?

Okay, I'm exaggerating again, lest a South African reader might be offended. But the big, big problem about living here is that there is no Amazon.co.za. There are other companies that claim to deliver the same services, like Kalahari.com, but that one is a far cry from the real deal. I've given up looking for stuff there. Then there are other websites advertising their competence in sourcing any actual Amazon.com product for you, like wantitall.co.za or have2have.co.za. I have to admit I haven't tried any of them, but I have my doubts.

The best course of action, in my mind, is to go ahead and order directly from Amazon, if you can stomach the suspense of whether your package will make it all the way here through the vagaries of the South African Postal Service. But here you have two options: Amazon.com, and Amazon.co.uk. The latter, if you can get your act together quickly, has a great deal for orders over £25 expiring January 15th, 2012 - FREE Super Saver Delivery on Selected Items to Selected International Destinations. Unbelievably, South Africa is one of them! People, this is actually unheard of in a place that has no Starbucks and no Twitter cellphone alerts, so if I were you, even if you don't really need anything at the moment, I'd go ahead and order something from them. Anything. Just to make you feel good. If you don't have a Kindle yet, that's what you should get. A Kindle is an excellent investment in South Africa, because books are really expensive here. Our kids, as of this Christmas, now all have their own Kindles, and the amount of reading being done has at least tripled (okay, not really an argument for saving money, but when it comes to reading, I am being irrational, as Noisette will affirm).

When that offer no longer applies, I'm not sure whether the UK or the USA makes more sense in terms of Amazon deliveries. Check out their international shipping pages at Amazon.co.uk International Deliveries and Amazon.com Shipping Rates to Africa. You'll just have to look at both of them and decide. The one thing that speaks for the UK is that in case you buy any electronics, they will have the right voltage and maybe a plug that fits. I'm saying maybe because it seems like no matter what, we have about fifteen plug adapters coming out of any single outlet in our house.

The best path to salvation, of course, is this: Shortly after moving to South Africa, you start a blog. You give plenty of good advice about expat life in Joburg, so that pretty soon all Americans moving to South Africa follow your blog. They will be very grateful, and they will gladly offer you any shipping space they have available in their containers when moving here. This will enable you to take advantage of FREE Super Saver Shipping within the U.S. just like you're used to. It will lag behind the speed of 2-day shipping just a tad (about two months and 28 days, to be precise), but who cares when you live on African Time?

A Life in the Bush Managing a Game Lodge

2012-01-05T00:34:00.000+02:00

Having gone onseveral safaris since living in Africa, I have always wondered what it would be like tomanage a game lodge. Is it exhausting? Do you get lonely? Do you ever tire ofthe animals?

So when we foundourselves at yet another game lodge over New Year’s, I decided to interview ourhosts. We were travelling with my brother and his kids, and the ten of us werethe only guests at Kitara Lodge, a lovely place deep in Klaserie NatureReserve, which abuts Kruger Park on its Western boundary. It isapproximately a seven hour’s drive from Johannesburg.

Our hosts at Kitara were Donovan and Lee-Anne Detert. Donovan has lived in the bush for twentyyears, and Lee-Anne for ten – some of it single, and most of it married to each other.From the minute we arrived they absolutely spoiled us, serving drinks,inquiring about our preferred meal times, and just making us feel entirely athome. If you’ve ever wondered what it might feel like to travel through Africa a la Hemingway, this is the closestyou’ll get to it. Minus the hunting. Or the adultery and bad language, for thatmatter. So rather not anything like it at all, if I’m completely honest. But itfelt the way I IMAGINE it was like back then, with my romanticized glasses on.Except they probably didn’t have a pool, so I think we got the better deal,imagined and otherwise.

A perfect place at Kitara to relax between game drives. And to conduct interviews!

Anyway, since wewere the only guests demanding their attention, there was plenty of time for myinterview. So one morning after game drive and breakfast were successfullycompleted, Lee-Anne and I sat down to chat. Donovan, it turned out, was takinga nap, which got us right into the first topic, a game lodge manager’s schedule:I learned that Don gets up at 4:00 am (!), to get the truck ready and make suretea is served, as well as knocking at all the guests’ doors at 5:00 sharp(which in the case of our two girls took quite some knocking), while Lee-Annegets to sleep a little longer. While the guests are out on their game drive,she kicks into high gear, supervising the kitchen staff preparing breakfast,and generally organizing the day.

Throughout the day there are emails to beanswered, shopping lists to be drafted for the once a week trip into theclosest town [which is one and a half hours away], staff assignments to beplanned (for a total of three lodges they are in charge of), a pool to bemaintained, vehicles to be cleaned, fences to be repaired, and of course moremeals to be cooked, all while projecting calmness and making sure the guestsare taken care of at all times. Their day only ends when all the guests aresafely escorted back to their rooms, to make sure no wild animal has wanderedinto camp and might surprise anyone. If you happen to get a partying crowd, youmight be up until midnight! Not in our case, though – admittedly we are a verylame family when it comes to staying up, so even on New Year’s Eve we weresafely tucked in bed before 10:00 pm.

I wouldn't mind having a home with this view!

Here are some of the questions I asked Lee-Anne:

Q: What is it like to live in the bush?

A: It’s very isolated and you have to be a specific type ofperson. You either can or can’t do it, there is no in between. While you’re onsite – we work on a six weeks on, two weeks off schedule – it demands a lotfrom you in terms of hard work, and it can consume you if you allow it. Ifyou’re the right type of person, there is no better way of life. You meet themost incredible people and hear the most amazing and funny stories.

You get treated to such a sunrise almost every day at Kitara Lodge

Q: What kind of person do you have to be?

A: You have to be able to enjoy your own company and becontent far from “civilization.” Some people can’t stand that. You must becomfortable being distant from family and close friends, real friends. But youdo make lots of friends by meeting new guests, especially the ones that comeback again and again, which by the way is the most gratifying part of the job.

Q: Does it matter where you stay in the bush?

A: Not so much the place per se, but whether it’s a commercialor more private lodge. The bigger and more commercial lodges typically have afairly high staff turnover. If it’s more private like in our case – the placeisn’t always fully booked because the owner likes to visit frequently himself –it works very well and the managers usually stay.

Q: Have you ever thought about buying own place?

A: No. We are very happy with the way things are.

Q: What is the hardest thing about your job?

A: I’d say the most taxing is managing our staff. Notbecause they are difficult in any way, but because there is always somethingthat comes up. Depending on which lodges have guests at any given time, we haveto move people back and forth. Or someone’s family member will die and wequickly have to adjust the work schedule. It’s usually chaotic when all threecamps are full. But we normally don’t have to deal with bad attitudes, everyoneis willing to pitch in and shift between different jobs. What’s also hard iscoming back from leave and having to start again, or missing special occasionslike weddings and such, because your schedule doesn’t allow it.

View of the Klaserie River from Kitara Lodge

Q: How do people with kids manage this job?

A: Don and I chose not to have kids, but some people dosuccessfully bring up children managing lodges. In fact, I’d say the majorityof game lodge managers have families with children. In our case, getting totown takes 1.5 hours each way, and we know a couple who drives those threehours each day to bring their kids to school, until they’ll be old enough forboarding school [typically age 13 in South Africa]. And then when the kids arearound, it’s also quite difficult juggling their demands with those of the job.

Q: What’s the best thing about being a game lodge manager?

A: Living here in this absolute paradise. When you stopgetting excited about seeing an animal, any animal, it’s time to leave. I stillget excited, after so many years, about the very same thing. Sometimes I’llpass that giraffe driving to work, and I still think it’s absolutely amazingthat I get to be so close to it, in the wild, just like that. Then I tellmyself, I can just do this every day and other people pay lots of money for it!The other thing I absolutely love about my job is meeting people. I can counton one hand how many “bad” guests we’ve had over many years. We get the mostincredible people coming here, people who bring something into my life, all ofthem impacting my life in some way.

One of many priceless game sightings at Kitara

Q: Who wereyour most unusual guests?

A: I can’tthink of anyone in particular. A lot of our guests are return visitors, eventhe ones coming from far away. For instance, there is a group of doctors from Michigan that comes here every year, afterworking for a nonprofit doing aid work in the surrounding villages. Whenthey’re all done, they come here to Kitara to relax. You also meet otherunusual people in our line of work. When we managed a lodge in Namibia,in a very remote place in the Caprivi Strip, ourowner had to negotiate some issues with the induna [a chief] concerning landuse and the employment of locals. He used to meet with him regularly, alwaysunder a lone baobab tree.

Q: Have youever felt scared out here in the bush?

A: I’ve neverfelt scared from a safety point of view, but I do have enormous respect forsome of the animals, particularly elephants. They sometimes climb up the retainer wall into camp [getting around theelectric wire designed to keep them out] and waltz straight through camp, making sure they stay on the tiles, somehowaware that the wooden pool deck wouldn’t support them. Then they go up thestairs and into the garden, where they pretty much wreck the fish pond and thesurrounding trees. We try to chase them away, but sometimes they get inwhen no one is in camp, and always at night. Thenagain, elephants are also useful – we never have any trouble finding firewood,because there are so many dead branches everywhere. We’ve also had buffalo,hippo, leopard, and lots of monkeys in our camp. Not to mention snakes andscorpions.

Show and tell in the bush - Donovan showing us a tortoise

Q: Could you ever imagine going back to city life?

A: We do experience it during our 2-week breaks, mostly in Johannesburg, and itusually doesn’t take long for the noise and chaos, the people and the trafficto grate on our nerves and exhaust us. Then I realize that the longer we stayin the bush, the more at peace my soul is.

I’ll conclude my interview with this image, a soul at peace.Isn’t that what we all strive for? I can't help but admire two people who seem so perfectly happy with the life they've chosen. Or rather, not just happy, but exhilarated. And now the question beckons: Would it be for me?

I think much of this life would suit mefine. I’d be happy with the solitude, secluded from the rush of the city, freeto have time to think. I’d love, absolutely love, faxing through all my foodorders and picking them up once a week, in fact I need to go find a place thatwill do that for me, as I HATE shopping. The only thing I couldn't do withoutwould be an internet connection, and Lee-Anne admits that those dial-up daysfrom years past were pure torture. Now there is WiFi throughout the camp, andshe and Don are avid readers on their Kindles. Darn it, I already had plans tosell them some through my link.

Okay, so I'm fine with the solitude. But how about the actual work? What's probably not so much for me is serving other people. I have four kids at home who want to be served around the clock, all with their very important demands that have to be dealt with RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I guess at least you don't have to break up fights between your guests. Or do you? Maybe I could go for that self-catering lodge.

As for the animals, that’s where I’m not sure I’d make thecut. I love seeing them, and I love learning more about them – as a matter offact, we all asked Don a ton of questions, and there wasn’t a single one hecouldn’t answer – but nevertheless I’m afraid I’m a bit of the “been there,done that, check” mentality, wanting to move on to bigger and better things tosee and photograph, wanting to skip yet another herd of impala and move on to that ever elusive leopard.

Stay tuned for my next post to find out if we got to see one…

Lee-Anne and Donovan seeing us off, happy to once again stay behind in the bush

Living Like a Diamond Magnate

2012-01-03T06:00:00.000+02:00

I recently mentioned a vacation to you on which we had accidentally started a wildfire. I never wrote about it back then, as that fire had marred our otherwise wonderful memories of an amazing weekend. Only now did I go back through my pictures and realized they had a story to tell. Many thanks to Jacky du Plessis for supplying the other half of the photos for this post.

As I said, the whole weekend was put together last year in amazing detail by our friends Jacky and Mike, who in turn are friends with the owners of Prynnsberg, an old diamond magnate's mansion in the Free State. Prynnsberg has a very interesting history. You can read more about it here, but in a nutshell the story goes thus: Charles Newberry, who had come to South Africa to seek his fortune, did indeed find his fortune in the Kimberly diamond mines and then used his wealth to build a mansion in the Eastern Free State near Clocolan. The house was a gem, equipped with the most extravagant furnishings imported from London, and the Newberry family lived there in luxury for many years, but upon Charles Newberry's death things started to go downhill, with one of his descendants eventually squandering it all before or rather while drinking himself to death, letting the estate crumble. All the magnificent artifacts in it were auctioned off, but the shell of the house remained, in various states of disrepair, at which time it was bought by the aforementioned friend. He and his wife are now in the process of restoring it to all its former glory and are supplementing the much needed capital for such a vast undertaking by renting out the estate, staff and all, to groups and conferences.

View of Prynnsberg's beautiful gardens at dusk

Since all of Prynnsberg's original furnishings were auctioned off, the current owners have
had to redecorate the whole place, but you wouldn't know it, as everything is tastefully
kept in a style befitting the period and ambiance of the house.

This is how we found ourselves as guests at a diamond magnate's estate, so to speak, sometime last year, together with a group of about thirty friends. It was absolutely magnificent. The house has about twenty rooms, spread out over three different levels, and just being escorted to your room felt like you were Ernest Hemingway travelling through Africa. In fact, Rudyard Kipling is said to have once stayed at Prynnsberg and to have left as his legacy a mural in one of the children's nurseries. Our room was vast, with a creaking parquet floor and a stucco ceiling with elaborate patterns (and a few holes, it must be said - as I mentioned, it is still very much in the process of being restored). There was a billiards and games room that was huge, there was a lovely front "stoep" from where you had a great view over the lovely gardens, there was a pool built into the rock face, and there was a whole separate bath house, a cavern of sorts hewn from the rock, with old fashioned bath tubs arranged on the floor and a host of flickering candles set into wall recesses.

Billiards room

Front view of Prynnsberg Estate; you can see how it is built into the rock face

Bath house. Photo credit: SafariNow.com. I must say, I didn't notice the
piano while taking my bath!

Every day was carefully planned out so that there was never a time to be bored. The pool, with its rather high rock wall above it, provided endless hours of entertainment, there was a ping pong table somewhere, the front lawn was converted to a soccer field, if a rather narrow one, there was skeet shooting and motorcycling, the kids got to watch an open air movie projected onto a large rock, and every meal was set in a different setting, one of them most memorable in the old African church which is also part of the estate. The food was an absolute dream as well as abundant. I'm still salivating over the quiche and scones we had for breakfast one morning.

Our daily soccer match

Kitchen staff working their magic.

Yup, that's me, taking the plunge. The only time I'm not afraid of heights is when jumping
into a pool; though in those cases I'm usually afraid of the cold water! Photo credit: Noisette

My first thought was to delete this picture; but then I reconsidered, as it perfectly
captures the spirit

The best part of our stay was the good company. Seldom have we laughed as hard and as long before or since then. Our friend Mike was giving out awards one night for various accomplishments throughout the weekend. One of us - whose name I won't mention, not even the blog name - was growing more and more hopeful throughout the "ceremony," having had a very good outing at the shooting range that afternoon, besting everyone else with the shotgun. But the shotgun award, alas, went to somebody else, while our protagonist ended up with "Doos of the Day." No one ever explained Doos to us, but I have since learned it is a very bad Afrikaans cuss word. The reason? The house also came with an old-fashioned toilet, you see. One where you had to yank the chain in just such a way that water came gushing from above. It was a very tricky proposition - yank too slowly and nothing happens, and yank too hard and the chain comes off. All of us seemed to sooner or later master the trick, but our Doos found himself in the bathroom at 5:00 in the morning, really needing to flush, and proceeded to wake up the entire house, growing more and more desperate when repeated chain-pulling yielded no results...

Enroute on a hay wagon to our our "Mad Hatter's Dinner"

Everyone was grooving that night, including the staff

Boys hard at work

Which leaves me with the story of the fire. Our last evening was to culminate in an open-fire braai, under a huge rock overhang a little ways from the house. It was a beautiful setting, and everything was planned in minute detail: Our drinks, ice, a buffet, pillows, and sleeping bags for those kids brave enough to spend the night under an open sky. It was the most romantic setting imaginable. There even was a fire truck parked nearby, to cover our bases in case the fire got out of hand, as it was the end of winter and hadn't rained in five months.

A most romantic setting

A perfectly controlled fire

A fire truck, just in case

It was foolproof, right? Except for a small problem - the fire started on top of the rock ledge, not anywhere near where the truck could be driven in time to put it out. Unbeknownst to us, the kids had brought along a flare gun, and that flare, shot straight up, drifted beautifully and very gently, with us watching with horror, into the grass high above us. This is the first time in my life I have understood the term "spreading like wildfire." It was a spectacle to behold. By the time the men drove the truck all the way around and to the top, it was beyond our control. The women and kids stayed behind, dousing blankets with water and throwing them onto spots where burning patches crashed down from above. When there was no more, we went home, but the men, soon joined by the entire staff as well as surrounding farmers, battled all night, returning in the wee hours of the morning, utterly exhausted.

No one considered the danger of fire up on that ledge.

We had hiked on top of that ledge earlier that day, and knew how hard it was to navigate. Next to impossible in the pitch dark, though of course everything was lit up by the expanding glow of the flames. And yet the guys had managed, or so it seemed. The next morning, we all went again to inspect the aftermath, when we realized to our horror that the wind had picked up again and new flames were shooting up. So to work we went again, everybody doing their part, carrying water, beating on flames, clearing debris, poking through ashes to make sure the last embers were dead before moving on to the next patch, always spurred on by our guilt to have brought this fiasco onto our hosts, and perhaps even other surrounding land. It truly was an unforgettable experience.

In the end, we got lucky, something every firefighter will tell you is a big factor in their line of work. The wind, which all night had been so unpredictable, ended up helping us by turning the fire back onto itself to where it had already raged, keeping it contained and easier for us to finish off. We got home late that night, utterly exhausted, and one or two with some ugly burn marks. It was a truly humbling day, one that taught us that fire and nature demand a lot of respect.

We might not be invited to Prynnsberg again, but I thought the least I could do is promote it on these pages. For more information and to make bookings, please click here. You will have an unforgettable experience, getting a whiff of what it must have felt like to live in Africa in the olden days.

Just leave your matches at home.

Time for peaceful reflection: Me drawing a sketch of the front porch

This is the sketch. If it weren't for the girls' DS's, the scene could be from the 1880s...

Looking Back on 2011

2011-12-31T06:24:00.000+02:00

It is the last day of they year, a most wondrous year, and it is time to reflect. But instead of telling you about the highlights of the last twelve months, let me just pick my ten favorite posts of the year - a trick I admit I copied from fellow blogger (and excellent writer!) Marie at Rock the Kasbah. These are not necessarily the best suited to tell you what happened this year, but they are among the stories I enjoyed writing the most.

And what if you've already read them all, being a most diligent reader? Well, then you get a day off from Joburg Expat. Imagine that!

1. Africa: I'm happy with this one because it gave me a chance to show off my less-than-brilliant-but-very-much-improved-since-I-discovered-Photoshop photography, and because it best reflects my sentiments (on a day when I don't have to deal with Eskom) about Africa.

2. .My Shining Moment: This is such a typical expat story, plus a very redeeming one for me, because I got revenge (or at least satisfaction) for every injustice ever visited on foreign drivers here in South Africa.

3. In the Footsteps of Paul Kruger and the Voortrekkers: I'm proud of this post because quite a bit of research about South Africa's history went into it. (You should know that I do quite a bit of research about all my posts. I always start out with "this should be easy and quick" and then drive myself to distraction following up on the most obscure connections so that even a post about buying a fake Christmas tree is close to a dissertation by the time it's finished). But if you have no time for Michener's The Covenant, read this one for a brief overview.

4. Family Travels: I usually like those stories of mine best where I can make myself laugh when reading them later, and this one is no exception. If you have kids, maybe you'll see your own family reflected in this. Or not. I'm sure your kids are all perfect and logical.

5. Giving Hope at New Jerusalem: Every once in a while I like to go back to my days writing for Kansas City Parent Magazine and do a piece of real life reporting. This post was such an article, interviews and all. It also reflects a little on what I have spent quite a bit of time with this year - charity work of some kind or another.

6. My Dark Secret: Here I reveal something of myself. I wasn't really keeping it from you. I just actually found out about it. I'm sure you have one of these lurking in your closet too!

7. Face to Face with a Great White Shark: I admit it. I selected this one because of the cool title. And because people tell me they live vicariously through my stories. Well, I really felt alive living this one!

8. When is the Best Time to be an Expat?: One of the reasons I write this blog is to help other expats moving to South Africa, and I think I asked some good questions and provided some answers in this one.

9. Cape Town with Kids: Robben Island: Another one on history, and I story that kept with me for a long time this year.

10. In Pursuit of the Buffalo: I had to include something about a safari, of course, as they always loom big in an African life. This was actually my first post of the year, and it is only fitting that we're spending the end of it the same way, on safari. More on that one in 2012.

I hope you also have good stories to look back upon in your year. In the end, telling and remembering stories is all we have.

A HAPPY AND FUN-FILLED AND HEALTHY NEW YEAR TO YOU ALL!

African Photo Safari

2011-12-29T07:00:00.000+02:00

Another year in Africa is coming to a close, and our family will end it in pretty much the same way it began last January (let's just hope without the emergency room): In the bush on a safari. This one will be in Kruger Park rather than Madikwe, and we're very excited to see this most eminent of national parks.

Going on a game drive in the African bush is one of the most rewarding experiences in life. And it's even better if you bring a decent camera and a good lens as your companions. If you weren't into photography before, you will be afterwards, trust me. The absolute best treat you can give yourself is going on a photo safari with an experienced photographer, like I did in October of 2010 with Colin Mead. If you live in Johannesburg, check out his stall at the Bryanston Organic Market on Thursday and Saturday mornings. The pictures I took on that trip to Madikwe still rank among my favorites, and I've taken a bazillion since then (hence the need for Christmas present number one, a new external hard drive!). See for yourself:

Madikwe Photo Safari 2010 Part I

[click on slideshows to enlarge]

Madikwe Photo Safari 2010 Part II

Colin's rates are very reasonable, but therefore the spots for his regular trips to Madikwe and Timbavati (and the occasional excursion to even more exotic locales like Uganda) go very quickly, so it pays to plan well in advance. Here is his schedule for 2012, followed by his contact details:

Timbavati (Kruger Park):

March 4-7
April 15-18,
May 6-9
June 3-6
July 22-25
August 26-29
October 7-10
November 4-7

Madikwe:

March 25-28
May 20-23
June 17-20
August 12-15
September 16-19
October 21-24

Colin also offers photographic courses, consisting of four nights at two hours each held at his house on Ashley Ave in Bryanston. Please contact him at 082 456 2984 or colin@colinmead.co.za, or visit his website at www.colinmead.co.za.

On our Own Private Island for a Week

2011-12-27T12:00:00.000+02:00

Island Water Villas near Memel in the Free State

One invaluable gift we’ve been blessed with in

South Africa

is good friends.Almost immediately upon arriving here, we were “adopted” by other families,invited over to braais, and generally shown the ways of this country.

One such set of friends are Mike and Jacky and their two children.They are veterans of the African bush, owning every conceivable gadget you couldpossibly need not only to survive in the wild but live quite nicely. They also possess that most important of all things, a wonderful sense of humor. If Iever was stranded on a desert island, I would want to have them along.

Going on a trip with Mike and Jacky is always an adventure. Abouta year ago they organized a weekend getaway at a place called Prynnsberg,a diamond magnate’s house built in the 1880s and currently in the process ofbeing restored by a private family. It came complete with a large staff ofcooks and domestics who treated our group of over thirty people like royalty,serving every meal in a different venue, culminating in acookout-cum-slumberparty under an overhanging rock. Except we never got to theslumberparty phase, because we accidentally set the bush on fire and had tospend the rest of the night and most of the next day fighting a huge wildfire.A corporate team building exercise couldn’t have provided a better bondingexperience, though I suspect the owners of the house and surrounding farmsdidn’t quite see it in such a positive light.

Mike and Jacky are also owners of that other invaluable possession youshould select your friends by, a power boat. Therefore, when asked if we wantedto come along for a week of waterskiing in the Free State, we enthusiastically said yes.That is how we recently found ourselves on a remote farm, living in a house in the middle of a privatelake, surrounded by beautiful scenery, with no one but our two families to playin the water as we pleased (if you don't count all the cows and sheep keeping us company).

One of my goals in life has always been to learn how to surf. Butas large waves are rather hard to come by in Johannesburg(and as the water is WAY too cold for me around the Capewhere those waves COULD be found), I'm postponing the surfing project until such time as we become expats in Hawaii (yeah right!) and focusing my immediate energies on the moreattainable target of getting air when jumping the wake on a wake board. This week was an ideal opportunity to perfect my jump.

Me with my head cut off getting ready for a jump

I prefer the headless picture - jumping makes me pull the most horrible grimaces!
But see the air?

Everyone got to do plenty of skiing and boarding. Even Sunshine got up on the wake board, although all were skeptical that such a little person could steer such a big thing. It was the perfect lake for trying out new things, because we had the only boat in the entire lake, and because Mike was the most patient driver you could wish for.

Sunshine true to form with a big smile...

...all the way down

The boys found plenty of other outdoor activities that generally involved getting dirty or falling into the water, though Zax was rather put out that there was no internet connection so that his physical activity usually consisted of hiking up a nearby koppie in search of two bars on his cellphone. The scenery was beautiful, and I like to think that we also provided some excellent entertainment for the cows and sheep grazing around our lake.

Sunset over the mountains

Mountains all around us

See how the cows were staring at us?

My favorite picture of the lake with a beautiful sky

And, even though there were no wildfires this time, we got a bit of excitement when the boat crashed into the pier on a windy day, and then into the car (!) when trying to put it on the trailer. You don't often hear of an accident between a boat and a car. Then both boat and car got stuck in the mud, and their un-sticking provided a great project for the boys and men for the rest of the day, while the women and girls found horses to ride and lambs to feed.

These guys and their siblings woke us up every morning with a baah-ing concert

There was more excitement when I neglected my motherly duties and briefly let go of the reins holding Sunshine's horse, because it kept head-butting me. Sensing its temporary freedom, the great beast bolted, with Sunshine firmly crouched on its back. For a minute or two she looked very sleek, like a jockey, but I neglected to take a picture because I was busy yelling "pull the reins" at the top of my lungs. She did, in the end, do just that, except she wasn't strong enough so that she rather pulled herself right off the horse. There she stood, when we finally came upon her, holding the horse with tears streaming down her cheeks but otherwise unharmed. She still tells me, two weeks later, that I owe her one, and I'm happy to oblige to soothe my guilty conscience.

I personally thought getting all our gear over the hanging bridge to the house upon arrival was enough excitement for the week. Walking across was a balancing act at the best of times, but when loaded with heavy bags of food, it was quite a challenge. Especially when your son has a habit of jumping up and down right behind you along the way. And when you're squeezing your eyes shut tight so as not to look too closely at the actual suspension of the bridge.

All our luggage had to be hand carried over the bridge

Trustworthy construction

All in all a great getaway for up to ten people. The lake isn't huge but plenty big enough for one boat. It's also very easy to get to (discounting the hanging/swinging bridge) in just under three hours from Johannesburg. For more information on Island Water Villas, click here.

Long Walk to Freedom

2011-12-25T07:00:00.000+02:00

I finally did it. I finished Nelson Mandela's Long Walk to Freedom. It wasn't a short hop for me either.

I'd be lying if I said it was an easy read. I usually fall in lovewith books readily and am also not typically discouraged by very thickspecimen, but this one did test my willpower. It's not that I have anythingagainst Nelson Mandela. On the contrary, after reading his personalaccount I admire him all the more for what he has accomplished and how hekept his dignity throughout his long ordeal. And the story is fascinating. It'sjust that the writing itself didn’t captivate me as much as that of otherauthors. His is a more or less mechanical writing style, the sentences aren'talways flowing that well, and there are a ton of details in there that feltlike road blocks keeping me from getting on with the story.

Maybe I haven't read enough autobiographies, maybe they all arevery self-centered, just by their very nature, and maybe this is one of thebetter ones. I have to admit that I'm a much bigger fan of memoirs, since Icare less about absolute accuracy and more about a good story, giving you afeeling for the times and places they are set in. What the book does do verywell is highlight the roles of all the different people who Nelson Mandela camein contact with over the years. If you were part of the "struggle,"you would of course love to find your name mentioned in these pages, and itfeels like Mandela was very careful to give everyone his due.

One thing I loved about this book is the humble tone it is writtenin. For all that he has been through, Nelson Mandela could very well comeacross as preachy or grandiose, but you will find nothing of the sort in thesepages. He writes without self-pity, without embellishment, he freely admitsmistakes he has made, and he never gloats. What you do learn from these pagesis that he saw himself as a leader of his people from an early age, andconstantly worked on improving his leadership skills, even during those longyears on Robben Island. He also thought of himself as apragmatist, always looking for ways how the struggle for freedom could beadvanced, even if it meant abandoning a purist principle, like non-violence.

Most of all he always was a team player, putting the interests of whathe calls his people first and foremost, and insisting on consulting the ANCleadership in vital matters, even when he was close to being released fromprison and in secret talks with the government. It goes to his great creditthat he saw as his people all South Africans, black, white, and everything inbetween.

All in all, Long Walk to Freedom is a veryrevealing book, so if you have the stamina and are a fast reader, you shouldgive it a try. I'm really glad I read this one as I consider Nelson Mandela oneof the truly great people that have walked this Earth.

Healthcare in South Africa

2011-12-23T07:00:00.000+02:00

If you’re considering an expat assignment in South Africa, you’ll probably havethree main areas of concern: Safety, education, and healthcare. I’ve previouslytouched on both schools and safety, but a comprehensive post on healthcare is way overdue.

Even though we’ve since sampled several hospitals, just so I can give you a first-hand account in the healthcaredepartment, I don’t think I ever told you of my first emergency roomexperience. I went ahead and contracted tick bite fever not more than one monthinto our move. It turns out tick bite fever is very common around here if you do any kindof hiking, especially in the rainy season. That is exactly what we did over Easterweekend 2010, when we went on our first safari at Yellow Wood Game Lodge in theWaterberg (a mountain range about 2 hours to the Northeast of Joburg).Technically it was supposed to be the dry season (“It has NEVER rained here inApril!”) but in a twist very typical for our family (we should be called theMurphy’s), all records were broken when WE were there, and it rained and rainedand rained, prompting the lodge owner to be worried about leaks in thebeautiful thatch roof, which he swore he’d never had to deal with before. SoI’m not surprised that ticks were roaming freely. If someone had warned meabout it, I might have worn long pants and checked for ticks, but when planningour trip I had dedicated long hours of research into the question of malaria(just FYI, the Waterberg is a Malaria free area), NOT tick bite fever.

Our trip was beautiful, despite rain, but about a week after wecame back (incubation 7-10 days) I started feeling very sluggish and feverish(a kind of low-grade fever with chills and a dull backache) and also noticedthat one of my lymph nodes was painful and swollen. Priding myself in my knackfor self-diagnosis I proceeded straight to Google, and determined that I eitherhad a hernia (I learned that women can and do get them!) or some type ofinfection, both of which required a doctor’s visit. This, of course, producedmore Google sessions and several phone calls, trying to figure out where onemight go with such a thing and if it mattered to our insurance. My plan hadbeen to research doctors later, once we were settled, but of course nothingever goes according to plan. The good thing about being on a global assignmentis the fact that our insurance has no network, so there is also no need toresearch which doctors are in it. You are stuck with an upfront payment,regardless.

I determined that an emergency room visit at Life Fourways, a private hospital nearby, was my bestoption, as I would be seen right away. I was, and the setting was veryprofessional. I was whisked in to see a doctor after only about five minutes inthe waiting room, and she told me that most likely I had tick bite fever,which, if it made me feel any better, she’d already diagnosed in 17 otherpeople that day. At this point I would have been quite happy to go home withsome antibiotics, but instead, I was subjected to “some tests, just to makesure.” I suppose

South Africa

is no I different from other Western countriesin that regard. Yes, it is nice “to be sure,” but in light of rising healthcarecosts, there will eventually have to be a balance between certainty on one sideand cost on the other.

At any rate, I didn’t mind this particular time, as it gave memore insight into the workings of a South African hospital. First, my blood wastaken, by a one-woman sort of mobile lab, right where I was sitting, so thatwas kind of cool. I briefly wondered about needles and safe blood and such, butthen just went ahead with it. I’m a sucker in the face of authority, and thedoctor had ordered a blood test, so I obeyed. Then I had to go pay separatelyfor the lab costs. When I came back, I waited. After a while, the doctor pokedin her head and wondered why I was still sitting there. “Haven’t they taken youto the ultrasound yet?” I assured her that no, they hadn’t, so she reprimandedsome idle nurses to take me there ASAP. I had my ultrasound, which confirmedthe swollen lymph node due to an infection, then paid again separately in theradiology department – in case you were wondering, it was all very reasonable,on the order of R300-R400 for each of those, which is about $45, not imaginableat a U.S. hospital – and was sent back again to wait. Once again, the doctorpoked in her head after quite some more waiting on my part, and was irate thatno one had moved me along in the process. It seems like the nurses here, whilevery friendly, need quite a bit of prodding.

My visit ended with the doctor confirming her initial diagnosis,handing me a few business cards for GPs and Pediatricians of herrecommendation, and sending me to the pharmacy, where I bought – quite cheaply– my antibiotics and also some iron tablets, which apparently I also needed.All in all, not a bad experience. I felt much better the next day, and havelearned to beware of ticks.

Now for some general healthcare information and tips forprospective expats:

Doctors:South Africans tend to primarily see a general practitioner, adults and kidsalike. I was confused at first by the apparent lack of pediatricians. Theyexist, but mainly in association with hospitals, and you would use them foremergencies or special cases. For checkups and minor problems such as colds,most people tend to see their family physician. I’ve found the doctors atIntercare (very conveniently located atFourways – find your nearest location here) quite knowledgeable. Intercare centersprovide medical and dental services and are also an excellent place to brush upon your immunizations and travel-related issues such as malaria prophylaxis. Incomparison to the U.S., doctorshere will take much more time for a consultation, and charge you less. We still visit Intercare every once in a while, but havenow settled on another practice as our family doctor: Dr. Moray Shirley, Broadacres Shopping Centre, 011 467 1432.

Immunizations: If you’re coming from the U.S. and areup-to-date on your immunizations (mainly Hepatitis B,diphtheria, tetanus, measles, mumps, rubella and polio), you won’t need any additional ones forSouth Africa. But you should visit a local doctor and see what he/sherecommends, even if it is not required. When I took Zax, who was 13 at the time,for a HEP-A booster here, the doctor recommended to have everyone get HEP-Ashots, even the younger kids, with the argument that this is an excellentimmunization to receive, not just in South Africa but worldwide. If you’replanning to travel to other African countries (like Angola,Tanzania, Congo, Kenya) you might require a Yellow Feverimmunization. In fact, after having traveled to a Yellow Fever country, SouthAfrican immigration will require a Yellow Fever certificate from you. Ourexperience with this has been that no, no one wanted to see the Yellow Fevercertificate at all, neither here nor in Tanzania, but I would say you stillshould get the vaccine before going into a Yellow Fever area.

Diseases: I’ve already told you about my run-inwith tick bite fever, which is very common in

South Africa

,especially during the rainy months. However, it is also easily curable withantibiotics and in that respect much more pleasant than Lyme disease. (Just asan aside, your pets can get it too, so flea/tick treatments are veryimportant). There are several other diseases you should be aware of. TyphoidFever and Cholera (transmitted via contaminated food/water) are both endemic inAfrica, but you won’t have to worry about it in South Africa. If you’re going tospend much time in rural areas, you should be aware of the risk of Rabies, butagain, this won’t be an issue as an expat in Johannesburg. HIV/Aids,of course, is a huge problem in

South Africa

,coupled with the high incidence of Tuberculosis. Sadly, the South Africangovernment has only recently started to acknowledge – and battle against – thehigh rate of AIDS, which puts

South Africa

much behind even other, lessdeveloped, African countries. But I will venture to say that as an expat in South Africa, you are not much atrisk, assuming, of course, that you’re sensible. Educating your kids is a must.One concern I did initially have was the quality of South Africa’s blood supply, but Iwas assured, by everybody I asked, that it is very safe, although I have toadmit that I didn’t do any kind of exhaustive research and was quite happy toaccept what I was told. You could, I suppose, have your own blood drawn andstored at a hospital of your choice, but I haven’t heard of anyone who’sactually done that.

Malaria: A discussion of diseases in Africa naturally wouldn’t be complete withouta mention of Malaria. As I’ve already said elsewhere, there is no Malaria inthe Greater Johannesburg Area, or even anywhere in Gauteng Province and most ofthe rest of the country (specifically, the Malaria free provinces are: NorthWest, Northern Cape, Western Cape, Eastern Cape, Free State, Gauteng). Kruger Park and parts of Kwa-Zulu Natal (but not Durban)are low-to-intermediate risk areas, and you’ll have to decide if it’s worthtaking the prophylaxis (the one recommended by our doctor is called Malanil byGlaxo Smith-Kline, also called Malarone in the U.S. – to be taken dailystarting a day before your trip, through your trip, and 7 days after yourtrip). It is worth noting that the medicine is not 100% effective, and thatother preventive methods such as mosquito nets and long sleeves and pants aftersunset go quite a long way as well. Most local friends seem not to be overlyworried about Malaria. It is just a part of living in Africa.In the end, you must do what you think is right. We have gone both ways,foregoing the malaria prophylaxis in Sodwana Bay, which in winter is a very low risk area, and inVictoria Falls, where we were without kids and just for a weekend, but takingit on trips to Mozambiqueand Zanzibar.We didn’t find the pills overly invasive, with the exception of Impatience whoalmost became hysterical from trying to swallow her first pill ever.

Private Hospitals: Life Fourways, Sunninghill, and Olivedale hospitals, as well as Sandton and Morningside Medi-Clinic all have excellent reputations and offer world-class care. Theyare all part of the Netcare, Life, and Mediclinic groups that together covermost of

South Africa

in a comprehensive network. As an expat, you will most likely have topay out of pocket at the completion of your visit (or, like me, several timesat one visit!) and then send your receipts to your insurance company to bereimbursed. For any major operations, you might need to check ahead of time tomake sure it will be approved. So far, we haven’t had any trouble withanything, maybe owing to the fact that the cost of care here is much morereasonable than at a U.S. hospital.

Public healthcare: Even though as an expat you won’t beaffected by it, this article wouldn’t be complete without a discussion ofpublic healthcare in

South Africa

.From what I’ve glimpsed, it is in dismal shape. There are a number of publichospitals and clinics that, it is my understanding, essentially offer freecare. But, as everywhere, you get what you pay for. Many public hospitals arenearly depleted of supplies and medicine, because everything of value isconstantly stolen, and patients have to contend with whole-day waits to get asimple prescription filled at a clinic. Our domestic told us that you mighthave to get up at 4:00 am to even get a spot in line, only to be told by 4:00pm that you should come back the next day. She had a friend who was onceadmitted to the hospital with a heart problem, and scared to death for the twoweeks she was there, because she was neither looked after nor released. Onlysome pressure from her employer advanced her case so that she was diagnosed andallowed to return home. She was then put on a monthly treatment plan, which inall probability she could never have afforded at a private hospital, so onecould argue that public healthcare saved her, though I don’t know what becameof her in the end. The discrepancies are stark, and the majority of people seemto be resigned to the fact that their government is incompetent. Maybe South Africa’s successful hostingof the World Cup will eventually bring the long-awaited change in attitudes.The argument that it simply can’t be done will no longer hold now that everyonehas seen that it actually could, where there was enough political will.

I hope I’ve cleared up some healthcare-related questions for you.I don’t think healthcare should be an area of concern when moving to SouthAfrica, unless of course you have some serious or rare condition, in which casethe United States is probably still the best (if also most expensive) place onEarth to be treated.

I've Got Music

2011-12-21T12:28:00.003+02:00

One thing I particularly love about our school, Dainfern College, is its music department. There aren't enough words to describe how much energy and joy it has brought into our lives, thanks mainly to our indomitable and loving head of music, Patti van der Plog. If there is one teacher who can change your kids' lives, she is the one.

Music permeates everything going on at school, from singing the national anthem at morning assemblies to the hosting of national competitions such as the recently held Eistedfodd. For the most part, it has been the kids who were touched by all this - Impatience with her singing, piano, and flute, Sunshine with piano and voice as well as playing the marimbas, and Jabulani with the saxophone (in between arm operations, that is). By the way, I should mention here that the Dainfern College music department is very much open to the public for after-school lessons, as well as possibly an open choir and orchestra next year.

Grade 7 Showcase at Dainfern College

Starting young: The Dainfern College Grade Nought Choir on Founder's Day

Sometime this year, music started creeping into my life, too. Inspired by all the notes wafting through our house, I signed up for my very own piano lessons. The piano, you see, is what I always wanted to play. However, I grew up with an older brother who played the piano, so my mother, as mothers tend to do (I don't claim to be immune myself) deigned it best that I play the violin, so as to make for nice trio performances at rehearsals (together with my other brother, who played the cello).

Now that I'm grown up, I get to decide such matters all by myself. And I absolutely love playing the piano, uninhibited (or so I thought). Nothing quite matches how you can relax and feel energized at the same time after you've practiced, and the glorious feeling you get when you've mastered a piece that only weeks ago seemed absolutely impossible, because our hands don't naturally want to do two different things. It's your mind conquering your body, in a way.

There I was, totally enjoying myself with no one telling me when I needed to practice, the whole enterprise of my own volition, when what do you think reared its ugly head to ambush me out of the blue? A rehearsal! I cannot tell you how much I hated rehearsals as a kid. The mounting dread weeks ahead, the sweaty palms, the hated fancy clothes I had to don for the occasion, the chatter of the assembled guests before the performance, followed by a hushed silence, the jittery nerves prompting you to inevitably make a mistake, the praise afterwards by all the elderly (in my child's eye) ladies I was made to shake hands with by my mom.

I had vowed to never again in my life be bullied into a rehearsal. But what could I do when the piano teacher invited me to perform at the music festival? Tell my kids that yes, it is important to overcome our fears and perform in front of others, and then chicken out when it was my turn? Plus, I was led to believe it was a performance among just a few adult beginners. Oh what a clever way to lure me in. So I show up and find myself in a room full of high school students, all showing off their years of piano expertise with Chopin and Beethoven in front of a couple of judges. I would have bolted, had my well-meaning friends (who were there for their kids of course, not performing themselves) not already spotted me and waved me over to an open seat. I could do nothing but sit there and try to calm the butterflies in my stomach while everyone else had their turn. I was last, of course!

There I am playing my Oxford Rag; as you can see, I didn't get a chance to change out of
my tennis sweats from the morning - at least no hated fancy clothes! Photo: G McKay

Needless to say, I of course survived and as always it seemed much more benign in hindsight than beforehand. And what do you know? I received a rare double gold certificate for my efforts that day, which I can now proudly hang on the fridge.

And my mother, were she still alive, would be pleased to know that I've signed up for violin lessons next year, trying to pick up where I left off about 28 years ago. Now I just have to get me and my brothers together and her vision of us playing trios might yet survive, if just a tad late.

Viva la musica!

Do I Write or Do I Draw?

2011-12-19T06:00:00.000+02:00

As you all know, my passion these days is writing, Hence this blog. Even though lately I've been a bit behind, running out of pre-scheduled posts (even though I have ideas and material for at least six months, I'm sure).

But one of my other interests is drawing and painting. In fact, Noisette claims I have more talent for that than writing, but seeing as he never reads my blog, I don't think he's qualified to say. I suspect it's just easier to look at a picture than actually reading a story!

The reason I have been behind on my writing is that I've taken out the charcoal and paper again. It's Christmastime, you see, and I'm in need of a present for Noisette, who like all husbands is hard to shop for, so I decided to make a drawing. We have this wall in our bedroom that needs some large pictures filling it, and I recently had the inspiration of making a trilogy from the zebra drawing I made some time ago:

The plan is to add a giraffe and an elephant, the giraffe looking straight ahead, and the elephant looking in from the right. Thankfully, I have plenty of material from all our safaris. In fact, this is one of the reasons I've picked up photography as another hobby, even though it is incredibly time consuming, because that way I always have material for my drawings and paintings without infringing on anybody's copyright, just in case I ever wanted to sell any of my work.

I simply can't keep up with photography, writing, and painting, let alone all those pesky housewife duties that keep poking up their annoying heads. So please forgive me if there are fewer stories forthcoming until Christmas. Or perhaps not, because I just can't help myself when it comes to this blog.

Anyway, since Noisette won't be reading this, I can safely share the progress I've made so far (fishing for your encouragement to get the elephant done as well, which - yikes - will need to be drawn and framed in just 6 days:-):

Better Parents Needed

2011-12-17T14:00:00.000+02:00

I'm going to hijack this blog away from my typical expat theme this once to write about a topic dear to my heart - parenting. Well, I guess I can write about whatever the hell I want, this being my blog and all. And parenting and being an expat is not necessarily mutually exclusive. On the contrary.

This article caught my eye the other day: How About Better Parents? by Thomas Friedman in the New York Times. It basically states that you can beat up on teachers all you want and decry the state of American (and other) public schools till the cows come home, but that it is really up to the parents to ensure that their kids do well in school. And it's not even particularly difficult. Just reading with your elementary school kids on a daily basis will go a long way.

My first reaction to reading this was DUH! Doesn't everybody know this? I mean, wherever you have parents who CARE about education, whose highest goal in life is education and lifelong learning, there is NO DOUBT that their kids are doing well in school and beyond. That is why you'll find so many Asian kids who are top students, and you'll also find them learning instruments and excelling at them at a disproportionate level. Education is of central importance in most Asian cultures, and therefore the kids strive for it too.

What I like about Friedman's column is that he shows the research that is behind this assumption. The Program for International Student Assessment (also called PISA) has added surveys to their regular testing program of children in OECD countries, conducting extensive interviews to find out how parents raise their children. And without fail, children of parents who are more involved in their kids' education, whether it is by reading to them when they're little or even simply asking them how their school day went and overseeing their homework, far outperform the other students on the PISA tests.

I've often said that I believe it almost doesn't matter where your children go to school, because at the end of the day you, the parents, determine their later success in life. Not by being a drill seargant beating the times table into them, but by being role models who value learning and display a thirst for knowledge coupled with discipline from the day they are born. That doesn't mean I don't love the school our children go to and they learn a great number of life skills there, but the real key to your kids' accomplishments lies with you and you alone.

Which sort of ties this back in with being an expat. Most expats I've spoken with spend an inordinate amount of time fretting over their kids' schooling and whether they've made the right decision moving them across an entire continent or hemisphere into a completely different school system with possibly a new language involved as well. And school choice is often the one thing holding a family back from making any bolder moves like going to an even more exotic country or extending their stay beyond the agreed-upon two years. But if you think about it not in purely academic terms but through the lens of lifelong learning, the question of the right school is really not so important as the values you as a family project. Your kids will learn a ton of things from an international move, useful, important, even life-changing things, provided education and learning and open-mindedness are at the heart of your parenting.

If you don't do anything, please find a way to read to your children every day. Some of the fondest memories from my childhood are the ones where my brothers and I would pile up on the bed while my mother read to us, transporting us into a magical world for away. And she didn't even have Harry Potter on her bookshelf - a series that makes it so much easier nowadays, because it's hard to find a child that doesn't like Harry Potter, or an adult who doesn't enjoy reading it aloud, for that matter. If you need more suggestions, check out the Read-Aloud-Handbook by Jim Trelease.

What better time than Christmas to start gathering your family for regular reading sessions around the fireplace with a cup of hot cocoa? Or, if you're here in South Africa, lounging on the patio with a few cool drinks?

To Climb or Not to Climb Kili?

2011-12-15T05:48:00.000+02:00

Ever since the subject of moving to South Africa came up, I've been harboring this secret idea of climbing Mount Kilimanjaro while we're here. Before I even looked at houses or schools or even the crime rate, I was googling the different ascent routes up this legendary (in my mind at least) mountain.

I figured it's the perfect mountain for me. I'm afraid of heights, so any vertical drops are out for me, and I'm almost as afraid of the cold, so a mountain that is situated in Africa has a certain appeal. Even though I've yet to find a really hot place in Africa, to be honest. I've been cold here more than anywhere else, so that last leg up to the summit wouldn't be very pleasant, given that you typically climb it at night, if I'd even make it, considering the altitude that has forced many a traveler back downhill. Which gets me to another reason of doing it while we live here: Joburg is at such an altitude that you might get a teensy benefit from being acclimated just a little bit, instead of starting from sea level. Let alone saving on the flight to get us to Africa in the first place.

Somehow up until now there have always been other travel destinations beckoning, ones that offered more comfort and less need of preparation, so Kilimanjaro was put on the backburner. However, the other day I realized with a bit of a shock that we're rapidly approaching our 2-year mark here in South Africa, and that if you assume the ever-so-common 2-to-3-year expat average, there won't be very much time left.

Hiking trail above Franschhoek

At least I've achieved clarity about one aspect. When I originally shared my dream with Noisette, he sounded pleased with the idea, if not overly excited. It would be a great bonding experience for us and Zax (the other kids are too young, or too prone to altitude sickness, or too prone, frankly, to incessant whining when confronted with the slightest incline to be conquered on foot). However, when Noisette and I recently took a hike – I’d rather call it a stroll – around Franschhoek Pass, he was soon complaining about the uneven path, strewn with rocks, making it hard to look anywhere but the ground ahead of you, while I got more and more excited bounding uphill. We shared stories about our childhood, and it turns out he liked the Sunday strolls his family took, on wide paved roads, flat as a pancake (there are no hills around Hannover, Germany), breathing in the fresh air. Whereas I absolutely hated such strolls, even if they just lasted an hour, leading me to whine about it without end (I hope my kids don’t read that). But if you gave me a day-long hike into the Swiss Alps, going up grueling slopes, crossing a glacier, stopping at a sparkling stream where dams could be built, I was in heaven (my brothers might now feel compelled to correct my rose-tinted vision and remind you that I was whining on those hikes as well). But the point is, I love a good challenge, while I hate walking just for the sake of walking. I mean, if there is a paved road, why not take a bike at least to get there faster?

So it was decided during our half-hour “hike” that if I want do climb Kilimanjaro, I’ll have to do it without Noisette. Maybe he’ll take the younger kikds on a diving trip instead, meeting up afterwards in Dar es Salaam. Zax, I think, will want to come, even if that means leaving the xBox behind for over a week. He hates to leave the house, but like me he’ll like the challenge. He once raced me up to the 21^st floor of a hotel in New York, losing me after three flights of stairs and greeting me nonchalantly and with a big smile when I finally dragged myself after my tongue into the room. And I’ll promise right here that he will get a new blog name from me if we conquer Mount Kilimanjaro together.

A Proper Fake Christmas Tree

2011-12-13T07:00:00.000+02:00

So I did it!

I finally gave in and got a fake Christmas tree. This is quite a feat, mind you, for someone who's always, up until now, had a real Christmas tree, and who until the age of eighteen even had real candles on it - the kind you only lit on Christmas Eve and admired while the whole family stood around and sang Christmas carols.

So you know things must have been desperate for me to switch to a fake, Chinese-made tree. I had actually made it through our first year in Africa without caving, and found a place selling real trees. But look at the sad specimen we got, and you'll understand why I had to switch. The branches were thin and drooping so much that only the smallest ornaments could be put on them, and the needles looked odd. Fake, in fact. The only good part about it was that it was so rubbery that it never shed any needles. Still, so my reasoning went this year, if the only real tree I could get in South Africa looked fake, I might as well get a proper fake tree.

But, as you know, acquiring stuff in South Africa always takes several tries, and it was no different this time. I set out, restless girls in tow, who'd been nagging for a haircut for weeks. After getting the hair done, we went to Checkers where I'd heard they were selling trees at a reasonable price. There were trees alright, but none of the ones displayed seemed to match the boxes stacked underneath them, and most of them were pink, purple or white. I wanted green! And I wanted reasonably tall. The only tall tree for sale in a huge box was not on display, so I now was torn, going back and forth loading it into my cart and unloading it again. The alternative was to wait and check at Game or another place first, but I hate shopping with a passion, as much as I hated the prospect maneuvering my car in and out of tight parking spaces once more, on a rare rainy day in Joburg, without the guarantee I'd be any luckier at the next store.

Such a huge box for such a spindly tree - a feat in itself!

So I bought the box, taped sides and all (which should have made me suspicious), hefted it into my trunk and headed home. I got a sarcastic look from Noisette when he saw the box - no doubt remembering all the times I had poo-pooed such a tree. Let alone the idea having to store yet another big thing in our garage, which these days is very crowded due to the soap box car Jabulani brought home from a school project. But I was undeterred and proceeded to the assembly part. Except, therein was the problem. Not that it was hard. Just three pieces and a stand, all stacked on top of each other, with branches that were on metal hinges pushed down and out. No matter how much I pushed out, though, the tree did not assume tree form. Each piece had approximately the same girth, so that my tree, when fully assembled, looked more like a tall thin barrel than a Christmas tree. In fact, it just sort of ended at the top without a real tip, just an empty metal pole sticking out.

Failed Fake Tree Attempt One - need I say more?

The sight of it made me long for the sad specimen from last year! My guess is that the wrong pieces were in the box. Which is probably why the first buyer had returned it and it was resold after taping the box again. Or maybe someone had cannibalized some of the better pieces, leaving the thin ones. The other thing that bugged me, though you can't see it in the picture, was that my floor was littered with needles. A fake tree shedding needles, on top of looking ugly? Leave it to me to successfully combine the worst of both worlds. Clearly, this was not going to work. Especially not for R800, which is over US$100. I put everything back in the box and taped it shut once again. One of my next errands will be trying to return it, which is always a special joy in South Africa.

But what to do about a tree? I was sorely tempted to do what a reader suggested on my last post, My Case for Skipping Christmas. In fact, getting a wire baobab sold along the roadside and putting African decorations on it was what I wanted to do all along, but I ran into stiff resistance from my family. "If we can't have any snow, we at least want a tree!" Just as I was packing the last pieces of Failed Fake Tree Attempt One back into the box, Jabulani came along with inspiration. Call our friend - let's call her Rosie - he said, she had such an amazing tree at her party, and ask her where she got it. And he was right. I had forgotten about that tree, which we had all admired the weekend before over an equally amazing dinner.

And wouldn't you know it? We now have her tree standing in our living room. Not just the same kind, which she says she got at Christmastree Specialists, a wholesaler in Bryanston, and I might still go there after Christmas and see if they've got any trees on sale. No, we actually have HER tree, which in typical South African generosity she offered for us to come and get that very afternoon, as they were leaving for a long vacation until January (also typical South African) and didn't need it anymore.

Me assembling Successful Fake Tree Attempt Two. Photo courtesy of Sunshine

Thanks, Rosie, for helping rescue our Christmas! The tree is indeed beautiful, exactly how I had envisioned it. And I could actually grow to love such a tree. It takes a bit of time to assemble - each color-coded branch has to be put in separately - but the huge advantage is that you can bend every twig exactly where you want it, making decorating it a breeze. And no more heavy stands to lug and keep filled with water, no chainsaw for stubborn branch removal, and no mess of getting rid of the tree once you want it out of your house come January.

Sipping a glass of wine and admiring my tree, I am finally starting to feel the first stirrings of the Christmas spirit that has eluded me for so long. To Christmas in Africa!

Twenty Chickens for a Saddle

2011-12-11T06:54:00.000+02:00

“It was too exhausting to sustain this fear.”

I’m currently reading another “Africa”book one of my lovely readers let me borrow, and this line stood out for me.Twenty Chickens for a Saddle by Robyn Scott describes the author’s childhoodin rural

Botswana

during the 1980s and 90s. This particular chapter was about the growing AIDSepidemic emerging in Botswanain those years, much like in other parts of Africa.Robyn, whose father was running flying doctor clinics throughout thecountryside, noticed one day how he was putting plasters on every little cut and scrapeon his body before going to work, and his explanation led to a whole new fearin her life. She went on to fret for several weeks, but then realized it wasjust too exhausting to keep it up, what with other more important eventsconsuming her attention.

The reason I found this line memorable is that it can beapplied to expat life in South Africaas much as a childhood in Botswana.Before moving here, we are often inundated with horror stories about assaultand murder happening on a regular basis, and for a good while after moving herewe often exhaust ourselves with an all-consuming fear, bordering on panic. Butthen the more mundane hassles take over your life, like getting a trafficregister number and seeing the dentist, and perhaps you’re also discovering thebeauty of this continent, so that bit by bit you give up indulging your worstfears.

You may not altogether forget them, and it’s probably a good thing tostay vigilant, but you just cannot spend your days holed up with a wall aroundyou. The fact is, something bad could always happen to you, here or anywhereelse, but beyond taking the most basic precautions you would waste your lifebeing driven by the thought of it.

But Twenty Chickens for a Saddle is about much more thanAIDS, of course. It is a charming story of an unconventional childhood, notjust because of its setting but rather because of the quirks and eccentricitiesof this particular family. Robyn’s mother is a staunch believer in homeschooling, because “a syllabus stifles creativity” and “children learn best inunstructured situations,” and she cheerily proceeds to impose a ratherhaphazard schooling regime, as much driven by daily events and the life aroundthem in the bush as any adherence to a formal curriculum. This is how Robyn and her younger brother and sister spend their childhood learning how to dissect snakes, repairing motorcycles, and raising thechickens alluded to in the title in order to buy the long-coveted saddle.

Having just finished two books about

Zimbabwe

, I couldn’t help but drawcomparisons. Twenty Chickens for a Saddle has nothing of the drama andexcitement of colonial and post-colonial

Zimbabwe

, no horrors, torture,genocide. But that in itself serves well in describing the character of Botswana, which is one of the biggest successstories in Africa. It managed to gainindependence without bloodshed, without retributions, without much of the racial strife evident elsewhere,while slowly acquiring a prosperity much envied by the surrounding countries.

The trials and tribulations of this unconventional family(there is also an even more eccentric grandpa who is a Botswana legend in his own right, having emigrated from South Africa to become a bush pilot and later starting one ill-fated business venture after the other) will atturns have you laughing out loud and marvel at the parents’ courage in defyingconventions, and then cringe with pity for the children who, as all childrendo, so much long for a more “normal” family. Above all, it is another greatbook with unforgettable insights about life in Africaand why so many of us touched by it will always hold a very special place forit in our hearts.

If Tom Sawyer Had Had a Pool...

2011-12-09T06:00:00.000+02:00

If Mark Twain had installed Tom Sawyer in the 21st century, he might have had him clean the pool instead of painting the fence, and this is what the scene might have looked like:

Scrubbing the pool wall is hard...

...because you keep floating away.

But boy it looks like so much fun!

Can I PUHLEEEASE do it too?

Okay, you can have a turn, but only for a little while.

Wait! Give us back the brush!

The kids are now out of school for their summer break until the middle of January, and as you can see I'm trying hard to find jobs for them!

Expat Life and Orthodontics

2011-12-07T12:15:00.001+02:00

Expat life and orthodontics don’t mix very well. In fact, moving anywhere doesn’t agree with orthodontic treatment in your children. This sadly is one area of our expat existence where I can’t proclaim any joy at all. Except maybe one little silver lining, and that’s just because I’m a hopeless optimist.

Our troubles in this department, so to speak, started in Wisconsin, when Jabulani needed an expander to make more room in his mouth for future teeth. We dutifully turned the little screw and happily expanded away, until we had to move to Kansas. The new orthodontist there ordered us to stop, with a bit of alarm at how much his mouth had been widened. Maybe the first one had never encountered such a diligent family before. In any case, the recommendation now was adjusting the front teeth. In the braces went, and we even stayed long enough for them to come out again a year later. We were sent off with Phase I of his treatment pronounced finished (even though for us it felt like Phase II already) and the advice to seek out a new orthodontist in

South Africa

, where we were moving next, to consult about Phase II.

With all this focus on Jabulani, we never quite gave our other children’s orthodontic situation much notice. You would actually think that’s the dentist’s job, right? But in hindsight our family dentists over the years seem to have been a bit asleep at the wheel. Because when we set out to find yet another one upon our arrival in

South Africa

, he immediately sent us all off to the orthodontist, especially Zax, who is already fifteen. The orthodontist confirmed his suspicion, with the result that I found myself sitting at the orthodontist last week waiting for three out of our four kids being fitted out with braces. You don’t want to know what kind of bill I got presented with afterwards, but let me just say that orthodontics, unlike medical care, is actually more expensive here in South Africa than in the

U.S.

I always thought the whole business of rearranging teeth was very technical and straightforward, but I am beginning to think that it is more a form of art than anything else. Everyone seems to see something different and recommends a new approach, with the effect that when you move from one place to another, you basically start from scratch. And, sadly, start paying from scratch as well. Which your insurance won't cover because you've exceeded your lifetime cap. Maybe they know a thing or two about orthodontists.

All the orthodontic paraphernalia we walked home with in addition to the braces

Jabulani - who you'll remember got a bunch of metal taken out of his arm only last week, just to now have put more of it in his mouth - is furious, feeling he has wasted several years already on his teeth and is still making no progress. What makes us think this orthodontist knows any better than the other ones, he wants to know. Zax isn't happy either, considering most of his friends are now getting their braces out, not in. And Sunshine can't talk anymore for the moment what with all the wires in her mouth. The only one escaping braces is Impatience, who in a twist of irony typical for our family is the one who actually wanted braces and has been pondering color schemes for years.

And the silver lining? Well - I really do feel the dental care we're getting here is excellent, both from the dentist whom I've mentioned in a previous post and Dr. Thomadakis, our orthodontist, even if it is expensive. So maybe it's a good thing we ended up here. Funny. I venture to guess that most of you considering Africa as your next destination aren't coming here for the dental care, which just goes to show that you shouldn't be prejudiced about these things.

Africa

2011-12-05T11:41:00.001+02:00

Back in graduate school, about a lifetime ago, I remember meeting a student by name of Rahul. He was Indian, in name and appearance, but from Africa, as he would quickly point out when asked about his origins. He was something of a free spirit, not fitting into any mold you might try to find for him: Brilliant yet uninterested in grades, equipped with a wonderful sense of humor, and loving nothing more than a good party. Even though he was well-read and seemed to know everything, he seemed to have a disdain for formal education that made us all wonder, frankly, what he was doing in the rather dull environment of business school.

But what I remember best about Rahul was his passion for Africa. He was born to Indian parents on assignment in Zambia, and if I remember correctly spent a large part of his childhood there. When you'd ask him what it was like living there (with what I now realize was the typical Western contempt for this continent) his eyes would light up and he'd describe it so vividly I can still see the images in my head. "The colors," he would say, "are like nowhere else in the world." He'd go on to describe the beautiful African sky at sunset, the smell of the red dust right before the long-awaited rains arrived, the sound of birds calling early in the morning when the air was still crisp, the radiating smiles on people's faces, the vibrant hustle on market days.

I remember being incredulous. Africa, in my mind - perhaps framed by the images of "Biafra children" we were plied with during my childhood - was a hot and scorched place where nothing grew and everyone was poor and starving. I couldn't understand why someone would love such a place, was yearning to go back in fact, but I have never forgotten our conversation.

Rahul, you see, was absolutely right. Once you have lived in Africa, so the saying goes, you can never quite get it out of your system. There is something magical about it that keeps pulling you back. Yes, Africa is huge and diverse and you can't just treat it as one homogeneous mass, yet the fascination with it seems to be universal. Maybe it is the somewhat slower pace of life we fall in love with, having escaped the rat race of a workaholic life in the West and realizing there are many roses to be smelled along the way. Maybe it is the climate, at least here in Southern Africa, which is much less scorching than a humid American summer and where you can live entirely without air conditioning, allowing you to keep your windows open to listen to the sounds of the night. Maybe it is the people of Africa, who are so overwhelmingly friendly and welcoming, quick to smile and laugh and find unexpected humor in every situation, offering a heartfelt "sorry" for you when you've hurt yourself even though it wasn't their fault and therefore no reason to apologize. Or maybe it really is the color of an African sunset. I actually have a folder in my pictures directory called "African Skies," some of which I will share with you at the bottom of this post. The colors are truly unforgettable.

Whatever it is, I already know now that I will miss Africa with every fiber of my being when the day comes that we have to move away. I will miss the weaver bird's call for a mate to show off the beautiful nest he created in just a few days. I will miss the sun that so reliably shines every single day. I will miss the smell of jasmine and the beauty of all the other flowers in our garden. I will miss the pure joy on a child's face when you show him his picture on your camera. I will miss the privilege of listening to a spontaneous a capella choir performance when walking through the airport. I will miss singing Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika at school assemblies. I will miss Africa in a way I never missed Singapore, another lovely place to live. Perhaps I only feel this way because I'm now older and more seasoned in the art of living, less impatient with the things that inevitably go wrong.

Africa is indeed beautiful. Thank you Rahul, wherever you are now, for planting this seed so many years ago.

African Sky: Sodwana Bay, June 2010. Photo by Jacky du Plessis

African Sky: Fiery sunset mixed with smoke from burning grass, Dainfern

African Sky: Sunset at Hartebeesthoek Radio Astronomy Observatory, June 2011

African Sky: Sunrise over Dainfern Valley

African Sky: Clouds building over Zanzibar, August 2011

African Sky: Sunset over the Garden Route coast near Knysna

African Sky: Sunset over Robben Island

African Sky: Storm over Dainfern Valley

African Sky: Sunset over Cape Town

African Sky: Franschhoek, October 2011

African Sky: Rainbow over Dainfern Valley

African Sky: Sondela, July 2010

African Sky: Sunset in Madikwe Game Reserve

African Sky: You don't have to travel far for beautiful sunrises -
view over Dainfern Valley as seen from my desk

African Sky: Brewing storm in Madikwe Game Reserve, December 2010

African Sky: Cape Peninsula, Cape Town, April 2011

African Sky: Sunset over the Zambezi River, Victoria Falls, March 2011

African Sky: Sunrise in Madikwe Game Reserve, October 2010

A Typical Day of Shopping in South Africa

2011-12-03T06:19:00.003+02:00

It's a Saturday morning and I set out with a simple enough shopping list. In fact, it's the kind of list I would, in my former American life, have tackled with a brisk 30-minute excursion to Target:

New water filter
Picture frame
Exchange Jabulani's swimsuit
Groceries

But, as by now you will have guessed, nothing is ever quite so simple here.

The new water filter for the fridge has been on my mental to-do list for a while, but until now has fallen victim to my not knowing where exactly to get it. After we had just moved here, I would furiously add items to long lists, just to discover months later that they were still there. Having acquired a more relaxed "this is Africa" attitude since then, I simply don't put these kind of items on lists anymore. But it's back on a list now because the water from the dispenser - the little drizzle of it that makes it through - is tasting truly awful.

The picture frame is to house Jabulani's 13th birthday group picture which thanks to my new experience with Photoshop turned out awesome (if a bit over-sharpened, according to the guy who printed it for me - oops!), exchanging the swim suit was necessary because with our rather skinny kids a 13-year old needs size 10 pants, at most, and groceries are simply always on my list. I practically live at the place.

So I think Game, where you can buy refrigerators and lots of household stuff, is a good place for the filter. Wrong! No filters there. But try Stax, a clerk helpfully suggests. But before I venture to that side, I decide to tackle my other errands at Fourways Mall first. So back across the parking lot, where I had to hunt for a spot ealier, this being a Saturday and everyone out and about, into the car, cruising around for a new spot which it turns out isn't any closer than the old one, and into the depths of the mall. I do get lucky with the picture frame, but another swimsuit cannot be found at Mr. Price. I'm not sure why this should surprise me, as I have never once in my life found anything at Mr. Price. The place is simply awful. It's as if a truck dumped all the clothes into an empty building and this is how you find them there as a shopper, in big heaps and completely unorganized.

While I'm already there, I figure I might look into Checkers Hyper and see if they have the water filter. I manage to pick up some cleaning supplies I remember are needed by our domestic as well as a special candy bar Zax has informed me is requested for the school Christmas hamper, but the water filter remains elusive. So back into the car, another R2 donation to the parking guard stubbornly waving at me from directly behind the car, where I can't possibly see him if it weren't for my parking camera - get the irony - and into the fray trying to cross William Nicol to the other side, where the relative calm of Fourways Crossing beckons. However, as you might have guessed, no water filter at Stax either. Samsung yes, LG no, so sorry.

Are you already fidgety, just from reading this? The thing is, you can't allow yourself the luxury of becoming impatient with these things. I learned a very expensive lesson in that regard when I busted the tire of my car when trying to get an unwanted errand over with quickly instead of patiently.

And, like any good fairy tale, my story has a happy ending and a moral to boot. The water filter was to be found at Hirsch's. Duh! It was me, after all, who told you to go to Hirsch's for all your electronics and appliance needs, because it is the most likely place you'll find those things and has the best service. I just can't seem to follow my own advice. We now have fresh-tasting water gushing forward like a mountain stream, which in retrospect makes me cringe at all the nasty stuff that must have come through or rather around the old clogged filter.

And the moral? It is this: Don't despair, something good will come out of most situations, however unexpected. Because what should I find on the bottom shelf at the Pineslopes Spar (where I never go, but I still needed my groceries, remember, and it is right around the corner from Hirsch's)? A giant bag of Starbucks Espresso Roast coffee! I felt like stopping every shopper and shaking their arm to point out this unbelievable find. The funny thing is I don't even particularly crave Starbucks beans anymore, having long found substitutable coffees like Bean There, but it is just the very American-ness of Starbucks that I miss, much in the same way I jump from joy when I hear an American accent.

Unexpected find at Pineslopes Spar

I didn't buy that bag of coffee that day. Because, did you see that price tag? That's about $45. Plus I have indefinite supply anyway from our steady stream of visitors.

But just seeing that bag of French Roast on the shelf made my day.

Wading Through the Minefield of International Shoe Sizes

2011-12-01T12:26:00.002+02:00

One thing I absolutely hate about international moves is the lack of standardization. Yes, it can be quaint that each country has its own idiosyncracies. Much of the charm of travelling arises from the fact that not everything is the same around the world. How boring that would be.

But in matters of sizes and technical specifications the world would be a better place if everyone could just agree on one system. I don't even care which one, with the possible exception of the metric system - sorry America, but it is by far superior to feet and pounds and a freezing temperature of 32.

Different standards result in a whole lot of extra work for those of us moving to a new country. I could do without two different voltages, as I've described before. I could definitely live without travel outlet adapters. I resent having to own hole punchers for three-ring as well as two-ring binders. I have bought more ill-fitting duvet covers than you can shake a stick at. I once thought I would fail a statistics exam in business school because I couldn't get past a question where you needed to know how many ounces are in a pound. The whole PAL vs NTSC TV standard debate still confuses the hell out of me and my kids will never understand why a European xBox game won't work on our American system. I've destroyed scores of bolts by using a wrench from the U.S. on a European screw, and vice versa. And I have absolutely no idea which size shoes I should be buying here in South Africa.

I've studied online conversion charts in the past but they're inconsistent. U.S. shoe sizes have the added complication that there are women's and men's sizes, two digits off from each other, but kids' sizes follow the men's system, even girls. So you expectantly turn towards the European system and think it must make more sense, until you realize that their shoe sizes can't possibly be based on centimeters - that would make for some rather huge feet. I did come across a brilliant system called Mondopoint that tries to standardize it all, not just length but also width, but unfortunately it is only used for ski boots. Wikipedia tries to make good sense of it all here, but I still find it very confusing.

I was forced to buy new shoes and therefore wade into this minefield of shoe size conversion last week, for the first time since living in South Africa. Until now, we've been able to dodge this bullet by loading up on our home leave trips, stocking the kids' shelves several sizes up, with the advantage that shoes are also cheaper overseas than here. But a huge hole had appeared in my running shoes, because I had been playing tennis in them, and what was needed ASAP was some real tennis shoes.

When you buy shoes in South Africa, you go by your UK shoe size. That is the size you tell the guy going into the back to retrieve the correct box from the shelf. I thought I was smart and looked into my old shoes to see what UK size they are. This is what it looked like:

Size label in a Nike tennis shoe bought in the U.S.

Great, I thought, I'm a size 5.5 or 39 in the rest of Europe (never mind the fact that when I left Germany, many years and four kids ago, my shoe size was 37, I swear it). But when I tried on the new tennis shoes I had set my eyes on, they felt tight. So I kept trying on bigger shoes, until this one fit:

Label in an Adidas tennis shoe bought in South Africa

And wouldn't you know, that one was a U.S. size 8, the very thing I had wanted in the first place. I went back to the 5.5 UK ones, and they said they were only a U.S. size 7. Meaning a U.S. size 8 is either a UK size 5.5 or a UK size 6.5, depending on the brand. When I checked more shoes at home, I found yet another combination: 8.5 US and still 5.5 UK but only 38.5 European. Have I thoroughly confused you? I wonder if it has to do with the women/men thing, but whatever it is, it's very irritating. I often have to buy shoes for my kids without my kids actually there, and it would be nice to know what size they are, at least temporarily until they grow out of it again. I admit I actually have a spreadsheet somewhere to keep track of such stuff. Very anal, I know. I will spare you from summarizing all my findings in a chart.

In the end, I settled right in the middle for a UK size 6, since the 6.5 one looked very long. We'll see how it goes. They do look pretty. Actually, they better fit well, since these are by far the most expensive tennis shoes I've ever bought in my life and I'll be very upset if so much as a hint of a blister shows up anywhere in the vicinity of my foot with these babies on.

Maybe I should have tried playing tennis in my ski boots.

My Shining Moment

2011-11-28T17:46:00.001+02:00

It is hard to understand the workings of a South African traffic cop's mind. Or maybe it is not so hard and he/she is always thinking about one thing and one thing only, and that is money. But why then are they so inconsistent?

I was driving out towards Diepsloot the other day. It was one of those hectic days with kids needing to go in three different directions and me scrambling to keep it all organized in my head, and therefore a little preoccupied. I was taking Sunshine to horse riding, and Impatience was supposed to follow later with a friend, but because I hadn't told her yet, she called me to find out what was going on. So I'm talking to her on the phone while driving, and since traffic is moving slowly due to some obstruction I can sort of see ahead, I make a move to pass the car stopped in front of me on the left. Well - the obstruction turns out to be a roadblock, and I almost run over the traffic cop who virtually shoots up out of the ground in front of me. Yikes! I can't believe this is happening to me!

I roll down my window totally expecting to get a ticket and pay big time. I mean, I was talking on the phone, which is forbidden, and passing a car on the left is also a no-no (although no one ever seems to stop the taxis from doing it). The cop promptly informs me of those very offenses in a stern voice. He points to my hands-free set and chastises me for not using it. I meekly nod my head and agree with everything he says. So-sorry-sir, you-are-right-sir, it-was-just-that-my-daughter-called-and-I-wanted-to-answer-quickly-in-case-of-emergency-sir, I-won't-do-it-again-sir. I could have you arrested for this, he says.

This is where my pulse actually slows down. I've been threatened with arrest several times already, but it never happens. In fact, I think this is because I'm secretly hoping to be arrested so that I can write a blog post about it (Noisette tells me I'm crazy). When the cops sense that you're not scared, they seem to lose their steam. Sure enough, this one just tells me to use the hands-free set in the future and waves me through. Here he was, with an actual case, not just some fictitious concoction designed to extort expats, and he didn't even take advantage of it. Upon my return a few minutes later, the roadblock was gone. So maybe he was at the end of his shift and didn't want to bother?

But then I got into a similar situation again not long afterwards. I was driving visitors to the airport - once again - but somehow almost missed the exit off the motorway. I should have just kept going and used the next exit to turn around, but thought I had enough space to squeeze in on the left. I did, but unfortunately, up ahead there was a police control and I was immediately waved over. This was not a roadblock stopping random cars, this was a patrol looking specifically for drivers doing exactly what I had just done. Here we go again, I thought. This time for sure I have to pay.

I roll down my window (I'm getting good at that!). The guy gives me the evil eye like you wouldn't believe. What the hell was I thinking, he growls. I explain that I was trying to get these visitors here to the airport and that my GPS was late informing me of the turn-off (which was true). Why I wasn't following the signs, he demands. We have plenty of signs here telling you where to go (here he points to all the signs and I dutifully look at them). I apologize. I wait for the verdict. I'm sure this time I'm handed a ticket. It would be totally justified. But what I get is: "Look at me! I'm giving you one last chance. Do you understand what I mean?" And he stares even harder into my eyes.

Now I'm confused. What do I say? If I say yes, does that mean I'm agreeing to pay a bribe? If I say no, does that mean I don't get one more chance? I'm frozen with indecision, staring back blankly. My passengers are fidgeting, as they have a flight to catch. He repeats his thing about giving me one last chance. And now I make my decision. Yes sir, I chirp brightly, flash him a smile, roll up my window, and slowly drive away, giving them a chance to stop me in case I have somehow misread the situation. But no, once again I get away without a hitch.

What the hell? Why didn't they give me a ticket? I am beginning to think that they don't even have any tickets with them to give out. Why else wouldn't they just write me up, especially when realizing that no money is forthcoming, that nothing will ever so discreetly be pressed into their hands? Or are they just so baffled that I don't even try to dispute it that they forget to do their job? Peter Godwin, in When a Crocodile Eats the Sun, may have gotten to the heart of this when he describes his experience of a roadblock in Zimbabwe:

"He looks confused [...]. I am supposed to be in a hurry, offer a bribe, and be allowed on my way. but no, I am a freak. A white man with time on his hands."

Add to this the time I was driving home in Noisette's car after a party and didn't even have my license with me, and you will see the pattern: I have never once gotten a ticket when I should have, but I have been harassed by cops plenty of times when I was innocent. Which is why I was desperately waiting for another innocent stop, to use my Plan B for When the Cops Stop me Again on the next guy trying to extort a bribe from me, but all these stops for cause were getting in my way!

So I was actually a bit excited when I drove into yet another roadblock yesterday (note to readers: Sundays are especially risky - I came upon no less than five roadblocks today; apparently, Sunday morning is when they catch the most drunk drivers). I was coming down London Road going into Alexandra, and the prospect of having to deal with the police there, of all places, made my stomach drop, I must admit. Plus I was meeting there with a group of friends to take them to an Alexandra Baseball game, and now I felt bad for having lured them into a trap, so to speak. But I hadn't done anything wrong, for once, so there was hope that my traffic act would finally get its day in the sun.

Always with me in my glove compartment: South Africa Road Traffic Act

And boy, did I enjoy my shining moment! By now you know the routine. I rolled down my window, heart beating with anticipation, handed over the license, and watched the cop study it for a while. You could almost see his brain working out a plan of attack. I was actually wondering - would it be the "no passport" tactic Noisette ran into the other day? Or the "illegal radar jammer on your car" one? It ended up being "no traffic register certificate on you." I've had that one before as well. Remember how when you're buying a car in South Africa as a foreigner you have to apply for a traffic register number? Well, he was telling me that I should have the certificate with that number on me. To be honest, he could be right - in fact, I went back to my own post about Tips on Buying a Car in South Africa, and I myself told you to carry a copy of it with you. Amazing the things that I write and forget!

But I wasn't going to let a little detail like that derail me. Plus, who knows if the certificate would have been enough. I remember a friend in this very situation, who then got chastised because the traffic register number was in her husband's name and not her own, and without a letter from her husband authorizing her to use the car (as well as a marriage certificate to show she is married to him, I'm sure) she could be arrested for illegally driving it. So you see, there is no end to these things. In any case, I politely told the policeman that he was wrong, that I had been to the Randburg licensing office and specifically been told that my foreign license was sufficient and to make sure I told any policemen who might stop me this very fact. He insisted that I needed the traffic register number, and I reached into the glove compartment with a flourish - drumroll here - and waved my copy of the South African Road Traffic Act in his face. I pointed out the highlighted sections pertaining to the license and showed him that mine qualified as it is written in English and has a picture of me on it. That definitely took the wind from his sails. He made a few more feeble attempts to intimidate me, but you could see his resolve had been shaken. I kept reading the Road Traffic Act to him until he waved me on in disgust.

Ha! In your face, corrupt policeman! This is for all my friends and other expats who have been harassed before.

South Africa's Hypocrisy

2011-11-26T08:43:00.003+02:00

There is not much in this world that I find more detestable than hypocrisy, though we all fall victim to it once in a while until others remind us of it. But to plow through, despite public outcry, with an act that defies what you yourself have preached for years, an act that flies in the very face of what you've once touted as your most basic convictions, that is a crime.

Photo courtesy of CNN

I am of course speaking of the new "Protection of State Information Bill," also known as the "Secrecy Act" which was just passed by South Africa's National Assembly. It basically gives the ANC-led government much wider discretion in declaring state secrets, imposing jail terms on those who make them public. If this was just a matter of national security, it would be understandable, but the ongoing feud between the government and the Mail & Guardian, one of South Africa's most reputable newspapers, over the dealings, some say corrupt dealings, of Mac Maharaj, a senior government spokesman, shows that the government is willing to declare anything a state secret to avoid a possibly embarrassing disclosure of corruption within its ranks.

The Secrecy Act was passed this week by 229 to 107 votes, with all but two members of the ANC voting for it.
Just to be clear, this is the very same ANC fighting for civil rights during the apartheid years, decrying infringements on the freedom of the press during that era. In fact, over thirty years ago, on October 19th, 1977 and what was later dubbed "Black Wednesday," the apartheid regime banned two newspapers and detained its editors, the beginning of what became an increasingly harsh attempt to silence the press. One of the crimes of those two newspapers? Campaigning for the release of Nelson Mandela and other ANC members from their imprisonment on Robben Island. If you want to get a feel for the peril some editors put themselves in by refusing to abide by these harsh laws, watch the movie Cry Freedom.

This is why Nelson Mandela's silence regarding the Secrecy Act is particularly baffling. Sure, he is an old man, but you would think the keepers of his legacy might be more outspoken. I visited the "Nelson Mandela Centre of Memory" where I found a tribute to those courageous journalists who "sacrificed their freedom in their quest to inform the public about the realities of our country" in 1977. Twenty years later, at a commemorative event, Mr. Mandela said:

“Instrumental in keeping us in touch and informed, in the dissemination of both the good news and the bad, the sensational and the mundane, has been the media. I wish to pay tribute on this occasion to their unflinching, and often ill-appreciated, commitment to their task and their contribution to a more informed and hence a better world.”

I did find an "expression of concern" about the Secrecy Act on the same website, but that's the strongest wording you will find there. Maybe that is just in keeping with Mandela's moderation and conciliatory approach in his later life, but I was hoping for more. After all, he is the one his successors would most listen to.

The person who is indeed very outspoken about his opposition to this act is Desmond Tutu. It's always refreshing to listen to him rant and rave, much as he did during the recent spat over the Dalai Lama's visit (the South African government refused to issue him a visa, if you'll remember). All opposition parties were opposed as well, in addition to two members of the ANC itself, who are now facing harsh reprimands and perhaps worse to have defied their leaders.

The arguments against the bill and why anyone who ever fought for freedom of the press during apartheid should be vehemently opposed are well described here.To be sure, I didn't actually read the Secrecy Act and am aware that it might not be as draconian as it is painted by the South African press. I'm just repeating general opinions I have heard and read, which I admit is not the proper journalist path. So I welcome a discussion of the legislation and its pros and cons. But it is undeniable that the ANC, now in power, has compromised on some of its core principles from the time when it was fighting those in power. We can hope that the Constitutional Court, before which no doubt this piece of legislation will end up, is more uncompromising on the principles of democracy and freedom of expression.

Until then, maybe all of us will have to think twice before we hit "publish."

We Need Mexicans to Get on Boats

2011-11-24T02:25:00.001+02:00

I really love going out to eat in South Africa, and the options are endless. With one exception: Mexican food. If you come from America, this leaves you with a big hole in your life. We have kids who can never agree on anything, let alone which restaurant to pick when we go out (which isn't often), but if I were to offer up "Mexican" as an option next time, I am convinced we'd experience instant agreement the likes of which we haven't seen since Zax was one year old.

I've heard talk about a Mexican restaurant somewhere in Joburg but I've forgotten where it is. I'm sure my readers will point it out to me, but I'm also sure it won't be authentic, though I'd love to stand corrected. The closest I've come to Mexican was a quesadilla at Mugg & Bean, but let's just say it was average, at best.

What's weird is that you can find the Old Paso brand taco mix and a variety of chips and salsa in the grocery stores here. So there must be some demand for Mexican food. It's just that the actual Mexicans haven't gotten the word yet. Which makes sense if you consider that they just have to walk across the border to get to the U.S., versus getting on a boat heading for South Africa. I guess if we were to look for a South African parallel we'd have to hope for a Zimbabwean equivalent to Mexican food, but I don't think that has been invented yet.

In the absence of any globetrotting Mexicans, I'm left to making my own chili. Which gets me to the point of this blog post - telling you where to find Mexican chili powder. Or rather, to get one of my readers to tell us, after I've claimed that it can't be found. That usually works like a charm, like with my hunt for chocolate chips. But so far I haven't had such luck with chili powder. Mention it to a South African, and he'll invariably send you to an Indian store. But that's not the right kind of chili powder, you see. I don't want ground up chilies, I want the spice that goes into a Mexican chili, ground beef, tomatoes, beans and all.

My new batch of Mexican chili powder

So who should come to the rescue tonight, as I was making chili and it just wouldn't taste Mexican? A fellow blogger of course. Cooking with Corey is where I learned that you can make chili powder from stuff you typically have in your spice rack. It took me two minutes, the chili turned out great, and I now have a little container full of more chili powder for next time. No more hunting for chili powder for this cook, if it's that easy to make. Even Zax, who always hovers over the pot when I cook chili and begs, I mean BEGS, if he can add some more Gunpowder or Insanity sauce to it, was quite happy this time. Thank you Corey!

Here is the recipe:

Mexican Chili Powder Mix

4 Tbsp. ground cumin3 Tbsp. paprika (Use a very mild variety!)
¼ tsp. ground cayenne pepper
¼ tsp. red chili pepper flakes (1 crushed chile de arbol)
1 Tbsp. dried oregano
2 tsp. garlic powder
2 tsp. salt

Interesting that the biggest parts of this mix are cumin and paprika. No wonder the Indian chili powder didn't work. Oh, and here is my pot of chili:

When I see a picture like this, I automatically have to think of The Office, I think it's Season 6, where Kevin brings a pot of chili to work. Have you seen that one? Where he drops the whole thing and then tries to rake the chili all back into the pot? If you have, you may no longer be in the mood for chili, but just in case I've included the recipe at the end of this post.

As luck would have it, a day after I wrote this post I received a gift from a newly arrived American expat (or, I should say, not so newly arrived, it was just their container which was newly arrived about three months after them) and what should I find in the gift bag next to an enormous bag of Starbucks beans? Two just as enormous spice jars, one with taco seasoning and the other with chili powder! Thank you Paige!

I think we're now covered in the chili powder department for the remainder of our stay in South Africa. I just LOVE when people are reading my blog. Please excuse me while I go write a post about the unavailability of MacBook Pros in South Africa...

Mexican Chili con Carne

1 or 2 onions, minced
a few Tbsp olive oil
some other minced vegetables, like red pepper or zucchini - I am quite generous here and use up whatever veggie needs to be used up (until I go too far one day and my kids chastise me for throwing everything and the kitchen sink into my chili, so the next time I'll go back to just onions)
1 kg lean ground beef (South Africans call it mince - Woolies' is the best)
1 minced chili pepper
a few cloves minced garlic, especially if you didn't have any garlic powder for your chili powder
salt and pepper to taste
2-3 Tbsp Mexican chili powder
2 cans kidney beans, rinsed
2 cans butter or baked beans (South African baked beans are nothing like American baked beans; they are just beans in a tomato sauce, which works well when you just add the whole thing to chili, no rinsing necessary)
2 large cans peeled tomatoes (and/or perhaps a good helping of tomato puree if you like strong tomato taste but not the actual tomatoes)
Grated cheddar cheese, sour cream, and cilantro leaves to garnish

Heat olive oil in a large pot (your largest) and saute the onions over low heat until soft. If you've got other vegetables, add them soon thereafter and saute together.
Turn up the heat and add mince, breaking up any lumps as it browns.
Add all the rest of the ingredients except for the beans, bring to boil, then turn down the heat and let simmer over low heat for about 20 minutes to half an hour. If it looks too dry, add some water. I like my chili quite soupy. I usually cut up the canned tomatoes with a scissors after dumping them in the pot, so that they come apart and don't offend the members of my families who don't like tomatoes (i.e. kids).
Add the beans, simmer and stir for another 10 minutes or so, and that's it. Serve with plenty of cheddar cheese and sour cream.

ENJOY!

Back in the Operating Theatre

2011-11-23T07:30:00.002+02:00

No, we haven’t experienced any new emergencies. This one is a scheduled operation to remove the plates and screws from Jabulani’s forearm, which if you remember he has broken back in May. We have since then switched hospitals, as the last one was too far away, plus we weren’t overly impressed with the doctor, who it turns out might have been a bit too quick with the knife. But what’s done is done and it is now time to brave this last hurdle, and hopefully improve on that angry scar in the process.

These are the plates and screws that needed to come out!

Everything about this day has been routine – starting with a breakfast I tell Jabulani he can’t eat, following doctor’s pre-op instructions. He goes to school like every day, suffering through two breaks where his friends devour their lunches, and by the time I pick him up he is already more than slightly crabby. We arrive at Life Fourways Hospitals right at 1:30 in the afternoon, as planned, and the checking-in procedure begins. The usual forms, disclaimers, signatures, and of course a rather large credit card payment. We get led into a room where the obligatory wait begins.

I, for once, have come prepared. I have brought my Kindle and my book, an extra battery for the phone, as well as my computer (which came in handy when I had to find the email with the cost estimate, as it was nowhere to be found in the hospital’s records), so I settle, almost happily, in a chair to read. But unfortunately Jabulani has other plans. Almost immediately, he begins to complain about the wait, the noise of the A/C, and why do we have to have this operation in the first place? When the nurse comes with a gown to put on, and worse, a pair of sterile puffy hospital underwear, he just about loses it and pitches a huge fit, flat out refusing to wear anything of the sort.

At around 3:00 pm we get a visit from the doctor’s assistant, who informs us that the anesthesiologist is delayed for some unknown reason so that every procedure on the calendar today has had to be pushed back. She can sense Jabulani’s wrath building like a tsunami, I think, because she quickly signals me 5:00 with her hands and then flees. But at least this encounter has woken up the roommate in the bed opposite, who cheerfully tells us that he also didn’t have any food for 24 hours the previous day. While we wait, he tells us his story, which once again reminds me that it is not crime you need to fear most in

South Africa

, but road safety (or, rather, the lack thereof).

Through no fault of his own this guy, in his mid-thirties, is here to have reconstructive surgery on his elbow and a total knee replacement. He was a passenger in a car on the highway not far from Joburg, when an oncoming vehicle smashed into them. The driver of that car, who had been drunk and fallen asleep, was killed instantly, making it look like this roommate was actually lucky, if you look at it that way. But he was not so lucky in that he didn’t carry any ID with him that day, nor any medical aid (health insurance) information, so by default he was rushed to Joburg General, a government hospital – not where you want to be if you’re looking for the best medical care. When he came out of surgery, his kneecap was sewed on backwards, which is how he has ended up at Life Fourways with us today, getting his knee replacement. What, upside down, I ask? No, on the back of the leg, he says. I find this somewhat hard to believe but why should he lie to me? Oh, and he was actually supposed to go to Union for this particular surgery, but a terrible virus has taken hold of that hospital, which is why he was transferred once again.

I find all this talk a bit disconcerting, but Jabulani doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he – the roommate – creates another diversion distracting Jabulani from his rumbling stomach, in that he wants to smoke a cigarette. I’m quite sure that this is against all manner of hospital policy, but obviously he has done this before, because somehow he summons three nurses and gets them to wheel him out through a sliding glass door into a courtyard I haven’t noticed until now, chatting and joking with them incessantly all the way out. Jabulani is clearly taken with such feistiness and, as I can see from the triumphant look he shoots in my direction, resolves right then to double down on the “no changing underwear” stance he has taken.

It is already past 6:00 pm when our moment has come and we are wheeled to the OP which here is called Theatre. Or rather, Jabulani is wheeled, and I am struggling to keep up, what with all the stuff I’m carrying. Having brought the computer and books now seems less wise than it did earlier, as in addition to my things I’m now also having to lug extra clothes and shoes, plus the lunch bag with the carrot cake I had to promise to pack for Jabulani this morning. Here is a tip for you: If you find yourself in a South African hospital, bring a trolley to wheel about your possessions. Leaving your purse or even clothes somewhere in the ward is out of the question. When checking in, you have to sign all sorts of forms that you've secured your possessions, which is always one of the signs that stealing is going on. Same as when you're getting your car serviced.

By now I am actually quite hungry myself and longingly consider the lunch bag and its contents. But I might as well resign my motherly duties and go into witness protection if I so much as touch that carrot cake. Jabulani has already directed all his wrath at me, as he usually does when frustrated, and finding out from the assistant earlier that he actually could have eaten breakfast, just nothing after 7:00 this morning, didn’t exactly make him any happier with me. Oops! I guess I didn’t listen to the instructions very carefully.

My ridiculous overshoes; I was not permitted to photograph the ridiculous underwear

Luckily, I get a chance to redeem myself, in the form of the rather humiliating hospital gown and cap I have to don, so as to be allowed into theatre with him. He snaps away at me happily with his Blackberry, sending the picture to God knows who, and by the time several nurses come to introduce themselves to him, he greets them with his usual broad smile. As is so often the case, however, it is as if all the fear that so recently held him in its grip has now jumped over to me, needing to inhabit some other being in the vicinity. While he is now joking with the nurses I feel a huge lump growing in my throat, as I begin to realize that I will have to watch him fall asleep. I almost faint at the prospect (I have been known to faint in hospitals before) but somehow manage a crooked smile while kissing him goodbye. Tears are streaming down my cheeks while I watch his eyes droop as he slips into his sleep. I can't believe it works so fast! This is all the anesthesiologist has to do? This 5-minute job is what has delayed us today for over three hours? I find comfort in feeling a sliver of annoyance pushing into the space that was only filled with sadness moments ago. I wipe the tears away and make my way back to the waiting area where I'm now inspired to write it all down.

PS: The operation lasted about 90 minutes and everything went well, except Jabulani is now back in cast for the next two weeks.

When a Crocodile Eats the Sun

2011-11-22T07:16:00.002+02:00

So your husband travels for an entire week, meaning no one ever so gently reminds you when it's time to sleep. And you find yourself stuck in a hospital waiting room for almost an entire day. And you just happen to have received a large stack of interesting books from a friend.

What does all that make? Ample time to read a book and write another book review!

When a Crocodile Eats the Sun picks up where Mukiwa: A White Boy in Africa, another Peter Godwin book, had left off: Whereas Mukiwa is a memoir of Peter's childhood and coming of age in the Rhodesian armed forces during the early years of the civil war, this second book describes what happened in what was now called Zimbabwe after independence up until the present day.

What happened (and still happens) there was not pretty, to put it mildly. But while we all sort of know what has been going on, it's another entire matter to be given all the grisly details - of a large-scale genocide early on in Matabeleland, where the newly-minted governing party (ZANU-PF, still to this day under Robert Mugabe's leadership) suspected spies around every corner, of the eviction and brutal murders of the white land owners, of the equally brutal repression of the budding opposition party MDC, of hyperinflation and gross mismanagement and cronyism in government circles, of the totally unnecessary decline and collapse of Zimbabwe's economy, which until the early 1980s had been one of Africa's strongest...

The sad thing is, it could have been very different. Most Rhodesians, black and white alike, were very optimistic and enthusiastic about their new country, and the new black leadership initially struck a conciliatory tone, much like Nelson Mandela would model later in South Africa. Except it didn't last. Paranoia set in, the civil war veterans (called wovits) were demanding compensation when they realized that their lives were now no better than before, scapegoats were sought, and the country descended into anarchy or rather was held in the grip of a brutal dictatorship whose elite was only intent on enriching itself. Every single ANC leader in South Africa should read this very book and take it as a warning tale of what can happen if people like Julius Malema, the ANC Youth League leader (who thankfully was recently reprimanded and suspended from the party, pending appeal), amass too much power and are allowed to spew their hatred.

Having grown up in Germany with a fascination of anything Third Reich and my parents' and grandparents' part in it, I cannot help but see the parallels to Robert Mugabe's dictatorship in Zimbabwe. The start with more or less free elections, the slow erosion of civil rights, the mounting vilification of one particular racial group, the random brutality, the grip of extreme fear making widespread protests almost impossible. You look at white Zimbabweans from the outside and you say to yourself, why didn't they leave much earlier, when there was still time, much like the Jews in Germany?

Well, I think that's easy to say from my modern-day expat perspective. I will always have another country to flee to. But the whites in Zimbabwe never saw themselves as expats. It was the country of their birth, a country they loved above all, and a country they wanted to make work for everyone. And I think most people there just couldn't believe that the government would go as far, because they still held on to a belief in civic principles, even when it was obvious that those principles were violated at every turn.

What I love about When a Crocodile Eats the Sun is how it merges historic events with the very personal tale of the author's family. Much of Zimbabwe's decline can be observed by the increasing plight of Godwin's parents, who at first refuse to acknowledge that anything is amiss, and then refuse to leave even as they start living in fear. The story is written in an effortless prose and yet some sentences seem as if they took hours to craft, they are so poetic.

I can highly recommend this book not only for a better understanding of Zimbabwe but Southern Africa in general. Incidentally, the friend I borrowed the book from grew up and lived in Zimbabwe herself before emigrating to South Africa, and confirms that much of the story reflects bits and pieces of her own life. I can't wait to hear more about that over another two cups of coffee!

My Case for Skipping Christmas

2011-11-20T06:19:00.007+02:00

Yikes, is it this time of year again?

The stores have put up their Christmas trees, the kids are practicing carols on their instruments, and I have that nagging feeling that it's high time to get to work on that list of presents once again. Yet something is very wrong. It is freaking 36 degrees (Celsius, which is somewhere in the 90s in Fahrenheit) outside, so that even I, the biggest chicken when it comes to cold water, have been romping in our pool. If you've been brought up in the Northern Hemisphere, Christmas and sunny weather just don't go together. Even North Carolina, which does have four seasons (in the right order), was borderline, so that we'd sometimes make a roaring fire on Christmas Eve while running the A/C so as not to wilt from the heat.

Tyical Christmas season scene from Joburg

Last year, I made a sort of half-assed effort at Christmas, because it was our first in Joburg and I just felt bound by tradition. See the sad tree I was able to round up here. But this year I have no yearnings for anything Christmas-like at all. In fact, I quite resent the very idea. Back in July, when we were out of gas and I was freezing my butt off in my kitchen, I could have felt the Christmas spirit and in fact I did bake some cookies then, just to warm up the kitchen (which was not an easy feat, because the butter wouldn't soften enough and stuck to the side of the bowl instead of becoming creamy). But now? No thanks. Can we please just skip Christmas?

I've already reduced my Christmas to-do list to the bare bones. Lighting up the house with chains of lights? No one does it here. Shopping for overseas presents? They never get there. Sending out Christmas cards? ditto. Striking that one off my list made me a bit sad (if you have known me for a while, you will know that my annual Christmas card is a source of pride) but I have to say it freed up an immense amount of time - no more researching printing costs, having the card and a picture printed, buying stamps and envelopes, stuffing everything and separating by country, licking stamps...

But try as I might, I can't cull the "presents" category from my list. All I can do is try to make it easier and more painless to get my hands on them, which is why I was happy to find out about this new Amazon site called MYHABIT.

It's something Amazon has started fairly recently, a new site offering up to 60% off hand-picked selections from fashion designer and boutique brands, including men's women's and children's apparel, accessories, shoes, jewelry and watches, as well as home decor and toys. I admit I'm actually not the type to get excited about the mention of shopping, boutique brands not withstanding, but I thought I'd share it with those of you who are. If you've been frustrated about not finding certain things here in South Africa, this might be an alternative. I checked out their shipping policy and they offer a flat rate of $15 on international shipping, and - you have to make sure of these things - South Africa is on the list. The only caveat is that there might be an additional customs fees deposit depending on what you're buying, but that is not to be avoided unless you can buy in the U.S. and have visitors smuggle in the item as their token of appreciation for being pampered at your house, in which case shipping is free.

Enjoy your shopping while I'm off to convince my kids that we really don't need a Christmas tree this year...

I've Been Interviewed

2011-11-18T12:15:00.007+02:00

As you know, I love telling people about the beauty of South Africa, and I especially love dispelling myths that circulate around the internet. I tried to do just that in a recent interview I gave on BlogExpat.com, called From Kansas to Johannesburg.

If you get a chance, go check it out. In fact, they have a whole series of "From...To" type interviews written by expats going to the most interesting places, some of which I found very amusing. Who knows, maybe you'll find another blog to follow - as long as you stay tuned to mine!

Living as an Expat in South Africa

2011-11-17T02:44:00.000+02:00

As most of you know, I created this blog to help out fellow expats who are as desperate for information about South Africa as I was before we first came here. So a lot of my stories inform about life in South Africa, what's different here from my previous life, and how it is different from what I expected. I've spent a lot of time debunking some myths and praising this country, to the extent that I sometimes feel like I might overdo it.

Which is why it's always nice to hear someone else's perspective. So I'm going to be very lazy today and just point you to the blog post of a fellow expat (and good friend), who summed up her one year of living in Joburg so masterfully I was wondering why I hadn't thought of writing it myself:-). Seriously, she put into words the sentiments all of us expats have had, from before we moved here throughout the first one or two years. I might not have been quite as scared upon arrival, as I am just not easily scared (I only removed the Violin Spider from above our bed on Noisette's insistence the other day, and learned later that it is the same as a Brown Recluse with a very venomous bite, so sometimes it helps to be scared of things), but still I've gone through the same metamorphosis from apprehension, at the very least, to comfort and love of this country.

Please click here for Living as an Expatriate in Johannesburg - One Year Later.

The Pitfalls of Another Language, Even If it is English

2011-11-15T05:09:00.001+02:00

Throughout all our moves, we've always been lucky that the posting was to an English speaking country. (Although navigating the intricacies of Singlish is a whole different story. Lah.) I can only imagine how hard it must be to have to learn another language on top of all the other stuff you have to do for an international move, and I have great admiration for those people. Well, technically I guess I'm also one of those people if I count our original move from Germany to the U.S., but that feels like it was about a hundred years ago.

But learning a new language is what also makes an international move more fun, in the long run. Noisette might disagree, but I love the challenge of languages and how they help you better understand a culture. In fact, I am convinced you can only understand (and love) a culture if you speak the language. I love France and anything French, for instance, precisely because I speak the language (or did speak the language, also about a hundred years ago). People who don't speak French don't usually love the French, if we're completely honest.

Also, if you're a blogger, you get a lot more writing material if you throw language into the mix. I recently came across this story about how the mispronunciation of a single vowel made for a rather embarrassing admission.

Which brings me to the point of today's story. I really thought, mistakenly it turns out, that I had South Africanisms down pat. In fact, I had written several blog posts about them, like From Babbalas to Yebo, We Will Give you a Tinkle, and "Just Now" or "Now Now"? (my favorite). Babbalas, by the way, means hangover, so you would think that if I know the word for that, I should also know what causes it.

But I didn't. I was made aware, ever so politely, that the title of a blog post last week could be severely misconstrued. Instead of conveying how angry I am at South African bureaucracy by shouting I'm REALLY pissed!, capital letters and all, I apparently told the world (or, rather, the South African-English-speaking world) that I was very drunk. Oh well, there goes my reputation. Just make sure you take everything I say with a grain of salt. ~Hic!~