For a minute there/ I lost myself/ I lost myself

I haven't written in over two months.
Not for lack of something to write about, more because of a lack of time and the sense that the right words would come, that they could not be forced.

Time was consumed by a new job, at first. Then I moved into a new apartment, which absorbed all the energy I had left, mainly because schlepping things and going to Ikea are exhausting tasks. At about the same time, a new person came into my life, and the getting-to-know this newness was equally time-consuming. All of these things were good, they were little signals of life finally settling into a recognisable form and me not always seemingly on the hunt for whatever comes next.

But I knew the fates would think of something. Good never lasts long. Good gets a few weeks of being blissful, before something wrecks whatever was going well. This time it was a routine check-up on a random Friday at the gynaecologists. I had gone a few weeks before and been told I had a cyst that needed to be monitored, but that it was probably nothing, that this was just something women got.

Turns out nothing was two pomelo-sized tumours hiding on my ovaries and pressing on my bladder. This situation was made even more fun because the gynae thought that she should inform me of this development while I was still in the torture chair, half-naked and with my vagina out. She told me to get a paper from the reception, and that the operation should happen ASAP. My hearing only honed in on 'tumour' and 'reception', so I went there, got a piece of paper, was told to call the hospital, and left.

I took my bike, rode to the station, got on a train, and stood there, holding onto my bike and crying. Then I went to work and ignored the news, mainly because I was not sure what it meant and also what I was supposed to do now. Normally I'd call my mom because she'd know, but she was far away and I didn't want to panic anyone.

After work I had made a Skype date with my mother, and told her the news. It was strange, being alone in a room and her equally so, with thousands of kilometres between us, when all I'd instinctually want to do is hug it out. Luckily a friend had said to come by for dinner, so I could unload on her and sit crying (again) in her kitchen. Luckily we also had wine.

On the Monday I called the hospital, got an appointment with the operating doctor on Thursday and was sliced open by Friday. One week. One has to admire the speed of it all.

But it was strange and, above all, frightening. The gynae had not told me anything besides it being a tumour. For a week I was told to wait and see, that things would be fine, but at the same time being fed Wikipedia-knowledge about my ovaries also being taken out and with them the possibility of having children. These were not questions I wanted to ask myself. This was not what I wanted to debate. The Monday evening I cracked, and told my sister to come. This was not something I felt I could do alone in a country that has yet to feel like mine. She said she'd get on a plane.

Two girlfriends and I had brunch and cycled to the hospital. They brought snacks and sat with me for hours as we waited and tests were done. On the Friday I took my suitcase and check in alone. Another lady was there for a similar operation, something to investigate her ovaries because she was trying to get pregnant and it was not working. I got some pill that was wonderful and relaxing, and was wheeled into the operating room. The anaesthesia was ice cold and hurt my arm.

I woke up and fell asleep repeatedly. There was a man wheeling me to the room. I spoke to him at length about cake, mentioning 'melk tert' and how my mom has an easy one that she makes. My one friend had been there, but the operation took longer than expected. The tumours were larger and could not simply be sucked out. The muscles had to be cut open and the the tumours extracted, but because of their weight they sucked onto the lining (or something) and it took even longer. This is what the doctor said on Sunday, and afterwards I made the mistake of googling what dermoid tumours are. Here's the description: "an abnormal growth (teratoma) containing epidermis, hair follicles, and sebaceous glands, derived from residual embryonic cells". Jip. Hair, teeth, skin, all wrapped up neatly and growing inside of you.

During the night I found out I was peeing into a bag and struggled to sleep on my back. Breakfast was served early and consisted of white bread with spread. Lunch was unrecognisable vegetarian slop throughout, and dinner (again) bread and spread. The stereotype of hospital food being horrible was being fulfilled, but makes no sense to me: would sick and recovering humans not profit from a better diet? From food that looked and tasted like food, instead of being without consistency and nutritional value?

My sister arrived on Saturday. It was a relief hearing her, because I knew that I could trust her with anything. She helped me wash myself and combed my hair when I could not, and helped me up to take a walk. It was almost incomprehensible: having a young, relatively strong body one day, and not being able to walk the next. Friends came by, brought food and entertainment. People walked at a snail's pace with me, or sat around, or told me what had been happening in their lives. It was good: the world was brought to me.

After 5 days I became restless - my sister could only stay for a week and I did not want her to waste her time on just coming to the hospital. There were things to be seen and shopping to be done. Wednesday they said I could go. The greater challenge still lay ahead: getting up four flights of stairs. She carried my bag and I carried myself, slowly, but we made it.

The next few days were recovery on speed. We went to a beer garden, we went shopping, we went to a friend's garden. We even ran to catch a train, me holding my stomach and her holding the door. Her being here helped immensely, but the last days were equally exhausting, at least in part because I sort of emotionally blackmailed her into building two chairs with me (one of my idiotic ideas to reupholster two old chairs that was more of a mission that expected). The my sister got on a flight back to South Africa, and I was left to languish for two weeks.

This thing man, it shook me. It turned out not as bad as expected, and the scars will fade (mainly because my mother thoughtfully keeps sending me ointments that will help in making them disappear as much as possible), but the week of fear. That remains a memory. The fear of not knowing what will happen, of not being in control at all, of your body being the thing to rebel against you. The fear instilled by this lack of knowledge and half-truths inhabiting your thoughts. The fear of being alone in a place, and not knowing what to do, really.

But it also gave me a wonderful sense of community. People on three continents wrote, called and rallied. People came to check up on me, people asked if I needed anything, people brought the equivalent of 'People' magazine. Even people I did not know cared: an older lady in the same wing of the hospital and I would walk together at times, her having had a hysterectomy, and both of us carrying our bags of wound juice (or whatever it is that one calls it). She stopped shuffling forward when I recounted my operation, and started crying. Afterwards, every time she saw me in the hall she'd squeeze my arm and walk on.

I realise this wasn't such a big deal, that there are others with much larger issues and that all I had was one horrible week. One week that made me go from being fearless to merely undaunted.

Ode to You

My mother keeps sending pictures to our family WhatsApp group of people braaiing (barbecuing), because today is Heritage Day in South Africa. Somehow, some clever marketing person decided to rebrand the day to 'Braai Day', which everyone embraced wholeheartedly and now people get together to celebrate the rainbow nation by grilling meat over an open flame.

In Paris it was a day like any other, a day closer to another weekend. As people at home were enjoying spring's sunshine and a good boerie roll I was sitting at a laundromat eating a pain au chocolat. Waiting for my laundry made me wonder what heritage means to us, both as a people with a strong patriotic streak and as individuals with very different ideas of what a single heritage might constitute. Are we even allowed to be patriotic? Does it depend on where you come from for you to be allowed to be proud of the passport you carry? In a world that is becoming more and more borderless, does the concept of nationhood still hold true? And does heritage go beyond birth certificates to included lived experiences, past and present?

Elsewhere, I have questioned the idea of belonging, of finding the puzzle that you as a piece fit into. Heritage is complicated by our family history: on the one hand white Afrikaners (white Afrikaans-speaking South Africans), on the other hand white German emigrants. Double the whiteness, double the guilt. The one side systematically divided a country up according to skin colour and for more than 50 years privileged anyone European-looking to the detriment of a much larger (and darker) local population. The other side systematically divided up a country according to what they defined as a superior race and tried to exterminate any population that did not fit this mould, leading to the World War II and millions dead (soldiers, civilians and those in the extermination camps).

On Heritage Day, do we look to this past and remember never to make the same mistakes? Do I acknowledge the privilege of my life, through the whiteness of my skin and the middle-class status that my parents worked hard for? Is there even a point to this navel-gazing, when most don't consider the current inequality that has shifted from race to class? A friend recently posted an article by Prof. Jonathan Jansen, rector of the University of the Free State, titled How to be White and Happy in South Africa . The gist of the article is to accept your position and to learn to listen to those from different cultures and (economic backgrounds), as you have grown up shielded from the hardships that people with darker pigmented skin had to endure. Heritage today, an attempt at understanding?

Now I live on a continent of privilege and with refugees flooding into the European Union the prejudices we carry with us become even clearer. There were wonderful images of people welcoming groups of refugees as they arrived in Munich. On social media I have seen the engagement of my peers through organisations such as Refugees Welcome in trying to help, be it through donating their time, their money or other goods. People are coming together in hours of need, and it is flooring to see. As Jonathan Freedland argues in an article for The Guardian, "this has been no overnight transformation. Germans have spent decades reckoning with their past in a way few nations can match. Nevertheless the embrace Germany is currently offering to the dispossessed of Syria – while so much of Europe closes its doors or quibbles over tiny numbers – has altered perceptions anew. "

So perhaps heritage can evolve into something better, from those who have helping those who have not to my Afrikaans mother making my German gran's Spätzle with Rouladen and showing us how to do it. Heritage is in the buildings we queue for hours to get into, in the DNA of our appearance and the family recipes that get passed on from generation to generation, in knowing that the evil that men do lives after them and the good is interred with their bones.

You are one of us

There is something about pilgrimages, about being on the long road with a certain goal that appeals to my inner wild child. Travelling, moving somewhere out of the ordinary, means breaking away (at least for a while)  from responsibilities. My mother and I have road-tripped together most often, so it is hard for me to hear about her driving alone to fetch my gran in Jeffrey's Bay. It is hard not being there, not helping to pack the car, not taking the longer shifts. I know the road they are taking: Jansenville, Graaff-Reinet, Middelburg, Colesberg, Bloemfontein. When driving down from Pretoria my grandmother would call at intervals, asking where we were, calculating how fast we were reaching each milepost along the road.

The family was trekking into the heart of the country for a reunion of epic proportions. Cousins, great-cousins, aunts, uncles, everyone related in some way, everyone wanting to see how the others had changed. Underneath it all a current of familiar strife, people having fallen out and not spoken to one another in years. This frustrates me extremely. My cousin Emce calls me 'kwaai katjie' and the other day my mother and grandmother laughed as they said I was a 'kwaaitjie kabouter' (it translates into an angry kitten and an angry little gnome). They say this without listening. I am angry, it is true, but at them, for never talking about anything. Avoiding conflict and pretending at everything being a-ok runs in their veins, with the end result being no one talking to one another. If we do not speak about it, it is not happening.

I fully understand that not everyone wants to talk at length about their feelings. We are not on Freud's couch, there is no need for psychoanalysis. But I will insist on honesty. I will insist on making things a-ok, on working at it, instead of feigning ignorance at the problems in our midst. They do not understand this being-far-away-thing. I appreciate the videos, the voice messages, the photographs of togetherness being sent over social media more than they know. I thank the Gods for WhatsApp and FaceTime. Yet the sentence "When are you coming for a visit?" stresses me, because I have no answer. I don't know if or when I'll come back. Personal aspirations clash with familiar desires, wanting to see more with wanting to be there.

It won't be an easy choice, when I eventually make it. It won't be a permanent one, probably. But it will mean more years in far away places, not coming to Sunday lunches, Christmas dinners or helping to drive the long road. It means building a life so apart form them that I fear at some point the voice notes will stop, the photographs won't be shared, and I will no longer be one of them.

Trusty and True

When the tears come I reach out to my mother.
No matter how far away she is, I have never doubted her, never felt alone, never felt like there was an obstacle that I could not face. She is the one to talk me down from the metaphorical ledge.
My mother is magnificent.

Since today is International Women's Day, I thought a bit about practically having been raised solely by impressive women, all with hardships of their own, and all with infinite capacities to love, to share and to support one another.

My Afrikaans grandmother is a very tough nut to crack. She is unyielding, unaffectionate and at times annoyingly unwilling to accept other worldviews beside her own. Then again, she is 86 now, and despite all her flaws she came back when others left. My ouma might fail when it comes to expressing love directly, and yet she tries, in her own way. She multitasks when reading books, she knows how to preserve any kind of fruit, and she can garden like no other. Although I have felt her to be disappointing in her persistence on old ways of thought, it must be crippling to be slipping constantly nearer to dementia. Perhaps when you can't remember if you have eaten it is comforting to remember your own childhood, your deceased husband, the better times of past memories relived in this unmemorable present. As much as her cracks have started showing ever clearer, she has been there, and her tiny, shrunken body crumbles even further when the time for departure arrives. And despite all her mistakes I have no other ouma.

When my ouma went home after a few months of staying with us, our cleaning lady Rosina stepped in. She was a lady in her late 50s/early 60s with patches of white skin that appeared in between the brown. Rosina always arrived dressed very smartly (after having taken the bus and taxi from Shoshanguve for what amounts to two hours if I remember correctly) and she came by twice a week. The highlight was coming home to her mashed potatoes and green beans. When I was still prepubescent she would meet me at the robot and we would walk home together. Rosina must have seen so much of the tiny intricacies and difficulties in our household, and yet I know nothing really of hers. I seem to remember a husband that was no longer present, and her sister's kids playing a role. When I was done with school she retired, and I have not seen her since. Strange (and worthy of closer investigation) how many white children have been raised (in part) by black (or coloured or Indian) women, and then how the children distanced themselves from their caretaker (their surrogate mother even) as soon as they would reach an age where racial division would appear to be socially imperative.

My sister is the fourth impressive woman, even though I think she does not trust her own capabilities at times. Over the years we have had epic fights and disagreements. We have lived separate lives while living in the same house. But she is also the one who drove me around before I had a licence, who let me borrow her ID before I was 18 to get into clubs, who has shared uncomfortable single beds with me whilst travelling, and who has offered advice I actually took. Whereas I will feel brazenly, openly (and often stupidly), my sister has a calmer, more rational demeanor that is hard to shake (although at times I would very much like to shake her until she actually tells me how she feels).

Besides these four admirable women there have been wonderful female friends whose influence I am very grateful for. They are all passionate, intelligent, embracing and I have a great respect for how each of them has faced /is facing the big, unplanned events that make life just a bit harder than it needs to be.

In that spirit, to all the women that have raised me and all the ones that keep enriching my life, I thank you for being phenomenal.

Phenomenal Woman
BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,   
The stride of my step,   
The curl of my lips.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,   
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,   
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.   
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.   
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,   
And the flash of my teeth,   
The swing in my waist,   
And the joy in my feet.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,   
They say they still can’t see.   
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,   
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.   
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.   
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,   
The bend of my hair,   
the palm of my hand,   
The need for my care.   
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Choice Kingdom

"In late modernity, what it might mean to conceive of oneself as belonging to a nation is an interesting question. Are notions of national belonging based on geographical location, ancestry, race, ethnicity, culture? Are they a construct, the result of social and political structures? Might one hold multiple nationalities or none? Is nationality somehow fixed, set, or, in a modern, cosmopolitan context, is it possible to conceive of nationality as a choice?"

On the occasion of a conference on JM Coetzee in the World in Australia, in her article Is JM Coetzee an 'Australian writer'? The answer could be yes Claire Heaney questions whether Coetzee can still be seen as a South African writer, or whether he has become an Australian, both through his moving there in 2002 and his claim of Australian citizenship in 2006. More than the debate surrounding his work and choice of continent the paragraph quoted above spoke to me (also because it just consists of questions I constantly ask myself).

What does it mean to belong and what is it based on? When I am in Germany, I never feel at home; I can't breathe fully and at times an unknown darkness creeps in, like an octopus whose tentacles insist on wrapping themselves ever tighter around my body and my life. And yet, South Africa is ever so slowly losing what was 'home' about it. My mom lives in a different city now. Turns out my sister is not capable of showing that she cares over long distance.

This moment in time is entirely frustrating. On the one hand I want to build a life somewhere, settle in for a bit, meet up with people where I don't think that the friendship has an expiration date whilst knowing very well that if both don't put in an effort all friendships eventually drift apart. Is there just a small percentage of people who will consistently inquire about the well-being of the important ones in their lives, irrespective of distance? Is it only a special breed that insists on not giving up when the kilometres increase?

I desperately want the life of my choosing, the problem remains that I don't know what to choose. Do I go back, do I make the argument for being close to my mother, close to a few I remain in contact with, close to sunshine, close to mangoes? Or do I plant some roots in the Northern Hemisphere, get a retirement fund, forget about leaving all the time? Do I choose weekend-trips to Zürich and all the places I haven't been before? Do I embrace the possibility of actually wanting to make new friends that last?

More than the question of belonging to a nation, in your twenties the question is simply of belonging when your world is no longer a fixed place.

Step out

It's a weird time of the year.
Idealised memories of Christmas spent with cousins cluster like grapes around the realities of the non-season here. In one we are all at my grandmother's first house, the one with the patio above the garage (above some other room?) where one had a startling view of the sea. My aunt asked someone to play Santa Claus and to a pack of preschoolers the man in the red suit arriving at our doorstep was everything.

In another memory we are again at the beach, always at the beach, and my grandmother has tossed the traditional idea of a Christmas tree by using the long branch-bloom that extends from the middle of some type of succulent. She has made little packets for each grandchild containing a host of tiny 'onbenullighede', things she has picked up at farm stalls and convenience stores during the past year in her pursuit to be fair to us all. The families are all there, the aunts and uncles and my mother and sister.

A different year sees my grandmother, always my grandmother, with us in 2000, the first one without my father. I remember him gifting me a Celine Dion CD, a sign that he had not noticed I had moved away from 'My Heart Will Go On' to falling for my sister's Backstreet Boys collection.

Then there was the one year my sister and I spent Christmas alone. The sad year, the bad year, the one where we fought and ended up in our separate rooms.

But it is the Christmases of my 20s that I yearn for now. I miss planning how to get my grandmother to wherever the celebration will be; coordinating a menu with everyone doing different dishes; thinking up cool presents; bickering and fighting and the feeling of needing distance from the overdose of family; having everyone unpack each present individually, stretching the time spent with one another; hanging out with cousins that are so very different from me and still so relatable; sitting outside in the sun with whomever is there at the moment, sipping on a glass of wine and catching up; and lastly, more than the event that is Christmas I miss the sense that blood is thicker than water.

This Christmas will surely be its own shrewd kind of miracle, and I look forward to spending it with people close to my heart. And last year was experiencing Christmas as an observer more than as a participant, by no fault of the kind family that hosted me. It was still a lot of fun and I enjoyed getting to know the little rituals of a family quite different from mine.

Nevertheless, none of this is Christmas. Forget about the religious aspect of the season, dismiss the name and the particular date all together, and center on what it is that makes the time spent together on those few days so memorable: the people. Sometimes, it is as simple as this - I long for my people.

Safe and Sound

Somehow, you find your way in a new place. You get lost, often, in the beginning, but after a while you figure out which bus to take, where to buy your groceries, when market day is and which club you should not go to, ever again (I'm looking at you, Phono. That name should have been a hint). You develop a routine with roads walked and people seen on a daily basis, because after all you have chosen to be here for some time so you might as well burrow yourself into a niche and make yourself comfortable. It becomes the home you speak of when you go home after a day at the university or drinks with friends. 

And yet, it is not. This cloudy place is not home. Although beautiful, this city with its harbour and beaches and friendly people does not make me want to stay longer than needed. I miss sunsets where cherries and strawberries blend with peach colours as you drive home. I miss seeing the stars (or just a cloudless sky for that matter). I miss the ladies that pack the grocery bags. I miss fruit that smells like fruit and not simply like nothing. I miss Hunter's Dry. I miss Woolworths. I miss road trips, weekend adventures and dancing to good electronic music. I miss the heat, the food and the people. 

This onslaught of nostalgia and Heimweh has a source: my people came to visit, and with them the language, the habits and the memories of home. My mother and sister were here for only a week but their presence had a lasting effect. Perhaps it is the time of the year, with the semester coming to a close and my plane ticket taking me home being only a month away. I am pretty certain that home will not be home, or not the one I remember. The house we have lived in for the past 20 years has been sold to a young family. My sister lives and works in a different city. My friends have moved to cities far away, have started new jobs and new relationships, everyone has made everyday choices which I have not been privy to but which have marked them ever so slightly. In turn, my choices here have influenced me as well. 

W. Somerset Maugham wrote in The Summing Up that "we are not the same persons this year as last ; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person." (I've quoted this previously). It is this sentiment that I cling to, it is this that I am homesick for: although the cities change, although we choose different paths, although my mother's house is no longer hers it is this environment that formed me. I long for this illusion of 'home', the 'home' of my past because it constitutes my foundation. It is the habits I have assimilated from my family, it is the new friendships I am willing to invest time in because I know what good, old friends are and it is the security of being unguarded in front of people who will not reject you.  

In some way I see this homesickness as the symptom of another little crisis, as one of those things that life throws your way unexpectedly at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday. I am sloth-like here, unhappy with being unproductive for a university that asks nothing of you, and unhappy for then not challenging myself. I could be reading, I could be writing that novel, I could be doing things that other, working people no longer have time for. Instead I languish on my bed, watching mindless series and sinking deeper into to-do lists I don't do. 

This is my fault, naturally. Blogging today is a start. Reading something for classes after this will be another. Getting away from the screen, from the foolish distractions of facebook and 9gag, taking charge of my time again is where I put my faith in. So I'll start. I'll make myself some rooibos tea, dunk one of the rusks my mom baked and brought, and start focusing again. 

Rewrite

"Sometimes I wish there was someone I could write a letter to. I look at piles of mail on the floor. They have someone to write to. I bet its not a bad feeling. To be able to reach out. And believe in your heart that someone will be there. I wish I could believe that, too."

 - Henry Rollins

I am lucky to have people who send me things in the mail. The short rush of joy as I open the letter box and see something has arrive for me is such a high. I don't understand why people take drugs, they should just send one another letters instead. Not knowing if or when the letter will arrive causes enough anxiety and receiving something in the mail that is not a bill is so wonderful than one needn't look elsewhere for excitement. 

My mom sent me some of my clothes and things (a flour sifter! measuring spoons and cups! a peppermint crisp! my one blanket!) for which I had to go to the customs office. Yesterday I went again to fetch a surprise Christmas packet a friend had sent (Mrs. Balls chutney! earrings! a personalised calendar!) and also got a letter in the mail from another friend. I know the best people :) 

Pakkie 1

Pakkie 2. Nice stamps :)

Slow it down

I feel like I am constantly in some existential crisis here. It hits me at random moments: I'll see myself in the mirror and suddenly the mind/body split seems almost tangible. It is as though I am standing outside of myself and seeing flesh that is not mine. Physically I might be here, now, but there seems to be no intrinsic connection to my brain that makes me feel at ease here.

I get over this level of asking existential-Angst-fueled questions pretty quickly, but then I'll get lost in language. Language has always belonged to me, somehow. I am used to hearing entire conversations I cannot understand happening all around me. The ladies at the tills, the people queuing with me, the actors in shows like Muvhango or Stokvel, they are all conversing outside of my language skill set. But it has never felt strange, it is usual to have to switch often, riding various intercepting language tracks in a short space of time. Here, it is German. Just German.

I was under the impression that the university would be offering at least half of the core subjects in English, but now only one subject (Literature) is actually not in German. Add to that the fact that any other communication here (be it with friends, roommates or some governmental organisation that wants my money) happens in German as well and you'll understand that I get slightly overwhelmed at times. Salvation then comes in tiny little increments made possible by modern technology - whatsapping with friends or Skyping with my mom. I don't want to make the mistake of living in another country and permanently wanting to Skype with those back home, because then having left would be rather pointless. But it is immeasurably reassuring to be drinking tea in my room and listening to my mom talk about unimportant everyday occurrences. Hearing about what goes on in the lives of others helps with forgetting that I haven't found my sea legs here, yet.

The third wave of existential crisis is much less in my mind. Instead, it is solidly tied to my bank balance. I was not excessively naive when I applied for Bafög (a type of governmental student loan system where you have minimal interest and only have to partially pay back the money you received), but apparently here every time you fart there is a stack of paperwork to fill out so everything takes forever. Not knowing if I'll receive any money or if I do how high the amount will be is also quite frustrating.

Time to see if I'll sink or swim in these strange waters.

Ouma

Waarheen jy ook al jou trëe rig,

Sorg that you hart in elke trëe is.

- My grandmother

My grandmother wrote that in a birthday card for me. Roughly translated it means "Wherever you may go, take care that your heart is in each step". I thought it was good advice. 

I am now in Flensburg, have my own room overlooking the harbour, my roommate is supernice and everything is working out well. Now the university just has to start and I'll be a-for-away. Seems like I went in the right direction.

The view from my room this morning

Where Are You Now

In limbo. That's where I am. That's where I have been for all 269 days of this year. And it feels like that is where I'll remain until I move into my own place, the university starts and my life heads somewhere again.

In the meantime I am sorting through old postcards and photographs. A pipe burst in the basement where everyone in the building stores their stuff. Nothing is inundated, the water just slowly drip-drip-dripped out onto the boxes containing old books and photo albums.

Now it is my task to sort through my great-grandmother's obsessive collection and see what can be thrown away and what should be kept. Fun fun fun.

As a distraction from sitting and sifting though damp papers I baked cookies. They should've been salted caramel Nutella stuffed double chocolate chip cookies, but I didn't have all the ingredients. It is strange how you know your own kitchen (or rather, my mother's kitchen) and by comparison cooking somewhere else does not cut it, entirely. Our kitchen at home is spacious and well-equipped. Here it is more cramped and only the most basic of utensils are available. Anything for cookies though.

Adapted from Top With Cinnamon, here is the recipe:

1/2 cup (110g) butter

1 1/2 cups (350g) light brown sugar

1/2 cup (55g) cocoa powder

2 eggs

1/4 tsp salt

3/4 tsp baking powder

2 cups (260g) all-purpose flour

1 slab of the cheapest milk chocolate, chopped into pieces

1 handful of hazelnuts, also chopped

flaky salt/ fleur de sel/ maldon salt, for sprinkling

approx. 1/2 cup (8 tbsp) nutella

Line a baking tray with parchment paper. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F (180 degrees C)

In a medium saucepan, melt the butter. Take off the heat and stir in the brown sugar and eggs. Then add the cocoa, salt and baking powder and stir until well combined. Add the flour and stir until no floury patches are left. Lastly stir in the chopped chocolate and hazelnuts.

Take 1 heaped tbsp of dough, use your finger make a large indentation the centre of the dough and fill the indentation with a small blob of Nutella (like 1/2 tsp ish). Top with a flattened tablespoon of dough, and seal the edges.

Sprinkle with fleur de sel and bake for 8-10 minutes.

And then you get this: 

Top with Cinnamon adds salted caramel or a piece of chocolate containing caramel and omits the hazelnuts in the original recipe. I couldn't find chocolate with caramel in, so that is why I replaced them with hazelnuts. It worked out quite tastily, like a harder brownie with a Nutella centre. Om nom  nom. 

Options

The house smells like jasmine,
leftover scents
of a celebration,
reminding everyone
and myself
that this is
a little like death,
a little death,
except that this time we get to say goodbye.

We get to hug it out
in between promises of
Skype
WhatsApp
letters
postcards
communication in the Digital Age.

But I know (and they know it, too)
that people slip so easily out of another's lives,
even if the knot of friendship was tied tightly,
and that suddenly one has moved along
without really noticing
the past.



 

Typewriter Tip, Tip Tip

My mom and I had to run some errands, but if my grandmother had tagged along it would have taken foooooorever. So I asked if she wanted to watch a film while we were gone. Her options were The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (turns out everyone over 40 has seen it), Seeking a Friend for the End of the World (no), Friend with Kids (no) and Moonrise Kingdom (ok). I was very happy that in the end she chose Moonrise Kingdom, because I will admit to riding the hipster bandwagon that is liking everything Wes Anderson does.

One of my favourite movies will always be The Darjeeling Limited (this posts title is from this song that is featured in the film) because Anderson has the ability to immerse the viewer in a world that is strange, wonderful and magical while also relating to the instability, turmoil and love present in all human relationships. It is as though one is watching one's own family drama, told through a much more beautiful lens.

Spoke Art has curated a series of posters called "Bad Dads" A Wes Anderson tribute, and they are all equally wonderful and strange.

Jessica Deahl,  I Promise I'll Never Be Your Friend

Fernando Reza, Go Mordecai

Derek Gabryszak, Something Fantastic

Derek Eads, I'm a Little Bit Lonely These Days

DKNG, The Films of Wes Anderson

Dave Perillo, Khaki Scouts

Ibraheem Youssef, Suzy

Stefan Fahler, Sharked

Randy Ortiz, We Got the Tail, but We Missed the Fox

Gotta keep moving with a troubled mind a following

Twee jaar gelede wou ek vir my ouma se verjaarsdag foto's van die hele familie se hande kry en op een of ander manier bymekaar sit. Sy het foto's van almal in haar huis, maar die hele klomp is nooit saam op een foto nie. Ek dink daar is net een foto van 1996 waar die een oumagrootjie verjaar het en omtrent almal daar was. Maar nou bestaan dieselfde eenheid nie meer nie: van hulle is oorsee, ander is geskei, ander is nie meer deel van die familie nie en ander het weer nuut bygekom. In die ou end het my idee nie gewerk nie, maar ek het tog die cool een van my neef se hande geneem.

Dit is nogals vreemd. Al die niggies en neefies kom nie gereeld bymekaar nie, maar as dit gebeur kuier ons tog heel lekker saam (dalk dink ek net so, haha). Van hulle is nou meer Engels as Afrikaans, van hulle is/was oorsee, van hulle kom dalk nooit terug nie. Op een of ander manier bly mens steeds familie, en stel belang in mekaar se lewens. Ek dink net dit raak moeiliker hoe ouer mens word en hoe verder weg mens van mekaar af bly. Destyds het ons ouers vir mekaar gekuier en so het ons maar met mekaar gespeel, maar nou moet mens moeite doen dat die kringe van ons lewens nog steeds mekaar oorvleuel.

Dit voel vir my ook altyd as of die ander weet waar hulle hoort.

My neef klink soos sy pa as hy praat, en waneer hy goed vertel klink dit as of hy weet waar sy wortels is en waar hy wil bly. Hy het 'n passie vir sy omgewing wat ek eer het as ek in ander stede die metro kan vat en kan rondstap. Die Vrystaat is vir my 'n plek waar ek ons trein te lank gestaan het en waar die lig altyd mooi is om foto's te neem. Dit is nie naby aan my hart nie, maar Pretoria of Duitsland is ook nie eintlik nie. Dalk het ek wieletjies aan my boude en kan nie ophou beweeg nie waar die ander al 'n plek gekry het waar hulle maar die remme kon trap en hul wortels kon ingrawe.

It's a Good Life

My mom reused the birth-announcement-card as a birthday card this year. Now I know I was born at 00.25 AM. Being born at twenty-five minutes into the day turned out to be a good sign for my 25th birthday. It was the first time in my life that there was no one in the house with me on the day. Normally someone puts out flowers and presents and a cake, even if they had to already leave for work/school.

This time my mom wrote down clues for me to find objects stashed in the house. It wasn't entirely successful because she thought writing down clues about what the present was, and not about its location, would help me find them. No wonder we suck when we're partners in 30 Seconds. Nothing a phone call couldn't fix though.

I am aware that as soon as you hit the double digits, birthdays become less cool. No more goodie bags at the end of a party, no more running around and frolicking in the pool, no more waiters at Spur bringing you something with candles on it and singing to you. Then all you care about is turning 16, turning 18 and getting your licence, and, the big one, turning 21, because then you are an adult and your parents pay for your last big fiesta.

I am still not an adult, but somehow, 25 feels like no one can treat me like a child any more. At a quarter of a century into life, it is a great balance between having experienced enough not to be a completely ignorant fool who thinks she knows everything (me at 19) and still being young enough to depart from what I know without the weight of mortgages, car payments and a long career at the same company.

This was the first birthday of being a semi-adult where I thought, well, you might just be able to do anything you want successfully. And the reason for this was all the great people I have in my life. My mom made a gigantic effort to bake a cake and organise a treasure hunt. She also involved my aunt and cousin to fly up a cape I wanted (yes, cape, like superman-ish, but better). My sister also helped with this cross-country endeavour and spent hours looking for a silk dress she thought I might like (I do).

My friend K planned a super surprise brunch date, with awesome self-made presents. Another friend called completely out of the blue from France and sent me the funniest YouTube video. I got  'Happy Birthday' sung to me via WhatsApp and sent in messages, in emails, in Facebook posts. Other friends, family and neighbours called. Often, sure, it was because someone had been told by FB that this was the day of my birth, but I appreciated all the little and great efforts equally.

William Somerset Maugham said that "we are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person". A birthday provides the opportunity to reflect on what one has done in the past year, how things have changed or not, and which friends you still wish to invite to your party. I remember how I realised a friendship was over: for the first time since 7th grade, I was not invited to her birthday party. 

Somehow, this birthday made me realise the truth of W. Somerset Maugham's quote: things change all the time, people drift apart, and we should value the ones that remain, steadily, in your life because they are the one's that will make an effort to celebrate you being born even if you aren't throwing a party this year. They are the ones that will be there throughout the curve balls that life throws at us, and in turn, so will you, because nobody can make it on their own. 

 

Never without cake. This one: Frozen Chocolate Mousse Cake. 

Introduction

A few weeks back it felt like Oprah was giving cars away. Only that the cars were books and we actually had to pay for them. So essentially not the same thing at all, but still amazing.

Every year Exclusive Books hosts a warehouse sale in Johannesburg (maybe twice a year?) and sells the books for R50 per kilogram (that's about €5). Holy shit.

The books were just too cool. My cousin and I just loaded in anything we thought could be remotely interesting (in other terms if the cover was colourful), but my sister was more discerning. In the end we walked out with 47kg between the three of us.

It is great to not have to fork out R800 for an art book. Normally, the books I use for research cost too much because they are in quite a specific field that doesn't interest the general public? Online activism, you say? We just push the 'like' button on Facebook and things change. Comic books and graphic novels as literary works? No, man, those are just for children/nerds. I'll wait til someone makes a movie out of it. How the Internet has affected/changed our way of thinking? Not really interested, hand me 50 Shades of Grey please.

Sure, I am generalising (as always), but what made the warehouse sale so fun is stocking up on books you would ordinarily not consider because they would not fit in entirely with the information you need and then not justify the expense incurred. But here, paying between R50 and R150 for a great art book is beyond worth it. I might have grabbed one or two silly books (like the one where you have to identify famous people by their hairstyle). Overall however this was better than Christmas and Easter and birthdays all put together.

Ek herhaal jou

Dit is altyd tyd om te gaan, om jou tas met kreukelvrye hemde en iets vir die aand en broeke wat beskerm teen muggies en multi-tasking skoene te pak. En mens moenie vergeet van die boekrak vol boeke en notas wat jy probeer in 'n ander sak te stop teen spyte van die iPad en Google. Die internet weet tóg nie alles nie, veral as dit kom by bokkies en blare.

Jy los altyd vir ons die huis so voorberei as of 'n atoombomb Pretoria sou tref en ons jare sou moes oorlef. Net met smullekker opsies, dis niks blikspaghetti of bone op roosterbrood by ons nie. So ook die versoek dat ek 'n sjokoladekoek moet bak.

Ek weet nie hoe dit by ander mense se families is nie, maar die vrouens in myne is groot op kosmaak. My Duitse ouma het altyd Späztle gemaak met Rouladen en as nagereg was daar een of ander enorme koek. My ander ouma is nie juis so dol daaroor om ure in die kombuis te staan nie, maar soms maak sy 'n hoendertjie, of bederf ons met beskuit en heuning wat sy iewers by 'n padstal gekoop het. Sy is ook die een om te bel as jy blatjang of kweperjellie of enige voedselpreservering wil doen.

Maar die wenner bly my ma. Toe ons klein was het sy altyd baie moeite gedoen met onthale vir al die diplomate. Dit was net tafels gelaai vol pragtige bakke met happies of verskillende koeke of antipasti. As kind het ek die pienk salm-mousse in visvorm of die koue beetsop nie so waardeer nie. Maar vir ons verjaardae was daar altyd wonderlike koeke om na die speletjies (nou die drankies) te geniet, of dit nou 'n kat met 'n snor uit liquorice is toe ek vyf geword het, of laas jaar se drie-lae-sjokolade-mousse-koek.

Sonder my ma sou ons nooit die twee kante van 'n ordentlike fees leer ken het nie. Daar is die ure van voorbereiding in die kombuis, wat soms dae voor die tyd begin. Dan is daar die opskepbakke uit pewter wat sy uit Mexiko gebring het, of dié met die bont groente aan die kant, of selfs die Rosenthal porselein. En moenie van die tafeldoeke en die bordjies en die koffiekoppies (wat my neef gesê het mens nie mooi kan vashou nie) vergeet nie. By 'n ordentlike onthaal moet mens altyd 'n bietjie bang wees om die breekgoed nie te breek nie.

Die kos is natuurlik altyd die hoogtepunt. As almal smul en gesels weet jy al die werk voor die tyd, en al die skottelgoed wat nog vir jou wag, was die moeite werd.

My ma het ons geleer om nie bang te wees vir kos nie, om altyd nuwe resepte te probeer en om daai moeite wat agter elke pragtige dis gedoen word te waardeer. En dit is iets wat ek altyd met my sal dra.

 

The sky above us shoots to kill

At the Huguenot Monument in Franschhoek, an man in his seventies held what appeared to be his grandson upside down in order for him to smell all the roses. The child was squealing with delight, and the grandfather was smiling, too. A happy little postcard memory.

At Yoav's concert in the Kirstenbosch Gardens, a girl was playing with her mother's hair.

Another little girl told my sister she likes her because she has "dots" (freckles) on her face.

Also at Yoav, one could witness the worried measuring of height in the eyes of a mother turning around to the call of her son's voice and finding him in the branches of a tree.

There is this photograph of the two of us, I am around seven years old, all blond-blue-eyed innocence. I lie against the fold of his stomach, counting flowers, he provides the love to lean on.
That is what it should have been like, til death, not difference, do us apart.

A year and a continent later, he is running behind me as I dart down the stairwell, trying to catch me. My castle is outside, furnished with enough blankets and a high-chair for my dolls to block him from coming in. I reach it in time and build my fort. He paces around in front of it, telling me to come out, ordering me to come out. A dragon in waiting. I won't be fooled. For days we don't talk. Even when it is my birthday I won't forgive. And now, many years and continents and opinions later, well, for months we don't talk and there is nothing to forgive any more because of choices made and lives lived apart.


As children, we search for the hand that will guide us though shopping malls and crowded spaces and won't lose us. We rely on that hand to hold on to the bike when the training wheels have come off but we're still too scared to pedal onwards alone. There is the protective spell of innocence uncorrupted by the bad in each other which life will hurl at us soon enough. There is also the real time protection of parents and family and siblings and whomever is in our lives to guide us.

The best memories are not the presents I got or the places we visited, but rather being treated to a strawberry milkshake at Wimpy by my grandmother because I ran errands with her all day, or my mom driving all the way from Pretoria to Jeffrey's while we were sleeping on the backseat of the Merc, or identifying cars in Geneva's morning rush hour, or building a tipi under the giant oak, or listening to Celine Dion for the millionth time. The best memories stem from being enveloped by love, and not worrying whether or not the hand would hold on.

 

I'm coming up only to hold you under

They were mock-fighting. Pushing each other's buttons, because after a lifetime together one knows the other and what will drive them close to an edge of sorts. Both got cramps in their right legs. It was fun to observe a father-daughter relationship when mine ended about 12 years ago. I mean, we live, but they are lives apart that connect through the occasional forced phone call where nothing is said because I don't know (or want to know) his life, and he has no real interest in even remembering the names of people we have been friends with since school. Condescension towards what we do and where we live does not help. 

My cousin has a mulberry tree in the back corner of the garden. There used to be one at the far corner of our school as well, and in the afternoons, before sport started, we would go and stain our white polo shirts with handfuls of berries. My cousin wanted to get some before returning to Cape Town, and I wanted to get some to make jam because the  last time I tried it wasn't that successful. It was dark already and we had only one flashlight and a very dim (almost non-existently dim) head-light. Is that what one calls it? I don't mean a car headlight, I mean those tiny torches you strap to your forehead and that make you look ridiculous. And others get irritated when you then proceed to shine directly in their eyes continuously. I assume my uncle thought we shouldn't be hunting for mulberries at that time of the night (haha, it was close to 19.00), but he came to help us. Sans torch I sort of felt my way around for the ripe ones, but my uncle kept dumping handfuls into our zip-lock bags, so we had quite the stash.

In primary school we used to get silkworms and feed them the mulberry tree's leaves. The end result of a worm was a little round silken bookmark. Don't really know where the bookmarks have disappeared to, but watching the worms' whole transition into moth was cool. These days I'm not that fascinated as easily any more. Well, no, that Consol Solar Light is supercool, in the whole "suck it silk worms, this is technology" manner.

Haha, and later, when the mulberries are done marinating in sugar and cooked, they'll probably be put in Consol jars for preservation. Ag I don't even know what I'm rambling about. It's one of those days of procrastination where I'm waiting for my conscience to kick in and tell me to start.

Liefling*

Taken by my mom in the '80s. This is my grandfather. 

Taken by me, last year. My gran. 

I like how the images somehow are similar and yet almost 30 years apart.




Gé Korsten's Liefling. I knew I was not proper Afrikaans (even with the farm-photos) when I heard this for the first time last year at a wedding and everybody else knew it like it was the National Anthem.