Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz

The car I learned to drive in was more of a ship than a car. I steered a ship on the road, not some plastic sardine box. The old white Merc 190 from the late 80s was my great-uncle's car, which my father had bought off him somewhere when we were living in Geneva. The car traveled with us to Mexico, and then was placed in a container and shipped back to South Africa, full of cases of red wine if I remember correctly.

The problem with this is that the Mercedes is a left-hand drive, and South Africa has right-hand drive cars. So any time the driver would have to turn right, seeing the oncoming traffic was made harder than necessary. Before the white Mercedes there was the blue station wagon, also a Mercedes, and much more of a ship to steer than the 190. It was a solid steel block, relentless in its stability. Someone clipped the station wagon while my sister was waiting at a robot and she barely felt it (probably an exaggeration, but I quite like the idea of her not noticing she is in a car accident).

Beyond these two cars there was another green Merc somewhere in the dark recesses of my childhood memories. My father still drives a silver Merc station wagon, and the white ship was my ride in Cape Town during last year's holidays. Somehow, we have remained fairly loyal to the brand.

Sticking with the horse. 

In Stuttgart, we had the option of going to the Mercedes Benz Museum or to the Porsche one. Since Mercedes has an older history, we headed there on Wednesday morning. The percentage of Mercedes cars increases exponentially the closer one gets to the imposing building that hosts the museum. The idea is to start at the top and then spiral one's way down automobile and world history whilst also seeing the various cars from different eras. Nina and I are both not car obsessed and I think one could spend a lot longer in the museum than we did. It is beautifully done, but after having spent two hours on the top three floors alone we speedwalked through the remaining six levels. In any case, the classic cars seemed more appealing due to their Great-Gatsby looks than the ones that appear from the 1970s onwards.

First patent. 

In the end we got slightly lost on the sales floor (where no one tried to sell us a car, wonder why) before eventually having to go up two floors again to escape the gigantic museum. Next time I might stick to art again.

The city

I know my city. Not every nook and cranny, but enough to be confident without a map. I knew my city, because it is no longer mine. Now I live in a city where you don't need a car to get around because it is so small that the longest I could walk to any point is 45 minutes. Or I could just take the bus. On the one hand I hated driving, hated being confined in a box, hated being a sitting duck at a robot, waiting to be smash-and-grabbed. But it also means no more singing loudly to *NSYNC while cruising around my hood for the neighbourhood patrol, no more leaving when I want to out of fear for missing the bus. This car thing, it is a two-way street. 

Luckily, my friend could borrow her mom's car for a road trip to Denmark a few weeks ago. There was no real border. One moment we were still in Germany, and the next we were in Denmark, on our way to Aarhus. 

We had no real plan for what we wanted to do there, with the only thing on our list being the Aros art museum. We arrived in Aarhus and parked the car near the harbour. Because we had no Danish money we drew some at an ATM, bought coffee and a three-chocolate-hot-chocolate to get small change and then discovered that the parking machine also accepted cards. However, when we had inserted the card into the machine it very cleverly tried to tell us something, in Danish. My friend and I both just looked at the screen, rummaging through every language we knew to somehow deduce what it wanted. Luckily a friendly Danish lady helped us out: "You need to take your card now". Ah, ok.

We ate our packed lunches in the car, looking at the bleak weather, and explored the city in the rain. Basically we just went to a church, the art museum and our hostel.  

This would be the church.

Aros from a distance.

Everyone said we would need a lot of time at Aros, but after doing the very cool colour wheel first the rest was a bit of a disappointment. There was an exhibition by the king and queen of Denmark, with his poems and her collages and other art works. The Danish people seemed to really enjoy this, but I found it very strange. If they had not been royalty I doubt their work would have been exhibited.

The 180° thing didn't work out too well. 

Ron Mueck, Boy. 

In the basement of the museum they also have an area entitled 9 spaces, with nine different rooms containing various installations that are more tactile than work that is normally exhibited at a distance. The one room contained what looked like an elevator shaft of mirrors and then the viewer would also be infinitely reflected. Another room emphasized all five senses and you could touch everything, even a furry wall like the one in Get Him to the Greek. 

After our visit to the museum we wandered back to our hostel through the rain. Somehow we were both exhausted. It was also quite funny finding out that when the hostel said online to 'bring own bedding' it only meant duvet covers and a towel, not blankets and cushions and the kitchen sink (as we had brought). Later we strolled to the beach and then walked back to the city centre through a large park, again in the rain.

Oooh, the Baltic Sea. 

Aros by night. You might notice I quite dig the colour wheel. 

The next day we just ate breakfast and started driving again. Our plan was to head to the western shore, look at some of the little villages and then head back east to Flensburg. Somehow the GPS system assumed we were heading to one place and we assumed it was taking us to another, so we ended up next to a field in the middle of nowhere with the GPS telling us: "You have arrived at your destination". As my friend said at the beginning of the trip, it isn't a road trip without a u-turn. So we trusted the GPS again and were on our way. I really enjoyed driving through the countryside, singing along to The Beatles and not really knowing where we were.

Hahaha. 'Farten'. Fart. Laughing like a child.

This was in one of the sea side towns we drove through on our way back to Flensburg. 

Ah, the North Sea. 

We ambled around two towns whose names I can't recall, were drenched slightly by the rain at the North Sea, had more sandwiches which we took along from the hostel's breakfast buffet in the car and after stopping for a warm coffee in Köping we returned to Flensburg. 

A watch shop. 

The only moment we saw the sun the entire weekend was an hour before we crossed back into Germany. 

Flensburg harbour at night. 

I know it was only a very short road trip, but besides spending time with my friend I thoroughly enjoyed Denmark. Everyone looked so stylish and I appreciated the packaging in the supermarkets. In Germany it seems like no thought is given to the design of the packaging and of the stores in general. It is just piling as much produce as possible into the space, which after years of being spoilt by Woolworths is quite a change.

Come springtime I'll buy myself a bike and explore Denkmark some more :)

No Man's Land

Like I said, the other day I went to a photographic exhibit. I expected white walls, red wine and people standing around in muted silence, careful to look contemplative but not to utter any real opinion of the work.

This place, exhibited at somewhat of an in-between space called Mein Haus am See (My beach house?) , was full of hip-looking people wearing Ray Bans, skinny jeans and untamed hair. Many girls opted for jeans shorts over dark tights and with little booties. I probably shouldn't be too judgmental of people who are all trying to look like an individual and yet somehow all end up looking alike. It is just interesting to note how cool kids everywhere stick to the same trends, whilst believing that there is an individual culture, an spin that each one puts on their outfit that will set them apart from all the rest.

Seeing the actual photographs was a bit of a mission since the photos were hung on the wall and there was a labyrinth of Sperrmüll couches in between me and said wall. I'm guessing the point of an exhibition is to actually see the work, but here one needed a telescope to really view the photographs. 

Luckily, Photocircle, who hosted the entire thing, is more an online platform where one can look through the work of numerous photographers and then, for a reasonable price, order the works in various formats and sizes. A percentage of the proceeds goes to a charity of your choosing and then you get sent you new artwork. Especially in an age where tourists go around snapping pictures of everything that moves (or doesn't), this project aims to give something back not only to the community whose image has been appropriated but also to the photographer. Wonderful. 

Here is an explanatory video:

On Photocircle I could also have a closer look at Kevin Russ's work, and it makes me want to jump into my own camper van and drive across the USA. Have a look:

Street Bison

Cloudy Horse Head

Umpqua Rays

Winter Horseland

Anderson Lake

Rocky Mountain Moose

Sunrise Forest

Tussen Stasies

Recently my mom and I went on a train trip down to P.E. It turned out to be somewhat of a disaster, but it was still a lot of fun to observe all the characters on the Shosholoza Meyl. Here is a short story I wrote about the experience for an Afrikaans writing competition (since I didn't win I guess I can publish it myself :)

Tussen Stasies

Tannie Loretta klim in. Sy het twee koffertjies met wiele, die res van haar pakkasie is net sakkies en tassies en kussings en komberse. Sy dra ‘n ou army-groen t-hemp en ‘n pers broek waarin sy sommer ook kan slaap. Tussen die rol van borste en die rol van ‘n magie sit nog ‘n rolletjie. Haar gesig is kwaai met mondhoeke wat lyk as of hulle altyd vir haar ken,  en nie vir haar wange groet nie. Sy het klein ogies wat agter ‘n ou bril skuil, wit hare wat bruin gekleur is en ‘n sakkie om haar nek vir haar selfoon.

Sy sê vir my ma dat sy haar maar ‘Loretta’ kan noem, maar omdat ek jonk is mag ek ‘Tannie Lorie’ vir haar sê. Let wel, ek noem nie eers my tannie ‘tannie’ nie. Ek is geleer van jy/jou en u/Mevrou, nie van tannies en ooms en mense op die mond soen nie. Dus is dit vir my ‘n hengse taak om vir wat ek dink 20 ure gaan wees nie ‘jy’ of ‘tannie’ te sê nie.

Dis 1 uur. Die trein behoort binne 15 minute uit Johannesburg stasie te vertrek. Almal het gesê ons is mal om die trein te vat. Hulle het vertel van mense wat oorval is en wat ure langer gevat het,  as wat op die kaartjies aangeteken was. Hulle het ons gevra hoekom ons so iets sou wou doen, die trein is moes net vir die “anderskleuriges”, soos my ouma sou sê, of vir die wat arm is. Dalk beteken ‘anderskleurig’ en ‘arm’ maar dieselfde ding.  Hulle sê die Shosholoza Meyl is nie vir mense soos ons wat grade het en ander tale praat en moes eintlik van OR Tambo af  vertrek.

Nee, die Shosholoza Meyl is vir mense wat te baie bagasie het vir die bus. Dis vir die twee ouer kleurling dames wat in een hoek van Park stasie op ‘n bank sit en ‘n wyntjie uit ‘n plastiek beker drink terwyl hulle tussen berge kussings wag. Dis vir die man in die straatskoonmakeruniform wat op ‘n koffer sit en met sy klein dogtertjie speel. Dit is vir die ou mense wie se pensioen nie genoeg is nie, wie se kinders nie omgee en wie se lywe nie meer werk nie. Dit is vir armblanke oumas en kleinkinders in goedkoop sweetpakke waar die ma haar twee dogtertjies met die woorde “soet wees” groet.

Ja nee, die trein is nie vir mense wat ‘n Gau- voor die woord moet sit nie.

En tog trotseer ons die idee van wie waar hoort, van wie wat mag doen, van ‘n apartheid wat nou tussen klas veel meer as tussen ras is.

Tannie Loretta vertel hoe sy 49 jaar terug haar man in die stad van goud leer ken het, hoe hy vir haar na die Baai toe getrek het, hoe hy nou onlangs dood is. Sy lyk soos iemand wat te baie al swaargekry het om aan die vinnige veranderinge van die moderne lewe aantepas. Gelukkig is dit net ons drie in die kompartement wat eintlik gemaak is vir ses. Tannie Loretta en haar pakasie is versprei op die bank wat in ryrigting kyk, ons twee aan die ander kant. As dit aand word klap ons die beddens af en slaap bo terwyl sy onder skuins lê.

13.20 trek ons weg. Ons ry deur die ooste van Johannesburg, deur Denver en Driehoek en Germiston. Dit is net vullis en slegte graffiti op die spore, met plakkerskampe en industriele areas wat mekaar afwissel as mens uit die venster kyk. Ek is baie opgewonde, na ‘n halwe jaar van onsekerheid en verwerping het ek ‘n avontuur soos dié nodig.

Ons stop op Vereeniging. Nettie klim in en moet eintlik in ons kompartement sit. Sy is aan die verkeerde kant van 60, met ‘n lyfie wat lyk as of hy dringend kos nodig het en hare wat al te baie keer deur kleur en krullers gemartel is. Sy sien daar is geen plek vir haar by ons nie en verdwyn. Later vind ons uit sy is in ‘n coupé langs ons, lekker op haar eie.

In ons kompartement kuier ons verder. Die padkos is eerste uitgepak en wag op die tafeltjie by die venster vandat ons op Parkstasie gesit het en gewag het om wegtetrek. Dis mos maar hoe Suid Afrikaners is: ons het ons padkos nodig, maak nie saak hoe ver ons op pad is nie. Toe my vriendin Karen die min goedjies in my mandjie by die supermark sien was sy skoon bekommerd, sy het gedink dit sal nooit genoeg wees vir 20 ure op ‘n trein nie.  Minwetend  sou sy nog reg wees ook.

Van iewers af organiseer ons vir elkeen ‘n koppie tee. Ons pak choc-chip koekies en beskuit uit wat my ma gebak het. Tannie Loretta soek dadelik die resep, maar my ma kan hom nie onthou nie. Ons belowe om hom met die pos te stuur. Die gesprek wissel van hoe mens pruimkonfyt lekker by ‘n sjokoladekoek kan voeg na hoe Tannie Loretta- hulle alles verloor het weens die sanksies. Hul het hul plaas vir “’n appel en ‘n ui” verkoop en op ‘n kleinhoewe gaan bly. Nou, net na haar man se dood, het die eienaars van die erf vir haar kennis gegee, sommer so oor die draadmuur.

My ma en ek gaan kry aandete in die eetsalon net voordat ons Kroonstad tref. Ons deel ‘n beeskerrie met geel rys terwyl die landskap buite donker word. ‘n Ouer engelsman en sy seun sit links van ons. Die man maak as of hy vreeslik belangrik is en is ongeskik met almal. Dit lyk nie of hy en sy seun ‘n goeie verhouding het nie, ek sou nie geraai het hulle is familie as een van die dames wat op die trein werk dit nie sou gesê het nie.

Toe ons terugkom na ons kompartement toe, is ons beddens gemaak en almal is reg vir die kooi. Ons sien uit daarna om rustig op te staan, te stort en teen 9 uur die volgende oggend in Port Elizabeth se stasie te wees.

Ek sluimer in die donkerte van die kompartement in, maar ek hoor hoe ons net voor middernag in Bloemfontein stop en mense inklim.  Ek dink nog dat ek nou rustig sal kan slaap omdat daar geen groot stasies meer is nie en die trein soos ‘n reusagtige wieg voel.

Toe slaan die horlosie een uur en die nagmerrie begin. Eers skreeu ‘n baba sonder einde, met ‘n ander dogterjie wat “Heidi” sing en ‘n man wat hardop met sy vrou baklei. Dit klink as of ‘n hele kindergarten deur die gang hardloop en speel terwyl die personeel op die trein ook vir mekaar skreeu. Ons lê al drie wakker.

Ek kom agter die trein beweeg nie en ons hoor die woorde “big problems” buite ons deur. Tannie Loretta sê haar slaap is skoon uit haar uit. ‘n Half-uur later snork sy so hard dat ek en my ma soos tiener dogters in ons beddens lê en giggel: mens kan net niks anders doen nie omdat dit voel as of die hele dekselse wêreld vir jou uit  die slaap probeer  hou.

Ons verneem dat ons net 20 minute buite Bloemfontein is. Dit is nou 3 uur die oggend en mense toyi-toyi in die eetsaal. Niemand weet wat aangaan nie, die trein staan-staan- staan net. Iemand sê die lokomotief het gebreek, dat busse sal  kom om ons te haal. Tannie Loretta steun dat alles  nou “oppie koffie” is. Ons besluit maar om nou te gaan stort, want om so vuilerig nog ure in ‘n bus te sit klink soos hel. In elk geval kan ons nie slaap nie en dit lyk nie as of enige iets gebeur nie.  Gelukkig werk die krag op die trein nog en daar is warm water. Tot nou dink ek steeds ons gaan maar net ‘n paar uur laat wees, dat alles nie so erg is nie: soos met meeste goed in ons land moet mens maar net ‘n bietjie geduld hê en dan werk alles tog uit.

Die son begin stadig opkom oor die Vrystaatse vlaktes. ‘n Nors mannetjie kom sê vir ons dat ons oor 20 minute gehaal sal word, ons moet ons goedjies pak en regstaan vir die busse. ‘n Man begin hardop preek oor hoe hy ‘n getuie is van God en hoe Suid Afrika se tyd gekom het. Na ‘n uur is daar geen busse in sig en God lyk ook nie as of hy baie omgee vir treine wat gaan staan nie . Die gepreek raak net te erg, so ek gaan vra  die man of hy nie kan ophou nie,  of  ten minste sy deur kan toemaak, sodat almal nie deur hom gepla word nie. Hy sê almal moet hom hoor, maar na die nag wat ons gehad het is niemand lus nie.  Die baba begin weer te huil.  Ook dit nog.

‘n Ander trein kom stop langs ons. Niks gebeur nie. Die trein ry weer weg. Ons hoor later dat die helfte van die personeel op daardie trein terug is Johannesburg toe. Ons sit verder en vries, die wind blaas sterk buite die trein.

Net na 10 uur is ons terug in Bloemfontein. Eintlik moes ons nou al in P.E. afgeklim het. Al die mense in derde klas, wat net ‘n sitplek en nie ‘n hele bed op die trein kon bekostig nie, peul uit die trein met hul kinders en bagasie.  Vir ons is gesê dat ons op die trein kan bly, maar ek is onder die indruk dat die mense dit nie weet nie, hulle word na die busse toe gestuur. Dit is een hengse deurmekaar spul, vrouens sukkel om swart sakke en klein kindertjies bymekaar te hou.  Daar is een klein seuntjie wat ‘n koffer dra soos ‘n groot man. Ek wonder waar hierdie kind gaan opeindig, so belas deur ander se goed.

‘n Uur later is ons weer op pad. Van vyfhonderd mense is daar net vyftig oor. Die personeel is op hul derde skof sonder slaap. Dit voel as of ons nooit die Vrystaat sal verlaat nie, asof ons gevange is hier. Die ironie. ‘n Sterk wind fluit buite, ons sit toegedraai in komberse en peusel. Uiteindelik ry ons oor die Gariep en in die Noord Kaap in. Dit voel darem nou asof ons beweeg.

Tannie Loretta vertel hoe sy in Junie verloof geraak het en in Augustus getroud is, destyds. Ons ry deur  lang oomblikke van swart, die tonnels het begin. Die kompartement het al klaar die reuk van mense wat te lank saam in ‘n klein spasie is, maar nou raak dit erger: Tannie Loretta se chili-sous het uitgeloop en sy wil dit steeds nie weggooi nie. Alles ryk nou net te sterk. Ons ruk die vensters oop en gaan ontsnap na die eetsalon toe vir ‘n teetjie.

Daar ontmoet ons ‘n ouer paartjie wat na die see toe trek. Hulle vertel hoe twee ouer dames twee klein hondjies in ‘n koelsak saamsmokkel. Almal deel stories, mens raak maar gesellig so as mens deur dieselfde ding gaan en nie weet wanneer mens gaan aankom. Die nors man met sy seun kry weer ‘n plek net langs ons. Hy is vreeslik onvriendelik met die personeel, en blaf bevele as of hy die baas is. Almal is moeg, almal wil by die kus aankom, almal is al baie langer op die trein as  wat hulle gedink het hulle sal wees. Maar dit blyk nie asof Meneer Gifappel dit kan verstaan nie.

Ons gaan maar terug na ons kompartement toe. Die passasiere kuier so oor en weer by mekaar. In die donkerte  sien ons af en toe ‘n eensame lig, dit voel as of ons deel is van die Neverending Story. Hier kom verskillende wêrelde bymekaar, mense wat nooit mekaar se geselskap sou gesoek het nie, deel stories terwyl die trein stadig soos ‘n slang sy pad deur die land kry. Soos wat die verkoper vir my ma by Pretoria stasie gesê het toe sy die kaartjies gaan haal het: mens moet nie die trein vat as mens haastig is nie. Dalk was dit die sjarme: om rustig ‘n pad te vat wat net in een rigting gaan. ‘n Trein kan moes nie ‘n verkeerde draai maak nie. Ons, in teendeel, kan.

Tannie Loretta sit tussen al haar pakkies. Sy is reg om af te klim, maar is bekommerd oor hoe sy alles van die trein  gaan kry. Ook sy het al haar komberse  weggepak en nou kruip die koue weer in ons kompartement in. Ek kry vir elk ‘n kombers wat saamgevrommel bo op die een kooi lê.  Mens hoor net die geluide van wiele op spore. Daar is niks om na te kyk in die donkerte nie, daar is niks meer om te eet nie,  die gesels het opgedroog.  Almal wil nou net aankom.

Uiteindelik raak die liggies meer en almal skuif hul bagasie in die gang in. Ons ry-ry-ry deur Port Elizabeth, ons is hier maar kom net nie aan nie. Na ‘n hele ruk gaan staan die trein eers. Mense wag op die peron, hulle haal hul vriende en familie. Almal is gedaan. Ons help vir Tannie Loretta om haar goedjies van die trein af te kry, gelukkig is haar mense daar. Sy gee vir ons elk ‘n stywe druk en verdwyn.

Na alles was sy tog reg toe sy nog in Johannesburg vir ons gesê het dat “mens nie oorsee hoef te gaan om te travel nie”. Nee, al wat mens moet doen is in die trein klim. 

New Coat of Paint

I don't exactly know how these things happen, but I end up going along on trips impulsively. And often the trips are kind of last-minute planning, which to my very-German-Pünktlichkeit (to-be-on-time-ness) is quite disruptive. I like thinking ahead, making lists of things to take along, and am admittedly a bit anal about organisation. So these trips, damn people, you don't realise what you're putting me through with the randomness of it all. Maybe it is time to see a shrink about creating unnecessary anxiety situations, hahaha.

Anyways. In the end the trips are always worth the internalised stress because leaving is always worth it. This time, a friend asked me along to "the mountain". It sounded very LOTR, so hey, who would say no. That, and the fact that I am becoming a lazy hermit who thinks walking around in the same clothes for a few days is fine because no one can see me. To quote the one girl at our graduation: "Sabine, you are really becoming a hobo."

The mountain turns out to be the hilly region around Tzaneen in the Limpopo province, close to Haenertsburg. We stayed in an enormous old farm house and mainly ate a lot, switched between German/French/English, drank a bit of wine and looked at the rain pouring down outside. Lucky for us, the electricity also decided to be very temperamental, so we were never entirely sure if/for how long the power would be on. It was very different, just sitting around doing nothing nothing nothing all day. No books, no series-watching, no driving anywhere.

We tried venturing outside once to explore the area and walk with the two dogs, but as soon as we came near the river Thor thought we deserved some punishment and the heavens opened up again. Hello rain, thanks for noticing I was not entirely kitted out for your onslaught of wetness. Well played.

The next day promised to be beautiful, with clear skies and warm sunbeams, but we had to head back home. It was good to get away and do nothing, to have long conversations with people you didn't know all that well before and to be out of your comfort zone.

I stood beneath an orange sky

We are here. Now. 

Sweet Disposition

I don't know what happened, but I felt like abusing the kitchen today.

First up, The Best Chocolate Ice Cream You'll Ever Have, and, ja, that stuff is so good that I just want to tap myself a bathtub full of it and live in chocolate heaven for-----ever.

Image via A Cup of Jo

Below is what mine looked like before freezing. Joh joh joh. It is rather rich, but worth making. And you don't need an ice-cream maker.

After that came beskuit, which is Afrikaans for rusks, the dough looks a bit dodge. I sort of combined whatever I felt like putting in them, so they contain All Bran flakes, coconut, sunflower seeds, oats and packets with the words 'wheat' on them. Normally my mom or sister bake the beskuit, or my grandmother brings us some, but for a first try they turned out well. I don't have a recipe, but this one looks pretty similar.

Then there was a special at the grocery store, R 20 for three packs of asparagus, so I made leek, asparagus and bacon quiche. I think after the road trip and eating only burgers + chips, today was the day I needed to eat food that didn't taste like it could be a year old. Again, no recipe, I pre-browned the leeks and bacon, used some instant shortcrust pastry, put the raw asparagus on top, then poured over a mix of 1/2 cup cream + 3/4 cup milk+ 4 eggs, and then grated some pecorino over it. Nom nom nom. 

And in between I baked these World Peace Cookies, because yesterday we went to this baking store and I got three different kinds of choc chips (white normal caramel) and instead of baking choc chip cookies, these had to be tried out. They are ok, but I don't think they are as fantastic as smittenkitchen writes they are. They're tasty, but not revolutionarily so. 

Pre-baked, the dinkbeest version

Baked, the smittenkitchen version

Also between it all, I made more cordial because we don't eat the oranges from the tree in the garden and I didn't want to waste them. Booooom! Being a housewife is exhausting.