The quest for cream

Today has been one of those "African" days - The type of day only someone from Africa can truly understand. The quest for cream... such an easy buy at just about any convenience store in S.A., however, this week I have been looking for cream in all my regular grocery stores. To no avail. And then the adventure began... I heard of this "farm" where there is a dairy where I could possibly get cream. Not too far from my work, on the way to the Makoma dam, we decided to pass by after work. I was thankful that I drove with Rick today, as the route was not entirely suitable for my little March. We got to what we thought was the dairy, it was not. A local lady (with no passable English) then called a fellow farm worker who escorted us to the dairy . At least she understood "milk" and "dairy".  We went Bundu bashing on a two-track road between man-high corn (with our guide on the back seat) turning this way and that. The track became narrower and the corn (and weed) got higher. I was expecting an axe bearing huntsman any minute or even a creepy "Children of the corn" scene to start when we found the dairy! I got out, followed the gentleman to a house about 500m away. A very friendly lady greeted me and after hearing my plight regretted to inform me that production is low at the moment. So no cream! Apparently there is a season for cream? Really? How do our dairies in SA then get it year round? There we were, stuck on this track, no space to turn around. A Star Trek-moment of going forward, because we cannot find reverse :) The farm worker grabs another guy (half-drunk and smelling of home-brewed beer) to take us to the road out. He would turn around and walk back. Go figure! After stopping at another little supermarket on the way home - no luck. Decided on some Spur dinner (as by now it was past seven) and made a last-minute turn again at the Shoprite. Guess what? After a week they had stock of CREAM. At the same point where the search began a week ago....

Detention... of the policing kind...

I have experienced my first case of racism in Zambia. Quite coincidentally, or should I say accidentally? There I was, taking hubby to the airport, making sure he had all the documents and letters necessary to transport our kids across the border for the upcoming holidays, when I stopped (late) at the police checkpoint. I admit, I did not stop at the appointed drum...I was heading towards the man with the reflective jacket (the reason unbeknownst to me). I stopped and then realised it was not the police officer. The designated policeman behind me waving his arms about frantically ... I reversed... and was confronted by a very agitated officer, wanting to impound my vehicle. How dare I disobey the police instruction? I apologised and tried to explain that I was stopping for the wrong person. No, nosirree, that was not acceptable, I needed to go to the police station. I convinced him to let me drop my hubby off first at the departure gate, seeing as there is only one way out and I needed to come back the same way.

So, there I was, pulling off at the checkpoint on my return to be escorted to the police station. The other officer, a lady, got into the car and explained how to get to the station at the airport. It was during this conversation that it happened, outright open racism! She was carrying on about how "you people" just chase past and do not stop, how there is no respect for the uniform and so on and so on.  I, on the other hand, just stayed polite and friendly and eventually got to the station.  When we arrived, they were busy with another gentleman, which apparently are even worse than the whiteys... a specimen called a Congolese...the heated debate, argument, whatever you want to call it, went on behind closed doors with the deputy in charge for about an hour. The whole time I was sitting outside in the passage on a rickety chair, making small talk with the deputy behind the reception desk... about the lack of rain and the pesky mosquitoes, awaiting my fate.

My worried hubby texted me to find out if I was okay and of course joked and asked whether he should arrange for a food parcel... Of course, that is not really a joke if you are imprisoned, because you truly need your family and friends to bring you food, as none is provided. Be that as it may, I was trying not to worry about that yet, because from the conversation earlier it became clear to me that I would be made an example of.

Eventually it was my turn to go into the office and stand in front of the judge-and-jury deputy. A very stern man sitting in the corner. He indicated a seat, an old typing chair with torn upholstery and no back, with wheels that looked like they might collapse at any moment.  I tried to lighten the situation by asking whether it was safe to sit on and smiled to indicate that I was not making fun of the deplorable state of his office furniture.  He listened to my side of the story, listened to the lady officer, took down my details and let me go with a slap on the wrist.

I do not know whether he was just exhausted after the aforementioned process, or whether it was my continued calm, patient, friendly demeanour, either way I could go! A hair raising experience let me tell you. Of course it was not yet the end of my ordeal, as I needed to give the lady officer a lift back to the checkpoint.  Funny how her attitude changed on the way back... and of course...then the bribery struck.  I needed to buy her a cold drink.  I sighed inwardly, smiled, took out my purse and gave her twenty kwachas (less than forty rand) and told her to buy her male counterpart at the checkpoint one also.  Damn ... I love Africa... Nowhere else in the world would you experience something like that.

Church in Zambia

Church ... one of those words that evokes feelings for most people. Be it good or bad. Going to church weekly does not make you a Christian, neither does not going make you a non-believer. Either way there are always those that go and those that do not. I have friends and family that do not go because they were "forced" or indoctrinated whilst growing up; got the Bible shoved down their throats and thus feeling fed up with the whole thing. I, on the other hand, had limited exposure to church and the bible growing up. One of the only things I ever remember as a child was that my mother bought me a children's bible with beautiful drawings when I was 12. We hardly ever went to church, other than weddings and funerals. Also sometimes when my mom's brother sang in the choir on special occasions.

Then we moved to the suburbs in standard six (grade 8). Church was around the corner and it was expected to go. After living in a residential hotel in central Pretoria for years, we suddenly had to fit in with the 'burbs. Quite an adjustment, the only child of a divorced mother in an area where "proper" families reigned. To this day one of the girls that befriended me there, is still a part of my life. (Thank you Louise.) The irony is that the "proper" families had issues all of their own. In fact, I think I had it more "together" than any of those youngsters. I had already seen and experienced things way beyond my years. I digress. Church. I tried to fit in. I didn't. I didn't believe. In fact, one day after attending another painful Sunday school session, I told my mom I am not going back. So much of fake and show was too much for me. I kept my word and never went back (then).

As life progressed though, so did my beliefs. The minister two weeks ago put it so nicely again when he talked about the holy sacrament of being baptised. Some people have an epithany and are reborn at a specific space and time. Others, like me, have a gradual enlightenment through various events or people. A soft glow that eventually turns into a fire. You only need one spark to burn down a house. Or some tiny thing that can break down walls that have been erected around your heart.

At university I finally felt "ready" to take the step of going through cathecism. This was after long sessions of pastor Ed at Hatfield Christian church (may he rest in peace). I turned to our local Dutch Reformed church. That was where I met Ds. Piet. (His son also became a minister and married one of school friends.) Ds Piet put both my mother and I through an adult version of the cathecism that I renounced years before. And I was baptised. My choice, my decision. An outward agreement and pledge that I believe. Yes. I believe.

Why is it important today? Why is it important to go to church? For me it is simply the kinship of fellow believers. You can pray by yourself, you can read or study the bible by yourself, but being among people that share a common belief, it makes you feel like you belong. It gives structure to your life. A safe haven. A place where you can turn to where you know you will be welcome. Irrespective of your background or how you came to be there. That is the reason why one of the first things I did in Zambia was to find a church. I am lucky, I have a church locally where I can be served in my mother tongue. Not all of my expatriate South African friends are that lucky. We are doubly blessed, because when we do not want to travel the 50 Odd kilometres to the Afrikaans church, we go to the Fellowship where the praise and worship is a joy. The formal vs the informal, best of both worlds. Small steps into making a life in Zambia.

Botswana travels

First... I must confess... I do not really like Botswana. It is more of a ''passing through" on the way to nice places. However, listening to some people, I think it is a case of not having been to the right places yet.

It is also a bit of a white lie. One of my most profound memories is a Botswana one, stemming from way back in 1996. We stayed over at the Cresta Mowana, which even today is still the flagship Cresta hotel in Botswana. Early morning, way before breakfast, I was walking along the Chobe river. I heard that amazing distinctive call and stopped dead in my tracks. There it was! A fish eagle swooping down, stretching out its' talons, grabbing a fish out of the Chobe's rapid water. Then there was another! I could not believe my luck. The pair swooped and flew around for quite some time. It was my first (and thus far only) sighting! It was awesome!

There are more pleasant memories. Come to think of it, most of the good memories are on the northern side of Botswana. The road between Nata and Kasane, depending on your timing, is rife with wildlife. I have seen elephant herds, some lone jumbos, wildebeest, buffalo and the odd buck. Giraffes are also spotted. All in all, a good road and worthwhile sightings. Some potholes between Francistown and Elephant sands (beyond Nata), but not too bad.

Another one was the trip through Maun on our way to Namibia. The area is well-known as the gateway to the Okavango Delta, by itself, quite a nice area. There is a lovely lodge on the banks of the river by the name of Island Safari lodge. Good food and clean rooms.

On the other hand, try not to travel during the "Foot and mouth" season with too many shoes from South to North or vice versa. At the veterinary stops you need to walk through totally disgusting treated water to supposedly get rid of any possible contamination. Even shoes you are not wearing at the time, or have worn during your short transit visit, must be dragged through the water. For a lady that likes to match her shoes to her outfit, totally devastating! Of course with a loving husband on the side laughing his ass off ...

Overall, not too bad. Very expensive though. All food are totally overpriced in restaurants and hotels, as I am forever converting into Rand. Even in Pula though, they are expensive! Sixteen Pula for a Coke with dinner! Ouch

Thoughts on real estate and TIME!

The one thing that I still need to really understand, is the African concept of time. Or should I say the lack thereof? For two days running, I am waiting for over an hour for meetings scheduled, where I arrived precisely on time. Both of these meetings were real estate related. The following options are on the table: 1) Estate agents think that you have as much time available as they do; or 2) They don't own watches; or 3) They are messed around so often by prospective clients that they end up not giving a damn.  That is after the complete mission to actually find a decent real estate agent where the one in question and trying to get your business, is not accompanied by an entourage in a beaten down vehicle and asking for petrol money, to show you the supposed available adobe in question. And then... you get to these places which they want to sell to you at the equivalent of a million Rand and you think: "Ok, people live here. Every day. How bad could it be?" The answer to that, of course, is BAD, very BAD! In fact, my mind boggles at the concept. (Btw it is now an hour and a half later and STILL waiting.)

Scatterlings... why blog?

I have always fancied myself as a bit of a writer. Started novels and short stories, which I've never completed, as I suppose everybody does at one point or another. Then my friend Mia suggested a blog... Which, of course, would not be my first attempt at a blog either. I have had various ramblings on odd sites which allowed "blog-like" postings, but invariably it was always geared at a very specific audience or interest, making it very limiting and thus me losing interest. How much can one really say about one specific topic? Unless you are writing your PhD ...sorry Debbie ...

First of all, I would like to extend a public apology to Johnny Clegg for using his phrase as the title of my blog. The word "Scatterlings", however, encompasses everything about me, especially as I feel a little scattered at the present moment in time.

I find myself at a point in my life where a blog actually makes sense. Thanks Mia for the idea, it started the old grey matter thinking again. This blog will be just that. Scattered thoughts, ideas, experiences, interests and lo and behold, being a whitey in Africa. It will also be a way for my friends and family to keep abreast of my doings, especially as the odd Facebook status needs some "flesh".

I do not promise a daily account of my life, in fact, anything but! Neither my life, nor I, am remotely interesting enough for that! I will, however, share things or experiences as the need arises. Sometimes an interesting article, or something to make or do based on my diverse set of hobbies or interests.

If you take the time to read this, I hope it will be worth your while.