Around the world in 182 days
Southern Hospitality
With only an hour transit time in Sydney, I chanced an earlier departure from Tullamarine and despite the long term carpark maze, peak hour traffic for the drop off and a queue at the ‘international connections’ counter, I strolled off satisfied with an arrival half an hour before the scheduled flight. A couple of hours later, seated in QF 7, all geared up for the long leg ahead, squashed in the aisle seat next to two large african american fellas, we waited, and waited — on the tarmac for one and a half hours. But I had patience in abundance — this was the beginning of a six month adventure (and inflight entertainment on demand didn’t hurt).
Fifteen or so hours later, under clear blue sky, a wave, rather than a blast, of hot air hit as I navigated Dallas Fort Worth international airport. My ears as yet un-attuned to the southern drawl I somehow missed terminal B. After circumnavigating the airport again, then a one and a half hour security check, I still had time and patience in abundance. For once my Dallas departure was not impeded by ‘weather’. Hurricane Irma had fizzled out further east, Mary sat seemingly stagnate off the Caribbean, and Nate was weeks off forming.
Boarding the Canadair plane, wandering down the narrow aisle, I approached my designated seat. A tubby balding man twirled around, “Which is your seat, Ma’am?” I responded. “Is that an English accent I hear?” and he was off, cheerily meandering through a plethora of topics for the entirety of the two and a half hour flight. Having caught countless long and short haul flights, typically spent in seclusion and silence, somehow, without fail, this Dallas — Tallahassee leg has always afforded entertaining conversational partners. American Airlines’ Eagle division is pretty basic — no entertainment and minimal inflight service. I wondered if boredom was the defining factor. Sarah later corrected my conclusion “Lisa, this is the South!”
After attempting a cockeyed Australian accent, Brad (I think he called himself) was astounded that an Aussie would be flying to Tallahassee. Momentarily pausing for my reply, Brad’s running exchange soon settled on accents. When South Africa came up I interjected “I’m heading there in a month, then Zimbabwe” adding details about my trip. He barely processed my words, regaling me instead with tales of his South African, European and British work stints. A woman from the seat in front turned and instituted herself into his monologue. To her auburn hair, alluring smile and confident stance I became suddenly superfluous. Maybe this will be a quiet flight after all I considered, and made moves to get my laptop and headphones out. But soon talk of Australia resumed and I was invited back. Working in the restaurant industry had taken the red head to Adelaide. As we stood talking across topics, contrasting the US and home, from the quality of beef to blocks of land, she drawled “But you guys,all your lots are fenced in”. The American ‘lot’ or block, down south at least, to my eye seemed to have no boundary. The expansive older houses might have a wire fence out back, the newer suburban home a rear plank fence, and pools without safety fences open to neighbours scrutiny. In the weeks following, even before the Las Vegas massacre (‘the worst in American history’), as I wandered Tallahassee neighbourhoods, American irony struck me — no fences but plenty of guns.
Taking our seats, the plane taxied for take off and Brad turned, “Apologies ma’m if you find me crying on your shoulder”. A little bemused by the jest, I noticed him clench the arm rest, adding “I’m not too fond of flying”. I wondered what I was in store for. The red head, still standing, asked how long it had been a problem, after all — with all the travelling he’d done. Brad worked as an agronomist, covering just a few states now but international projects perviously. “I’m not too sure, perhaps since 9–11”.
When he made reference to his age the red head in front, assuming she and I were of a similar vintage, confidently battered away the issue of numbers, freedom and flirtation still firmly in her grasp. I was left a little chagrin, as if I was letting the side down to be less than thrilled at turning 55 at my next birthday! The red head and Brad then compared culinary experiences. Heading to her sister’s on the Pan Handle Coast, Brad directed her to ribs at a local joint he knew there. Recipes were swapped. Taking out his phone he proudly thrust photos in my view, swiping frame after frame of non gourmet (though tasty I am sure) meals. He shared this passion with his daughter he added, swiping to show me her culinary attempts. She was off in college but come summer, she’d have to find herself a job, just like he did when he was young. From food to religion, my two travel mates soon made guarded reference to guns, their almost silent nod to each other was my cue to keep my views to myself.
The flight attendant interrupted our conversation (well, my listening) offering tasty pretzels and luke warm tea. There was silence for a few minutes as I nibbled and sipped. Brad’s hands rested on the armrest, not quite clenched but enough to draw my compassion and his conversation. I asked about his home. He lived in Georgia. Atlanta airport was 3 hours away he told me. With its hellish traffic and lengthy security checks, Tallahassee airport, small, one hour from home and with minimal security, was the easy option. His wife would pick him up he added, telling me about her career, how she had taken time off from teaching to look after their son. I asked about his son, as seemed appropriate. “He died a year ago”. I was flawed. In his early twenties, after a decade or more fighting leukaemia, the son had passed. Brad told the facts, not in a blasé way, but in a manner that kept a lid on this emotion, emotion that was bubbling away, almost visible, but not quite. And after a brief acknowledgement of my condolences, Brad diverted the conversation back to more light hearted topics.
By the time the tires thumped on the tarmac Brad knew very little of me. For two and a half hours he had used self deprecation as a defence and humorous patter to allay his anxiety. But I pondered his disclosure. He had not wanted to elaborate on his son’s illness or death. He was not seeking my sympathy. I wondered, was letting the story out drip by drip to a stranger on a plane, leaving a puddle of sadness here, a pool of emotion there, was this his way to avoid releasing the torrent of grief in one devastating flood.
The cabin crews’ cross check complete we stood at the rear of the plane poised to disembark. Our conversation stuttered to a stop. There was no good bye. I turned and led off up the aisle, taking a few drops of his grief with me. As they washed off my back with ease I wondered if his journey was all he hoped for.
Spiritual Tourism
Tallahassee is my first destination on this six month adventure, or ‘midlife crisis’ as Sarah puts it. Her comment has me contemplating what this six months IS about. I am certain that it is not a soon to be 55 year old’s last dash at ‘youthfulness’ (just one look at my body tells me that is long gone!) Four months ago I realised that my soul felt depleted, I was devoid of passion, life was heavy. The past three years had been tough. It was only a few months into a new challenging job that mum suddenly passed — a nine day roller coaster ride that left us all numb with the speed of her decline and the cold reality of death. Just thirteen months later, after a tragically short battle with cancer my childhood neighbour, playmate and lifelong friend, Trace, passed away. Less than a year after Trace, just two years after mum, dad’s brief spell of see-sawing health plummeted and a mere 5 days from hospital admission, Dad’s soul peacefully left. Six months earlier when he seemed to be fading away before our eyes, with friends I shared “I’ll feel like an orphan when he dies”. I thought being adopted was why I had a looming sense of abandonment but from friends, movies, and media I came to see that this is an inevitable ‘right of passage’ for those of us who outlive our parents. A request for six moths leave without pay, the purchase of a round the world ticket, a plan to spend time with a string of friends, throw in a couple of adventures, and here I am in Tallahassee.
Sun drenched days, temps up in the ‘high eighties’ (over 30 degrees to an Aussie) and 74 % humidity defy the calendar’s proclamation that it is autumn. But I am on a mission. Patagonia hiking in January. The most I’ve ever achieved has been a seven hour hike seven years ago on Hydra. Strange that I had never noticed the greenway behind Sarah’s house on previous trips. I am pleased to discover this expansive thoroughfare of forest tracks and now have no excuses. Most days I set off with my iPhone app ‘maps.me’, bottles of water, a hat and my camera working towards my goal of a 5 hour walk — naively I have not looked at the distances of the Patagonia hikes, rather I am stuck on my capacity to sustain ‘hours’ of walking. So on the hottest, most humid and still day I complete the five hours, returning spent beyond comparison. My iPhone and fitbit tell me I’d walked more than 17 kms. The next day I discover the hikes in Patagonia will be a mere 12.5kms with not much altitude. My anxiety about completing the hikes is waning a little and in the days after this mammoth effort, plunging my feet into the local pool seems a better option than into my heavy hiking boots.
By the second week Hurricane Nate begins to toy with the panhandle coast, thwarting a Florida coastal weekend getaway just as another had four years ago. I make a silent ‘note to self’ — next visit I’ll come in April, well out of the hurricane season. Wednesday, then Thursday pass with Nate diverting to the Louisiana coast and while Destin, our planned for destination, is in the danger zone we decide to risk it, cancelling just one of the two ‘non-refundable’ hotel nights and opting for a bed at Tibie’s in Panama City instead. I am determined to see the renowned Destin beach.
Come Friday we head out on ‘Interstate 10’ past towering dense forest that lines the route. We turn off for Blountstown, a sleepy hollow voted ‘safest town in America’ more than 16 years ago. Just a bit of an anomaly given Blounstown and neighbouring boroughs are the ‘deep south’, KKK land. Tales abound of regular changes to the speed limit, a police tactic to catch unwitting travellers. Sarah and her friends, African, Caribbean and African American tell of their near misses, the visceral relief when a black officer strolls up to the car rather than a white trooper or sheriff. Zenia, an Islander (Caribbean) still learning the ropes, is sternly cautioned to NEVER stop at night, no matter what, in nearby Altha or Bristol. Driving through we pass homecoming preparations — locals parked with their picnic chairs out front of trucks, awaiting a parade of first responders, like a white ribbon strewn along the roadside. Fond memories of visiting Sarah and family in Blountstown years earlier weave through a stream of recollections. Takura had just started school and Linda, a reticent 3 year old, who for some reason had taken a liking to her aunty Lisa, followed me around helping with the dishes or sweeping alongside me with her toy broom. It was somewhat disheartened on later trips to find the bond broken, she was, and is, a mummy’s girl. Now at Grad school and living out of home, she flies in for a brief dose of ‘mom — daughter’ time and is out the door as quickly as she’s come. Blountstown gave me my first encounter with Piggly Wiggly — the southern supermarket chain. The name still entertains me with swirling memories of childhood nursery rhymes. For some incomprehensible reason Sarah also thinks back fondly on the town, wistfully considering living there again — despite the (white) state trouper who’d tail her round town or the childcare that politely said they were full for months, until she suddenly realised no black kids were enrolled there. But I suppose with a rewarding job, the making of lifelong friends, the ‘dark’ tones of the town have been brushed with more rosy hues.
Our destination for the first night is Panama City, (Florida that is, not Panama). After devouring free boiled peanuts at the Five Guys burger joint, sampling what is locally considered a good burger (not the same as an Aussie fish’n’chip shop creation) and sharing a supersized individual portion of fries, we make it to the beach — St Andrew’s national park where the sand is powder white and the Gulf of Mexico water drifts in in ever increasing waves as various crafts sail or motor by. Grey cumulus clouds hover at the western horizon, harmless at a distance while in the east a dense wall of metal grey clouds approach but thankfully the curtain of rain remains a distant back drop to the sun bathed beach. The locals, Sarah and Tibie, tentatively putting a toe in the water, exclaim at the water’s temperature while the Aussie, used to the frigid waters of Bass Strait, immerses herself in the warm crystal clear sea without pause.
The weather channel seems more of a staple, a necessity here in the South — while I am in Florida a chain of tropical storms tease meteorologists as they dance around the Caribbean, like debutantes spoilt for choice — which island nation will be whirled around this time? Zenia proudly informed me that St Lucia is the place to live — floating outside the hurricane. Over a glass of wine we contemplate our plan for tomorrow. Nate is increasing in intensity and moving fast. We decide to wait and see.
I awake to clear sunny skies, light breeze, heat — perfect beach weather. But the locals don’t agree. We cancel the night’s accomodation in Destin deciding to drive west into, not the eye of the storm, but the frill of it’s swirling skirt, all in the name of shopping at the outlet mall. To be honest, I’d have preferred a few hours at the beach but others were to dictate the day. We wait for Tibie’s friend to arrive. Never quite got her name, one of those African American concoctions that, rather than stick in your mind with its poignance, befuddle you with its non-sense, not quite making it into the memory bank. I’ll call her Katrina. She has to pick up her washing and take it home, she tells Tibie. Resistant to Tibie’s directive to bring the washing with her, she leaves us waiting — sitting in the car with growing humidity and no aircon. I’m not sure why we aren’t disembarking and waiting inside and am starting to become just a little impatient and frustrated. Generally when I visit friends I willingly go with the flow, letting them decide where to, what time and who with, in contrast to life at home dense with decisions. But sitting in a hot car with idyllic beaches just a stones throw away, well I am not feeling my most Zen. I calm myself with thoughts of ‘African time’ and try to let go of attachment to my preferred plan.
Katrina arrives and off we go. Two hours with Christian Music playing, interspersed with exclamations of “praise the lord”, and a point by point narrative of all the reality developments along the route — Katrina’s second job is a real estate agent. “Rosa Beach will see a Six Flags development” she reports knowingly, indifferent to my ignorance — what is a Six Flags? I’m later informed it’s an amusement park chain. We talk of land prices, plots in the new estate ranging from 70,000 to 1 million US, houses for anything from $130,000 to 1 million “but you have only eight options of design and colours to choose from”. As she regales me with other local enticements — jazz festivals, poetry readings, concerts, I wonder if this coastal area is just a little confused with it’s identity. Tibie and Katrina sing along to the radio. I’m a little amused, and curious. Christian music has come along way from my recollections of the Catholic ‘charismatic’ movement of the 70’s. 2017 Christian music appears to have appropriated all genres, country, hiphop, pop, r&b. There are a few tunes that sound decidedly mainstream and I later ask Sarah if these radio stations feel exposed ethically, in conflict playing for example Beyonce’s ‘Halo’, the original purpose not in any way godly but easily earmarked as a devotion. There was no clear answer.
We reach Destin in time for a few hours of shopping. Despite grey skies not yet threatening, wind not yet wild, plastic barriers are screwed into place over windows, sand bags are dragged into doorways and the stores closer a few hours earlier than usual — all in preparation for Nate. Well God clearly had a higher purpose for me that day. Rather than lazing on a beach, saving my pennies for the months ahead, I shop till I drop and I needed every item I purchased of course! Next time I am definitely coming in April, will see Destin beach, and bring a second suitcase!
By three in the afternoon Nate is making his presence noticed, the wind has picked up and large drops of rain splatter the windscreen. We drive east out of the storm past roadside signs ‘Full Sail Reality’ and ‘Mattress Firm’ and approaching Panama City agree on Sonny’s southern ribs for a late lunch early dinner. Seated in a booth the three black women and I peruse the menu as a young white waiter hovers. It’s not unusual for whites to refuse to serve blacks down here. Eventually Sarah, Tibie and Katrina make their orders, each with adaptations — reworking the menu as their own. Unsure and intimidated, especially when Tibie adds to her order a serve of ‘redneck eggrolls’, the young guy seems to get the unspoken message. Waiting for our meal, the Christian dialogue continues and I feel I am sitting in an evangelic church — questions and answers dance back and forth in the way a pastor calls out and the congregation answers. I wonder at the term ‘god fearing’ and its meaning — ‘earnestly religious’. But why ‘fearing’, maybe I am out of touch, maybe religions are no longer ‘god fearing’ and see him as benevolent? Tibie and Katrina make “The lord will deliver” assurances to any stated problem, espoused with a patented jubilance that seems devoid of any real joy. I know that both these ladies are going through tough times, so maybe its like the science that tells us putting a smile on our face actually increases our joy — the muscles, nerves and limbic system giving a temporary short cut to bliss. Hmmm?
Our meal arrives. Looking around the diner I notice the locals, this is well and truely Trump country, liberal Tallahassee, a university town, perhaps an aberration in the panhandle? Just then a blaring takes over the room. Sarah informs me it’s our phones sounding an alarm. I look down to see ‘Emergency Alert. Tornado Warning in this area til 5.00 pm CDT. Take shelter now. Check local media’. A bit of a risk taker, interested in a bit of an adventure, I have to admit to a sense of panic, an ‘is this real’ moment, as I ask, everyone calmly putting their phone away, “Do we do anything?” Clearly not. So we sit and enjoy the meal when it finally comes, redneck egg rolls and all.
Heading home a day early, on roads that are known by their numbers, we take interstate 10 again, pass though backwater ‘towns’ (a patrol station, some trailers, and a palpable sense that we don’t want to stop). With me the whitey in the car it might not be so bad, but nup, we’ll keep going thanks. Soon we are home to comfy beds, more HBO for me (I balance my training with binging on ‘In Treatment’), with a glass of Yellowtail Shiraz and handfuls of shopping bags littering my bedroom floor, well out of reach of Nate. All is good with the world.
But my spiritual tourism doesn’t end there. Brought up a Catholic, and practising till my mid twenties, I am sure mum was more than a little peeved that I continued to attend church when overseas, why not at home? Visiting Cathedrals and the like, lighting a candle for her, she would have got that. But attending services? For me is curiosity and respect for my hosts. Like me, Sarah was brought up a catholic and other than attending the Lutheran church with Ommet for a brief time and a brush with a pentecostal church in Blountstown (now that was an experience) she has stuck with the Catholics. Attending the Sunday night youth mass we drive to the service as day light fades. I scan the congregation, and when I later comment to Sarah “They all look SO American” she’s just a little bemused, after all, they are American. But it’s that clean cut, wide tooth grin, that ever so proper dress almost circa 1960 or 1980, I don’t know….maybe its just too much like the family TV shows we watched as kids with those perfect happy families? As the weeks pass I notice everyone has their place — literally, sitting in pretty much the same pew and position each week.
It is a marginally multicultural congregation, a few blacks attend this service, the African American Catholic church being across town. There are also some asians and hispanics. I notice a woman and her teenage daughter, lace veils draped over their hair, and am swept back to St Peter’s in the 1960s. But tonight the two black alter girls are pure 21st century. One night there is a single alter boy, dad proudly smiling from his pew. The poor boy must be new, have attention problems, or a very easy-go-lucky attitude, I ponder, as the priest and deacon continually and quietly prompt him throughout the service.
The young priest stands at the alter, the backdrop an array of plants and floral tributes, as he offers his sermon. Self effacing, gentle, not the most articulate of public speakers, his first sermon is about the sanctity of life. Walking into the church tan anti abortion poster heralded a warning, but I listen as he leads his flock from the sanctity of environmental life, the history of catholicism as vegetarians (the life of cows, who’d have known!) and ultimately of course to the life of a foetus. What was most curious was they way he distanced himself and the Church from any of his proclamations, all were attributed to the pope — a get out of free card for when the next pope came along and changed the rules? As he encourages his congregation to stand outside the local abortion clinic, bot in protest but to offer spiritual guidance to any woman entering, I feel affronted — but he was subdued, there was no rhetoric, just quietly asserting that he knew of children in the church that would not be here today if not for the chat he had at the door of the abortion clinic.
The youth mass draws young parishioners to do the readings, their devotion and passion just a little off putting to me — I suppose I’m stuck in the vein of ‘let’s all keep our faith and beliefs moderate and private please’. When the youth group leader makes his weekly announcements his piousness seems a little naive, particularly when he shares the evening’s topic — same sex attraction. They were ‘blessed to have a visit by a same sex attracted man who managed his cross by chastity….there is always a home in the church!’ My mind darts back and forth with rebuttals. So do all the Catholic couples only have sex to procreate? Never for pleasure or as an expression of love? Poor Tendai listens to all my challenges and views as Sarah and I dissect each mass on the drive home.
Three weeks come to a close. Meals of sadza ne muriwo, Australian Shiraz. Loads of washing, washing loads of dishes. Giving a lecture to Sarah’s Masters of Occupational Therapy students, at FAMU (Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University) on Autism and Mental Health, prepared it on the run on Sarah’s couch. Walking 17 kms in one go. Lots of TV, but even more talking. This was the first chapter in my midlife adventure as I fly home for four days.
City of Gold
Hopeful of some space to spread out on the Sydney-Johannesburg flight I found myself next to a Shona mother and her university student daughter who, along with their father and sister in business class and other sister in the opposite aisle (and not too happy about it), were heading home to Zim for a grandmother’s funeral. The mother, a nurse working in Townsville for ten-day straight stints before driving home to her husband, a Qantas engineer in Brisbane, bitterly described her compatriots as ‘stupid people’. Given the state of Zim in the past 21 years I couldn’t really disagree. The daughters, all successfully studying at various universities in Melbourne, embodied the immigrant story — hard working parents sacrificing for the next generation. I offered to swap with the disgruntled daughter, achieving a seat between myself and a woman at the window who immediately apologised that she had taken pills to knock herself out for the flight and would only wake to eat. I was feeling pretty content with myself until I discovered the audio jack in my new seat did not work. First world problems? Eventually angling it in a particular manner I was connected but on this, the third long haul flight in a month, the second in less than a week, I found little of interest to view. Sleep pretty much evading me — it was still early afternoon after all, I managed to doze as we approached Africa. Before I knew it the fourteen hour flight descended as dusk drew daylight from ‘the city built on gold’.
In the top fifty cities for size and one of the most dangerous in the world, I have always been just a little cautious navigating Joburg. After putting my money belt on I worked my way through customs and found a booth to purchase the Gautrain card. The world cup had brought Johannesburg into the 21st century (or the 20th at least — something Melbourne is yet to achieve) — with the Gautrain — an airport link named from its province — Gauteng. The card was loaded with a return trip, easy. I then purchased an MTN sim card with enough data for my journey (just — in one week and largely using wifi I managed to use all the data…have since learnt to turn off all my apps) and found the station. The train departed and I gazed over the suburbs as my phone rang. Sasha, on her own round-the -world discovery tour, was calling from California. Born in South Africa the timing was ethereal. I had just been thinking of her and her family.
Sandton station was my disembarking point. Too late I realised the lifts were there for a purpose — the endless escalators were a challenge with my 2 cases and small back pack. Atypical for me (tend to want to stick to the rules) I had disregarded Peregrine’s (the tour company for my Namibia safari) guidelines to keep luggage to a minimum. Unlike most of the others on the tour, I presumed, I was travelling for 6 months, I couldn’t really be expected to have just a backpack. Friends reassured me that going by tours they’d been on I would not be alone in my avant guard rebelliousness. Eventually emerging at street level I asked a guy where the pick up point was only to be sent to the drop off point — more escalators. Finally I found myself in Forgette’s car along with eighteen year old Savannah, and soon to be forty Jackie, down from Harare for Forgette’s recent graduation. Setting off for Linden, we were soon drinking wine, G&Ts, and eating sadza ne nyama ne muriwo. Laughter, stories, the two sisters gently and lovingly bickering as close sisters do. It was quite a wondrous and unexpected beginning to the African instalment of my journey and hard to comprehend that I had first met these confident African women when they were a mere 11 and 13 years old, 25 years ago.
A slow Saturday morning , sunny and hot, grocery shopping and, remembering Forgette’s less than enthusiastic relationship to cooking, I decided to plan the menu for at least a few meals. A lazy afternoon of netflix, dinner of roasted lamb cutlets, veggies and good red wine, the jet lag not too horrendous. I had decided to be a bit of a tourist this visit. My two pervious stints in Joburg were fly-in fly-out trips. The first was to stay with Cathy and Gordon — a Irish/SA Indian couple and their gorgeous three daughters who had taken me under their wing when I’d arrived in Zim as a development worker. I was en route to Madagascar and the timing was perfect. SA had held it’s first free and fair elections after decades of apartheid. Old and young alike patiently standing for days, in endless snake like lines, had exercised their human right for self determination. The ANC, unsurprisingly, had won and I was whisked away to an ANC party. I thought it a good omen for the healing of the country that the gathering of whites, coloured, Indian and blacks were all celebrating this historic moment in harmony, the rainbow coloured nation. My second visit to Joburg was 6 years ago. A brief stop over to see Forgette after 15 years and meet hSAvannah for the first time. I recall feeling a little uncertain on a solo neighbourhood daytime stroll. Was it the bad press, a warning from Forgette, or just that every home housed a vicious dog that, unseen, attacked the gate as I walked by?
Forgette, aware of my desire to be a tourist, looked at Soweto tours, and, scoffing at the price, she took me instead. Maybe for someone who’s never been in Africa, never been to a township, maybe then it might feel worthwhile to spend $150 but the actual house, simple with a few times of interest, passing by the outside of Bishop Tutu’s home, hmmm paying that much — not for me. It was a Sunday morning, as the weather was grey and cool, there were few people out so the atmosphere was subdued. We sat at a bar, sipping a G&T and entertained by a local band.
I have a daily budget for this trip, with as many things as possible pre paid and financial commitments back at home allocated for. Sadly in my four days back in Melbourne I blew the budget to kingdom come — new hiking boots were needed (thanks for the tip Myriam — my Ecco boots are bliss), a new camera lens — in all my time in Africa the longest sense I had was 70mm so the new 18–270mm, feels like an extravagance, but if not now, when? Meds for 6 months a necessity, kindle replaced (the old one died on my first day in Tallahassee). Oh well. I have quickly come to see these expense as investments. My passions in life — being in nature, taking photos, walking and writing. I have six months to emerge myself in these, and six weeks in the investment is already paying off.
Three time zones in a week had taken their toll and my thoughts of making the trek to Pretoria or touring the Cradle of Mankind were dismissed — I was too exhausted. Next time. Instead I walked — as I do. But only for 1–2 hours. Delta Park felt safe with people walking dogs, bike riding, some workman, and a species of Ibis (I think) with a peculiar hark that punctuated the suburban peace. Views of the CBD, hills carpeted with a hint of jacaranda through light smog, a rushing creek (a storm had passed through a few weeks earlier destroying homes and flooding parts), it was great to stretch, use my muscles in dry African heat. A recycling centre was housed in the park, bins overflowing and waste scattered with the wind….interesting choice. A sensory garden, some lakes, a bird sanctuary with horses…a white woman running at me searching for a golden retriever — Codie…pointing her in the direction I’d seen him wander. An african guy was running two dogs (how is that for out-sourcing — the owner sending his ‘boy’ to run the dogs…. really?). He insisted the two dogs were with him, she was unbelieving. I was just a little confused, you’d think she’d know her own dog. Having abruptly dismissing me she eventually returned to explain, a dog sitter had lost the dog and she was helping to retrieve the retriever! The guy and I raised eyebrows, it wasn’t looking good for the dog sitter! Making the ascent back I huffed and I puffed, in awe that Savannah and a friend ran this 5 km route on Saturdays, the homeward stretch was a killer.
Walking or cycling the Joburg neighbourhoods awoke my love of Africa. I only attempted to cycle once…..Joburg is hilly…I had not cycled for 15 years and nearly died… it’s more accurate to say I took the bike for a walk. From the colour of the soil (milk chocolate in Linden), streets lined with Jacaranda trees in October bloom, dry heat, afternoon clouds billowing and building to grey, the slow roll of thunder, electric lightening and sudden drenchings leading to refreshing nights. A familiarity was seeping into my veins.
Savannah was studying for her final exams so I cooked — the leftovers make for easy lunches — feta and beetroot salad with an imitation harissa paste, beef stir fry, chicken kebabs with fresh pineapple, and a lemon delight cake. Each evening we sat in the courtyard drinking wine or G&Ts and talked. That’s one of my other passions as anyone who knows me can tell you! Savannah took breaks to sit and hear our stories — the early days when Jackie and Forgette caught the chicken bus to Marondera if I couldn’t collect them, to spend a week of the school holidays, using Sarah and my bikes and making more friends in a week than I did in 2 years; the days in Harare when a visit to my place was an excuse to dress up — an outing from their strong stern mother who kept them on the tightest of leashes; movies and ‘fast food’ — a luxury in Zim at the time; other development workers — Forgette has the most incredible memory for names recalling first and last names of people I could barely picture. I was 30 when Forgette was 11. We sat and marvelled at the phases of our friendship, from the ‘aunty’ and child to now, a 36 and 54 year old talking and sharing as equals. We laughed, shared sorrows, felt fury as we talked about past flames or fiends, loves ad losses.
Forgette was stunning as an eleven year old, an impish smile, delicate nose, elegant cheek bones and perfect skin. I remember the first day in Zim when she and Jackie walked me to the local grocery store, the guys at the servo ogling her and my silent reflection “I’m glad I’m not her mum for the years ahead”. Like most of us, life has thrown its fair share of challenges her way. At 36 Forgette remains stunning, elegant, delicate only in her endless empathy, and a profoundly strong woman. Her daughter, Savannah, at 18 is already centred and clear. We laughed and rejoiced at how much Savannah loves her body, her African bottom, and her bemoaning when it reduces for any reason. For Forgette’s chattiness, Savannah observes, talks when she is needed to and says what is needed. They are a team, respectful and kind to each other. It was gold to be part of the team for just a week. Can’t wait till we can meet again.
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