Don't Get Me Wrong

It’s been a busy month since my last scribbling, and an exciting one, too. On the day it rained, I set off at the appointed hour, very early, to meet them at the airport. Rain. Soft, gentle, penetrating, misty rain. Enough to soak our scorched land. Not enough to break the drought.

I was early; traffic was light. I could do it at a good clip. The mountains surrounding me were wondrous, with low clouds and saturated colours. Irresistible. A good photo opportunity. Besides, I had a warning light; a door wasn’t closed properly. I stopped on the shoulder, checked the doors, and took my photograph. The old lady wouldn’t start again. Uncanny. Upsetting and nerve-wracking. I felt a sinking sense of disappointment, knowing I had missed their plane, and the news of accidents made me worry about their safety. Long story short, I missed their plane’s landing. The news broadcasts were full of it: three accidents and multiple roadworks. We seem to lose our grip in the rain.

Just as I could smell the rain, I could feel the warmth of their return. The smell of freshly ground beans in the morning, their Issey Miyake and Au Savage, the briny scent of a wetsuit, wax on surfboards, musty beach towels and damp board shorts, the floral scent of laundry flapping in the breeze. The air in our house had changed. Heaven. I’d walk up the stairs in the morning and spot the curve of a hip and toes sticking out from under the bedclothes. My boy was home. Dark curls on pillows as the little spoon slept in.

There was no time for jet lag or fatigue. The sun was shining, and the swells, breaks, curls, and onshore-offshore conditions were perfect. Three weeks of early mornings and late nights. They’ve grown up too and take things more slowly. I was spoilt with meals out, walks in all-too-familiar places, visits to long-forgotten places, and quiet moments waiting for the perfect break. 

We caught up, listened to one another’s tales, shared secrets (not really; in a large family, there are no secrets), and I lapped them up hungrily, savouring each morsel, knowing they are their stories to cherish. I saw the laughter return and the dark circles whisper away.

Our ticked-off list included Muizenberg for a surfboard, revisits to Kommetjie and Bakoven to catch a 5-star wave, lunches and dinners at interesting places, bodyboarding in Onrus, and watching a little gaggle of boys come to play in the surf. The trip to the Breede River was a solo drive, a peaceful escape for reflection. Like a golden slice of the moon, I thought my own thoughts, driving at my own pace and stopping to photograph desolate, brownish landscapes, like sheared sheep, still beautiful, albeit naked. These places hold special memories and symbolise moments of solitude and connection for me, enriching the story with deeper meaning.

Spending time with four friends, reminiscing about our trip to Paris and the Luberon Valley, brought back fond memories, with conversations ranging from the US elections and our take on Trump to preparing the perfect Soufflé. With scarves protecting our coiffures, we took a speedboat out for early-morning coffees, sundowners and pizzas at the local pizzeria, where locals and stray husbands on a boys’ weekend fishing bought us shooters with a dash of charm! Downstream, Butch and his boys spent their weekend telling tales and bonding while the big one got away.

At home, we prepared simple meals, watched a comedy or two, debated the state of our nation, got excited about reasonably priced properties, spent time in our PJs, dressed up for dinners with friends, had breakfast at the Farmers’ Market, and picnicked on the beach. We all helped deflate the tyres to drive along a lonely stretch of Plaat to our favourite cove; their lines were cast, and black mussels and Oyster Catchers were counted. We returned home a little burnt, with sand in our bathers and our hands sticky from melting ice-cream cones. During the week, I even had time for my annual cooking class, with my Christmas Eve menu sorted.

The brief was: spend time with family, catch up with school friends, hit the high rollers on a surfboard, relax, and, most importantly, spend time with the grandparents. I saw the tear when they realised Ouma and Oupa aren’t quite as young as they were last time. Their eyes sparkled with nostalgia, and I could feel the bittersweet mix of joy and sadness in that moment. However, fit as fiddles, their steps have slowed; memories are a little more selective, and for old times’ sake, it’s memories of growing up, holidays in Stellenbosch, the old Pecan nut tree, bicycles, and ice creams at Portofino’s that steal the limelight. Grandma’s unabashed honesty is refreshing yet surprising. The obsequious mother I knew is no more!

All too soon, our 19 days were over, and it was time to weigh suitcases, strip the beds, stow the surfboards, and give the garden a final watering. Once again, the old lady wouldn’t start. This time she put her foot down and wouldn’t budge, forcing us to toe the line. They say that after a few years one can look like one’s dog; in our house, the Land Cruiser knows the mood instinctively, echoing the quiet sadness of parting and the value of shared moments.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been doing this for decades, and it never gets easier. I relish the visits but dread the partings. This malady is called “separation anxiety”. I wish they could stay, just an extra day. I cannot resist sinking into the dark veil of depression. I return to a parched, dying garden, curtains drawn, furniture covered in a thick layer of dust, a laundry basket spilling out, and stacked crockery mocking me from the drying rack. Although I'm eternally grateful for all the opportunities my children have been afforded, there is a part of me that resents the loss not only to us but also to this amazing country of ours. Imagine what we might've achieved if all our citizens could remain here?

In this darkness, I mourn two small boys who drowned in the lagoon, a friend who's been diagnosed with breast cancer, and the suddenness, which is staggering. Another feels the weight of caring for an ageing parent, the loss of her career, and an empty nest. She worries me, as her immeasurable sadness is palpable.

Our mountain was ravaged by fire once again, having just recovered from last year's burn; the scorched earth there resembles a grey dune. So Christmas and a trumped-up New Year loom.

"Ping!" goes my phone. They’ve landed safely and walked out into a winter covered in 5 feet of snow, with a thermometer reading of -39°C. On this sunny south side, jets are landing with thousands of Saffas returning home for the holidays. I breathe... deeply. This too shall pass.