Seeing Is Believing

I need to see a place with my own eyes before I believe a word anyone says about it. It may well be beautiful, gracious, modern or old, but without experiencing its soul, it's really quite dead. I need to know that my footprints were left in that place. One day I may return, differently from the first time, perhaps with angels' wings or telepathically. Then I'll need to find my way back to you again, leaving room for future reflections and spiritual connections that deepen my understanding of travel and memory.

This is how it is with me. It wasn't until I saw my boy standing in the Arrivals hall at Gatwick Airport, after I'd slept in that awful bed in that awful house in Elephant and Castle and had seen with my own eyes how a gorgeous Australian girl got wasted every Friday night, squandering her hard-earned cash, that I knew what it was like to be penniless in London. 

It was while walking the streets, catching the bus, hailing a taxi, and negotiating the red, blue and yellow lines of the tube that I could judge his frame of mind. I had reason to worry. But I returned home a little more relieved, somehow, because I'd been there; my dust was in that place, an expression of my presence and emotional connection. There we laughed, cried, battled our way through past disappointments and hurts, and ultimately made peace. I had to go there for that. The poet sitting under the bridge, penning Blue Moon, might be insignificant. I wish he knew someone at the very bottom of Africa remembers him.

When I think of places I've visited, I can see the people I know there, like the girl bathing in the Ganges, whose ritual feels sacred and personal to me. In my mind's eye, I can envision them going about their business, like the bellhop waving frantically to stop traffic in Hanoi or the mounted police officer who saved me from getting lost in Munich. It's indelible. In Varanasi, I remember a girl bathing in the Ganges, cupping her hands, scooping water into the sunlight, and, like a priestess, baptising herself, a ritual I'm sure she performs regularly. I will never forget the three babies left on the street in Udaipur. My eyes took them in, and they'll be remembered forever.

In Portugal, I walked for miles on cobblestones, winding my way through narrow streets. Bill Clinton doesn't know me at all, but we were in Cascais, the fishing village where my aunt lived, on the same day. I have breathed its salt air, eaten its grilled sardines, and listened to Amália Rodrigues sing Fado; he did too. Our laughter echoes around the ancient walls in Ménerbes as we celebrate a birth 50 years ago. When the mayor hears a muffled call from the Assienne Poste below, it's not a dream.

I've been hot, sweaty, dirty and really irritated by the flies, mosquitoes and moths in the Kalahari, where my footprints lie next to a leopard's.

I've danced in Otjiwarongo, snorkelled, and seen the devastation after a tsunami on the Phi Phi Islands. I remember Than and the festive meal at her table. I cried until I felt weak in Dachau; I listened to a survivor's murmured Hebrew prayers for those he lost. I've touched the door that shut off the lives of thousands of people; my fingerprints are there with theirs. 

And so I arrived in Vancouver, a beautiful city with lots of charm. Many people boast it's almost like Cape Town. Maybe. I walked the streets, cycled around the islands, enjoyed lovely meals, and drank cold beer to quench my thirst. I looked, saw, felt, and experienced a little of what my old school friend must experience. In my mind's eye, I can see her in that place. My heartbeat slows; I can see the attraction, and I'm pleased for her. I would've loved to have spent an hour catching up; a hug would've made my day, but it wasn't to be. I even breathed the same city air as a famous actor who sat just two tables away. I tried on expensive fedoras and a chic cheese cutter; whoever has it now wears it with a bit of me inside.

In Victoria, I relived a boy and his dog having breakfast at the local diner; I walked in his shadow along the promenade; I can picture him scrumming and tackling that oval ball until he was ready to go home at peace and happy in his own skin. He showed me where a distant relative lived and guided us to all his favourite haunts. Here, he faced his demons and learnt to listen to his heart. He became a man, my son.

When my friend tells me she's about to board a seaplane from Nanaimo to Vancouver, I'll know exactly what she's experiencing; I've done that too. The miracle was that I didn't need the paper bag at all! I was enthralled and couldn't get enough of the views, the islands, the sea; I could see the Rockies and the vastness of the place. I hope she will "feel" I was there too next time she boards a plane. There's a pilot who was charmed by my daughter and her felt hat. His "selfie" proves it!

Once I got to her home in Sprout Lake, I walked from her house to our friends' house; I know every step they take now. I saw the huge water bomber and the devastation of a forest fire. Lying on their dock, sipping cocktails and eating delicious meals, gave me insight into their lives in this place so far from here. It is beautiful. It's safe, it's kind to the soul, and I can see them getting their smiles back as they pick up the rhythm of a quieter, less complicated life.

Like a family of ground squirrels, she needs to be near her children too, but, like me, they're scattered like sand in all directions. Their times together are golden threads, precious, strong, yet fragile. Perfect days softened the laughter lines and brightened the sparkle in her eyes. Those phantom "Mammie!" calls echo in that house, I'm sure. I miss her; she's been around for 45 years, after all, like an old cardigan. I'll know where to find her. If ever she needs a shoulder or a friend, I hope my perfume has lingered there, a reminder that I understand.

On a rainy day in a beautiful garden filled with white hanging baskets, I witnessed a bride and groom passionately say, "I do!" proving once again that love conquers all and you can have a match made in heaven.  The festive mood buoyed us up, made us laugh and cry while we sakkie-sakkied the night away to the rhythms of favourite South African songs. 

I was delighted to see the children who played in my garden and jumped on my beds grow into amazing adults, so full of confidence, charm, insight, and joie de vivre. Today, Precious and I cheer and whoop as Canada takes on Japan (RWC), with "our" boy the star of the show. Our chests swell with pride when he scores a try, and I wipe away tears when he smiles and I see he has his mum's dimple, right under his eye. I will look out for Rosie to tell her the little one (the youngest of the brood) is a grown man, as tall and strong as a tree.

It's taken me a while to grow up, to accept and to be at peace; today, I know it's all right. The first time I visited that flat, barren place with such a regal name, it was a culture shock. This time I could see the quaint beauty; I enjoyed my walks around the lake. Riding a bicycle down the tree-lined streets reminded me of Stellenbosch, and the ginger biscuit houses had a special charm. I met amazing, friendly, hospitable people. Here, they're intelligent, funny, unique, opinionated, and grand. I was treated like a queen, made to feel at home, spoilt and loved.  

I met the boy of my dreams, the sweetest, cutest, smartest, and handsomest of all, my grandson. I was astonished by how easily his parents brought him up. His birth has reunited the 8 people who mean the most to me, and it's so good; I am blessed.   

My Papa always says, "Fish and family go off after 3 days." I must've overstayed my welcome then, but who could resist the welcome I got, the fun I had, the treats (Canadians make up baskets filled with treats, extravagant and delightful goodies to say "Welcome"; I loved those lucky dips).

They've grown up, those crazy, wild, energetic, eccentric offspring of mine; today I look at them and wonder what all the fuss was about. "You did well", as my sweet Bridge buddy would say. I can boast that I've got a dreamer, angel, charmer, genius, comedian, sister, best friend, comrade-in-arms living in Canada, and I have a soul sister, a friend, a man who gives the best hugs, a boy who is the earth, and two little girls who make me smile right here. There's a smart Alec or two, too! I've undeservedly hit the jackpot. They're all one of a kind, not one in the crowd.

If anyone misses me or needs me on any given day, be sure I've left my mark there; you need to find it. Lie on my bed, put your nose right into my pillow, soak in the slipper bath, cook with me, look through a lens with my eyes, colour that picture the way I would, write, paint, read, sing in the car, walk, talk, laugh, argue and debate.

Go out and throw the football for Maddie, and let yourself be dragged around the lake by Kobe. Let Muppet lie on the bed and be charmed, or watch Charlie's slow dance on the roof. And if all else fails, paint your lips red, kiss that grandbaby as I did, fill your lungs with his babiness, watch him jump and grow, and then sit back and knock back a tequila or two! Go glamping and be adventurous, but do it slowly and enjoy every moment. Paint your nails green, girls, and cheer for your home team.  

I learnt that peeling onions with goggles on can stop the tears; I drank coffee under a star shower when the world slept; I spooned and felt those little arms around my waist like days of old.  I watched a wheeler-dealer and saw that he loves his wife and son; once again I marvelled at the talent of another, how creativity comes so naturally to him.  I enjoyed their banter and camaraderie while playing cricket or croquet, or while walking a wall.  Wearing a watermelon on your head does not define you!

Beware: You can only wear your hair in a poof if you're loaded with confidence and everyone adores you. Someone supported the home team although they never win. Like the golden orb spider, my family's thread is fragile, sometimes translucent, but together we spin a web so strong we wear it like a Kevlar vest.   

Remember, some things never change. Life is too short not to take a chance, and it's too long to have regrets.   I've got memories to last a lifetime: a beautiful painting of your birch trees, glass baubles and beads on my wrist, photos galore, and a pang for a child who will grow up too soon. It's OK to believe there are superheroes. Here, I'm home where I have a rich and rewarding life with someone I love.  

So in no particular order I'd like to thank Precious, Shawn, Raylyne, Rob, Erin, Bertus, Jill, James, Ounie, Emily, Janine, Danie, Carla, Jaco, Timmy, Joe, Lise, Neil, Anna, J-B, Billy, Wiloma, Ann, Ken, Larry, Fran, Ilze, DTH, Tara, Mike, Marni, Ria, AC, Pierre, Lia, Jacob, Anna-Louise, Ellen, Nola, Matilde, Penny, Danie, Kerrie, Kim, Lourens, Inge, Thysie (the best barman this side of Shanghai), Carla, Andrie, Pieter(tjie), Megan, Stefan, Muppet, Kobe, Maddie and Charlie: you made this blog possible!