What’s Next? Going with the flow into turbulent (Muddied) waters

Upon returning to South Africa, we found ourselves amidst worldwide chaos. An escalating war in Ukraine, genocide in Gaza, MAGA in America, Charlie Kirk (whom I had no inkling of) has been assassinated.

Afrikaaners are asylum seekers, citing white genocide, to the USA, and police corruption is worsening in South Africa, where whistleblowers face deadly repercussions. AI has taken hold and is spreading faster than COVID-19 or the wildfires in the Overberg.

I can’t recall a time when the world was as divided by politics, religion, sport (such as the Springbok rugby sagas), medicine (with vaxers and antivaxxers), immigration, or human rights as it is now. Humanity feels like a virus that is consuming its own future.

In Australia, it’s illegal for a child (under 16) to have a social media account, but children as young as 10 can access online gambling. (The legal age is 18). Virginia Roberts Giuffre commits suicide, and the Epstein files have yet to be released. Her book “Nobody’s Girl” should be mandatory reading.

Does one like Dostoevsky say, “Perhaps it is better to suffer and know the truth than to be happy in a delusion,” or like Kafka: “I would rather keep my illusions, for they are often kinder than the truth.”?

Netflix will acquire Warner Bros., and a handful of super corporations are fast running the world. I can remember as a child when grown-ups spoke of the secretive Illuminati that supposedly ran the world. Today we know their names.

The truth is so well camouflaged, and disinformation so convincingly coloured, that we read the news, listen to podcasts, see photographs of the strangest things, all presented as the truth. One might think it’s easy to tell the difference, but it is not. We are all distracted, anxious, uncertain, grabbing at straws and clinging to a life raft in the hope that someone honourable and with integrity will save us. I fear not.

On my walk one morning, I heard a crow Kaah-Kaah-Kaah.

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Butch and I are like two meerkats that have just emerged from their burrow into headlights, standing there bewildered, our heads swinging like metronomes from side to side, unsure of what to do next.

Quite frankly, I’d rather be watching a pack of wild dogs hunting a wildebeest or navigating a bustling market in Dar-es-Salaam for spices, or bargaining with a lady over a handful of granadillas, who is adamant that I take a five-litre bucket of granadillas at the same price. I yield, pay, and wonder when I’ll have time to scoop out all the pulp to freeze. Even a pothole in Mozambique could lift my spirits; I’d rather be anywhere but here.

But let’s not be distracted, we have work to do and decisions to make.

(I post a few tree photographs. They will outlive us all and have survived everything humans have inflicted upon them. The stories they could tell. Photographs taken this morning on our walk through Platbos, South Africa's Southernmost Indigenous Forest)

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First off, the Honey Badger.

First thing on a Monday morning, we’re back in Worcester to have our tyres and wheels checked. One of the wheels has a slow leak. I hold my thumbs. There is good news, the leak in the tyre can be fixed.

I lift myself from the tractor tyre I’ve been sitting on. The sun is scorchingly hot, yet the shade beneath the pepper tree remains cool. I enjoyed simply sitting there, listening to the men chat, the rhythmic ping-ping of a hammer striking a steel tyre iron. Eventually, the wheel is reassembled and rolled back to the truck. The next bit took Butch and me thirty minutes; these pros do it in ten, while they wipe their hands on a greasy cloth, we get ready to roll.

On Church Street, we stop at a new coffee shop, and towering old English Oak trees provide deep shade for the tables on the veranda where we sit. Memories of my life here in Worcester come flooding back because it’s still all so familiar.

Butch's hamburger is enormous, and my wrap is very generous and tasty, and the best part is that the golden chips are crispy and perfectly salty.

A dear friend has invited us to spend a night or two on their beautiful farm surrounded by mountains, fynbos, an olive grove, vineyards and a river. A magnificent, peaceful valley.

Diepsak farm on the Breede River is the perfect spot for us. At the same time, I unpack our groceries, which took four times longer to purchase than usual. Butch sets up our table and chairs.

It is common for ladies to gather in the grocery store, where you’re sure to find friends and acquaintances for a “tea party”. Shopping trolleys line up, blocking aisles, a few inches from the shelves, as women stop browsing and engage in tête-à-tête. I caught up with at least five ladies I know. We had a lot of catching up to do. Fortunately, Butch was happy with his Americano and Wi-Fi connectivity.

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Sundowners on the embankment with the sluggish river cooling the breeze playing off the water, a drink and the company of our friends was sublime. Butch braaied for supper, and we enjoyed a few specialities from Woolworths.

Before falling asleep, I reminded myself that every night we go to bed without any assurance of being alive the next morning, yet we set alarms to wake up. That’s hope, and the confidence we have to plan for the next day, despite zero knowledge of the future.

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And there we were. The next morning, after our coffee and rusks, we walked, like farmers do, checking their fences, orchards, vineyards and werf (yard).

Up and down and around we went to cover the kilometres we were used to. The olive groves were full of swelling green olives, which would soon be harvested, after which they’re soaked in water for weeks for pickling, or, most likely, immediately after they’re picked, pressed for the precious golden oil. Fresh oil has green, herbaceous, and slightly peppery notes characteristic of good-quality extra-virgin olive oil—liquid gold.

The vineyards with green and red grapes (berries) are ready for harvesting and pressing at the cellar for this year’s vintage.

Two Idirondack chairs wait at the 2023 flood line. We sit flabbergasted. Could it be possible that the river reached here? A kilometre from our truck, now parked there.

I smiled when I almost walked into the tortoise, who was trying to break the land speed record as he got out of my way and into the fynbos. He was gorgeous. Yellow patches bright against his tawny-brown shell. I managed to get two pictures before he disappeared, blending so well with the undergrowth.

Juanita’s garden, like her home, is curated, colourful, manicured and in perfect harmony with the surroundings.

I can imagine how delighted their children, friends and family must be when they’re all gathered around her table on the veranda. I can imagine children on the dam or diving off the little jetty, where two Swallows are now perched. I discovered a rare jewel in our friendship. Hard to find and impossible to replace! 

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For the time being, we’ve decided to set ourselves up in Onrus. I will be near my Dad, and it was a convenient drive to Cape Town or Worcester if needs be, and the children and grandchildren would rather visit us there than anywhere else.  

Liam will visit soon, while the weather is so glorious, and we can get out and about to explore the pools. He would like to see a few arachnids.

We needed a routine again, and soon found ourselves doing just that in our familiar surroundings.

In the mornings, we’d ride our bikes (weather permitting) or walk along the cliff path. There and back is a good 10km. On two mornings a week, I joined a group at the outdoor gym adjacent to Davies’ Pool for an exercise class. I signed up for a month of Eric’s brutal Boot Camp exercises.

I could feel my muscles working and a few I’d forgotten about, but it was exhilarating, and I couldn’t wait to get to my next class.

Once we’d settled in and my children knew we were back and that further travel was on the back burner, they invited us to come over to spend part of their summer in Canada.

I realised that I’d pushed thoughts of a visit to see my children into the farthest reaches of my mind, but now the realisation that I’d seen them four years ago crept back into my consciousness and the longing for them brewed.

Neil is 10 already, Danny is 8, Isla is 6, Maeva is 3, and Lanae, the latest addition, is just a few months old. They wouldn’t recognise me anymore, and I have missed so much of their formative years. I couldn’t even imagine how tall the boys were or how cute the girls are.

“The End” by A.A. Milne

And this was my dilemma… I had missed all these milestones.

I agreed immediately, looking forward to reuniting, but Butch declined the invitation, saying I needed to spend some alone time with my kids without his interference. I must confess I do appreciate his thoughtfulness in this regard, although he will be missed.

Before I had a chance to change my mind, Joe booked my tickets. My Canadian visa had expired two years earlier. I tried to explain, and according to the Canadian Embassy’s website, the processing time for a visitor visa (from outside Canada) for South Africa was 326 days! Visitors are advised not to purchase tickets until they have been granted a visa.

Joe had everything under control, and how could I forget Emily was an Immigration Officer who would do the honours. I could relax, he promised. I wasn’t so sure.

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The Honey Badger was due for some bodywork maintenance. She had endured some of the roughest roads imaginable for three years with very little maintenance, but it was time. Unfortunately, AC Motorhomes, which had built the motorhome, was booked up with new builds and suggested we try to have the work done elsewhere. Our second alternative was Bushwakka in Worcester.

Butch spent hours going through the truck with a fine-tooth comb, making a list of all the niggly bits that needed fixing, and this necessitated another trip to Worcester, where the truck will stay for at least a month, Butch told me.

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One of the highlights during this time was a visit from a friend, Sandra, her daughter, Marilinda, and her toddler, Lenni, ex-Worcesterites who now live in New Zealand. We’d not seen each other for many years; they were also in Onrus for a weekend.

Our daughters were best friends at school, and over many cups of tea and glasses of wine, we watched them grow into strong, independent women with families of their own. I seem to recall that Sandra was already a grandmother to three teenagers. Although she misses South Africa, her family in Namibia and her son, who I believe still lives here, she looks as glamorous as ever. Her life in New Zealand has been kind to her.

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The advantage of being back in Hermanus was that we were invited to functions and were back on a to-invite list. One evening, we attended a musical evening by a very talented Double Bass player, accompanied by a digital orchestra. He entertained us with his versatility.

December is the month when many expats return home, hundreds of flights land at all the major airports, depositing our children and grandchildren from overseas. He was one of them returning from the UK to visit his parents. How privileged we were to share his valuable time, his talent and magical show on a Saturday afternoon.

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One of our favourite annual treks is to The Plaat, a stretch of beach between De Kelders and Hermanus.

This Pilgrimage is planned in advance and preferably on a perfect, windless day; full sunshine is an advantage. We pack our chairs, a table and a picnic lunch for the outing.

On this occasion, we had been invited by Billy, Butch’s son, who is a nature guide in the Hermanus area. We, in turn, asked our dear friends, the Tozers, swallows who’ve been on many trips and outings with us.

Billy arrived in the old red Land Cruiser for the trip, and we all piled in and set off with picnic baskets filled to the brim with delicious snacks, Caprese salad on sticks, a sosatie (kebab) of fresh salads, and another of summer fruit. For dessert, Megan produced the most scrumptious cherry muffin cupcakes. They were like chiffon, with a sweet-and-tart flavour.

 

While Billy braaied a beautiful, fresh Cape Salmon (my favourite fish) for the main course and a delicious sausage for starters.

We pulled up our chairs, patted our hats down on our noggins. Butch poured drinks, and Megan opened a snack before we settled in to catch up, watch the waves roll in, and enjoy the sunlight along with this magnificent landscape and seascape.

The seal frolicking in the water and then surfacing to sun itself on the warm rocks was an extra treat. It put on a splendid display, just for us.

All around us, we could hear the “klee-kleep peeka-peeka-peeka’ alarm call of the Black Oyster catchers calling their chicks or protecting their chicks from predators, and us, of course.

After lunch, Billy took us on a guided walk along the beachfront. Although I am often loath to take a guided tour, believing we prefer our independence, I am, after all, an eremite in eremition (someone who’s in the act of gradually fading from the lives of others, not out of malice but a desire for solitude or renewal!)

I can kick myself for being so ridiculously stubborn because one learns so much, and Billy’s knowledge of the sea, shells, coastal plants, birds and the coastal landscape is richly rewarding. I vow I’ll not be so shortsighted again. Megan and I dawdled and let the guys hurry along ahead of us this time.

Did you know?

The feeding and dietary habits of female and male African Oystercatchers differ in the types of prey they consume and in their feeding behaviours. Males focus on larger prey, such as limpets and whelks, while females are more inclined to eat smaller prey, such as polychaetes and tiny unshelled crustaceans like black mussels, which grow prolifically on the rocks along the coast.

This dietary distinction is linked to their specific roles within the breeding pair, with males often providing food for the nest and females caring for the young. The dietary separation results from bill dimorphism, the difference in bill structure (one sex drills a hole in the shell and the other shovels from the shell) between the sexes, enabling them to specialise in different prey types. This specialisation helps reduce competition for food and boosts their chances of successful breeding.

Just before sunset, we returned from the Plaat covered in sand, a shade darker, dishevelled and tired, but it was a healthy, relaxed, invigorating tiredness after a day on the beach—my best.

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Our walks always ended at Davey’s Pool, where we’d often sit and have a hot coffee in the morning and an iced coffee in the afternoon and now and then spoil ourselves with a large, delicious, crispy oat cookie. Next to the coffee station is a free lending library where clients can borrow a book. I was not reading and decided to take the plunge. A good book might encourage me to get back into reading.

Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood: I skipped and chose “The Bitterness of Olives” by Andrew Brown.

I couldn’t have picked a better book. In my cosy hammock under a Milkwood tree, I read this unforgettable book until I turned the last page.

Short Synopsis of the book written by a South African author, no less. A book of our times.

“Avi Dahan, a retired detective mourning his beloved wife in Tel Aviv, and Khalid Mansour, a Palestinian doctor confronting the precarious reality of living in Gaza City, are still reeling from the political fallout that jeopardised their delicate friendship. When a mysterious corpse scarred by history and forbidden love shows up in Khalid’s emergency room, he reaches out to Avi for help. Though the detective is the only one who might be able to assist, he is the last person on earth to agree …

The stage is set for Andrew Brown’s unforgettable new novel, The Bitterness of Olives.” Goodreads. A five-star book, I’d say.

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For a special treat, we went via Somerset West and had a scrumptious brunch at the fantastic restaurant and antique and clothing shop, Pyjamas and Jam.

As usual, this vibey restaurant was packed and buzzing with chatter. While we waited for our order, I did some snooping and perused the different departments and got stuck in the clothing section, where everything is produced in my favourite linen colour, white, or winter white. Even the selection of cookery books was beautifully displayed like gifts—a feast for the eyes.

The displays are beautifully styled; the food counters are filled with dreamy, irresistibly gorgeous, and tantalizingly delicious cakes and tarts; and cupcakes and lemon meringue tarts under glass cloches beckon and seduce.

The morning spent here has ignited my curiosity and interest in a home of our own again. Our own Mooinooi.  (That’s what I’ll christen our home, wherever and whatever she is.) Excitement ripples through me.

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A date is set for the Honey Badger to return to Worcester for her overhaul. To do so, we need to pack her up. One of the conditions was that we deliver her with absolutely no loose items, not even a pot, pan or teaspoon in a drawer.

It is like packing up our home. We collect boxes, buy sheets of bubble wrap, rolls of packing tape, and a Koki pen to label the boxes.

Where to start? With the things we’re not likely to use for the next month. The rest must go. Butch wags a finger at me, warning me, “We’ve got to travel light”! These words to a person who’s travelled light for three years. I glare at him.

Boxes pile up; we need more packing essentials. I wrap a mug using the last of the bubble wrap and packing tape. Is it possible that we could’ve accumulated so much stuff? By the looks of things, yes.

At last, we’ve cleared up, packed, and selected what goes into our storage facility before setting off for Worcester, where the work will be done. Jasper is waiting for us.

There are no shortcuts to this, and the trip will be the first long-distance jaunt that I’ve done solo in three years. Butch is in the Honey Badger, and I’m keeping up at a brisk pace in the trusty Chico. Once I’m behind the wheel, with my music on, the windows open and fresh air blasting in (there’s no air con), we are off. It’s pedal to the metal. I am actually loving it! Freedom.

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The Fynbos Guest Farm outside of Wolseley is the perfect spot for us to spend the last evenings before we deliver the truck to Jasper at Bushwakka first thing on Monday morning.

Butch and I take a stroll around the property, enjoying the views of the Witzenberg Mountains and a menagerie of animals in large pens. There are Emus, Zebras, Springbok, mules, alpacas and sheep.

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For a month, we’ll be staying at River’s Own Guest Lodge, on the Witte River in the Bains’ Kloof Pass. We’ll occupy one of the beautiful one-bedroom cottages.

Before heading off to Worcester, we unpack the final boxes and bags into a container at River’s Own Guest Lodge. At last, we can relax; we’ve unbundled ourselves.

On Monday morning, first thing, we trundle off to Worcester, the Chico and I keeping up the rear.

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Fear and trepidation grip me in a tight stranglehold. I go with the flow; there’s no alternative. It is not how I want to be, but right now I am at its mercy. The only person who can give me hope is Kahlil Gibran, who says.

FEAR

It is said that before entering the sea, a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has travelled, from the peaks of the mountains, along the long, winding road that crosses forests and villages.

And in front of her, she sees an ocean so vast that to enter it seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way. The river cannot go back.

Nobody can go back. To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk of entering the ocean because only then will fear disappear, because that’s where the river will know it’s not about disappearing into the sea, but of becoming the ocean.”

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My next assignment, once I’ve settled, is to get on with the gargantuan task of applying for my Canadian visa.

We have raised kids who have grown up and are confidently forging their own lives. We miss them fiercely now that they’re gone, yet ache with intense pride at the thought of them. This, to me, is exquisite love.

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I also start collecting pictures of interesting homes, interiors, furnishings, kitchens, paint colours, primarily white, and ideas for hanging pictures. While I collect these ideas, anticipation bubbles.

When sleep evades me, and my insomnia kicks in, I dream of decorating my home — what paint colour for the walls (it will be white), Annie Sloan, with splashes of colour, and a kitchen for fabulous meals. I’ll make a file of recipes to try out.

We will play Mah Jong; I’ll garden, walk, cycle, I believe I can take up square dancing, and have friends over for Bridge, sundowners on the deck, Sunday lunches, and Friday night braais. We’ll have lemon trees, culinary herbs, tubs of flowers and hydrangeas. I smile when I think of Juanita's opinion and comments; she doesn't mince her words when it comes to my decorating style.

I know it's a distraction, but I must allow hope and humour to lighten the burden of my heart.