The Odyssey Continues…

I left Umhlanga at night. It was cold, having drizzled and rained the entire day. I arrived in Pietermaritzburg, tired and hungry, to home cooked meal at my mother’s house, and savoured the last night in KwaZulu Natal, with my Mom, sister and niece. It was not easy to fall asleep despite the physical tiredness that I felt. The thrill of my move to Mpumalanga was dampened slightly by the fact that I would drive the entire trip alone, as my sister was unable to make the trip with me. I was surprisingly refreshed and alert at three thirty the next morning, and after a hot shower, I set off. Having studied the route I was to follow to get to Lydenberg, on Google maps, I was confident that I would easily get to Johannesburg without getting lost. I could have chosen to take an easterly route, which would have saved two hours of travelling. However I decided to stay on the N3 north, for safety, and because I was told that a fair amount of road works was being done as the roads were being upgraded. There were few cars and trucks on the route for the first two hours, but on Van Reenan’s Pass, there were numerous oncoming traffic. This was one of the areas that I had been nervous of driving through, and I made the entire accent, to 1100 metres above sea level, on winding roads, in the dark, without incident. I felt pitiful for all the young ladies sitting in the various toll booths, huddled and obviously very cold, and wondered whether it was not possible for them to have heating in their booths. I believe that the roads department can afford them this liberty, the tolls being quite expensive. Some of them greet you with a friendliness that belies their discomfort. As I left the province, the horizon began to light up to my left. The region was flat so the entire horizon appeared ablaze with the preceding rays before the ruddy orb, emerged. The external temperature indicator was in single digits, and I was surprised to see people travelling on the roads, on foot, especially a man, followed by a little child who was ill dressed for the cold, for her posture and gait revealed her uneasiness. I had exhausted my fuel, having decided not to use the garage stop, earlier, and was hoping to see another one soon, when the fuel indicator, beeped a friendly reminder. At the next toll booth, the toll collector advised me to keep going as I would find a quick stop in three kilometer’s, without leaving the N3. Relieved, I also bought some water, Milo and a chocolate, and walked about a little to stretch before continuing. I passed farms with herds of fattened cattle, all concentrating on their morning meal, heads bent to the grass. Some herds had game, and sheep. Other herds were exclusively gazelles distinguished by their tricolour markings, and elegant horns. Large expanses of sunflower plantations, there heads bowed and heavy with seed that would be harvested and processed to produce cooking oil. Its amazing how even the faded beauty of sunflowers lifts up the spirits. Numerous windmills also had a similar effect on this lonely travellor, and I wonder whether this is generic or just images that cause a personal happiness. The numerous bridges I passed under were uninspiring and functional, beam bridges. I thought about the arch bridge, on the N2, and all the new bridges in KZN with a sense of nostalgia already, and realised that I would often be making trivial comparisons. These comparisons would become lessened only with time spent away. It was at this time, that I began to get messages on my phone, from family members and friends, which I ignored, until I reached the next tollbooth. They were all aware of this solitary journey and their concern and support encouraged me. I took a call from my daughter, though, and explained my current location and asked for critical information in order to negotiate the many interchanges in the approach to Johannesburg. I wished to circumvent this huge city and was amazed by the amount of traffic as it was early on a Sunday morning. I remembered that it was April Fools day, and wondered about that coincidence momentarily and then distracted myself with a CD, that Tasmin and Nadia and I enjoyed, when we travelled, all the while keeping on the N12, and heading due east. The sun was warmed my face and I used its comforting grace to feel secure in the knowledge that I was indeed on the correct route. Soon I began to recognise certain landmarks that I had noticed on a previous visit to my daughter. There included a landfilled designed in a step pyramid shape with grassed sides to protect the mined wastes from running off, and numerous active mining and industrial buildings. The terrain on the way to Middelsberg, and beyond, was still incredibly flat, in stark contrast to KwaZulu Natal and the Western Cape, which is something you generally only subconsciously notice, until it is mentioned or you when you consciously strive to locate for whatever reason. In my case I was looking for changes metaphorical and otherwise to justify my choices. For if indeed there were physical changes in the landscape, the weather and the location, then perhaps it would reflect in changes in my opinion, my disposition, and mindset, hopefully positively for the future. I journeyed on looking for the turnoff to Belfast, as I knew this would herald the last quarter of my journey, when I could give myself leave to relax and await the arrival of the furniture, which was following hopefully. Belfast is a town surely named for the period in history when the IRA was most active. The roads are a veritable minefield of potholes which seem largely ignored and larger than the last time I travelled through. Four way stop streets, seem to warrant extra care as there is a feeling of frontier lawlessness, where traffic etiquette is uncommon. For a Sunday afternoon and being a relative small town it is surprisingly, busy with many petrol stations all of which seem bustling with activity, and many mini bus taxis, either parked off or moving with hazardous intent through the streets. I managed to negotiate the correct turns to get me on the steep road out of town towards Dullstroom. The town seemed aptly named for as I commenced my approach, the weather clouded over and a mist descended, which got so heavy that in places it was impossible to see five metres ahead at midday. The landscape changed rapidly and was no longer horizontal, but the potholes in the road remained and had to be endured, with a slower pace. I passed a roadblock that was being established just pout of town by the traffic police and wondered that even they may feel safer setting up outside Belfast, but relieved that I was not stopped, even though the exuberant members were already selecting victims to bully. In all fairness, it is to be expected, as SA has a high number of fatalities, on our roads and the Easter period is one of the highest, so a high police presence is needed to deter drunk drivers and those with vehicles that are not road worthy. The flat boring roads thus far, now changed dramatically, and winding and meandering its way until I arrived into Dullstroom, which was by now particularly busy. This is a cultural hub, which sustains itself on tourists, both local and international. Because the popular Long tom race was held that morning, Dullstroom was filled to capacity. I drove straight through, and encountered another winding route, which was again very scenic, until it began to rain. The challenging route, provided relief from further boredom, with regular potholes, and mist descending at its highest point, with the added bonus of light rain and a further road block, before I entered Lydenberg. Lydenberg, protects the cultural history of the area, especially with street names like “Voortrekker street”, and its Afrikaans heroes, like Viljoen and De Klerk. Again I was surprised at how busy it was considering that it was now mid afternoon. I passed lots of bakkies, with occupants who were mildly curious about this strange vehicle, with an out of town number plate, to people who rudely stared, with hopefully awe and not contempt. Now it must be remembered that this author does sustain an overactive imagination. In which case she now resigns herself to being oversensitive, in some cases. Having negotiated the hill up to the complex where I will live, with directions from my daughter that had me do an about turn and some unexpected sight seeing I again found myself avoiding a myriad of pot holes to find my new home, with the maid in attendance to open the gate. The maid was asked to come in to assist when the furniture arrived at midday. However, the truck never materialized, in a cruel April Fools joke, as planned. She sunned herself on the back porch for the better part of the afternoon when at four o clock it became obvious that she would have to leave in order to make it home with the last transport out of town. We settled in for the night waiting for the movers……..

The return of the multigenerational household

In a multigenerational household, there will be at least three generations of people living together; the grandparents live under the same roof as their adult children and grandchildren.

When I was a child most of my friends lived in multigenerational families, and I longed to be a part of such a family. We lived as a family of three children with only our parents. Thankfully my mom was a stay at home mom, so we always came home to a home cooked meal and never had the experience of after care and day care. We also lived in a time and area when neighbours were an extension of family so just by crossing an imaginary boundary you found yourself in a home away from home and this provided a sense of an extended family network that was lacking in our home.

The western trend of nuclear family, gained favour even in collectivist cultures whose very success depended and thrived upon multigenerational relationships. While the trend seemed to benefit individuals achieve progress in certain areas where socioeconomic gains created opportunities for greater independence and privacy became highly valued, the benefits seem to lack the initial lustre it once enjoyed.

The so-called “Indian household” in South Africa, is one of those cultures, which thrived within the trials, and benefits of the multigenerational family, especially during repressive apartheid years.
Now we are seeing a significant trend reversal in the West. The multi-generational American family household is staging a comeback — driven in part by the job losses and home foreclosures of recent years but more so by demographic changes that have been gathering steam for decades.

This could also be attributed to the increase of Hispanics; Asians added to the Black families who have continued enjoy the benefits of the collectivist cultures. In Europe too, however, multigenerational families are on the rise, with figures higher than America, where there has not been mass migration of the collectivist cultures.

Because cultures adapt and change, a variety of new configurations are displayed even in small communities. Even within collectivist cultures, there seem to be many differences in the relationships. While some of these differences are driven by socioeconomics e.g. where parents or breadwinners are migrant labourers or workers, and decision-making for family responsibilities move to other members who normally would not share in them.

Also intercontinental and cross country migration by families results in the offspring being more adaptable, and in most instances amenable to adopting the cultural trends while their parents align themselves to the country of their origin. These shifts could result in tensions that affect the fabric of family life and cause problems, which are difficult to overcome.

Other changes like rapid socioeconomic shifts could induce a new mind-set and change family dynamics to such an extent that alienates parents and siblings from each other culturally.

It is during the festive period when family responded to my invitation to converge at my home to celebrate, that I began to reflect while still in the midst of the evening about how infrequently we share time together. We still communicate with each other regularly. However with all my siblings living in different provinces, and the children away from home at university, there has been little time to truly engage with each other the way we used to.
I experienced nostalgia for those times when we all did share our lives under one roof as siblings. Then later after marriage, we all lived fairly close enough to enjoy many shared family interactions and never felt the vast gaps we now feel.
Seeing how quickly nieces and nephews have grown and changed, I felt a sense of loss in not being able to share more closely in their lives.

Watching my kids greet their grandmother with real and intense fondness after prolonged absences during their university years also makes for heart-warming scenes. I remember them being so little and following their doting grandparents around, paying careful attention and absorbing every detail and copying it to good effect even in their absence. Now they stoop to gather their grandmother in their arms, to greet with equal tenderness that she used to once showed to them.
It is with usual regret that an evening comes to a close too soon to be able to enjoy cherished moments, which will echo in thoughts and memories for years to come.

The day in the life of a family in grief Guest BLOG Nadia Naidoo

Words cannot describe what I felt that day. All around me emotions set off like uncoordinated fire works that hadn’t been secured in the ground properly.
*
*
*
It was 2007 and, like every year, my family was in Cape Town celebrating the Easter Holidays. And like all major holidays consumerism was at its best. That’s how I remember I had gotten a Lindt Easter bunny. I refused to eat it because it was so perfect but I loved just looking at it and thinking how delicate it actually was.
I was in my sister’s apartment and my parents had gone out for some reason or the other. Everything was going great until I walked into the T.V room and saw my sister sitting on the floor against the wall holding her head. Not thinking too much about it I went up to her to see if she was alright. Then I saw her face and noticed the horrified look it portrayed, and she was crying. I asked her what had happened to her, she didn’t hear me, I asked again, still nothing, I asked again, nothing… and then in a small murmur of a voice she gave me the answer. But it was no an answer I liked, not at all.
When you experience grief you react in a way that strange to you. I thought I would burst into tears on delivery of such news, but I didn’t, I couldn’t. I felt peculiar I wanted to cry because that would be normal but I couldn’t. Then like a flash flood I felt sick, and cold, and I felt like I was trembling but I was still.
This was the day my three month old cousin died due to a reaction to sulphur. Our holiday came to an abrupt stop like a car would in a head on collision but in our case there were no airbags. I felt guilty because I didn’t want to leave Cape Town and go home, home seemed so much colder. Home was reality and I didn’t want to face that.
I so desperately wanted it to be fake just some sick twisted joke. I believed it wasn’t for a while and at any moment someone would tell me the truth I so frantically willed to be right. But that was wishful thinking or possible temporary dementia due to grief.
The flight home was long and tiresome, but I couldn’t sleep even though I was terribly exhausted. I felt like heavy like all the fluid in my body was made up of lead.
When I got to the funeral home my life whirl pooled into an abyss of lament. My whole family had fallen into the abyss with me. The worst part was looking at the mother of the baby, my aunt, she looked vacant. She was merely 23, early to mother hood, but she didn’t look her age she looked haggard.
The weather on that day was perfectly grim, not raining just grey. It seemed to have sucked the entire colour out of the world. I felt as if I had been transported into an old movie, genre: horror.
I still couldn’t cry, and I so badly wanted to, it is not easy watching all the strong men and women in your family cry while you sit still unable to show emotion. I didn’t cry until days later. I felt in alone in my emotionless façade, alone surrounded by my blood, my family.
Its crazy how you can love someone you’ve only met five or six times in your life. It is engraved in our genetic make up that we develop an instant love and affection for babies. You cannot help but fall entirely with out a choice for them
I opened my suitcase that night and found my Lindt bunny, smashed into a million pieces, no longer perfect. Looking at the crushed bunny I could not feel sad nor could I feel the joy I once felt in preserving it.
Nadia Naidoo

The Child within the woman

Every time the winds howls against my window pane

Every time the rain chills my air

When the pillow holds no welcome
reprieve

When the sun hides his face from earths daughter

Then to deaf heavens with upturned face

Then to the velvet star less night

The child within the Woman searching

The smiling eyes shielding fears she cant express

She leans on the boy nestling within Man

She knows she has a friend.

Xenophobia

Xenophobia equates to a lack of humanity
When we lack humanity, We have lost our soul.

A soul less person is difficult to imagine.
A soul less nation is unimaginably difficult to comprehend.

How does a nation forget its xenophobic acts?
Whether as victims or perpetrators.
And will not the universe conspire against that nation.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
Sometime it will come to pass
That past sins will be paid for.

We think too small
When we look for immediate gratification.
Surely if we waste a little time In reflection,
We could restructure our actions to keep us humane.


I wrote this during the second wave of xenophobic attacks that occurred in July 2010 in South Africa.
A wave of xenophobic mob attacks hit South Africa two years previously. More than 60 people were
killed and thousands displaced.

What was learnt during the first attack was that mobs and individuals
would escape prosecution, because no one was arrested and jailed for the attacks, thus two years later
further stirrings occured resulting in atrocious attacks by human beings on one another.

The world is filled with people who have migrated so It is my opinion that we are all living on borrowed soil.

The yearning Abyss

The yearning abyss within her beating breast,
Finds solace in wandering dreams

I travel tough Velvet meadows
Through dusty trails
And treacherous mountainous Paths

The changing rays of sunlight create enthralling landscapes
to impress this Misguided traveler

But to behold the scene with the rosy glow of an
Enchanted embrace yields an enhanced appreciation of even mundane offerings.

For surely passion unbridled between Lovers creates a bolder
Array of hues!

When I miss my Girls

When I miss my girls, I remember their younger days…..carefree, loved, spoilt, and unhindered by dogma and decree.
Each one destined for a path unique.

Intertwined lives through shared experiences, wildly separated by independent minds.
The one looking to lead and forge past any obstacle, unhindered by challenges;
The other constantly looking for understanding and meaning, asking questions only old souls question, many times over, through many lives ;the answers to which she will struggle and may never ever find …..
The last with ambition driven. Her need to level with her siblings years ahead evident always…Challenging them to stay ahead if they can……….

Each one moved by an unseen machine, forever and tirelessly wandering through time and space…
Did I do this???……..set the burning ambition early on ??? Sending them hurtling like comets towards a pre directed path????
Did I steer their attention away from the carefree, the attainable, that which could be grasped and held forever?
I look at their choices, and they look like they are scanning horizons that I will never behold.
Is it fair, that they seek for boundaries beyond without having got to yesterdays goal?
Have I passed on a gene, perhaps, a yearning of life’s quest for the furthest barrier and then another?

I see them look back now and again, and hope it is without regret and longing.
There is knowledge in the beginnings of things that inform our later actions, however we try we cannot change ourselves even with the errors of others as examples to guide us. Some lessons have to be processed through experience.

Some may be happier to drop their seeds at their feet, and forever shade their emerging offspring with protective branches; others create the seeds with the mutations which allow them to be carried by the wind to faraway places, never knowing if the winds of chance will take them to fertile ground…..in an extreme leap of faith that they would geminate and prosper in some unimagined haven.

We do then shape our children’s paths- whether by obvious intended ambition, or passively by the unseen gene, which directs and steers the course.

To my enigmatic children
Rhea, Tasmin, and Nadia, who occupy my thoughts constant frequency….which is as it should be……