Death and taxes

The house is starting to warm up again, enabling me to just kind of hang out in my green bathrobe until noon, at which point the guilt that my mother efficiently instilled in me starts to rear its head and then I'll have to hit the shower. I'm also sort of on the guilt wagon from hitting the snooze button on the phone all the times it would let me, and after it stopped still snoozing for a good 20 minutes. It was intending to rouse me at 7:30, so I can't really  be held responsible though.

Anyhow, what am I really going to write about? Lets see. Someone tagged me with a fun thing yesterday, but then I guess while I was dreaming away (or passed out from the wine keeping me warm if you will) they untagged me, so there goes that idea. So, the only thing there really is left in this universe is taxes. 

Not Texas, but taxes, or the Finnish government wanting my money, but not really being interested in telling me just how to give it to them.

After getting back home on Monday I found some papers in the communal mailbox (don't get me started on that rant) from the Finnish tax authorities. Well, actually what there was in the envelope was one huge-ass folded mess and an instruction booklet on what to do. I haven't looked at the booklet yet. I don't usually. Instructions often confuse me, and I'm not one for being patronized - What do you mean "do not apply too much force or the surface might shatter" IKEA? If I want to bang it with a hammer I will. I bought it ('It' to this day remains shattered, but that side is facing the wall). 

Right. Taxes. In our household I don't normally engage in paperwork. I don't like filling out papers (and like the 6 year old that I am, I don't do what I don't want to do if I can get someone else to do it) unless I am allowed to doodle or write limericks or experimental poetry concerning fruit. I have in no way participated in the paperwork behind any of our moves, unless you're counting drinking too much while the hubby quizzes me on what I think the Finnish china is worth, or my 'art' (a lot!).

Right. Taxes. So the folded mess says on the top that it has been 'pre-completed', which must mean that they wrote my name and address on it, because apart from that I only see empty boxes with headers that I don't really understand, only to find out that there isn't a single box that applies to my situation. My only income is the little amount of money my mother's best friend's daughter pays us to live in our 'summer cottage' apartment in Finland. This isn't much, but I'm still Finnish enough to know that not paying your taxes is not an option. I kind of like the whole social welfare thing they've got going on, and besides, if I don't pay they might just send the polar bears after me. The government has always been able to track me down, no matter where I have been... (tracking polar bears...?)

As I'm looking at the mess of paper another thought occurs to me. Hubby owns half of the apartment. This must mean that he should pay taxes too. Dammit. This is getting too complicated, and there is no 'pre-completed' mess for the hubby, and besides, he is in Zambia and it says on the papers that I have to have them back within the next two weeks. Ugh.

What would a normal person do in this situation? I don't know. 

But I skype my dad. And like a superhero he comes through. The only things for me to do are find the thingamajiggy for my printer to hook it onto my laptop as well as a whatchamacallit that makes it usable with the electrical current here,  print out some more forms, forge a few signatures, and I should be able to give the government some money. 

Whew! Aren't I lucky.  

Origins and the land of Santa

Why does this keep happening?

A shop assistant/ waiter/ neighbor/ random sweaty guy at the gym: So where in the States are you from?

Me: Well... I'm actually from Finland.

A light goes out of the eyes of whoever it is that is posing this question, since they are asking it because they either a) have been to the States b) have family in the States c) would like to visit or have family (me as a wife possibly, who wouldn't) in the States d) they madly love Obama e) all of the above and want to hang out with someone who comes from the promised land of Coca Cola, McDonalds, Oprah and 90210. Sadly, I am not, and will never be, that person.  

This usually follows the dimming of the eyes.

A shop assistant/ waiter/ neighbor/ random sweaty guy at the gym: Oh... well... that's nice. Lots of snow, right? Cold, eh?

Me: Yup, in the winter can be -70 degrees celsius (I have slowly moved up [down?] from -20 celsius over the years). It can be so cold that your car won't start and your dog's paws freeze onto the ground. But that's when the polar bears don't hunt, so it's still safer than normal. Otherwise they might eat Santa when he crawls home from the bar.

A shop assistant/ waiter/ neighbor/ random sweaty guy at the gym: HAHAHA, that's funny! Yea, because Finns all drink like fish, right?

Exactly, you got it, that was my point.  

Heaven on Earth and other pleasant things

I'm so sad the weekend's over. I haven't laughed like I've laughed this past week in a long time. Hanging out with our guest brought back huge chunks of my childhood (that I've apparently drunk away, or possibly my brain has finally yielded intellectual control to my sizable posterior that is just not up to the responsibilities), and reminded me of why I once considered our guest my best friend ever. I'm truly glad she is back in my life. Standing ovation to that guy who invented Facebook.  

As I write this, our guest is on her way back to Finland, and the hubby is away, possibly until the end of April. I'm by myself, and feeling like I'd give almost anything to be back in Ivory Tree Game Lodge in Pilanesberg Nature Reserve, from now on referred to as Heaven on Earth, or simply heaven, as that is where I intend to go when I die, and hopefully many times before that. 

Being the snob that ya'll know and tolerate, I've visited quite a few five star establishments, usually liked them, or even loved them, but none of my previous five star experiences (not referring to anything dirty so go ahead and stop giggling) have ever come close to the bliss that was our long weekend away. 

I'd heard good things about Pilanesberg before, but no one we know had ever stayed in the lodge that we chose. i.e. Heaven on Earth. The cost of two nights being a little bit on the expensive side my expectations were high indeed, which usually does not bode well, as I'm an expert at complaining and generally just finding fault with things. Yup, positive is not an adjective many people would use to describe me, apart from the hubby, but we've already explored the depth of his delusions on other occasions. Anyhow, I'm forced to admit that Heaven on Earth actually exceeded my expectations. And that is no easy feat. 

We arrived on Friday just in time for the lovely lunch set in the nice and airy thatched roof dining room. Having most likely started a widespread movement against buffets in my previous life, from the moment I laid eyes on the set up I was expecting to experience some flashbacks, but ended up having to admit that the chicken was tasty and juicy, the couscous delicious, and even the coffee lovely (and delightfully plentiful). As difficult as this is for me to put into writing, the buffet won me over. And the hotel being merrily void of children (bonus!) I couldn't even resort to my sneezing/coughing/sticky-hands-on-the-food argument. Buffet 1, Snobby Finn 0.

After lunch, as we had retired to our respective cottages, and had had plenty of time to utter small shrieks of delight over the huge bathtub, the outdoor shower, the private patio overlooking the park, the luxurious bath products, and the quiet (only interrupted by said shrieks) surroundings, the phone rang. Our ranger Mike introduced himself and wanted to know what we would like to drink on the afternoon game drive. Trying to play normal as well as wondering whether the lions had the same penchant for the liquid as me, and whether they would try to eat me if they smelled the wine habitually coursing through my veins, I did not order wine, that night. I probably entertained some sort of idea about needing to 'stay alert' lest I'd be eaten by a giraffe or something. On the break between the afternoon drive and the night drive, while in a hide in the wild listening to the sounds of the bush, and staring at the clearly visible milky way, I wished I had that glass of wine to toast the perfect moment though. Toasting with water is just not the same.

I, the hubby, and our guest were the only ones on the drive that first night, and as our ranger Mike turned out to be a true fountain of interesting information as well as being the head ranger in the lodge we were blessed with plenty of cool new facts about South African wildlife while it felt like we were the only humans in the bush. We saw kudus, rhinos, hippos, zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, impala, and some tsessebi, alongside plenty of other antelope-type animals, other critters and birds the names of which apparently did not stick in my, albeit at that point not even foggy, brain. As I've said before, observing the animals in their natural surroundings, doing what they do best - being wild (sleeping, and funny enough, farting like mad) - is an experience very different to visiting any zoo. As opposed to the feeling of pity that normally accompanies such a visit, seeing these animals made me feel a surge of healthy respect for, if not slight fear of them instead. And the first day's catch was only one out of the big five.  

For our visitor, who had according to her own words already fallen in love with South Africa, meeting our brown-eyed ranger offered yet more to love about this wonderful country. I don't think this visit will be her last. As my 'crush' days are long gone (luckily, as I seem to have let even basic grooming slip), I'm loving the possibility of vicariously experiencing this long distance crush. I had forgotten how much fun it is to talk about boys, and it used to be my favorite pastime.

After indulging in a bottle of Hamilton Russell Pinot Noir (one of my all time faves) at dinner, the next morning's wake up call at 5:30 in preparation for the 6AM game drive was almost too much. However, after having mine and our guest's cups of coffee's worth of caffeine in my brain, and a warm blanket around me I was ready to see the sun rise over the mountains, while watching the animals either wake up, turn in, or rip a tree from the ground. The drive was amazing. Our surroundings were rife with bird and animal calls, and even as the cold air whipped my face (note to self: It can be cold in Africa, wear a hat), I could definitely see why the Dutch stayed. 

Regardless of the frosty morning, and as so often happens here, as the sun climbed higher and higher the temperature rose exponentially. When we got back from the drive to have breakfast, freshening up in the cottage involved changing into a swimsuit. I had brought Jasper Fforde's 'The Eyre Affair' to read by the pool, but my newly found friendship with our visitor and the pleasure I took in speaking Finnish after such a long time, not to mention the nice bottle of white we consumed, meant that the time sped past and I only read about four pages. Before we knew it it was time for lunch, followed by another game drive. We did manage a dip in the pool, and I am again multiple sunburns richer. Awesome, if potentially skin-cancerous, fun in the sun.   

The evening's drive offered us excitement indeed. After almost crashing into a 6-ton elephant by the name of Half Tusk who did not feel the need to yield to the right, we managed to spot some lions who were after some tasty wildebeest, only to be approached on the other side by a hippo out of water who probably did not understand how close it had gotten to us and quickly fled when our ranger shined the light towards him. Since our guest had a hard time looking away from the ranger's pretty brown eyes, and the hubby was desperately supporting the camera apparatus possibly permanently attached to his face, yours truly was left to shine the light into the bush in search of the hunting lions. Cool as my task was, it should not have been done by the half-blind me, and after the first glimpse of a female running through the grass, and a male (or really only its mane) moving away from us, the lions eluded us. Still, officially I have seen a real live lion. I can tell you that even just the glimpse of the mane, or something moving through the grass at a wild speed really truly demands your respect, as does seeing an elephant 'flex his muscles' in front of a tiny Toyota Yaris whose driver is not backing up quickly enough for him. Points to wild SA.  

The next morning, after the last game drive, and after our guest had contemplated several extreme ideas - from chaining herself to the vanity in her room to quitting her job in Finland on the spot and asking for work at the lodge - we finally left Pilanesberg. I guarantee you, not only our visitor, but all of us are already busy scheming ways of returning, especially to the lodge, and both I and the hubby are all excited about learning what comes out of this crush.

I feel like a sixteen year old again. 

Homesick for Mexico

I thought that once our stuff finally arrived here in South Africa, I would start feeling properly at home here, I really did. That's how I remember it working when we moved from Denmark to Mexico. For expats, having your stuff often equals having your home with you. The place you put your stuff is just a canvas to paint your desired environment on, in our case a mishmash of streamlined Scandinavian design, quirky Mexican artifacts, odd pieces designed by yours truly, and Ikea. The house on the inside now looks like me. Still...  

I find myself feeling homesick for Mexico. And yes, by homesick I mean feeling like that is where my home is, where my real life is, and where I would like to return to. I don't just miss my friends, or Mexican food, or speaking Spanish, or being able to walk everywhere, or our apartment, or our flower guy, or the oh so juicy arrachera cuts of meat, or my local Starbucks (even though I do desperately miss all of these, especially Starbucks). I really feel homesick for Mexico.

Now WTF?!?! Why can't I feel at home in this awesome country?

Well, if I really take a proper look at my life I might just understand. Even looking back at my postings on this blog I can see that there are far too many complaints concerning boredom, not having deadlines, or not having stuff to do. The unfortunate truth is that no matter how hard I have tried to start up stuff - volunteering, a book club, sports, traveling, etc - things just don't seem to pan out for me. And to top it all, it seems that the hubby is going to be away pretty much every week at least for the next three months. 

Don't get me wrong, we have had  a bunch of good experiences, braais up the wazoo, different activities, and such things that are part of getting to know a new country. However, that does not a life make, and I guess that's what I'm missing. A life outside of this estate that is beginning to feel like a prison more and more every day. A life that I have chosen, filled with activities that are right for me, and with like-minded people.

Thankfully in my darkest hour I found this. Perhaps there is light (and life) at the end of the tunnel. I can't wait.

Domestic bliss

I cleaned the house! And, surprise surprise, I managed to clean off quite a few stains and such I had assumed were a permanent part of the walls, or the floor, or the sinks, or the oven, since none of the maids had gotten rid of them. Well, at least now the house looks like I would like it to look when we are expecting guests. The hubby managed to sort out and put away the incredible amount of cables and various thingamajiggers he seems to accumulate year after year and is unable to relinquish. The mother load, that has been taking over the study and spreading its tenticles all the way to the guest room bed (and I swear was actually taking root) is now at least behind closet doors. Hurrah!

Moreover, since the magnificent stain-removal accomplishment gave me an immense surge of domesticity I also baked a Mississippi Mud Pie for dessert tonight. I don't cook and very rarely bake, but I must admit the aroma of the chocolate in the house is pretty darn nice, especially compared to the air freshener that supposedly is citrus scented, but in reality smells like not yet ripe banana mixed with toothpaste.

Furthermore, tomorrow morning I'm doing yet another 10km race. This time in the runner's category...

Life is really truly good. 

You-know-what chronicles. Yes. Yet again.

Guess what my time has been spent on today. 

I'll give you a clue: 

If it wasn't for the people coming over tomorrow night for a braai I would happily drown.

I'm pretty certain most of you guessed right.

Drumroll please......

 

Indeed, I have been invading a territory I loathe and hope to clear out of as soon as possible. 

I have been cleaning my house.

This is an SMS I received at 9:10PM Tuesday night, when the maid was scheduled to come 7AM the next morning:

Im not coming 2 moro u must look 4 smeonels who can work with ur list but me i cnt

Nuff said for now. At least she let me know. The battle with the agency continues. However, I would just like to publicly make clear that this time I did not fire the maid, I was willing to make an effort and try to make it work. This time she quit.

How many calories does cleaning your house vigorously burn? Perhaps I am entitled to some nice glasses (read: bottles) of wine... Who am I kidding?!?! I always feel entitled.

Life lessons and some sucky South Africans

We finally have our stuff here in SA. We are almost done with the insurance claim. The weather's good. We started golf lessons. I realized I don't have to read Shantaram if I don't want to. We have awesome friends. We are almost the (not so proud) owners of two cars, so I can get around soon too. We are in good health. I haven't come across any snakes yet. I have plenty to read. After six years of marriage I am more in love than ever.

Life should be good, right?

For the most part life is good too, and we are happy. Still, apparently it doesn't take much to pull me down into the dirt. All it takes are a couple of rude people and I'm sad. I guess I'm writing this post to remind myself of how lucky I am to be who I am and to have what I have in my life, and to remind myself of the negative power a proper hissy fit will have over me. Believe me, had I been privy to the minus energy of my frequent hissy fits as a teenager my mother would not be looking back now at (and I quote practically word for word) "the horror that were the teenage years of my daughter." Sorry mom, at least for some of it...  

Now, I am proud of the fact that I am very much in touch with my own self-worth and if I feel someone is not giving me the respect I deserve I will, without a doubt, let them in on this epiphany. Sometimes in a not so nice way. But, I respect people who deserve my respect. 

What is going on then? Well, something has been going on with the house that we are renting pretty much ever since we moved in. No, the house is not haunted. I wish, that would have been much easier to deal with - get an exorcist and move on. The current problem now is how to deal with the extremely unpleasant aftermath of very much required and warranted repairs in the house. The repairs were eventually taken care of, but for one thing, and as we were trying to get the remaining issue fixed, such rudeness took place that I spent a good 30 minutes crying - over a rude contractor's visit. Naturally after drying my tears I complained, loudly and in writing, and lo and behold instead of an apology I got more shit thrown on me. Points deducted from SA. The contractor's response really got to me, since I had not been rude. Frustrated yes, but not without some very valid reasons in the form of water pouring in every window, construction material blocking the drain, and mold thriving underneath the wood floor, to name a few. In my opinion, we had been more patient than was warranted by the situation, and kind of nice too, regardless of people being late all the time or not showing up at all, or showing up unannounced. The guy actually had the gall to say they never showed up unannounced, because we have to okay them to come in through the gate. However, in this case I consider the gate my front door, and the guards giving me a minute's warning before someone shows up does not an appointment make! 

Currently I am divided as to whether I should mention the name of the rude party (not me, even though they said I was "always unfriendly"). The owner of the house is part of the same company, just a different division, but apart from minor issues has been a fairly decent landlord. I really would like to warn others never to deal with the construction side of this company as they have apparently never heard of such concepts as professionalism or common courtesy, but I am trying to take the high road and use this experience to remind myself how lucky I am if I have nothing better to cry about than an a-hole of a contractor. 

Taking the high road!

Taking the high road!

Taking the high road!

Taking the high road!

Maybe if I keep saying it it will come true.  

Is it me after all? Maid Chronicles, part 'too many to keep track'

I am again on the verge of firing the maid. 

However, I am beginning to think that perhaps the problem is me, and that I have, during our care-free times as professional expatriates, become one of the dragon-ladies I used to abhor. 

You know what I'm on about. You know the type. These 'mistresses of the manor' shuttle around in their chauffeured cars, and sport fancy sunglasses, Burberry or Louis Vuitton handbags, Roberto Cavalli something or other, alongside meticulously coiffed heads of hair, and meet their friends for coffee to discuss the completely useless idiot they hired to drive their car, clean their house, tend to their garden, or take care of their offspring, and whom they probably left cowering in the car, at the house or in the garage crying about the horror that is this poor person's job.

I hate those women. Could I be one of them? 

I don't have a chauffeur, I don't own a single loud hand bag, my sunglasses on average cost about $10 USD, I don't frequent Roberto Cavalli boutiques, and my hair points every which way, since my hair dryer is not located near a mirror. Still, I just found myself having a 'talk' with the maid, emphasizing the importance of respect for our things and the house, and how she should not drop the handle of the vacuum cleaner to the floor when she turns the thing off. And following this monologue, I had the distinct urge to complain to someone about her.

I just might be one of those women. Geez, why couldn't my initiation into this society come with the trappings too? Where are my chauffeur, coiffeur, Prada, Cucci, and Cavalli???

Again, not asking much. 

The 'beauty' of uneventfulness

There is absolutely nothing going on. 

For a person who thrives on a certain amount of drama that is a really bad thing. The highlight of today has been finding maggots in the bottom of the trash can and the subsequent 'Dooming' of them. 

I need a deadline. I function well on deadlines. I kind of have a deadline for unpacking, since we are getting visitors for dinner on Friday, but I find it very hard to experience house work as something so important that it deserves a deadline. My apologies to all of you housewives who feel differently, but I just don't have that kind of domesticity in me. 

Someone give me an interesting task and a deadline. Please (and dear hubby, no, finding out what to eat for the next two weeks and shopping for it is not an interesting task, and neither is filling out the insurance claim).  

Maid Chronicles. Part gazillion and six and other random thoughts

The maid agency (and I use this term very loosely) finally got back to me, after I expressly told them I wanted my money back. The nice person that I am (stop laughing!), I had to give them one more chance, and here I am today breaking in a new maid. This one actually does speak English, and lo and behold, so far seems to know the difference between a 'rag', and a 'feather duster', or 'mop' and 'vacuum cleaner'. Better yet, she seems to know what 'upstairs' means, but I don't want to fall in love yet. Things can still go wrong. Ever since Mexico I have been experiencing very bad maid karma, so I'm not counting my eggs just yet. Maybe I should go to a sangoma, to see about that curse.

Just imagine:

"May you be forced to live the rest of your days in relative luxury, but plagued by a maid who throws out half empty tooth paste tubes, washes your shower with your nice towel, harangues you with questions about your seeming barrenness, and uses up all of your sugar."

Wow, what a mean curse. That will totally screw up my life.   

On a happier, and possibly less cursed, note I was reminded today of the lovely time we spent in Cape Town over Christmas by a friend who is planning a visit all the way here to SA from the cold North, also known as the Land of Santa. No, that is not the North Pole for you Americans, or even Greenland for you Danes. I am talking about Finland, the country where all of London flies to every December to gawk at a fat guy in a red suit, whose English is suspiciously good for a true Finn. 

Whoa, where did my patriotism disappear to?

Anyhow, my friend is planning to stay a few days here in Joburg before jetting off to Cape Town, because, to be totally honest, that is where the action is. She'll want to see some giraffes, zebra and if possible a couple of lions and elephants too, but let's face it, she'll LOVE touring the restaurants in the Cape Town Waterfront, and tasting the different South African wines. Not that there aren't good restaurants here in Jozi, but you simply can't beat the coastal experience of CT. Like one of our local friends remarked of Bloemfontein (in Sotho Mangaung), an inland town, and it's 'one horse town' -ishness, she loves Bloemfontein's waterfront, meaning that without the water there really isn't that much to a town in SA. 

South African wonders and sights are definitely in the wild, and missing the towns is usually not a great loss, especially if one has been to such city destinations as New York, Paris, Athens, San Francisco, Taipei, Copenhagen, Rio de Janeiro, Berlin, or Mexico City. Still, nothing beats seeing a wild animal in the actual wild, without bars and nets obscuring the view and without the tiny voice in the back of your mind that is screaming at you about the size of the cage, the condition of the animal's fur, its erratic, caged behavior, and whether it has water or not. Animals in the wild are fierce, and truly demand your respect and awe. Wild is the true pull of Africa. 

Bizi, bizi, bizi.

By popular demand (i.e. the hubby who knows what's going on anyways, so what's up with that?) I'm posting an update on the current goings on. 

The short story: 

Our stuff arrived. Some of it was broken. Nothing was missing. I'm still unpacking. I fired the maid. I am battling the agency who placed the maid with me. I am picking up my adoptive brothers from school and taking them to all sorts of practice this and next week. We haven't cooked ourselves dinner once this week, but are living on Mickey D's, which is a very questionable solution to hunger pangs.

The long story:

As the movers finally arrived on Monday they did so three and a half hours late, and as usual, in a rather unapologetic mood. The much talked about 'gear' to be used to haul two double beds, four bookshelves, three desks and other assorted heavy items upstairs over the balcony railing turned out to be two pieces of rope. Pause here and ponder this. I sure did. As expected even ten guys in their (more or less) prime cannot lift a desk made out of solid wood over a railing at least 4 meters off the ground, even if they try to stand on their tippytoes.

As for the damages. Well, I will not go into it, since the issue just makes me sad and want to go on a rant about respect for other people's possessions that equal their homes when they are living the nomadic life. I'll save that for another dry season. On the plus side, I uncovered quite a few items of clothing and pairs of shoes I do not remember owning. The customs only take stuff, they don't put any new stuff in, right? I like the Vagabond pumps. A lot! 

As the movers had rid all of the bigger items of their several layers of cardboard and and such, after I'd had a good swear at whoever was close to me, and after the solid wood desk was finally upstairs (I don't want to know how), the boss of the crew approached me and suggested that "perhaps madam would want to unpack all of the smaller items herself." I looked at my watch, and funny enough, it was nearly four o'clock. Hmmm. 'Full unpacking service' my behind! I would not want anyone else but me handling my underwear either, but as every single stupid fork is packed in at least two pieces of paper it takes quite a while to unpack everything. I'm still at it, and no longer can discern the light at the end of the tunnel. It is all walls to me.

Onto a different topic: The maid chronicles. This is part gazillion and five, at least according to my highly complex filing system (five follows four, etc). I fired the maid who wore the turban. In the end it became painfully obvious that her English was practically nonexistent, and by "yes, I understand," she meant "I have no idea what you are saying lady, but I'll potter off and try to look like I'm doing something, and then I think I'll go and ruin some of your good towels by pouring bleach on them and cleaning the shower with them. And I'll do all this after eating two loaves of bread and two tins of mackerels." I had to let her go, which was a 15 minute discussion, because she did not understand what I was saying. 

I had found this maid through an agency called A1 Domestics. The person in need of a domestic pays a one off placement fee and the agency sends someone, who supposedly has references and meets your requirements (my only requirement was that the person spoke English) to work for you. There is a 30 day guarantee, during which time they will send someone else, if you are not satisfied. Sounds like a good deal, eh? I thought so too.

Well, the truth is an uglier being. I have now called and e-mailed the agency several times and none of the "this and this person will call you back," have come true yet. I' don't even want a replacement anymore, I just want my placement fee back, but am starting to suspect foul play. Points deducted from South Africa, and more stories for the file labeled gullible expats on the loose. 

The happiest times I have had this week have been spent hanging out with my South African adoptive brothers. While their mother is having surgery and their dad is working his heart out, I have been roped into making sure they do their homework (my math limit is third grade, Shame!), they show up at practice (with or without the correct gear. Note to self: for water polo take a towel), and every once in a while eat something. If I knew my kids would turn out like these boys, I would maybe even have some, at some point, like sometime in the future, distant future. They even like my driving, even though I almost hit the high curb while trying to open the window. These boys are truly cool.  

Now I'm off to my never ending unpacking task, before I go and pick up the boys and attempt to woo them to my cooking with pancakes. Did someone say 'Fire hazard'?    

File in: Crap service providers

I know, believe me I know, this blog is supposed to be about positive stuff that happens and that we make happen in South Africa. But sometimes you get slapped in the face so many times that it becomes very hard to turn the other cheek, at least without ranting a bit. And you all know by now how much I like to rant, hey?

It is now 9:40AM and I and my husband are sitting on the kitchen counter awaiting our stuff, the container that holds it, and a crew of five movers to arrive. They were supposed to be here at 8AM. 

20 minutes ago, after several attempts, my husband finally got through to the company in charge of our move in this end, Elliot International, and was told that they were actually having a problem with their transportation and that the container hasn't even left yet. WTF?!?! So now we are waiting for a crew with broken limbs, since none of them was able to pick up the phone at 8AM to tell us that they were having a problem. 

A delay of couple of hours (if indeed this is what it will remain as) might not seem like a huge thing, but let's face the facts: We arrived in SA a whopping five, yes 5, months ago. Try living out of two suitcases (24kg each) for more than a couple of months and you get the frustration, especially when one of the suitcases also contains the wedding album, important papers and obscene amount of not even so valuable, but too shiny to pass as junk, jewelry. And, I will not even go into the joys of an existence amidst smelly rented furniture. Also, If this was the first and only cock-up of the said company, I would most certainly not be ranting like this (I know what you're all thinking, but I like to consider myself as patient. Stop laughing!). However, this company's, whose relocation services my husband's company also forced on us, track record with us is severely less than flattering, and we have had it up to here - me holding my hand way above my head - with this thing they insist on calling service. I hate to think how much money my husband's company is throwing at them for this show of incompetence.   

The really scary part of this is that I am not even that anal about stuff like this. Mexico taught me many lessons in patience and trust, like when I spent several months (not making this up) waiting for the dishwasher repair guy, so sadly, I am picking my battles, and not getting worked up by the small stuff. I hate to think of the stink the me from five years ago would have caused over this.

No sign of furniture yet.

Good bye smelly rented furniture, hope to never see you again!

The smelly rented furniture and other items of that nature are finally on their way to being the sore spots of someone else's decor. No more India-inspired, gold and burgundy dining room chairs. No more couches that have more different colors on them than I care to count, and most importantly no more bed with a very likely bedbug infestation. Good bye to itchy bites. Yes, I will drink to that later today as I'm hanging out with the most awesomest, coolest South Africanos to date. 

Who would have thought that people would actually open their home to us bedless folks, while the pest guy attempts to rid us of the aforementioned bedbug-problem. Thank you from the bottom of our heart guys! You are the greatest. Virtual hug.   

Our own stuff is set to arrive on Monday. Happy to be expanding my wardrobe, yet fearful of what has been broken, and what has been stolen this time around...

Cocoon life

As I've previously mentioned nothing bad has happened to us here in South Africa. That is, apart from being ripped off by a devious hotel (do not stay at the Protea Waterfront in Centurion, I tell you) where they make you pay for a suite, but put you in an ordinary room and then as a goodwill gesture, because the internet is not working, 'upgrade' you to a better room (this also taught the hubby to read all documents properly...). Some of the staff was nice though, but truly gave us oodles of insight into the various meanings of the phrase we have already come somewhat too used to: 'I'll call you right back madam/sir'. Kind of like the meanings of 'ahorita' (in a little while, meaning anything from 2 seconds to in a couple of years) in Mexico. 

Anyhow, nothing bad has happened was and is  the starting point of my post (I just enjoy random rants). We are hitting the half year mark in a short time, our stuff still isn't here (another day, another rant), but we have been very fortunate and really have never come closer to violence or any such thing than hearing about it from our friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. There was that police operation gone awry near where our friends run  their business, and some people got killed (we think the bad guys), another friends' house has now been burgled quite a few times in the past year, my husband's colleague's sister in law was shot and killed in a carjacking turned nasty, and literally every single person we have met so far has at some point had some sort of unwanted visitor in their house, had their cellphone stolen at gunpoint, or endured an attempt at some sort of check fraud. Unfortunate but true. 

We have listened to all of the stories and the warnings (even Lonely Planet says to talk to the locals about security) and really tried to take from them what we can, so that we could avoid something similar happening to us: we live in a secure neighborhood, lock the car doors while driving, do the infamous 360º at every stop light, keep walking outside to a minimum, don't blindly follow the GPS, and definitely don't flaunt what we have. I mean, I drive a tiny Daihatsu, and regularly look like a hobo. So far, we are good, but we are also beginning to feel like our caution might just be getting the better of us. I wonder if this caution isn't keeping us from properly experiencing South Africa? Are we living the kind of cocoon life, I used to make fun of in Mexico? 

I have been to Soweto, which was truly an awesome experience (also because I was there with someone who actually lives there), and that is more than a lot of the locals round our way can say. I have been to downtown Jo'burg - granted because of the GPS (which seems to be on crack sometimes) and completely by accident - which again is not something people from the security estates normally include in their day. I really hope the inner city facelift succeeds, since it is the kind of environment I would frequent, if it was safer. But, I still can't help feeling I'm missing out on some of the sides of the rainbow nation. 

We have a great bunch of friends, who love showing us the good sides of South Africa and telling us about the not so good, but I am also realizing that this group we love seems awfully pale. I can't help but wonder how our experience would change if we actually made some friends with other kinds of backgrounds. 

Argh, to hell with being politically correct. I think we should make some black friends.

Anyone?

Things I love about living here

My dear husband, and possibly my blog's only reader, remarked yesterday that my writings have been taking on a rather negative tone. Unfortunately, I have to agree. My initial idea with this blog was to tell everyone of the cool stuff happening in my life, BECAUSE we are living in SA, not to highlight the not so flattering sides to this country. Yet somehow stuff has come up that's had me googling crime, rape and lack of recycling in Johannesburg. Shame. Time for a little praise that this country certainly deserves.

Things I love about living here:

The sun. It is unlike anywhere else in the world. I love it when the sky is just one big blue expanse, with no clouds in sight. Yes, it gets hot, but never to the point of being uncomfortable. There is nothing like standing on the top of a hill, completely surrounded by grass higher than you, with the sun shining down. This city slicker for sure has a new love for nature.

My friends. A cool bunch of through and through South Africans, who love their wine and their country. I have never experienced anything like the open arms in SA. 

Finding shoes in my size. Need I say more?

The wine. Again pretty self-explanatory, given that you all know about my penchant for drinking it. Even good bottles are cheap!!! I'm already planning our next trip to the Cape and to the wine routes. 

The guards at our gate. They had one look at our last name and rechristened us Mr. and Mrs. Guru. Love it! Makes my day every day to have someone holler "Hello Mrs. Guru, howzit Mrs. Guru," when I drive through the gate.

Being able to buy as many books as I want in English, even if I am currently stuck reading the not so awesome Behaviour of Moths. Still, I'm expecting for it to pick up. Fingers crossed. 

 

The Braai and all that goes with it, i.e. the meat and the company (potentially in that order). Having been a vegetarian in my younger days, I never thought I would develop such a taste for meat. A carnivore hoping to be a bit more locavore.

Boerewors, biltong, and droëwors. I'm almost sure, that besides meat in the form of awesome rump steaks, these are the three main reasons why it was not in my destiny to remain a vegetarian.

The relaxed atmosphere. For many years now I have been able to avoid wearing socks, and have managed to wear flip flops to a number of affairs, sometimes to poignant stares (Mexico's First Lady's reception, or the reception for Queen Margrethe II of Denmark). In SA I have finally encountered a dress code that is willing to include shorts as a part of formal wear. Laid back is the order of the day. Hurrah for flip flops and many more years without socks, not to mention pantyhose (that I believe is a plague invented by the devil or some such evil). I also drive home from the pool in my swimming suit, which doesn't seem to faze anyone. Points to SA.

Not being identified immediately as a tourist, or a gringa, or called 'guerita' (blondie), 'blanquita' (whitey) or, and I cringe, 'gordita' (fatty). Mexicans don't mean any harm, neither are they being rude, they are just being... well... Mexican. Here in SA I blend in, except for when someone insists on speaking Afrikaans to me, which they do a lot. I usually answer with 'Dankie', which means 'thank you', just to be on the safe side, and imagine they are all complimenting me, or possibly my shoes. Great self-esteem booster strategy after being 'fatty' for two years.

And the list goes on. Updates coming in the future. I'm glad I still have almost two more years to explore this wonderful place. 

Staying safe in SA

The son of my friend is apparently such an awesome athlete that my scarcely populated nation has decided to send this 17 year old promise all the way to South Africa to train along with a team of other promises and a coach. I come in the picture in the receiving end of a rather anxious e-mail. My friend has asked for my assistance.

It seems that the news of the current safety situation in South Africa are yet to reach the media in my country, or they just haven't really sunk in with the general public, i.e. the coach, who is looking to rent a house for the team through the internet with little regard to where the house is, or how the house is. The seeming unawareness of the dangers here might, yet again, be the unfortunate case of 'there is so much evil and bad stuff happening in Africa that it flows off my back without ever registering into my consciousness'. Unfortunately, many of us Europeans are often attacked by this syndrome. I seem to suffer from it off and on when it comes to parts of Africa, other than my immediate surroundings. How easy it is to close our eyes, and stay behind these, often electric walls of ours. 

Don't get me wrong, I love this country, I love living here, I adore the people, I adore the customs, and love being privy to the mix of the different cultures unlike anywhere else in the world. But, unfortunately SA, and especially the area of Gauteng, where Johannesburg and Pretoria are located, is amongst the most dangerous areas in the world currently not at war. According to Nation Master, per capita SA has the most assaults, rapes and murders with firearms.  Heartbreaking, especially since many of the victims are children. It seems that when it comes to rape, the myth is that engaging in intercourse with a virgin will cure AIDS. Sometimes the world just kicks you in the gut, making it almost impossible to breathe. 

Why am I writing this most negative of posts? Because my friend informed me that the coach of the team was looking to rent a house with the requirements being limited to the number of bedrooms, and a location near the needed sports facilities, so they wouldn't need transportation. As you might have guessed, walking around in my hood might not always be a smart idea. My friend had gotten scared for her son's safety and wanted the local scoop on the different areas. Granted, I'm no local, but I tried my best. 

I quizzed my friends regarding different neighborhoods around here, and proceeded to write one of the most difficult mails ever. I love this country, but understand its shortcomings as well (or at least try to), and as much as possible attempt to see the humor in them. Still, there are aspects of this country where humor is simply out of the question, and only horror prevails. I cannot imagine how it must be sending your child (and he is still one at 17) far from home to a foreign country. Not to mention a foreign country, such as South Africa with its often very frightening reputation, and trusting your child with someone who perhaps has not clearly understood the precautions required by that same reputation.

I'm sure the team will have a great time here, achieve a lot, and most likely their stay will be entirely problem free, as our life here so far has been. Still, as many of my friends often remind me: "It never hurts to be a little paranoid."   

House wife drama in a teacup

This is a tough one. I would give anything not to be writing this post. I just want things to work out and everything be nice smelling, sunshiny, and flowery. Still, I am, yet again for Zeus' sakes, in the grips of a subtle battle, or you could call it a quiet feud, with none other than my maid.

I employ a maid, have so done for years, because beyond all of the 'we are coming here and taking a job, so we also have to create one', reasoning I often offer, without a maid I would most likely drown in refuse of various colors, manage to unwittingly breed bubonic plague in the kitchen, or be attacked by a vicious Mr. Hanky while on the toilet. I hate cleaning, and would rather not drink wine for a whole year than vacuum, not to mention, wash the floors. Luckily I'm a spoiled expat wife. 

Regardless of my clear need for someone to clean the house, do the dishes, and iron the clothes, I just can't seem to pick them well. I always end up experiencing severe heart burn and headaches. These maladies are partly do to the exciting new things and ways of doing things my employees introduce into the household, and partly to my having to deal with these new and exciting occurrences. I like being bossy and commanding until I actually have to do it, especially when it comes to some such foreign stuff as cleaning. 

I will not bore you with my previous battles on this front, but instead concentrate on the current one, and perhaps even receive some advice from the more diplomatic types out there. Believe me, I know this is a luxurious problem to have, but a problem it is nonetheless. 

Anyhow, I have never quite figured out how to start off with a maid, and perhaps I should explain more and show how everything should be done, and not attack the problems that may arise, since currently there are PROBLEMS arising left and right. The 'amount of cleaning products used' is an oldie but a constantly resurfacing goodie, regardless of culture, as is the 'moving things around will make it convincingly look like everything has been cleaned', right alongside my personal favorite: 'piling random, but important, papers and mail and stashing them in even more random places'. These are all issues I have recently attempted to deal with with ever more faltering success. However, South Africa has also thrown some previously unexperienced punches at us. 

Seeing as we are so extremely wealthy we practically bathe in money, the maid seems to think that buying a new tube of toothpaste signifies that the half-full one is immediately to be thrown away (no she is not siphoning the stuff, she is honestly throwing it out). This purge also extends to kleenex boxes, if there are less than 10 kleenexes left, once used make up sponges, wine bottles left half empty anywhere but the fridge (yes, you guessed it, this one really got to me), and any item she cannot confidently decipher the use of, especially if the said item is made of plastic. Several times now we have had the discussion of 'what counts as garbage', but regardless of my insane sign language thrown in to make my point, I see no improvement. I don't like being wasteful if I can avoid it, and the situation being out of my control is making my stomach acid rise to my throat much too often.   

Putting things away, i.e. hiding things is something we have experienced before but never on this scale, or done with such inventiveness either. My sneakers, that I wear every single day, keep disappearing and not just into my closet either. Just yesterday I found them propped against the patio wall outside. Of course. My queries as to why they keep disappearing are answered with rather empty stares and one of the dreaded 'what is that word'. I tried tekkies with just as much success. I have also recently been unable to find certain tiny bits from my camera and sincerely hope they are not being embraced by the black plastic bag.

Another new and rather horrid discovery concerning the cleaning habits of my maid, is her use of just one rag for the entire bathroom. Indeed, this means she washes the inside of the actual toilet bowl, with the same rag she uses to clean the sinks, the counters, and the bathtub. I have been bathing in my own feces. Beyond gross, disgusting, and horrid. I actually screamed a little and have hopefully scared her into comprehension. 

A storm in a teacup you might say (well, except for the feces). I know, it's comfortable house wife (not the desperate kind) drama, but all of the above are simply issues to be ironed out, or at least compromised on.  However, my number one issue is something that really boggles me. I have encountered variations of it before, and swiftly dealt with them, but the brazenness of the person I'm currently up against is throwing me off my game. In truth, my employees can pretty much clean or not clean anyway they like (again excluding the feces) as long as my respect for and my trust in them are met with equal respect and honesty. I hate being taken advantage of, or being lied to. Unfortunately, both seem to be going on.

My maid only works for me three days a week. I buy bread, margarine, and some ham for her to eat for breakfast and for lunch, these being the foodstuffs she requested. Since we don't eat bread, she is allowed to take the rest of the bread and ham with her if it has already expired or is about to do so. However, in the past month other things have started to disappear from the fridge, such as eggs, avocados, grapes, and soda pop, and she seems to be taking a whole loaf of bread with her every other time she comes to clean. I admit, we are not talking about a great loss for us, but it is a question of principle. When asked whether she still eats the bread, she forcefully maintains she does. She also forcefully maintained she did not clean the toilet and the bathtub with the same cloth, or sweep the floor with the feather duster meant for the ceilings, even though I saw her do both.    

What am I to do? Sigh.