So . . .

So far:

Mum and I have travelled to Johannesburg, from London, on our trip to trace Mum’s roots back to her mother’s origin in New Zealand. We are met by Chookie (Mum’s cousin) at the airport.

Chookie is one of those people that grabs your attention; fast talking, quick thinking, elegant, assured. She drives us through the pulsing aggression of the JHB rush hour. She punctuates her commentary on the city, and her life there, with curses aimed at the badly driven taxis and minicabs. Everything is weaving, everything is changing. We are in transit again. There is something slightly impetuous about her driving. . . a kind of excited impatience. How lovely.

Let me take a moment out of the story to say that what is important here is not the order of events but their relationship and connection. This whole trip, and therefore this blog is about connection. It is not a litany of events, it’s more complex than that.

I have been assigned the “cottage” – a self contained dwelling that nestles in the corner of the garden amongst trees and shrubs. So if you will excuse me while I lie in a bath which soaks away the endless, gut churning, fear soaked, anxiety of the past weeks I will fast forward you to . . .

A peaceful quiet as I explored the garden with my camera; a large lawn with swirling beds cut into it, filled with interesting shrubs and trees. The lawn is cared for, there’s a swimming pool. . .

. . .To meeting Louis – Chookie’s husband. She has told us that he has Alzheimer’s. He is a small neat man with glasses and a beard. Behind there glasses there is an intelligent slightly naughty gleam, crossed with a watchful quiet. He was a top man in the legal profession of JHB. . .

To when we sit around a beautifully presented breakfast table, on the patio. Paw-Paw and lime, tea and toast; and coffee. . . .

Chookie asks Mum to push down the plunger of the cafitierre .

“But don’t push too hard or it will splootle”

I enjoy this word and I ask if it is a proper word round here or one she has made up. Soon I’m telling her about some of the words I’ve made up:

“Faddle” : To fiddle / adjust something quite large into position.

“Smiddle” To delicately adjust by a small amount on a delicate piece of apparatus.

Louis is enjoying this word play and rolls his eyes, saying “I can never understand what she’s talking about”

We are now on “Squittle” which I suggest is the action taken by a taxi when cutting in front of you in the traffic. Chookie says it’s what is happening in my guts.

I bring up “Faddle Mandering” (the sudden and inconclusive stop of a hesitant person at a nodal point like a doorway or entrance.)

Louis picks up this word and agrees on how it works. There is something very charming and playful about him as he chucks little sotto voce asides under Chookie’s words. . .

But the order of events is unclear so . . . Back in time to when I get out of the bath, and I feel better. So much better.

Then I fall into a short but profound sleep.

Later:

It’s time to go shopping, Chookie ushers the dogs out of the kitchen then users Louis out.

“I am not a dog” he says in a rather pooh like way as wanders out into the yard. I stand with him and talk. He is not sure that we will all fit in the little car, he shows me his Land Rover, and talks about what a marvelous machine it is for camping in this country. Then he lifts the corner of a protective cover over a small vehicle to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of a metallic blue mini. We have a bit of a “Car Conversation” – the first car I had was a Mini. In fact I was given it by Margan – my grandmother, the woman whose roots we are chasing.

After a Laurel and Hardy style embarkation (mainly involving a miscomprehension of seat belts) into the small car, and slip through the electric gates and out into the world. We are going to buy some walking boots for Mum so she can walk in NZ and I’m looking for a present for Josh.

I’m in the front looking from the window. It really is another country here. It feels so different. I fact it’s making feel slightly odd. Your own culture is hard to see, as invisible to us as the air we breath, but suddenly immersed in another culture the flavour and appearance of that culture is strongly flavoured and shocks you – surprise and naivety blended together.

BUT as an observer you must remember that what you see is in turn moderated by your own culture, a distorting lens fitted over your own perception; it is very difficult to know what you are seeing.

I am a white man in a car, and I’m struck by that fact that as far as I can see all the people walking are black. They are walking along the pavement carrying plastic bags. They sit on the edge of the kerb wearing overalls and work clothes, They are the people walking in that concrete world out there. At traffic lights they get from within the cars are habitual dismissal; but their smile remains perfect as they move on to the next car, showing boxes of fruit or drinks, or newspapers, or signs asking for money and work. Coming from the comfort of Britian it is a disturbing experience. I’m not used to it.

They are at every red light, and every serviced door.

We go to a shopping centre and we track down a rather fashionable designer-shop EBOKA that sells shirts worn by the new modern chic of Johannesburg. It is in here that I buy a fantastic shirt for Josh’s birthday. “How big is he?” she asks. I explain he’s my height but thinner, so I try on the shirt and she makes adjustments with pins. We will return the next day to pick it up. I can’t reveal the price (discretion Josh) but it is a handsome sum for a handsome shirt.

Chookie then takes us to a hotel called GRACE which is very elegant and refined and has some interesting paintings displayed. Some show mining landscapes and beautiful but to my eye rather daunting wildernesses. Then we go on a strange tour in the lift, looking at some really large paintings of rather grand places in Johannesburg. One paining shows a massive house with formal gardens.

“That is where I received my first kiss” she tells us.

We all clamber back into the car quite exhausted and she drives us back to the house. The electric gates swing open at her command, the dogs run to sniff the car.

“Hello my doggies” Says Louis – who is clearly in love with them.

An evening meal is served, in a very elegant room, at a round old table with intricate decoration around the edge. It is a rather formal kind of dinner in a way. It revolves around conversation and good food.

The subject turns to politics and soon Mum and Chookie are setting the world to rights. I feel a bit uncomfortable about this as I really don’t know anything about anything in that respect. But Mum and Chookie know what they think and they are enjoying the converdation.

In between courses I find myself alone with Louis and I ask him about his family background.

He looks away into the corner of the room and starts on a story: Once upon a time there was a diplomat (his father) who was posted to London, and he – Louis grew up there as an English boy. He went to school in London and sat the Common Entrance exam (which would give you access to a British public school) . He starts to talk about Trafalgar square and then starts to slow. Then he starts to clear his throat and cough.

“Excuse me” he says

Chookie enters the room, and reads the situation in an instant “What are you talking about, my sweet?” He hesitates again and looks at her. Starts to clear his throat.

“Was it about your Pa?” She is on the ball. She tells his history.

Everything is more complex, so tender and harsh.

More later

Me

Mum

&

The World