Rainbow Nation

Chatting with our next door neighbour back in good old Luddendenfoot, we comment on his new car. It's a very bright yellow. Statisically, they're supposed to be involved in fewer accidents. I'm not sure if this is because they are fewer on the road, or people see them before they crash. Most of the Cape Town cars are white. You do get the odd coloured one, but they are definitely in the minority. We ponder why this should be? White to reflect the heat? White because of fashion? White because there are no Fords who said we could only have black?

The Price of Petrol

A tankful of unleaded cost me just over £40 which is dearer than South Africa by several pounds. That’s not unexpected, really. This was the first time I’ve filled up myself for over three months. As I watched the figures whizz round, I thought about how many petrol pump attendants there are Engen petrol stations across South Africa. How great the service is: petrol, oil, tyre pressures, windows washed and wiped – all done with a smile for a small tip. I also thought that it’s amazing the petrol companies employ so many people per garage – after all, it’s all automated in just the same way.
Here, in Morrisons, Halifax, there’s just one lady behind a glass screen that makes it look like a bank and the shop is freezing, thanks to the fridges. Driving away, I reflect that they probably pay her the equivalent of six or eight South African wages. Being typically British, I was uncomfortable at first with so much personal attention. Now I’ve gotten used to the service, I know which I prefer.

Last Snapshot!

South African English, English South African

We both speak English, but there are beautiful differences in the way we use it. ‘Is it’ is often used as a filler in a sentence to respond to news.
‘We fly home to the UK today.’
‘Is it.’
It’s used more as an exclamation than a question.

The other beautiful use of language is dropping the personal pronoun from the end of a sentence. For example: We wish you could all ‘come with’.

Table Mountain Cafe and Gift Shop

Everything in here comes up the cable car: Kit-Kats, coffee, baked potatoes, muffins. In the gift shop: teeshirts, beany hats, Table Mountain wine and posters.

It occurs to me looking at the paper plates that everything goes back down the same way, too: waste paper, packaging, empty bottles, cans, people, gifts for people.

Snapshot 6: Citrusdal

Home of the orange, nectarine, tangerine and lemon. Big globes of beautiful oranges and ‘easy peelers’ hang wonderfully heavy in the South African sunshine. From here, Martin and his wife export oranges all over the world: Russia, US, UK, Maldives and Europe. There are a lot of variables in the growing of a crop: time of year, water and windows of trade across the world. It’s also labour intensive to harvest the crop – much of it at height. The fruit tastes wonderful straight from the tree. There is a way to peel an orange: cut the top and bottom off. Score the peel in segments around the circumference, peel, scrape the pith away, eat and enjoy. Next time you’re in a supermarket, remember there is no difference in taste between those oranges with perfect appearance and those with blemishes. The only difference is the price we pay.

Close Shave

Some things are cheaper here, some things are more expensive. Steak is cheaper, wine is a lot cheaper. Petrol is a bit cheaper, books are very much more expensive. Clothes are mostly cheaper, parking is usually free. Shaving foam is a lot dearer and I think you get less in the tin!

Snapshots of Cape Town 5

Seal Song

The other day on the beach, we saw a seal. Nothing too unusual here, really, except this one was swimming in the breaking waves. We caught his beautiful length in the clear rising water as the waves curled to the beach. For a moment, he was caught in the watery light of his element, graceful and agile in the sea - a figure far from the comic one he cuts when upon the sand, flippered and awkward in his movements. We are told that their bodies are often found on the beach. The seals come to shore to die. They come alone with the last of their strength to frolic in the warm waters of the shallows. We’re glad we didn’t know what we were watching: the last efforts of something to say goodbye.

Burning Boat, Dolphin Beach

The ship caught fire during some welding on board. Twenty two men escaped unhurt. We made Cape Town television E News this evening.

Snapshot of Cape Town 4: Car Wash

Here it happens by hand. A man with a hose and sponge goes around your car while you either leave it at the garage, or sit in and wait. These things are not particularly comfortable in our automated age. Here, things are labour intensive. The petrol, oil and tyres are all checked by someone who isn’t you.
It causes me to feel a number of things at the same time. I’m squeamish with the idea of being served, yet happy at a slower pace of life. I’d rather do it myself, yet enjoy the benefit of community and chat with my fellow man. There is more of a sense here of doing life together. That seems good. Here, service is a part of life which is good if we all take part, not so good, if simply exploited.
I am learning to leave my preconceptions at the door with each new experience. That’s quite relaxing.

Snapshots of Cape Town 3

We have come to the most beautiful place on earth. Table Mountain under blue skies, sunsets, and skirted with clouds. The beach, the space and the sunshine all give us a sense of the Lord God wooing us.
On Saturday we drove up the coast with our friends to Camps Bay, the waves rolling in, stunning and constant. Above us, Table Mountain, hidden by angles and only the Lion’s Head visible. Clear sun against powerful waves, too erratic for any surfer. This is God’s romancing of us.
Through Cape Town, the contrast of architecture, old and new, urban and natural environment. Painted coloured houses, clean and individual against the skyline.
The World Cup stadium like a fruit bowl, I think. Beverly thinks like a paper lantern.
On Mondays, a night drive to Muizenberg. The darkness of the city where every kilometre reduces in wealth down to corrugated shanty towns. The late night shops where prostitutes have their patch, every few blocks and where men cook under the motorway arch on a brazier. It’s a city of contrast. Here, there is no welfare system to disguise social difference. Here, the poor beg, but there is generosity and kindness, too.
On the wall of the school canteen with Falkirt and his wife, I study a poster sized photo of Cape Town. Shot from a plane, the lens embraces all the details and grandeur of the town at the foot of a continent. Twelve Apostles, Signal Hill, Duncan Dock, Stellenbosch and beyond into the vineyards. At night, the lights come as high as they dare around the mountain and the lighthouses warn shipping which queues patiently to get into the dock.
In Woolworths, you are in M&S except every so often in the food aisle, there are things missing: cumin, one day, mayonnaise and your favourite wine the next. In Mugg and Bean, the bottomless coffee has run dry because they have no water. The whole mall is off, says the waiter, with an apologetic smile. He is called Knowledge. That’s all right, we say. Don’t worry.
Climbing the stairs to our flat, I talk to a lady carrying washing. ‘Warm today.’ ‘No, cold.’
It all depends where you come from.

Snapshots 2

We find somewhere that has mirror snoods. I go to the counter and profer a R200 note. I have to ask the lady an embarrassing three times what she is saying to me. She is asking if I have anything smaller because they’re not accepting R200 notes. I begin to look for smaller notes when another customer who’s had a bit longer to process the information than me begins objecting on my behalf.
‘You can’t do that. It’s legal tender. You can’t refuse to accept money. It’s the currency of South Africa.’
An argument ensues about forgeries and an e mail from head office. The man says it’s each person’s responsibility to check the genuineness of the money they’re given. They need an ultra violet scanner or special pen. I am silent, but I am agreeing with the logic of his argument.
In the end she accepts my R200 note.
I bore Beverly afterwards with a monologue about it all. What’s the point of being in business if you’re refusing sales? Perhaps, I should have put the mirror snoods back on the shelf and taken my R200 note to someone who wanted it?
I could have said, ‘We’ll this note came from Sainsbury’s, England. I think you’re pretty safe with this one!’
Later, someone else tells me the story about forged R200 notes flooding the country and people being put in jail if they were found with one.
There’s logic for you!

Snapshots of Cape Town 1

Snapshots of Cape Town 1. 11/05/10
From our window, we see a big ship which has been grounded for months. The waves are busy about the stern and we wonder how much longer it will remain afloat.
The tugboat emerges from the harbour and pulls alongside a container ship. We see how big the container ship is by the perspective of the smaller vessel.
We look again and the smaller boat has gone.
‘It’s tuggered-off, Beverly,’ says. I laugh a long time at this one.
This morning, the traffic to the church was slowed to a crawl as a bus had broken down on the main road reducing the traffic to one lane. This gives us time to see a couple of cars decorated with South African flags for the football. They are stretchy flags over the external mirrors and we want some immediately. Beverly christens them: ‘mirror snoods.’
After Bible class, we drive with Andre to his house and have tea with Nola and Graham, newly landed from England. It’s so lovely to see him. We sit alongside spiritual giants.
We navigate our careful way to Canal Walk. The route is lovely with the mixtures of Cape Town: traffic, colour, palm trees, beautiful buildings, Mercedes building with its big logo on the roof and Table, closer here, but hiding in the clouds today.
We go in the mirrored lift to the top floor of the shopping centre. There are six people, but it’s like being with a football crowd.
In the offices of Iburst, the internet provider, the helpful lady lets me use her computer to download a bank statement from First Direct which we need to prove our credit worthiness. She is happy to accept our Luddendenfoot address in England as our main place of residence.
Coffees at Mugg and Bean. Woolworths. Checkers for chakalaka. (Tomato and onion dressing.) Yum! Hot and spicy. Nicey!
We go looking for mirror snoods, but they have sold out. We find instead some very long postcards for sending home and a key ring.
The manager of the Christian bookshop in Canal Walk goes to Hillsongs, Cape Town. They are dreaming of having the football stadium after the world cup for services. It is a dramatic venue.
We sit in traffic behind an estate car with its rear window up. A group of Africans share a cigarette inside. Next to us is a pick-up with another group of road workers in the back. Hooded and cold, they joke with one another, swap insults and pretend to start a fight with the group in the car. They vie for position with one another as the traffic shuffles down to Paddocks.
Home and a Michael Douglas film you’d expect to see screened at 10pm is on at 5.30pm.
Sky News and the sound is not lip-synched for some reason. It gives the hung parliament a special quality of delay.
I go to post the blog in the hotel lobby. It’s decorated now with flags of every country. The South African one is on the wall behind reception, the receptionist in yellow jersey. Not long now until kick-off.

God's Exclamation Mark!

From the kitchen side of our flat, I watch the newsboys on an early morning, selling papers to the motorists. They are very organised, one wearing luminous orange trousers and hooded jacket. The light of his headtorch shines through early Cape Town traffic like the cars themselves. As we return from Bible class, there are two Africans crouching under a big brolly while repairing one of the carpark booms, or barriers as we’d say in England.
Dolphin Beach Hotel and Paddocks Shopping Centre smell of new paint and turps at the moment. Everything is in a state of preparation for the world’s visitors to the World Cup 2010. From the lounge side of our flat, on a clear day, we can see the distinctive oval shaped stadium. It’s an impressive structure of man’s, dwarfed by the more impressive structure of God’s: Table Mountain. Aje described it as God’s exclamation mark at the end of the African continent!
It’s made an appearance today. Lately, it’s been hidden under cloud. It’s quite amazing that such a big piece of rock can be hiding anywhere. There’s the steady drama of big container ships queued to make an entrance to Duncan Dock, which for obvious reasons has my attention.
God went to a lot of trouble to get us here. We feel stunned at everything we see. When the Atlantic Ocean pitches in and the clouds copy the white foam, Table looks its best. Here’s an altar and our thoughts are of the Ten Commandments, Mount Carmel and the Transfiguration all at once. I know none of these stories had the sea around them at the time.
This is just God showing off.

*131*3#

Mobiles!
I’ve followed all the little diagrams to put in a new Sim card, in faith because people say that’s cheaper. The phone doesn’t work when I test it by ringing Beverly. I ring MTN (that’s who we’ve ‘migrated’ to now. At first (and second) try, I go round the automated merry-go-round with tons of information I don’t want and some I can’t understand.
Beverly has a listen and tells me to try option 5. She is right, as always, and I finally get through to a person. I explain my plight. She explains what the problem is and I don’t understand her explanation. Take it out. Put it back in. Switch it off. Switch it on. Put in the pin. Pull out the pin and throw the phone through the patio window into the heaving Atlantic Ocean. Hide under the duvet and wait for the explosion of a man on info overload.
She is very patient, though I can tell that her boss is over her shoulder breathing call quotas at her. I slow her down for a second explanation. No, the Sim card number is not the phone number. You need to put in:
* 131*3#.
She says it slowly, then more slowly and loudly, like talking to a deaf man. That does the trick and I with great joy I twig what she’s saying. Bring back the pips and Button A, that’s what I say.

Driving in Cape Town

In spite of all efforts to navigate efficiently, the inevitable happened: we take a wrong turning and are instantly lost! We get up a one way alley to what is looking like the motorway. The mountain is spectacularly close and I could appreciate it more if it wasn't solid confirmation of our wrong direction.

This is when I really learn to drive and Beverly really learns to navigate. Thankfully, we have bought a road map in Canal Walk, so help is at hand. It's trying to work out where we are and where we want to be. We know where we don't want to be: on a motorway for the next 20km. Cape Town is a beautiful city. Bridges, palm trees, creative buildings, sunshine, clear skies and always the majestic Table Mountain who really owns the whole area and graciously gives us passage to be there.

We get out of immediate danger of detour and find some lesser roads to drive on. This is uncharted waters and it's exciting to read the store names and clock the churches. A man at the traffic lights is selling flags - big ones, South African colours. I'm very tempted, but our stress level is still too high.

I imagine what it would look like back in Ripley Terrace, but think of the luggage allowance which we're already exceeding having bought some more books. (Well, hey, come on guys, there's a whole new flat to fill!!) No, seriously, we needed another Bible because we couldn't bring all of the ones we wanted (weight of luggage, etc)
Harvester use NKJ, so we bought another to fit in with the Romans... (and the Corinthians and the Colossians and the...) (That's enough Books, Ed)

Beverly gets us out of trouble (as always) and the familiar bit of Cape Town comes into view once more. The great thing is: all this is done on the left side of the road, so even roundabouts are easy.

Home safe.

'The Play's the Thing.'

For many years, I studied and taught Hamlet. 'The play's the thing,' Hamlet says, 'wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.'
Drama has been put back in my life to share the good news of Jesus. Church had no use for it really and so I consigned it to the shelf of 'stuff I have done and know, but can't use for God.' God, of course, had other ideas and brings me to a church in which drama and music are so much part of the life of fellowship and evangelism. Drama has always been in me and God finds a use for it. I am so moved by the production of Job. Jesus told stories to share the good news of the kingdom and why shouldn't we? A Bible story set to music and skilfully acted with costumes and simple props can catch the heart of even the most stubborn. These kids were captivated by the power of the Gospel and the Holy Spirit. Restive at first, they settled to a stunned silence at Apostle Leigh's masterful altar call. This is him in the mask talking about how we try and mask our pain when God wants to set us free - profound, yet so simple even a child can understand.