Maids, tummy bugs and other local fauna
The cleaner seems to think the only reason I exist is to provide her with the opportunity to polish my desk. She scowls at me now because I'm not keeping my desk tidy enough for her to do her job. Oh well, she can scowl.
Cape Town's a clean place, eh? Every morning at about the time I leave for work, taxis come driving up my street (the communal taxi vans that cost 2 rand, not the metered ones I use) and drop off little black ladies everywhere. They are the domestics. Everyone in my house has one, even the sloppy oversized teenager downstais. Especially him, in fact.
I don't know. I think there's something extremely healthy in learning to clean up your own mess. You can tell the people here - men and women alike, but especially the blokes - have never had to scrub their own toilet. Or wash their own clothes. I find it deeply unsympathetic.
We've had splendid sunny weather for four days running now. Today, however, there is the precursor of rain. The Berg wind - hot air whooshing out of the North from the Kalahari Desert - is a sure sign that things are about to get wet. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after. But as they say down here - you don't complain about the rain.
Unfortunately, my disposition has not been as sunny as the weather. On Thursday last week, I ate something I shouldn't, and suffered the consequences. I'm only just getting able to eat properly again today.
Speaking of the local fauna, it struck me the other day that I've been here a month and not seen so much as a gnu. I'm in Africa, for God's sake, there must be more to being on Safari than the odd cockroach behind the sink!
Well yes, there are the dogs. Everyone's got one. There's three in my building alone, and they are nice enough. But there is also a Hound of Baskerville lurking around my part of town, crying away into the night and interrupting my sleep. I don't know. Dogs smell. And they have no integrity. On the other hand, they keep the burglars out. Unless the burglars shoot the dogs with their 9mms.
The cash transfusion coming over from the UK to pay the deposit on my car is experiencing some problems, meaning that I'm still hitching rides to work. It's a pain. But I was talking about it to Rosemary yesterday. Everyone talks about the freedom of owning, and driving, a car. But where I come from freedom is an Oyster card that will allow you to go anywhere, at any time without worrying abot congestion charges and parking. I just dont see it. But Rosemary assures me it's much simpler, and cheaper, here.
And today I've got a week. A week! Until I have to hand the first issue to the printers. Hell, what am I even doing writing this stuff here... i should be writing proper articles... Oh, and for those of you who are interested, my first 'international' Guardian column is published today. Here.
This Saturday also gave me my first real pang of home sickness. I was sipping a Pina Colada in Camps Bay by the beach (as you do in the middle of winter) as I noticed they were showing the England friendly on the TV inside. I went to see Eng-ur-land thrash Jamaica 5-0 at 70 minutes, and for a second I remembered sitting in a pub, pint in hand, alongside fifty other expat Swedes cheering as Zlatan heads it into the net... For the first time I realised just how far away I am from home.
So I'm buying a TV. To watch the games. It feels important.
Cape Town's a clean place, eh? Every morning at about the time I leave for work, taxis come driving up my street (the communal taxi vans that cost 2 rand, not the metered ones I use) and drop off little black ladies everywhere. They are the domestics. Everyone in my house has one, even the sloppy oversized teenager downstais. Especially him, in fact.
I don't know. I think there's something extremely healthy in learning to clean up your own mess. You can tell the people here - men and women alike, but especially the blokes - have never had to scrub their own toilet. Or wash their own clothes. I find it deeply unsympathetic.
We've had splendid sunny weather for four days running now. Today, however, there is the precursor of rain. The Berg wind - hot air whooshing out of the North from the Kalahari Desert - is a sure sign that things are about to get wet. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after. But as they say down here - you don't complain about the rain.
Unfortunately, my disposition has not been as sunny as the weather. On Thursday last week, I ate something I shouldn't, and suffered the consequences. I'm only just getting able to eat properly again today.
Speaking of the local fauna, it struck me the other day that I've been here a month and not seen so much as a gnu. I'm in Africa, for God's sake, there must be more to being on Safari than the odd cockroach behind the sink!
Well yes, there are the dogs. Everyone's got one. There's three in my building alone, and they are nice enough. But there is also a Hound of Baskerville lurking around my part of town, crying away into the night and interrupting my sleep. I don't know. Dogs smell. And they have no integrity. On the other hand, they keep the burglars out. Unless the burglars shoot the dogs with their 9mms.
The cash transfusion coming over from the UK to pay the deposit on my car is experiencing some problems, meaning that I'm still hitching rides to work. It's a pain. But I was talking about it to Rosemary yesterday. Everyone talks about the freedom of owning, and driving, a car. But where I come from freedom is an Oyster card that will allow you to go anywhere, at any time without worrying abot congestion charges and parking. I just dont see it. But Rosemary assures me it's much simpler, and cheaper, here.
And today I've got a week. A week! Until I have to hand the first issue to the printers. Hell, what am I even doing writing this stuff here... i should be writing proper articles... Oh, and for those of you who are interested, my first 'international' Guardian column is published today. Here.
This Saturday also gave me my first real pang of home sickness. I was sipping a Pina Colada in Camps Bay by the beach (as you do in the middle of winter) as I noticed they were showing the England friendly on the TV inside. I went to see Eng-ur-land thrash Jamaica 5-0 at 70 minutes, and for a second I remembered sitting in a pub, pint in hand, alongside fifty other expat Swedes cheering as Zlatan heads it into the net... For the first time I realised just how far away I am from home.
So I'm buying a TV. To watch the games. It feels important.
posted by Linda at 09:37
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