Thank You for being Born

Coming home is not quite as easy as you might think. 

Even when you "just take a plane"...

While everyone else breezed past security, I had that bear scanned at all five airports on the way (Cairns. Bali. Bangkok. Addis Ababa. Johannesburg). 

Apparently either he or I look like we might be pushing drugs or smuggling some small children inside (although I'm not quite sure how I might have gotten said "small children" inside). 

And yes it was great to lick South African soil (some may call it "airport floor") 

and have my grandmother smiling and ready to make me her eternal housemate, never allowing me to venture off on another adventure ever again; 

but I had to keep her waiting an hour while I attempted to change $20 into rands. 

I didn't own an address or a phone number... even with a foreign passport, this simple task was impossible!

It took me four days and five attempts to try and acquire a phone number [luckily Ouma came in to rescue me... she'll have to do the same again as I attempt to unfreeze my bank account...]  

Meet Ouma. She's amazing!

I tried to hire a car, but without a credit card, nobody wanted to give me one. 

That's okay I suppose, I have started exploited our non-existent transport system for what it's not worth! 

And have enjoyed a whole host of incredible "taxis" with a plethora of friends and family!

But despite the bureaucracy and transportlessness, I have to admit it is flipping good to be back.

 I've spent a few days with my brother and his "pets". 

I've witnessed the miraculous growth of families as almost everyone I know has milked their wombs for their fertileness.

 I've spent time with my granny and cousins and friends. 

And I even had the privilege of crashing a best friend's wedding!

Brother

And just one of his many pets.

Look how fertile South African soil is...

It was a great wedding to crash too!

On long flights, in bank and sim card queues, on long bus rides, 

and while trapped in camp by herds of elephants; I've had much time to think and reminisce. 

I don't think any of you have an inkling of an idea of how incredible you really are and how much you've given to my life! 

In fact the list of people I need to thank for keeping me alive, off the streets, out of prison, and with a smile on my face is impossibly long!

They seem to get a kick out of trapping you inside

Some of you I have known for years and you've actively shaped and guided my life; 

you've put up with my nonsense, 

encouraged me, inspired me, given me all sorts of sound advices, 

and you've supported my weird life directions (sometimes with bated breath). 

For that I thank you profusely! 

But there's also all those people who hitched me (to get an ice-cream, or across countries, or oceans).

And those who hitched with me. 

Those who helped me reach dreams (like getting out of prison, or spending a day filling in potholes, or visiting Ikea, or building a raft and sailing it out into the ocean...) 

The amount of people who have taken me in for a night (or a month), 

those who have have fed me, 

or eaten with me (thank you too to the cannibals who refrained from eating me), 

who have kept me entertained and positive through all sorts of trials and tribulations and the hours/days/weeks of border crossings.

On some random border somewhere in central Asia 

Turkmenistan: where every time you stop to ask directions, you get welcomed in for a meal!

Thank you for random hugs and laughs and adventures.

Thank you too to those who carried a scowl and a frown; your misery reminded me I needed joy.

Thank you to all those who stop and help when crises strike!

Three flat tyres, at the same time in Mongolia.
A party ensued with all those who stopped to help!

In fact. It doesn't matter who you are, and whether I've known you for a minute or a decade; 

I want to thank you for being born! 

There's a reason you are here, and the world is a happier, friendlier, and epicer place because of it!

Somewhere in Australia with some happy people who made my week!

Salt, Rice, and Paper Towels.

Life is full of interesting problems. Theft, murder, speedos, unemployment, poverty, delusions of grandeur, schizophrenia, bad taste in clothing, cockroaches, the list goes on and on… But I think I have found the answer to all of them....Maybe...

Some call the a problem, some call them food!

The other day I left work a little early to escape the torrential downpour. I was cold. I was soaked. My fingers couldn't bend anymore, my brain had frozen over, frostbite was imminent! I swore I would never leave the house again! 

I threw my clothes in the washing machine and sat down [huddled in my brothers duvet because I don't own my own] to reply to my last umteen emails and finish a few proposals before I heard the bouncing of the machine subside. I clicked send and started towards the machine. A few steps later I found myself swimming through a sea of greenish-brown wash mush. The washing machine had flooded the house...

In a panic I tossed my [world's dirtiest] teddy bear in to start soaking, and then blankets and towels. I scooped bucket loads into the bath tub. Hours later it was almost done and I seemed to have escaped without flooding the downstairs neighbours. I had won the battle, but the war hadn't even started yet.

Teddy, on his last night out, a porn star party

The carpets were still soaked, so after a few days of [unsuccessfully] wishing them dry, I got newspaper. The smell worsened. By the weekend the house was so damp and the smell so rank that I was beginning to think I might have health officials notified. As I lay awake at night trying to absolve the billions of other problems the week from hell had bought with it, solutions started forming in my mind. I "awoke" from a sleepless night, walked to the shops and bought 2kg of rice, 1kg of salt and a diarrhea-worthy load of paper towels!

I coated my brothers room in salt, Daisy's room in paper towels covered by magazines and books and most of the house's furniture, and my room (the lounge) was treated to a happy dosage of tastic brown rice.

Life's other problems got worse, but the house started smelling better by the day. A week later (Monday), I finally got around to seeing the results of my efforts. I started by lifting up the books and furniture and paper towels.... and then clearing up the salt and then the rice (which practically formed a ready made meal after a week of soaking)...Amazingly they all worked. And the house was as good as new (and cleaner too).

The small successes of the rice, salt and paper towels gave me the ummmmph I needed to start tackling other battles creatively (it's been a bit of poo year really) but you know what? Life really is good! - Just look at the amazing people you have around you and you'll know how lucky you are!

I'm not sure what you're struggling with at the moment, but I promise you that there is a solution. They say that time heals all things; but I think what you really need is some creativity [and a hug/ lick/ bowl of rice wine] and the eradication of the speedo.

Old and Lonely

It’s really amazing how one minute you’re doing your weekend grocery and vital Easter egg shopping and the next you’re surrounded by ambulances and blood…

Three missed calls and a rude message later I finally picked up the phone. The brother had been rushing me because he was bored of waiting – but you can’t hurry shopping queues. And from last week’s hurrying of the cashier I have learned never to rush them either. They stop what they are doing look you in the eye and lecture you on how your whole life needs to slow down and while it’s embarrassing to have a horde of people listening to it – my cashier definitely had a point: I probably did need to slow down a little, and I think Jeandre’ (the brother) does too.

When I eventually made it into post-queue-freedom I tried to push one more thing with the brother: “Should we grab some beers on the way out?” – Jeandre’ was tempted but replied that he just wanted to leave the shops forever and that it was probably better for us to be healthier anyway so we didn’t.

But after climbing the escalator and descending the stairs (a random exit methodology I know, but yes, that is how the Garden centre works), we walked straight into two screaming woman and an old man in a pool of blood.

We calmed the younger woman down and asked her what had happened. “He fell on his face” she cried. “Do you know him?” “No. He was alone.” A security guard and I asked the man if he was okay to get up, and lifted him to his feet to try and get him into a more comfortable sit down/ stroke recovery position while we sent the older woman to find centre management and Jeandre’ ran to find ice.

Blood flowed in rivers from his nose and mouth as I sat him down and tried to find out how bad the fall was and how aware he was of his surroundings. “What’s your name sir?” I thought he replied Chad and called him that for most of our conversings… but it was in fact Ted. Ted was hard at hearing and softly spoken – the following was yelled and repeated many times over:

“How are you feeling?”

“Am I alright? I fell.”

“You’re bleeding a lot but you look alright. Did you trip over something?” I asked, wondering still if he had had a stroke.

“I just fell over.”

“Is there anyone I can call?”

 “No.”

“Do you have any family?”

“No”

“Do you have any friends?”

“No. I live alone.”

“Surely there is someone who we can call?”

Blood was now forming little meandering streams on the sidewalk.  Jeandre’ returned with a bag of frozen peas he had just shoplifted from Woolworths (He figured throwing a R50 note at the security guard as he fled the scene would make up for it). Now it was my turn to run to get toilet paper.

A crowd had gathered by the time I got back and Ted seemed to be slipping out of consciousness. So I carried on talking to him as we mopped the blood off his face and suit.

“And how old are you?” - “95” - “Do you know where you are?”… The conversation then shifted to actual medical support seeing as nobody with any official medical experience had shown up yet. We didn’t want to call an ambulance because we knew he had no medical aid or much money so we found a good Samaritan with a car and were almost set to go when the centre’s first aider finally pitched followed by one ambulance after the next. The whole street shone with bright flashy lights and uniformed people.

Apart from a big cut to his mouth and a potentially broken nose, Ted also had a broken wrist. He needed a hospital. The paramedics assured us that he would be well taken care of and that he wouldn’t pay a cent for it. Jeandre’ left them with his phone number just in case.

My heart was broken as I watched the whole scene unfold. Imagine having no family and no friends. Imagine living to be 95 without having anyone to celebrate it with. Imagine being taken to hospital with nobody to visit you. Imagine finally reaching the end of your life with nobody to say goodbye to. I tried to imagine what it felt like to be Ted.

Ted spent the entire time clutching his small bag of blood covered groceries. I had sent one of the screaming woman on a mission to find a new bag for him – but even then he wouldn’t let go and finally only gave way enough for us to slip his torn bag into a new one. He’d taught himself to trust nobody. It was as if those groceries were his prized possessions.

“Am I alright?” Ted asked the first paramedic on the scene after various tests and questions had taken place. The paramedic looked him I the eye and said a very respectable “Sir, if I were your age and I still had a heart rate like that and still walked to the shops, I would be very happy indeed.” A smile cracked across his face for the first time.  

In retrospect we probably should have stopped to buy beer (we would have made it home a couple of hours earlier) – but meeting Ted changed my life in a weird way. If I am lucky enough to make it to 95 in good health; I want a life filled with people, with trust, with meaning and a life filled with constant smiles. Without that it doesn’t matter how old you are - you’re pretty much dead already. I hope Ted finds that before it really is the end. 

The grandmother and the other Ted - she seems to get younger by the day - Teddy on the other hand  is starting to look a bit worse for wear.

Grey haired and old or uber young - we ALL need people!

The oldest pizza I've ever met - there's a reason it is now lonely in a garbage can somewhere.