The Big House

The Big House is where we were born and brought up. The Big House is  symbolic of this family, and to this family. It is a big house, built around a lawned courtyard, with bougainvillea and flowering vines. There are verandahs, arches, many big rooms. Once upon a time it was alive and strong. Now the white ants have eaten the parquet flooring in the sun lounge. The wild bees have swarmed in the chimneys and the roof. Honey drips through the ceilings. The billiard room has been turned into a flat, and my brother’s ex-wife stays there when she visits from Cape Town. The electric wiring is unreliable and she complains that the servants are raw and useless, “straight off the farm”. For the past twenty years the house has been not been permanently occupied. Because it is isolated, and usually empty, sometime ago the night watchman took the opportunity to remove most of the furniture. Somebody has built a modern swimming pool in the middle of the garden. It looks incongruous, stuck out there like a silly petticoat on a beautiful, gracious old lady. And, because The Big House is on The Farm, my oldest brother has jurisdiction over it.

The Farm

The Farm is not only a tobacco farm. It is situated a few kilometres south of Harare. Harare is getting closer all the time from the north, and Dvarasekwa from the south. I went round the farm with my brother for the first time in many years. Apart from nearly being written off by a sand truck (a “watch tower church” truck according to the men at the sand plant!) we had a look at the tobacco, the mealies, My other brother’s cattle, and the Stud. We saw a stray dog hunting near the Stud. How do I feel about The Farm? Ambivalent. When I knew it well it was a farm, now it is like a factory.

In Australia my dreams are of Africa.

In Africa there is no need to dream? Or, no need to remember dreams? Is Australia the place of dreaming? It feels like Australia ceases to exist when I’m in Africa.

Note: This is an excerpt from a paper I presented at The University of Woolongong in about 1999. I was in Zimbabwe in 1996/97 to research for my Honours Dissertation. I am not able to reproduce the paper in it’s entirety for personal reasons.

Road Trip Memories

This morning, when I saw the ocean, I remembered how excited we used to be to see the sea – the Indian Ocean. The long, long drive of over 2,600kms (1,600 miles) from the farm in Zimbabwe, south to Fish Hoek near Cape Town. Some years there were four children in the back seat. My mother would be in the front next to my father who did all the driving. This meant the car was quite squashy. Sometimes one of us was allowed to sit in front. The journey took three or four days because, not only was it a long journey, but not all the roads were sealed.

The first overnight stop would be in Louis Trichardt (now called Makhado), not far from Beit Bridge – the border between Zimbabwe and South Africa. I can’t really remember the other stops, although we usually stayed in the same places each trip. I do remember Parys because, apparently, that is where I managed to push over a massive wardrobe looking for Father Christmas. The crash was heard throughout the old hotel. Of course, my parents came running. Thinking I was in, or under, the wardrobe, they struggled to lift it. I was hiding under the bed knowing I was in deep trouble. Fortunately, I’ve forgotten what happened next, I was only about five years old.

If he could, Dad would bypass Johannesburg but would stop in to see friends in Pretoria.

Once we were in the Western Cape, past the surreal landscapes in the Karoo, we would start to recognise the landmarks. The countdown had begun. The Hex River Pass; De Doorns in the Valley of the Vines (do you remember the book by Joy Packer?) then Paarl, named for the huge pearl-shaped rock above the town, meant we were not far off. We were never allowed to climb around on Paarl Rock. There was the sad story of a young boy who slipped down in one of the fissures in the rock and could not be saved. How true it is I don’t know.

Coming from a landlocked country, the ocean was the most wonderful thing for us. The first view was cause for much shouting! “I saw the sea first!” But it was usually Mum or Dad who saw it first.

All my life I wanted to live within sight or sound of the sea and now I do. Yes, still the Indian Ocean but on the Australian side. I live walking distance to the beach and can hear the breaking waves when the wind is in the right direction.

where I live now.

Old photos

When we lived in Bicton, Roland used to buy old paintings or prints at the swap meet. Kath and I decorated one or two of these with little drawings and sometimes we cut up old photographs to stick on. I did one of Roland fishing; it was a really small photo from way back. I cut out around the edges of his figure (with great care) and stuck it on a large, dismal looking print of a lake. Kath added a few things too, over time. No one noticed except children who visited us. They thought it was magical that we could be in the framed prints! Roland used to hang them on the back verandah of the Bicton house. I wonder what happened to them?

I also made a birthday card for Stavros, many years ago when he was still very young, and pasted portrait photos of the family on it – once again I cut them out very carefully from old photos. Martine said he really liked it. I found a bookmark that Stavros made for me and I treasure it.

Great Grandmother, Grandmother and Mother

I woke up this morning thinking about my mother and her mother. I don’t know who my grandmother’s mother was. I vaguely remember Granny telling me that her father took her and her sister away from South Africa to New Zealand when she was a small child. Her mother (my great grandmother) didn’t want to leave her family; her country, so great grandfather snatched the children and went anyway. His sister went with him to care for the children. He was in the British army – or so the story goes. There has been some discussion on how important he was in the army. My research shows he was simply the aide de comp and not the main player. No matter. Great grandfather never returned to South Africa from New Zealand because he suffered such terrible seasickness on the trip over there. Granny eventually went back to her homeland as an adult. She married a South African man and my mother was their oldest child. Because she was a girl, but was meant to be a boy, my mother’s nickname was Bobby. This had no relation to her real name at all.

My mother had four siblings: three boys and a girl. One of her brothers was a pilot in the South African Air Force. He was killed in the Second World War. I believe he was a rear-gunner as he was quite tiny in stature and I’ve always heard him referred to as ‘Uncle Stumps’ because of it. I have a photo of him. My second brother looks a lot like him.

My mother was an artist. She studied art at Rhodes University in Grahamstown, South Africa. Some of her botanical studies are beautifully executed. I don’t have them but my oldest brother managed to get them to Australia when he migrated here some years ago. He has them in his keeping and they will, no doubt, be passed on to his children eventually.

I have started writing a novel, part fact and part fiction (the bits I don’t know I make up) about my granny but I’ve bogged myself down in the research so have stopped. Actually, I stopped a couple of years ago, maybe three years ago!

Sometimes I wish I knew more about my ancestors. I’d like to know so that I can tell my grand daughters if they show any interest.

Senggigi, Lombok holiday

Waiting to fly!

A different kind of holiday (for me)!

Kath, Dean, Lily and I fly from Perth to Praya (Lombok) on Jetstar, an Airbus A320 – packed to the last seat. The flight takes just over 3 hours. I think Roland and Rosie may be regretting not coming with us. I am enjoying reading Robin Hobb’s Assassin’s Quest and have to limit myself to a couple of chapters at a time so as to savour the tale. This fits in well with the flight time to Lombok.

My first impression of Lombok is the similarity to Bali, but not nearly so busy. The weather is warm and humid – delightful after the cool weather in Perth. I took this screen shot to post on my Facebook and Instagram pages.

Our driver, Jamie, collects us at Praya and we travel to Senggigi in just over an hour. The countryside is lush and now I can see many differences to Bali. There are many Mosques and the sound of the call to prayer is everywhere. On the car radio we listen to the Rolling Stones (Angie) while the voice of the Muezzin rings from the minarets. I am immediately in love with Lombok! I notice there are not as many dogs on the roads as in Bali but Jamie assures me there are many dogs on the island.

There are many pony carts. Single, small ponies pull this traditional form of transport along the highways and byways. These are called cidomo. Most of the ponies I see during the week in Lombok seem well cared for but a couple look thin and wretched.

Lombok has not yet been discovered by the tourist hoards. I only spot one fast food outlet on the trip.

The Sheraton, Senggigi, is a lovely place to stay. The gardens are beautiful and the staff are friendly and courteous.  The power supply is a bit dicey. The lights flicker and go out fairly frequently! The air-conditioner is turned up to the max so I have to figure out how to turn it down. I am loving the warmth and humidity.

 The gardens abut the Senggigi beach. Colourful fishing boats often draw up on the sand. The sea is quite dirty and the incoming tide brings in a variety of rubbish – such as plastic bags.

There are some mosquitoes, we are well prepared with insect repellent. Early each morning I anoint myself with repellent before beginning Yoga practice on the balcony. The warm, humid climate allows me to bend and flex easily. Each day, after Yoga, I swim for a while and then breakfast at the buffet.

More to follow … including airport stories; searching for the perfect massage and a tropical thunder storm.