Yesterday Guinevere started her trip to her new home.
Unfortunately, she did not want to leave Johannesburg. She refused to pick up her skirts and make her way to the train station under her own steam. My uncle, who has been looking after her, had her forcibly hitched onto a flat bed and delivered with her ticket to ride to platform 14.
The fun did not stop there. She had an upper berth and was hardly interested in getting comfortable up there. A tractor and chain changed all of that. And then she played her trump card, standing too tall to squeeze into the available space. The problem was solved by the quick thinking flat bed driver, who deflated her ego somewhat, by letting the air out of her tyres. Cosseted safely in her cocoon, her new journey in life was began.
Right now she is chugging her way to Cape Town. I meet her this afternoon at platform 24. I am not sure what to expect, but it sure is going to be a mission getting her home Luckily, my mechanic has agreed to accompany me to our reunion. He will be bringing his bag of tricks and a heap of hot air. With any luck, she will fall in love with me, purr like a kitten, and whisk me home in 1950’s style!
We shall see...
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Monday, March 7, 2011
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
A Crying Shame
I carefully stepped out of my car and tried to avoid all of the muddy puddles on the ground. It was difficult as the ground seemed to be alive with water. I managed to stick to a strip of high ground and then I was there. It looked as if a party was on the go. Kids ran around screaming, a women on a chair was having her hair combed by another woman behind her, more woman sat around chatting, and two men seemed to be discussing a nuclear physics problem. One of these men, Paul, was the man I had come to see. I wanted to find out how his new wooden house had stood up to the storm that had just blown through our town.
Not being satisfied with what he had been given; Paul had already built on a new section and converted his long house into an ‘L’ shape. Somehow he had managed to match the front of his alteration with the rest of his home, no small feat for a man without any money. He was as excited as I have ever seen him; his home had withstood the elements. On further inspection, I found that the front door had leaked, soaking the entrance. A little shelter over the entrance would solve that problem and remove the problem from any houses we may build. Paul posed for a couple of pictures inside his house, and his wife came over and simply gave me a long hug. Nothing more needed to be said.
Paul’s friend asked if I would come and look at his house. Understanding his want, I reluctantly followed him. He chose another precarious route through the flood waters, meeting up with four youths along the way. They were none too happy to see him and a few barrages of verbal abuse were flung either way.
His shack was a sad looking affair, a hodge podge of wood nailed together and canted over to one side. He opened the door and invited me in. His two tiny rooms were wet as a result of a roof that had never seen better days. The family’s meagre possessions had been bundled into black bags and stacked on one another. The floor was partially wet sand and he explained that the heavy winds had actually moved his shack off its wooden floor. I was revolted at the thought of anyone having to live their lives in a place this despicable, let alone raise a young family.
His eyes welled up with tears. ‘Mark’, he said, ‘I need a decent place to make a home for Jesus’. He rushed off to his room and returned with a page torn from a children’s bible. A treasured possession, somehow kept clean and dry in all of the squalor, a shining beacon of hope. ‘Help us’, he pleaded. I did not have the heart to tell him it was a picture of Moses.
Sadly the waves of alcohol from last nights party closed up my ears to his pleas. I asked why he continues to drink instead of saving his money to fix his house himself. He promised to do just that. Could I really blame him for enjoying an escape from his terrible reality?
Standing in that hovel, watching a grown man cry, I wondered about my own lack of compassion. I was moved to help yet made no promises. He certainly did not deserve any help as a lazy man lost in a haze of drugs and alcohol, in trouble with the local gangs, full of lies, and without a hope in the world. I could not imagine him ever being able to change his ways on his own. For the first time in my life, I started to understand the depth of the social problems that exist just under the thin veneer of society.
I have no idea what to do. Interestingly enough, some guy a couple of thousand years ago saw the same things, met people who deserved nothing, and yet showered them with his compassion and love anyway!
Not being satisfied with what he had been given; Paul had already built on a new section and converted his long house into an ‘L’ shape. Somehow he had managed to match the front of his alteration with the rest of his home, no small feat for a man without any money. He was as excited as I have ever seen him; his home had withstood the elements. On further inspection, I found that the front door had leaked, soaking the entrance. A little shelter over the entrance would solve that problem and remove the problem from any houses we may build. Paul posed for a couple of pictures inside his house, and his wife came over and simply gave me a long hug. Nothing more needed to be said.
Paul’s friend asked if I would come and look at his house. Understanding his want, I reluctantly followed him. He chose another precarious route through the flood waters, meeting up with four youths along the way. They were none too happy to see him and a few barrages of verbal abuse were flung either way.
His shack was a sad looking affair, a hodge podge of wood nailed together and canted over to one side. He opened the door and invited me in. His two tiny rooms were wet as a result of a roof that had never seen better days. The family’s meagre possessions had been bundled into black bags and stacked on one another. The floor was partially wet sand and he explained that the heavy winds had actually moved his shack off its wooden floor. I was revolted at the thought of anyone having to live their lives in a place this despicable, let alone raise a young family.
His eyes welled up with tears. ‘Mark’, he said, ‘I need a decent place to make a home for Jesus’. He rushed off to his room and returned with a page torn from a children’s bible. A treasured possession, somehow kept clean and dry in all of the squalor, a shining beacon of hope. ‘Help us’, he pleaded. I did not have the heart to tell him it was a picture of Moses.
Sadly the waves of alcohol from last nights party closed up my ears to his pleas. I asked why he continues to drink instead of saving his money to fix his house himself. He promised to do just that. Could I really blame him for enjoying an escape from his terrible reality?
Standing in that hovel, watching a grown man cry, I wondered about my own lack of compassion. I was moved to help yet made no promises. He certainly did not deserve any help as a lazy man lost in a haze of drugs and alcohol, in trouble with the local gangs, full of lies, and without a hope in the world. I could not imagine him ever being able to change his ways on his own. For the first time in my life, I started to understand the depth of the social problems that exist just under the thin veneer of society.
I have no idea what to do. Interestingly enough, some guy a couple of thousand years ago saw the same things, met people who deserved nothing, and yet showered them with his compassion and love anyway!
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Away from Home
I have been away for the last week. Sunning myself in Southern Sudan! Internet connections are not, should I say, prolific! This post comes to you out of Entebbe in Uganda.
Being away makes me think about the home that I miss so much. So many men relish the chance to get away from home and everything there. I have seen plenty of the ‘what happens on tour, stays on tour’ philosophy as individuals away from home lose their values and morals and do as they please. And they call that freedom....
I must be a strange guy, well actually I am. But I cannot wait to get back home and be reunited with my family, even though it has only been a week away. The living conditions are not tough in Sudan, rather my time here is filled with work. A little loneliness creeps in every once in a while. I would far rather be laughing with my wife instead of sharing sound bytes with strangers over a beer. Just being together and reading our books would be fun! To hear the noisy antics of my children, ruffle their hair, find a lesson in some or other disappointment, stuff I take for granted. I just miss being part of my family.
Home is where I belong. I have been so blessed that my entire life now revolves around home. Even sitting here so far away, I get to appreciate it so much more.
Being away makes me think about the home that I miss so much. So many men relish the chance to get away from home and everything there. I have seen plenty of the ‘what happens on tour, stays on tour’ philosophy as individuals away from home lose their values and morals and do as they please. And they call that freedom....
I must be a strange guy, well actually I am. But I cannot wait to get back home and be reunited with my family, even though it has only been a week away. The living conditions are not tough in Sudan, rather my time here is filled with work. A little loneliness creeps in every once in a while. I would far rather be laughing with my wife instead of sharing sound bytes with strangers over a beer. Just being together and reading our books would be fun! To hear the noisy antics of my children, ruffle their hair, find a lesson in some or other disappointment, stuff I take for granted. I just miss being part of my family.
Home is where I belong. I have been so blessed that my entire life now revolves around home. Even sitting here so far away, I get to appreciate it so much more.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Coming Home
Coming home is a magnificent experience, assuming of course that you have a home to come home too.
I live in a smallish town in a beautiful part of the Western Cape. Mountains surround us, the sea is a full seven minute drive away, the roads are wide and well maintained, trees are large, and gardens beautiful.
But that is not why coming home is so magnificent. I have my own car at home, my office is at home, my house is comfortable, the garden lush, with a stream that runs through it, providing fresh water all year long.
But that is not it at all.
No, coming home is all about people. To have Matt charging through the crowds at the airport and launch himself into my arms, and then cling to my neck and produce his famous tight squeeze bear hug. To talk with Luke and hear of his exploits, and to notice that although he is fully boy, he is growing up all the time in imperceptible ways. To hug my wife, inhale her sweet fragrance, bury my head in her hair, rub her growing belly, and know that this is the rock who will always be at my side.
Coming home is also about all of our friends that line our street and it is about the phone calls to mates and family, who don’t live in our street, to catch up on the latest in their lives.
Family and friends! Is there anything more important in our lives? I don’t want to leave again, not for a long time...
I live in a smallish town in a beautiful part of the Western Cape. Mountains surround us, the sea is a full seven minute drive away, the roads are wide and well maintained, trees are large, and gardens beautiful.
But that is not why coming home is so magnificent. I have my own car at home, my office is at home, my house is comfortable, the garden lush, with a stream that runs through it, providing fresh water all year long.
But that is not it at all.
No, coming home is all about people. To have Matt charging through the crowds at the airport and launch himself into my arms, and then cling to my neck and produce his famous tight squeeze bear hug. To talk with Luke and hear of his exploits, and to notice that although he is fully boy, he is growing up all the time in imperceptible ways. To hug my wife, inhale her sweet fragrance, bury my head in her hair, rub her growing belly, and know that this is the rock who will always be at my side.
Coming home is also about all of our friends that line our street and it is about the phone calls to mates and family, who don’t live in our street, to catch up on the latest in their lives.
Family and friends! Is there anything more important in our lives? I don’t want to leave again, not for a long time...
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Today was a sad day in our house. We said goodbye to an old friend. It was the fault of the wind! Certainly the most powerful wind that I have ever experienced. We live in Cape Town after all and the wind blows here, sometimes! Last night it really blew. We are used to gale force winds but this was different. Last night, lying in my bed, pretending to sleep, I could hear the next gust coming. It started as a distant roar that just continued to increase in volume until it hit the house. The house did not rock but it might as well have. The windows were ripped open and banged closed, doors threatened to burst open and let in the fury from outside, roof tiles shattered and bashed themselves to bits on other roof tiles and the garden was whipped into a frenzy! And then it was just a normal gale force wind again.
Neighbours up the road told us that they lay in bed wondering not if but when they would see the stars as they imagined their roof being ripped off. Worse still, they had just days before cancelled their house insurance. Other neighbours worried about a dead tree in the farm next door and wondered if they would see it visiting them in their bedroom.
I slept little after two in the morning. At one stage I got up and went outside where I held onto the deck in between windy gusts. My plan was to save the outdoor umbrella but found it already downed on its side. I rose just after five o clock and looked out of the windows. I was greeted by an old friend lying upside down on my driveway. He had been neatly ripped into two parts. And so I found myself in my driveway in the dark and the rain sawing one of his parts into bits just so that my wife could get her car out of the garage. All that was left of my large stinkwood tree was a shattered stump.
The violence of the wind last night was awesome. My tree was not the only one that went down. A willow was split in half across the road and the dead tree fell the other way in the farm. Lying in my bed last night, I wondered how terrible it must feel to sit through a tropical cyclone or a hurricane. Knowing that your stuff is being ripped to shreds and possibly being posted to another state. You just have to wonder about the terror that people in Myanmar felt as a cyclone ripped their lives apart this weekend.
Later this morning I watched as a fat rock pigeon sat on the broken stump. He lost his home last night and now knew not what to do.
Neighbours up the road told us that they lay in bed wondering not if but when they would see the stars as they imagined their roof being ripped off. Worse still, they had just days before cancelled their house insurance. Other neighbours worried about a dead tree in the farm next door and wondered if they would see it visiting them in their bedroom.
I slept little after two in the morning. At one stage I got up and went outside where I held onto the deck in between windy gusts. My plan was to save the outdoor umbrella but found it already downed on its side. I rose just after five o clock and looked out of the windows. I was greeted by an old friend lying upside down on my driveway. He had been neatly ripped into two parts. And so I found myself in my driveway in the dark and the rain sawing one of his parts into bits just so that my wife could get her car out of the garage. All that was left of my large stinkwood tree was a shattered stump.
The violence of the wind last night was awesome. My tree was not the only one that went down. A willow was split in half across the road and the dead tree fell the other way in the farm. Lying in my bed last night, I wondered how terrible it must feel to sit through a tropical cyclone or a hurricane. Knowing that your stuff is being ripped to shreds and possibly being posted to another state. You just have to wonder about the terror that people in Myanmar felt as a cyclone ripped their lives apart this weekend.
Later this morning I watched as a fat rock pigeon sat on the broken stump. He lost his home last night and now knew not what to do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)