I’m dreaming of a white Christmas… but I’m more likely to get sun.

An African Christmas tree...

“You have Christmas in the heat? How do you do that?” Er, well, actually, we do it in much the same way as you guys in the far north.

As the SARocks blog says, “…we were a British colony for over a century… You don’t think there might be a few, erm, familiar features? Despite the dramatic difference in temperatures, we still have European-style Christmas decorations everywhere – plastic mistletoe, fake snow on shop windows, great big evergreen Christmas trees, Boney-M singing “Mary’s Boy Child” booming out from every PA system… And for many of my school friends, the traditional Christmas lunch was a hot meal of turkey and trimmings. Having said that, large portions of the country are not of British stock and therefore do not feel bound to sweat their way through a turkey dinner while the swimming pool beckons outside"

And that pretty much sums it up.

Ironically, I remember few very hot Christmases because here, for some odd reason, it inevitably rains in Cape Town on Christmas day! And for that I’m grateful, because with a family of thoroughly mixed origin from even colder climes than the UK – the full “real deal” was always how we always did Christmas. Moreover, combining various traditions we really made a meal of it and celebrated Christmas on both Christmas Eve and Christmas day.

I still do the same; with a meat fondue and present opening on Christmas Eve and more present opening and a traditional lunch on Christmas day. I've tried to adapt it over the years to incorporate Lovely Husband’s English and Scottish heritage - though it’s a tough act to perfect. In an ideal world I'd do a gammon and a goose but Lovely Husband won't hear of eating a goose (despite the two that have taken to swimming and shagging in the pool). He won't eat duck either which would be the other option, and my mother won't eat gammon... It all makes traditional Christmases a bit tricky.

So, this year, I am catering to suit myself. After popping round to see my mother on Christmas Eve, we will come home to a presents and a fondue next to the Christmas tree - there may even be schmaltzy Christmas music in the background – you know, Bing crooning “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas…” On Christmas day, my mother will be having Christmas elsewhere as she's done for the past 16 years (and will have roast lamb and roast chicken) while I will make a traditional glazed gammon and a duck stuffed with apples. There may be more schmaltzy music and then there will be a movie – this year, Robert Zemeckis’ The Christmas Carol.





And then, on Boxing Day (known here in more recent years as the Day of Goodwill) there will be fasting. Actually, there won’t, there’ll snacking on leftovers whilst slobbing out next to the pool.
I do admit that having celebrated several Christmases in the snow, doing it in the heat is a bit odd but still, I believe it's called making the most of multiple heritages.

Wherever you are and however you do – or don’t – celebrate the holiday season, may you have a happy, peaceful, joyous and wonderful time!

From Africa to the rest of the world... MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Afishapa (Akan -Ghana)
Merry Kisimusi (Zimbabwe)
Geseënde Kersfees (Afrikaans - South Africa)
Sinifisela Ukhisimusi Omuhle (Zulu - South Africa)
Sinifisela Khisimusi Lomuhle (Swazi - Swaziland)
Matswalo a Morena a Mabotse (Sotho - Lesotho)
Kuwa na Krismasi njema (Swahili - Tanzania)
Melkam Yelidet Beaal (Amharic - Ethiopia)
Colo sana wintom tiebeen (Egyptian)
E ku odun, e hu iye' dun! (Yoruba -Nigeria)

Angela's Story

It is probably a place so far removed from your consciousness as to be but a distant memory in the foggy enormity of space. The name may be familiar but the place not. After all, those things and places by which we’re not directly affected are places and things for which we seldom spare much thought– unless the media constantly pummels us with them – and even then, they remain “somewhere out there”.

So if I say “Zimbabwe” to you, I wonder what you think. Some place in Africa? Another African country with a despotic dictator as its leader? A country with ravaging inflation of over 260 000%? A place where unemployment, violence and intimidation are a daily part of life? A place where food and other shortages are commonplace? Maybe, if you follow the news, you’re even aware that Zimbabwe had elections several weeks ago where the leading party was finally overthrown by the opposition, but have refused to go quietly.

Zimbabwe lies on South Africa’s northern border. I’ve never been there but I’m told it is a beautiful place. Its people are warm and friendly, hard-working, optimistic and outgoing. The standard of education is high. The land is richly fertile. It is a country that has always sat quietly in my consciousness. I’ve had friends and colleagues from Zimbabwe. I studied with Zimbabweans – back then most had left the country not confident of its future. How right they were.

Today Zimbabwe is in turmoil, in agonizing death throes as its economy collapses and its people suffer unspeakable horrors. Amnesty International said in a recent report that on the genocide scale, Zimbabwe sits at Level 7. Level 8 is the point after it has all happened. Yet does the world realise or recognize this?

For me, the Zimbabwean crisis has suddenly come so much closer to home. It has done so because I met Angela.

Angela works for me. She’s a refugee from Zimbabwe who is sent once a week by a domestic agency to clean and iron. Angela’s roots, her very being, are tied to Zimbabwe, and all she wants to do is go home. But it’s not safe.

Angela used to make clothes and sell them in a market – until Robert Mugabe had the market burnt down because the people who worked there did not support him or his ruling party. Those who oppose Mugabe have much to fear, and so, Angela and her husband, like two million others, left Zimbabwe and came to South Africa to seek work and safety. She doesn’t like it here because many South Africans, predominantly Xhosa people, don’t like foreigners. They view them as a threat; see them as taking their jobs. And this is partially true; Zimbabweans (and Malawians, Congolese, Rwandans etc) like to work and they work hard and well because they want to improve their lives. But while Angela lives here, her little daughter is still in Zimbabwe, with her Angela’s mother. Or so we hope.

You see, last week Angela came to work and told me that she was desperately worried. Her daughter had not appeared at school the previous day. Her mother’s phone had gone unanswered for days.

“They live,” she told me, her eyes dark with fear and sorrow, “in a rural area. That’s where Mugabe is killing anyone who opposes him. It’s okay in the cities and towns, but in the rural areas, he kills.”

This may sound overly dramatic but let me give you yesterday’s excerpt from a South African newspaper, the Mail & Guardian:

Thousands of people have been beaten, thousands more driven from their homes and about 20 murdered, according to the opposition, in an army-led campaign of violence focused on rural areas where the opposition performed well.

And all this because Mugabe lost the elections held nearly six weeks ago – and Mugabe and his generals refuse to accept this loss. They have, after all, been in power for 28 years. They have plundered Zimbabwe of its value (and sold out what is left to the Chinese). They have set themselves up in palatial homes, drive Hummers, Bentleys and Benz’s. Their wives shop in Paris. They’ve shipped considerable funds offshore. And all this while the economy has crumbled, people have died of AIDS and farmers have had their land taken from them in other campaigns of violence and terror. Eight out of every ten Zimbabweans is without work. For those who do work, they inevitably have to pay, yes, pay, for the privilege of having a job*. Almost every Zimbabwean, Shona and Ndebele alike, lives in uncertainty and fear, because like Slobodan Milosovich, Mugabe’s reign of terror affects all his people (given his efforts to make it a cultural conflict failed). And of course, in the way of all self-justifying dictators, Mugabe and his cronies insist that all these outcomes are a direct result of British colonialism and interference.

And this is the thing; despite it all, Zimbabweans live for the day when it will all be better - and Angela smiles. She doesn’t know if her child and her parents are dead or alive. But she lives in hope. She is beautiful, she is strong, she is extraordinarily courageous. And on top of all the uncertainty with which she lives, here in South Africa she has to face outrageous xenophobia and is taken complete advantage of by the company who employs her. That, however, is another story and right now I’m too angry to tell it.

There is plenty of information on Zimbabwe on the web and in recent press reports. Zimbabweans themselves, willing to take the risk, have their own websites describing the reality. My pal Baino also wrote an excellent post on the topic a week ago – I’d urge you to read it. The world is thankfully, and finally, outraged. But what, I wonder, will it do about Zimbabwe? What, I wonder, is to be done?

* In one instance a report told of a man who worked at a supermarket, whose wife had to go out and beg with the children, so she could give him the money to actually get to work because his meagre salary couldn’t afford it. But, he said, he’d sooner have a job than not, as one day when things came right, that job would be a wonderful asset to him.


Postscript: I'm happy to be able to tell you that Angela's daughter and parents are safe. They had gone to the nearest town for safety's sake but have now returned to their village. We can but hope that they will continue to be safe. I think one of the hardest things for Angela is that she's not seen her daughter for nearly two years.

When African Marimba Rhythms start to Play...

... on a wooden xylophone... and we chill in the sunshine... and get laid back, bro... (Please feel free to hum along... as I carry on phoctobering.)

Making music in the sunshine.

It doesn't get much better than this...

Another hellish day in Africa...

We need the support of tourists, keep visiting!

Chilled out listening pleasure.

This guy was so laid-back he was well horizontal!

These shots were taken when we went off to see the whales in Hermanus a couple of weeks ago. As we sat munching lunch at a street side restaurant, these guys struck up - what a pleasure!

Welcome to my Africa

Rwanda... Darfur... Congo... Zimbabwe... South Africa... the city where I live... my neighbourhood...
Insanity prevails. Violence ravages. Respect is a little heard of thing. Life may be taken for one pound or less. I'm sick of pretending. Hoping, wishing that everything will be okay, is okay. It's not. It's broken. Maybe we can blame colonialism. But ultimately, whatever our pasts, it's up to us in the here and now to put things right. And we're not. There are those who are intent on consistently preying upon others. Those who like the terror that threat and violence brings.

Tell me... Have you ever had to think about how to kill someone? Really? Have you ever wondered whether you'd even be able to do it? Probably not. It's not what nice, normal people living in relatively sane societies have to do, is it? Tonight I've had to think about how to kill someone. It makes me feel as though I am tormented by a thousand devils. Makes me hysterical. Only I can't afford to be hysterical. I have to be sane enough, rational enough to protect myself, save my life - and that may mean taking the life of another. Welcome to my Africa.

Six hours ago I was driving home. Minding my own business when I noticed a delivery van had driven up behind me and was edging closer and closer. I took a good look in my rear view mirror. Two guys. Watching me. Okay, I thought, they don't look too friendly. But they probably just want to get past me. I couldn't change lanes - the other lane was backing up with slower traffic. So I accelerated a little. They acclerated. I put my foot down and took off. I've learned to trust my intuition and it was screaming at me. "You're being followed." No. I don't want to be followed. I'm being paranoid. "No, you're not." I know that voice. I made the mistake of not listening to it once before. I zipped in between two trucks in the slow lane, nearing my offramp. The van pulled into the same lane. I pulled onto the offramp. They pulled onto the offramp. I headed right to turn into the arterial road. They headed right. Came up right behind me. Watching. It was the watching you see. It was intense, predatory. Blank masks of faces. Staring. Eyes boring through me. Why me? What had I done? Had I somehow offended them? What did they want? My pulse started to race. You're being paranoid, I told myself again. "No, you're not. They're following you." But why, why would they follow me?
I took a small gap between two oncoming cars and shot across the intersection and bolted up the road. They couldn't make the gap. They had to wait. Then there they were, 500 meters behind me. Two cars between them and me. They veered across the road, back, across into the pedestrian lane. Watching. Keeping an eye on me, making sure they didn't lose me. I didn't dare pull off into my road. Keep going. Drive somewhere public. You'll know then if they're following you. I got caught in traffic at the traffic circle. They moved closer. I sped away. They followed - the quarry well in sight. At the next traffic circle I turned left, pulled into the parking lot of the small local shopping centre. I ducked into an empty parking bay. Watched. There they were. They'd turned into the parking lot too. They were looking. They spotted me. Drove over... slowly - edging closer, stalking the prey. Watching. They drove up behind me, inching forward, paused behind my car, peered into my vehicle - at me, edged on again, creeping forward. The beast waits to pounce. I locked my doors, sat, waited... I couldn't see them, the huge SUV next to me blocked any view. But I knew they were there. I could sense them, feel them... Rank scent on the breeze. The van appeared behind me. Stopped. Waited. I waited, my heart beating in my ears. What did they want? Why me? What was going to happen next? A guy appeared at my window. Round face, wraparound shades. Thickset, stocky.
"I want to talk to you."
"What to you want?" I sounded aggressive, take no shit, take no prisoners. Don't fuck with me.
"I want to buy your car."
"It's not for sale."
He watched me, smiled - a narrow soulless gash across his face. He nodded. Was it knowingly? He moved away. Got back into the van. I couldn't have left if I'd tried. He was blocking my exit. I waited. He edged forward. Nothing for it. I got out of the car. Walked to the supermarket. Lurked behind the flower stand. Watched. They drove level with the supermarket. Stopped. Waited. Watched me. Looked back, watched my car. One took out a mobile phone. The other scribbled something on a piece of paper.
I need to get their registration! The thought flashed into my mind. Determined, I stalked towards them. They saw me coming - took off. Swept out of the parking lot. Gone.

But see, here's the thing. Here you trust no one. Everyone knows a man who knows a man. They might have my registration. They might be able to get my home address. They might come back. I don't know.
I drove home the long way round. I didn't know where they might be waiting, if they might be waiting.
Tears trickled down my cheeks. I was too afraid to be angry. I felt so disempowered. So threatened. I'm tired of the stress. Sick of the fear. This is no way to live. This is rank insanity. This is how we all live. For some it is so much worse. Traumatic stress disorder is a part of our lives. Welcome to my Africa.
This is not my home. This is some strange and violent war zone where terror lurks around every corner, in broad daylight, at night. I am not African.
The burglar alarm is armed. The doors are locked, the security doors bolted, the windows shut, the burglar bars in tact. My can of mace stands ready. My pepperball gun is armed. I know I have to aim at the base of the nose. This will blast the nasal membranes which will shatter and drive up into the brain... Welcome to my Africa.
It is time to say goodbye.

(Image used in this post... courtesy of the internet.)