Maybe the end of the road…?

It was a joyous event! The communication, administration and facilities were excellent.

Last night, herself and myself pledged our troths to Australia. Happily and gratefully! We sang the anthem with gusto – it is a cut above the average God save dirges and visions of eagles and flags.

There were 166 new citizens originating from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe.

We both wore Swazi ligcebesha to signify our roots.

Good friends and the daughter of other friends also completed the political genuflection with us.

In order to reassure us in this hitherto foreign land, we were welcomed no less than five times. The MC doing so twice. Of course he was a pollie, as was the acting Mayor, acting on behalf of the Minister of Home Affairs, who also welcomed us.

Auntie Someone, an elder on one of the the three Aboriginal councils corresponding to the clans in the Quandamooka area, kindly explained th origin of the welcome practice. It originated with border control warriors thousands of years ago, welcoming strangers at their clans’ boundaries. I suppose quite a lot like our BorderControl Force.

It was a mild indoctrination session, underlining the importance of immigration which is probably the second hottest political potato in the world today. (The most important being energy).

We got over that and pledged our troths to this grand country quite happily, singing the anthem with joy! Afterwards we each received a little tree to plant in our new country, which is a grand gesture

Certainly, it was the best such ceremeony that I have undergone. I say this with a slight hint of cynicism, as I have some experience in this field.

As a child of the colonial empires born in the 1950’s, I have been wafted by the winds of change and obliged to acknowledge a number of polities.

I was born in Swaziland, a British Protectorate in Southern Africa, now the Kingdom of Eswatini.

My parents were Southern African born British citizens, both in states that no longer exist: Dad in the Cape Colony and a year later Mum in the Union of South Africa – both states now in the Republic of South Africa.

Notwithstanding my registration as a British citizen, I was also a Swazi citizen by birth and travelled on a Swaziland passport. Some years after the granting of independence, King Sobhuza discarded the Westminster constitution inherited from the British and commenced rule as a King in Council.

In an overtly political attempt to eradicate a political upstart, the King ruled that only second generation born Swazis were entitled to citizenship. Consequently, my attempt to renew my Swazi passport was rejected – I was only first generation born.

The Brits chased me away, despite my parentage and registration as a citizen as a child: The right to British citzenship was extinguished by the Swaziland instrument of Independence – a nasty sidestep clearly aimed at limiting claimants to British ‘protection’. The perfidy of Albion!

So in 1980 I was stateless, stuck in war torn Zimbabwe Rhodesia. When I asked, they gave me a passport without any need to apply for citizenship. It was either that or a UN Displaced Person’s Passport – soon to become quite common.

Luckily, my grandmother found my Irish grandfather’s baptism certificate and I applied for Irish citizenship and a passport, which I still have.

No ceremony, just fill in a form, send photos and certificates and a fee.

I am still an Irish citzen. “Go raibh maith agaibh”

Having left Zimbabwe, (which was Rhodesia, then Zimbabwe-Rhodesia), I lived in the Republic of South Africa for 14 years as a temporary, then permanent resident. I was not suffciently in favour of that government to choose to become a citizen, despite the right to do so through my parents.

In 1986 things were burning in South Africa so we got the forms to emigrate to Australia. 40 years ago!

This was postponed by the arrival of one then two more babies…

We tried again in 1996 finding that we had insufficient immigration points to enter Australia but enough for New Zealand. We intended to move to Australia from there.

We arrived in New Zealand in 1998 and became citizens in 2001. That was a good ceremony in a church hall, some te reo Maori waiata, serious and solemn – no tree to plant.

But Australia didn’t support university student loans and we had 4 children …. so we stayed in Aotearoa.

By 2013 most of our children were in Australia or elsewhere overseas, so we made the jump, happily. New Zealand was good to us, but just a bit too far out of town…

Now all our children are here, we have 7 grandchildren and a solid happy home.

I am also still a New Zealand citizen

My last 2 children should soon become Australian citizens and then I will rest.

The right of residence has become the most important thing in the world – to have that in a solid and safe economy and society is a gift that must be nurtured and protected.

From Brit to Swazi to Irish and Kiwi and Ozzie.

No more – Australia is the end of my road.

I am also fond of Guiness.

Winter fruit

The late summer stonefruit are now declining in quality and increasing in price. There have been no mangoes for a long time..

I bought some naartjies and oranges today – they are likely to be my fruit staples for some months. I think farmers are going to battle with diminished and expensive fuel…

Damn! I didn’t want to go along that ugly road!

From 6 a.m. until 5 p.m. there is a shrieking hullabaloo of rainbow lorikeets in the big Golden Penda tree next door. They get drunk on the nectar from the bright yellow flowers then spend the day shrieking at each about how good life is!

5 p.m. must be Nature’s closing time as the noise ceases like it has been switched off! Until then it is a rowdy, unrestrained party. You may be unlucky enought to be pee’d upon as they fly shreiking from tree to tree.

They fly straight at you and only veer away at the last moment!

I love them! So quintessentialy Australian.

They are not alone: they have a midday siesta and that is the time that the noisy friar demonstrates his unusual squawking, creaking call which is so unmusical it makes one grin! Every now and then the resident noisy miner flock think they see a snake and they set up an enormous racket!

In early mornings there is also the maniacal cackle of the kookaburras and the crow choir practice, conducted succesively in all four corners of their patch.

When herself worked night shift she used to rush out and clash cymbals at the crows, who still generally avoid Bahr Palace.

Do other countries have birds that are actually called ‘noisy’? I know there are howler monkeys elsewhere…

Life goes on … just ignore the news and keep your head down and all the stuff over there will disappear….

A museum piece

Idly looking on Google maps at my Granny’s old house in Lee on the Solent in Hampshire, I saw there was a hovercraft museum in the village.

In 1962, I saw the Duke of Edinburgh piloting a hovercraft down the slipway onto the sea at Lee. Now he’s dead and the craft has a museum.

Later, Oupa Nu and Granny took 2 granddaughters to the local Redlands Museum. Essentially a time display of how life was lived from the days of early colonist settlement in the early 19th Century.

There were a few Aboriginal artefacts but that was not the focus of the museum.

Life must have been very hard for early settlers. The land need to be cleared, mostly by hand, with oxen doing the heavy hauling for loggers.

There were a number of exhibits from the second half of the last century. Many were achingly familiar and evoked nostalgia for a gentler, easier time in a different place.

“We had those” and ‘ we had desks like that and inkwells for dipping our pens….” Not much interest from the youngsters who were searching for hidden Easter chicks.

It was a strange feeling – I felt almost like I could be an exhibit !

Now I have a telephone, diary, dictionary, encyclopedia, film theatre, camera, torch, juke box and bank card in one little machine in my pocket! (Just got to learn how to use all of the things…)

It’s a hard life!

Well …. it was at first...!

Now ….

I live in my own house in Australia. I have a wife, have enough to live on and save and no debts. My children and grandchildren all live in Australia, most within an hour’s drive.

We celebrate occasions and braai together frequently.

I am 73 years old and despite creaks and groans, not chronically ill.

In the past year I have consulted a doctor, cardiologist, and a nuclear radiologist. I have also seen a podiatrist, dentist, and a chiropractor. In addition, I have seen a phlebotomist and a physiotherapist. I visited some of these professionals more than once. All at no cost or subsidised fees.

My doctor at my last medical check-up said: If I had these results I would be dancing every day!

As a pensioner I receive subsidies for electricity and rates from the State. Any public transport costs 50 cents a trip.

In the event of an accident, I will be fetched by an ambulance and treated in hospital at no cost. Most operations and hospital visits are free for me.

If I need a carer in the future, the State will cover most of the costs. Alternatively, they will subsidise costs of a care home.

They may even send someone to mow the lawn.

You will note the absence of a mental health professional in the list. That is because I am wise and sane. I can remember nearly everything! But that service is subsidised too, if required!

I am profoundly grateful for my good fortune. We are truly blessed!

I am haunted by my heritage, which remains an ache but know that we did the right thing.

But there are snakes, spiders and jellyfish and slimy politicians here …. I tell you: it’s a hard life!

Kindness

It needed a crash to shake me out of my lethargy.

Being inclined to indolence I have a routine, which I follow with minor deviations depending largely on weather and people. I am not a spontaneously social being so take the wider track to avoid chatters.

Today it was wet, as was yesterday and many days before. Walking Lulu, I took a loop to avoid a lady and her two sprightly Staffies.

As I got to the slippery downslope to the road, I saw a friendly feller from up the road …. and my right foot slipped, smooth and fast!

My left knee (with the 35year old carbon fibre ligament) bent under me and I crashed onto my left foot). Oomph and eina!

I am not as slim as I used to be, so I think the earth shuddered. I lay gasping like a stranded whale. Lulu was still attached but soon lost interest. The friendly feller hustled over and inquired. A muscular jogger stopped and enquired. They lifted me up (ooh! I feel a song coming on..). A man in a big RAM truck stopped and enquired.

I felt loved and soo grateful. Every person who saw me enquired and lifted my body and spirit. They ensured I was alright before they left.

It is so good to know spontaneous kindness and care beat in everyman’s chest. I am reassured about the goodness of man.

I was careless, I know the place is slippery and always take care, except when I don’t! Gratitude is a healing warmth.

I am a better man today than I was yesterday.

Hej!

As some of you may recall, I ride a bike in the early morning … sometimes I fall off, but not for a while, touch wood.

I make a point of smiling at and greeting everyone I pass by. Surprisingly quite a few are miserable buggers who just scowl. I also make a point of greeting their dogs, which usually makes them smile … the owners too.

Just to introduce some early morning variation, I greet them in different languages. That seems to work quite well – I mostly get a heads-up and smile these days.

So ….

Hola Konnichiwa

Jambo Hallo Ciao

Namaste

Bonjour Marhaba Dumela Shalom

Bula Sabaidee Ni-hao

Zdravo  Olá Sawubona

Salam Xin-chao Yassas Zdravstvuyte Moni Bok Ahoj Bula

Tere Aloha Sveiki Mhoro Kia-Ora Namaste Salut Talofa

Sawubona


Winter is gone

The path I walked this morning was strewn with small branches bearing sprays of gum flowers, strewn by honey drunk lorikeets. The flowers still had a rich honey scent.

The birds shriek even louder now and the crows chuckle and cawl, marking their territories. A noisy friar flew over with a twig in its beak for a nest in our jacaranda. I was swooped by a butcher bird in the usual place.

When I sit on the stoep in the morning, the shrill birds’ calls are almost annoying, but their joy overrides the irritation.

The wattle mimosa is almost over, now the bauhinias are flowering, to be followed by jacaranda and eventually flamboyant Poinciana.

On our walk I have seen two dead snakes, so they are on the prowl too.

Winter is gone.

This poem always reminds me of the circle of life, mostly grim but the idea of a crows’ nest embellished with ‘gowden’ hair is almost amusing. It is not by Robbie Burns; its origin is unknown.

Twa Corbies

As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Where sall we gang and dine to-day?’

‘In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

‘His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.

‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een.
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair,
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.

‘Mony a ane for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whare he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

I’m an old country boy

An old friend came to town from up North and said let’s catch up somewhere.

We decided on a 10 a.m. brunch in a cafe near the central station and his flat. I am somewhat of a hermit and get lost easily, so hate going into the city.

I have never worked or lived in a city except Salisbury in the 1970’s, which was really a large town with mild traffic in those days. Then 10 years ago in Australia, I commuted by train to an inner suburb from an outer suburb for 2 months – I still shudder…

Timetables were checked and the way to the cafe (just 7 minutes walk) and I had my phone… so girded my loins.

Only had to wait 12 minutes for the train (better early than never..). There was a seat near the door, pity about the school trip into the city. Young people can chatter!

Got to Central station without mishap. Found an exit, hobbled down stairs … left or right? Go right … oops! should be heading to Ann Street, which is the other way. More stairs… Just as well I had allowed an extra 10 minutes to find my way.

There are a lot of people in a city; why are they all on the same pavement as me?All looking purposeful and calm, politely sidestepping my hesitant shambling amble.

Ann Street, go right to Edward Street – easy peasy, only 100m to go, cross to the left, down the hill. Hmmm! better check my phone map. It says destination 9 minutes away – I’d thought it was 7 from the station..? Carry on and find a landmark to check if you are going the right way.

Can’t read street names on map; Yikes! it now says 11 minutes from destination!

So back up the hill I trudge, past Ann Street. Now 5 minutes late and at a wiggly crossroads where my phone map says cross left then right then do a wiggle and you are there. Confused I gaze about seeking clues…

Ting! A message no doubt asking where am I. My friend knows me well. It says: “Do u know where you going? There is no signage but in the snazzy building at the bottom of Jacob’s Ladder behind the revolving door!“

I look up and there across the road is a revolving door. I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland searching for the White Rabbit. I found him behind the revolving door.

We had a good old friend reunion, which was reasuring. I almost envied his cool equilibrium about visiting the city, but remembered he had worked in Durban City for many years.

Finding my way back was easy, I even found a shortcut by reading the signs. Waited only 7 minutes for a train and had remembered to go to the loo, so there was no stress.

I am so glad I am a country boy, so glad that I will not be around in 50 years when it will be like a city everywhere, unless you travel miles inland … for a while.

a butterfly muse

I sat on my stoep yesterday and was honoured with a fly by of a black butterfly with turquoise dots on its wing edges.

It flew around the kumquat tree, glanced at me, I hope, then went on in a whimsical, unhurried flight.

It was perfect, a flimsy beauty filling thirty seconds of my life, then gone forever.

Beauty, like time, does not stand still. A portrait of a beauty captures some essence but not all. A photograph though true, lacks life.

Beauty happens to you, it is a moment, like happiness, then will pass leaving a memory and a want for more.

Self indulgence

73 is a good number, but I am not there yet. Being but a step away is sufficient justification for self -indulgence.

Warmed by gentle signs of affection from the my nearest dearests and those afar, I feel free to indulge.

But, lest anyone think that I may neglect my responsibilities, I have done the washing up, emptied the bins, watered the flowers and inspected the lawn for dog poo (none); however, I did note it needs a cut – but not today!

To my delight I found a new scarlet amyryllis bloom, the second this season; a solitary deep red nasturtium smiled at me – I thought they were all done, and my birthday gardenia has spared me an extra bloom on the appropriate day.

On the kitchen bench are massed ingredients for the Christmas cakes baked by herself. Such a rich panoply: ginger, prunes, fig jam, candy peel, dates, apricots, currants, cherries, almonds to accompany the usual eggs, flour and milk, all stiffened with a cup or two of sherry and a dash of whisky to preserve it. Renowned as an invigorating health food the cake rarely makes the new year.

I had black berries and yogurt for breakfast and plan a mango soon. For lunch I will have a glass of wine (maybe two?) and some snorko’s (pork sausages, a little weakness of mine). Supper shall be feesh and cheeps at the Lighthouse.

Somewhere, there may be a nap …

That’s how I like it these days.