Familiar animals

My brother, his wife and my adorable two nieces, Emma and Anja, have arrived in Scotland. They form part of an apparent tsunami of South Africans with young kids who've come to see whether the grass is in fact greener on this side of the ocean. So far, they have not been disappointed.

The first week was spent in shell shock due to the cold climate and being squeezed into our humble Kelty abode. Another shock is how little their South African rands are worth, sjym, we look at something costing £7 and say 'That's cheap!' and their internal calculators go whizzz...brrrr...times14...THAT'S BLOODY EXPENSIVE! Maybe Christmas is not the best time of year to emigrate, but I think they've noticed and will never do it again.

The kids adore the parks. In Aberdour, which has a state-of-the-art kid's playpark, Emma declared it to be the best park ever, and they did not want to leave. Until we walked around the stunning Loch Ore and they discovered the playpark there, with a foefie slide! Anja declared that Scottish parks are much better than South Africa's - hear-hear!

No snow yet, but a round trip through the Cairngorm Mountains and Speyside made up for the disappointment. I love watching their reactions when seeing the fantastic scenery for the first time: the view of the bridges over the Firth of Forth; the sight of Edinburgh from the tiny road above Burntisland; the achingly green fields of Fife and, of course, the mountains.
Returning from our trip, my brother said: Do you realise we've seen half of Scotland in one day? Yep, so much to see in such a small space.

BEFORE

AFTER

Friends in Fife

I have been living in Fife now since March 2007, and I am still bowled over by the incredible friendliness of our neighbours and fellow Fifers. The first thing I noticed when we arrived here is that people actually greet you: in the shops, on your way to work, the postman as he delivers letters. In England I got used to being greeted by a middle finger on the road, or the most you got from fellow travellers on the trains/tube was an angry scowl or shove if you did something out of the ordinary. Initially I was a bit suspicious of this general goodwill - what's wrong with these people? Are they trying to sell me something or convert me to something? - but I've since come to accept this as just another good reason for living in Scotland.

As this news will bring a warm glow to the hearts and minds of my dear readers, I've decided to add just two more stories to remind of you of the extreme niceness of this place:

Story 1:
I arrived home on Monday to find two Christmas cards from different sets of neighbours, both welcoming us into the neighbourhood, and to have a happy Christmas.

Story 2:
The guy who sold us our new car phoned this morning to tell us he will drop off the extra set of keys at our place this afternoon.

A warm welcome, indeed.

The weather

How you experience the weather here in Scotland depends on your point of view.

This time of year, the sun (the wha'??!!!) rises at 8am and it looks like this:


It sets at 4pm, and looks like this:



So yes, all ye who warned of the darkness and bad BAD Scottish weather, it is dark, often. And wet, and cold. Seriously cold. I rush from the heat of our house straight into the car, which needs a few minutes' worth of idling in order to warm up. This time is used to scrape the frost from the windscreen. At work I rush into the warm classroom, where I'll stay most of the day.
If it is a sunny day (ha-ha!), the air is crisp and stark with cold. If it's raining, there isn't much to see and the day is wrapped in a gloomy blanket.
Therefore, if my preference had been for hot, endless days filled to the brim with sunshine and salad, then no, this weather would suck.

Luckily I love stew and soup. And snuggling, lots of it, under a tartan blankie next to a cosy fire with a book.

New beginnings

We are now inhabitants of Kelty. What an interesting place.

Heh-heh, sniggered the guitarist. Locals look down on Kelty and you do the smart thing and buy a house there. One day you'll have the last laugh.

The pub has a nasty reputation, my hairdresser adds politely. But it's a big mix of people living there now.

Kelty? exclaims the secretary. My husband refuses to live there. What's wrong with an old mining village? I grew up in one meself!

So what if we live in the black sheep of villages? We like it, and we have a great new hoose. Kelty is situated right next to the highway and with rising prices in Edinburgh, it's become a popular commuter town.

It's right in the middle of beautiful rural Fife:


The last say goes to Marge, our neighbour.
Kelty used to be lovely little place, she snorts, except for all these ootsiders comin in, yoos ken.
Sorry, says my husband politely.
Not yoos, she adds disgustingly, ootsiders from Dunfermline!
Which is the big town 5 minutes away.

Aboot the boot: Rugby World Cup 2007

Confession time: we don't watch rugby, cricket, or golf.
We don't have a tv, and just cannae be bothered...except this year. We are bothered.

Go Springboks!

I am mostly kept informed by my colleagues, in retrospect, of developments in these sporting multiverses. It usually goes like this:
I arrive at school in the morning and bump into Colleague 1.
'Hê-hê, we trashed the Boks fair last night,' he says, poking me conspiratorially in the ribs.
'Eh,' I respond.
'What did you think of the game last night?' asks Colleague 2 excitedly in front of the pigeon holes.
'Er, what game?' I reply tentatively.
At which an onimous silence descends over the entire staffroom, the copier stops working and the sports coach chokes on his coffee.
John, my head of department, gallantly comes to the rescue.
'Cricket. Scotland beat South Africa in the Super Minus 13?'

They are too nice ever to say anything, but my lack of involvement in these games (especially as a South African who represents limitless bantering potential) is a huge disappointment.

But this Saturday, we will have something in common: we will unite and cheer wildly for the mighty Springboks!

Scotland How-to: Money

Money can be confusing.







This guide should help prospective spenders heading for Scotland to get an inkling of what Scots currency looks like, and what you can do with it on a rainy morning.

These are the coins and they are actually worth something. The heavier the coin, the more it is worth, so you'll immediately feel that £2 will get you a few yards further than 50p.*
*£ = pound; p = pennies, or p's (pronounced 'pees', as in 'pee-pee')

All of the above coins will enable you to purchase

a large cappuccino from Costa Coffees.

I think you could squeeze in a croissant.
(Clearly, I need to do some research here.)




The next note of worth is the fiver.

With five pounds you can breathe a little more freely, and buy

two of you favourite magazines!
(Yours, not mine - I'm trying to appeal to a wider audience here.)








And then there is the twenty pound note (see image above), purple and proud. You can splurge out on several toasted sandwiches, an Americano and a copy of The Times to prolong the experience. And enjoy stories like Hologram Tam's banknote scam

Icons

A blog's look is vv important. The more blogs I read, the more selfconscious I become and explode into a flurry of changes. Faithful followers of my blog will attest to this (sorry).

After having discovered how to post pictures in the sidebar, a depression of the highest order descended. I needed an icon to summarise, in one elegant swoop, what I the blog is all about. I chose a rondavel.

WHY?!

It's a play of words, you see. My maiden name is 'Davel' and rond means 'round' (which is by no means a reference to my morphology), and should allude in a quasi-existential, neo-metaphysical way to the completeness of things, the circle of life and cake tins.

But a rondavel is something quintessentially African, and that is me.

What is the national icon for Scotland? It's not a rugby ball, neither is it a bloodthirsty highlander in the form of Mel Gibson, but it is the thistle. Humble, thorny, enduring and edible.

...just like most Scots.

Off sick

So, how does it work when you're sick in Scotland?
Amazingly, if you're working in the public sector you don't need a doctor's letter for the first three days, and you are allowed to write your own sickie note for the next 4 days. Therefore you can be off work for 7 days before your boss requires an official letter from the doctor. 7 days!!

I say amazing, because the system seems to place a lot of trust in people. In South Africa you have two days of grace, and then you must produce a medical certificate. This has had the knock-on effect of creating a huge market for false certificates: just add the illness.

Recently, while getting my papers from the doctor, I asked how difficult it would be to bribe him for a certificate. He shared some funny requests he's had from patients coming to see him after more than 7 days off the job with trivial complaints like headache and runny nose, demanding a sick note. He assures me that although he takes all complaints very seriously (and he does, bless him!), he is not allowed to write a med cert in restrospect. Another case was a woman who worked two jobs at the same time, and one unfortunate day her shifts were going to clash. So she promptly asked the doctor to write a quick note to kindly help her out of the fix. He declined, of course, but still considers that one of his more memorable stories.

Compare this with my mother-in-law who, in South Africa, manages a large number of personnel. She received a call the other day, that went something like this:
Wife of employee: 'Good morning, I'm afraid my husband is unable to come to work today.'
Mum-in-law: 'Thank you for calling, is everything okay?'
Wife: 'No, he is not fine - he has a demon and cannot work.'
Mum-in-law: 'A what??!!' (Sure she must have heard wrong)
Wife: 'A demon. Very bad, very bad.'
Mum-in-law: 'I'm very sorry to hear about the demon, but your husband still need to get a sick certificate from the doctor...'

I have to remember to share this with my doctor when we next meet!

From the Press

In today's Times, there is an article that compares the number of white and other (colour, I suppose) kids in primary schools in Britain today. There is actually a graph that shows these statistics. Gasp. Can anybody imagine something like this occurring in a South African paper? I still occasionally reel from the free use of descriptions like 'a Pakistani man' or 'a black man' in the press over here.

In South Africa this has become a big a no-no, the reporters mostly referring to persons. In this article of South Africa's edition of the Mail and Guardian, there are bodies, men and women all over the place. Note the absence of colour, race or anything else that might state the obvious. (I'm surprised they're still differentiating between genders - somebody should put a stop to this!)

The UK press has never avoided their duty of calling a spade a spade, in fact, spadecalling has been developed into an exquisite art. A blush-inducing art, believe me.
Calling attention to the fact that many UK state schools are rapidly filling up with non-white. non-British children, is statement of a fact. In South Africa it would be considered racist.

And South Africans have just become very adept at reading between the lines.

Accidental animals

It's been two weeks since the big bang, and life is settling into a new rhythm. Each morning Duan wakes up before me, and I get to snuggle my head deeper into the pillow for a few more dreams. At some point he serves me with a steaming mug of decaf coffee and a bowl of porridge. My acquiescence that it is indeed morning, and time to wake up, is to prop myself higher on the pillow (grunting and huffling, not everyday that you break a bone in your back) and grab the mug. And, of course, give my angel husband a nice, big kiss.

Our room looks out on a miniscule back yard with a tree from which our bird feeder is suspended. Our squirrel-proof bird feeder that attracts an agreeable assortment of birds and one very crazy squirrel. We were woken one morning by what sounded like an old Marlboro smoker in lung therapy choking on a fish bone.
Uaghk. Uaaaghk. Uuaaghk.
It was our squirrel, hanging onto the feeder and barking to all birds, beasts and other creatures that this was, from now on, HIS patch.

People from over here don't understand how we get so excited at the sight of a rabbit or a squirrel. I mean, we have the big five, right? But in Pretoria you rarely see wild-ish animals in your back yard. They get eaten. Although...now I'm really thinking about it...I've seen recipes for squirrel stew, and this guy, Fergus Drennan, will eat, literally, anything. (For advice on roadkill cuisine, read his blog on the subject.)

For now, our mad squirrel is safe.

Here are a few squirrels for thought. Neither of them are ours, who hates the paparrazzi.

Accidental musings

I was in an accident. The words seem so innocuous...such a cliché...until the day it happens to you.

At the start of my lovely daily commute,there is about 1 mile of cycle route that happens in traffic. This is legal and fair, and at 7:30 am you'd think there's not much traffic around, right?

There I was, obediently signalling to the left in order to exit the roundabout, and from the corner of my eye a huge, grey blurb moved closer, and closer...ta-dum...ta-dum...a modern-day Jaws...and bang - I went flying. What an absurd moment. It happens so slowly and yet too fast to do anything about it. Sailing through the air, I screeched like a harpy; the sound transposing into a stretched out yelp as we (my bike and I) slid across the asphalt.

My first reaction was absolute, red-hot, straight-from-hell, dripping FURY. But then the pain made itself known, like an unwelcome salesperson persisting at your door.

'Knock, knock.'
'Who's there?'
'Pain.'
'Pain who?'
'From this moment, your constant compainion!'

I left a few things back on the tarmac. A trust that a motorist would see a pink neon-clad cyclist on huge purple bicycle in the
prime position on a bright morning with no other traffic around. A bit of skin. A tad of ego.
But I am alive, in one moving piece, and VERY grateful for that.

PS: On a sober note, according to this brilliant (yet belated, in my case) article on the Cycling Plus website, bikeradar,
this is the rule of the road:

Stay alert, follow the traffic rules, stay alert, look out for HGVs and stay alert.

Accidentals

On Monday, 10 September, at 7:35am, I was bumped by car on my way to school. See what happens if you gloat...
A single vertebra, L2, was crushed. Fortunately, it was a stable break, and I was released from hospital after two nights to recuperate at home.

I am still in shock. And not in the mood to write, but I thought I'd let you know.

Daily commute

I thought I would like to make all my readers (in my mind you are BILLIONS) seriously envious by giving a short description of my daily cycle commute. Sigh, I know, I know.

I belong to the smug group who cycle to work. I am doing it more for my bum and less for the planet, so South Park can leave me alone. (I am referring to the brilliant episode of South Park in which Stan convinces his entire town to buy hybrid cars...)

But another reason for commuting to work is because, here in lovely Scotland, I can. I am safe from hijackers, muggers, dangerous predators and other taxis, and I have a cycle route that delivers me safely from my door to the mechanised entrance of the school. Here is the evidence:

1. The moment just before I get on my bicycle.


2. View of the downhill and only serious uphill on my way to school.


3. The hill, up close and personal, with a couple of coo's hanging in the background.


4. First view of Dunfermline: Legoland, or its most recent suburb.


5. The Dunfermline skyline.


6. Destination.

Back to work

Shaddap.
Shussss.
Zippit.
Be QUIET!

Think it is glamorous to live and work overseas? Try teaching. By nature one of the most unglamorous, humble, unnoticeable, unappreciated jobs on earth.

(Still don't know how I got here.)

But here I am, finding ever unique ways of telling energetic, bouncy young lads and lassies to engage creatively with music and to shut their mooths while engaging.

I've been back at work for over a week now, and returning after a long Summer holiday is a shock to the fragile system. I can hear some sneering in the background, saying that I should be grateful for such a long break, blah-blah-blah. It's still a shock. Even though I have enough free time in the evenings and afternoons, my thoughts have been consumed with schemes of work, lesson plans, registration rules and daily notices. Teaching is never boring. Every day brings its own little surprise.

My surprise today was B****. He is barely twelve, blessed with the red hair of his unruly forefathers who raped and plundered their way into society, (and, according to a segment in this month's National Geographic, is a dying species) and he is having his first class with me.

'Now, class, after you've all completed the section on....B****, why have you not written anything?' Why I even bother asking is another mystery, but then again, maybe I am blessed with a higher-than-normal ratio of idealismoptimism. (On good days)
'I didnae understand,' he says sulkily.
I frown. 'What I do NOT understand is how YOU don't understand how to draw a picture. Of your favourite instrument. ANY instrument will do.' My voice temperature is rising into the lower red regions.
'I DIDNAE WANNA DO IT!!!!' says B***, with exclamation marks.
And that is only his first lesson.

96% of them are absolutely spiffy, enthusiastic and a boon to the human race. 4% drives me to distraction. 60+ days holiday a year x good salary + short hours.

Not bad, not bad. Maybe I was meant to be here.

Today's history 1

Currently, overflowing on my bedside table together with other unread treasures such as My Traitor's Heart and Dr. Death, I am reading through the history of Mary, Queen of Scots, in a volume of the same name by Antonia Fraser. To purchase, please click here
It is a revelation. Who could have guessed that this minor nation on a rain-sodden, wind-whipped just-about-part-of-a-small-island, could have so much in common with the boere of South Africa? And I am not talking Roman law here, either. (For those who don't know- like me-, Scotland stuck mostly with Roman law, same as in South Africa, and it is different to the 'common law' practiced in England.)

According to my source (and I'm now on page 174 of the 1969 Orionbooks edition, if you want to check), the Scots were regarded as a bit 'backward'. And they were, judging by the fighting, drinking, feuds and dirt of the standard 17th century farmholdings. Stubborn, also, to the point of idiocy, and bent on sticking to their own beliefs and customs in the face of dire opposition. They were known as excellent soldiers, highly valued (or feared, depends which side you were on) for their courage and tenaciousness in war. And not treating women too well, or animals, who had to know their place in the greater scheme of things. If a nation could have a star sign, you could say the Scots were (are?!) a joint Taurus with a rising Aries moon, for good measure.

But substitute 'Scot' for 'Afrikaner' in the above paragraph, and nobody would spot the difference. What really clinched it for me, personally, was the following sentence:
"...a lazy, proud, boastful people who, despite their poverty, were swollen with quite unjustifiable pride about their lineage."

Ok, so us Afrikaanses aren't that lazy, and apart from the Praag bunch, you'd be hard-pressed to find a white Afrikaner in South Africa today who is proud of their lineage.

Well, I am , and I am inordinately proud of my ancestors. Apart from a few facets of apartheid. But let's not go there tonight.

Gaun shopping

The trip through the Highlands confirmed one of my suspisions: it is impossible to find a spot in Scotland that is not absolutely breathtaking.
Look at this. Just look at this:



Although somebody told me Glasgow is really ugly?

I've been living here for the past 4 months, and I've started thinking how life has changed. Take shopping. All high streets in Britain are similar to the point of nausea. Boots, Tesco, Costa, Asda, Next, Monsoon...one has to travel further than Inverness to escape the manifestation. Not that I'm complaining, since I come from a country where the quality of your shopping experience deteriorates, or rather unravels, as you travel further from the main cities. At least here I know what to expect from a Boots and a Tesco, and to see my favourite range of 'Finest' pizzas brings a warm feeling to the stomach. There are more independent stores up here, or more low streets, with varying degrees and conditions of merchandise. There are also way more Asdas and Morrisons than Sainburys, a pity if one is a label-reader like me. Not for 'Dior' or 'Gucci', don't get the wrong idea, I'm not that type of snob. I analyse contents and Asda's products have more ingredients with shitcolourants, natural and unnatural additives and hydrogenated veggie oil than Sainburys, Tesco and Waitrose put together.

I'm THAT type of snob.

Cycling away

Last week, Duan and I cycled from our house in Fife all the way to Inverness. In three and a half days. Applause, applause - I am mightily pleased!

Cycling tours have so far proven to be one of the best discoveries we have made as a couple. I mean, we could've spend our free time watching dvds of corny old Sci-Fi series like Star Trek and Babylon Five, or waste days reading brainless whodunnits or playing Medieval Total War into the wee hours of the morning. Which are actually also things we have been doing lately. But we balance these passive leisure hours with periods of serious activity, and now we can relax again in front of series two of Lost. We are offsetting our passivity with calorie-burning exercise, like trading in carbon emissions and whatnot. Maybe I should start a company?

We left without incident on Monday, three hours after our planned starting time. I belatedly discovered that Vossie, my beloved furball, has not been innoculated recently enough, and after a deperate dash to the vets, they were dispatched into the kennels. In between we also quickly had to make an offer on a house (again), so we left a bit later. This time Duan did his husbandly duty by towing most of our luggage on a quaint new trailer. I love it, especially the yellow flag.


On Tuesday the weather was atrocious, and as I bore forward against a mighty headwind, I swore under my breath and wondered why I chose to spend my precious holiday time in such a barbaric manner. My average speed dropped to approximately 2,snail km an hour, and it started dripping. Conditions worsened when we saw the campsite don't click here at Pitlochry where we had booked to spend the night. Don't go there, it is horrible and depressing. Crowded, loud music, litter lying around, just not nice.

Everything became lovely again on days three and four with perfect sunshiny days and the most incredible cycling scenery on Route 7 of the National Cycing Network. They don't always get it right, but if they do - and on Route 7 they really, really do - it's amazing. Never a harsh hill to climb, mostly traffic free or on a minor road, and surrounded by the most breathtaking scenery this world has to offer. It was spectacular, and we promptly celebrated by spending a night at the charming Scot House Hotel in Kingussie. (Pronounced King-yoosie).


We saw loads of animals, including red squirrel times three, gazillions of sheep and coos, and, of course, rabbits. We had such a hard time getting one of these highland sheep to stand still and pose for a photo, but Duan ambushed an unsuspecting ram and managed to snap a pic:



My holiday is almost finished, so I have to make the best use of my time and return to the next episode of Lost.

LondonEdinburgh

My very best friend, Ronelle, has come for a visit.



She landed in London and it was great to show her the old place. It is an endless city; its sites and histories are a gaping mouth ready to slobber you up and spit you out exhausted and bewildered, at the other end. A must-see, maybe a must-live, if only for a few months.

The first evening in London the grime stuck to us like an invisible veneer. Ronelle politely mentioned the ubearable heat of the Underground on the second day, and the Circle Line and District Lines were out of service - on a Saturday in the middle of Summer! In the past I've always left London with a feeling of longing, of wanting to stay there and nestle in its vibrant (under)belly. Not this time.

I was happy as a puppy to return to Scotland. Edinburgh!
Ronelle visisted the city on her own the first day, and she was sensibly impressed.


She also found the locals very friendly.


(Thank you, Sporranclan, for the pic)

"Whoore loo auch wee Jhd8e&%p3 hoose wee*^@", says the smiling man.
"I don't think I understand what he's saying?", whispers Ronelle.
"Oh, how do you take your coffee," explain I, proud of my understanding of the burr after a few months.

She also adored the wildlife.







And the neverending beauty of the scenery.






And by the time we hade to bade farwell, Ronelle was converted: Scotland is greaet!

More on how to buy a hoose

Our beautiful stone cottage was not to be. Sigh.

The process of buying a property in Scotland is a wee dilly, like lots of things oover here.
When you've found the property of your dreams, you have to contact your solicitor and through him/her, either make an offer on the place, or register a note of interest. Sounds straightforward so far? It's not.

Houses are advertised as either 'Offers Over...' or fixed price. If you and 15 other hopefuls like a place, and say you've all put in offers or notes of interests, the sale moves to a closing date. And on the day of the closing date - everybody by this time has put in an offer - the seller decides who gets the prize. Charming. And once you've put an offer in, you have to wait to hear whether you've got the house or not, because, if your offer is the lucky one to be accepted, you are bound by law to buy the place. Except if your mortgage is not approved or five million other things that can still go wrong.

In effect, you bid on a place and hope for the best, like gambling. And don't think if you put in a monstrous offer just because the abode is your heart's desire, it will necessarily be accepted. The seller can choose anybody's offer, so if he/she doesn't like your name or solicitor, tough.

But the sun is shining today, always worth a mention!

Hoose hunting

How does one buy a hoose in Scotland?

1. Search for a property. We have big dreams, and had a look at this.


It comes with its own island, which is handy, but alas, we lost all our money betting on Floyd Landis last year.

2. So onto something more modest.

This was perfect, within our price range, but unfortunately I would have had to commute 4 hours per day to work.

3. A more realistic proposition for our part of Scotland was this:

But we felt faint at the idea of committing ourselves to suburban bliss at this tender age.

4. We decided to make an offer on this.


Please, please please, let it be ours!

More tales

I am managing to tear myself away from Facebook for long enough to update this blog. Back to ol' Scotland. We went to the Bruce Festival in Dunfermline, and it took place in Pittencrieff Park. This park is most beautiful, somebody is keeping it in a mint condition, and it has a nice tale. Apparently Andrew Carnegie, as a wee lad, wanted to enter the park, but because he came from a poor family, he was not allowed in. His revenge was to become super-rich, purchase the park and open it up for everybody, entrance free.
For more on the park, please click here

The Bruce Festival was modest, with volunteers parading around in medieval costumes. This lady explained how the poor folk were mostly vegetarian during those times. You were lucky if you could afford a piece of cow or chicken! These days only the rich can afford to eat veggies.


Even though the jousting event was a re-enactment, it still quite took my breath away. The horses are huge, and the knights imposing and deadly in their armour. Here are some pics.

This is the parade beforehand to goad the masses into wild excitement:


And we cheered for the red knight, who won.







The band, Soar Patrol.


Duan having a haggis an' neeps burger. Local is lekker!!

It's raining again

Last year was apparently a fantastic, sunny summer. This year, however, we've been blessed with an abundance of clouds and rain. Karen, my hairdresses says, 'Last year the sun shines and everybody blames it on global warming. This year, it's raining and cold all the time, and again people say it's because of global warming. Make up ye minds!'

Karen is just one of the good things that's happened to me since we've moved to this charming nook called Fife. After a disastrous, five-second cut at a local salon, the piano teacher at school told me about Karen's salon, tucked away in the most quaint of villages, Aberdour. She took a long time cutting my hair, gave me cappuccino, and after two hours we've covered family, love, sex, and surprisingly, Christianity. And my hair looks great!

It is the start of the long summer holidays and I've completed one almost-term at my new job. (From now on I'll refer to the school as "The School" until such time I can establish what my rights are re discussing my job, colleagues, students and so forth in this blog. Don't want nae lawsuit.) I enjoy the work most of the time, but there are days and moments when I want to run, screeching, from the place, snatching out chunks of hair in exasparation and frustration. What I find hardest is dealing with 13 year- olds who feel they have the right to inform me what they will and won't do in my class. MY class!!!! Of course they have a right to speak, I usually grant them that, but my patience starts wearing thin if they don't get it after the fourth or fifth time of the same discussion.
'I cannae do this. I don't wanna do this, I don't like music.' Big sulk.
'Fair enough, you've said how you've felt and I listened, but unfortunately you don't have much of a choice in the matter. Since you have to be in school - go look at the country's constitution - and since you've decided to come to this school and adhere to these rules - go check your school contract - you have to do the work, as set out in the syllabus, that I am kind enough to interpret for you in as user-friendly a manner as possible.'
But usually I say, 'Shut up and get working.'
And then the whole spectacle rolls on, of having to cajole him/her, mostly ending up handing out a punishment or detention , and so forth and so long, ad infinitum, ad nauseaum, et al. The joys of having to work with teenagers.

But apart from my struggles to establish a dictatorship, these kids are mostly great. As John Smeaton, the hero of the terror attacks on Glasgow Airport, aptly illustrates: Scots are tough, resilient, take things in their stride, and are blessed with a sense of humour as dry as puddle in a heat wave.

Facebook alert

This blog carries a serious health warning: Facebook
You have been warned. It is addictive, causes insomnia and fierce recollections. It will keep you glued to the screen like nothing has done before.
I stumbled upon this disaster area not by chance but by a friend's invitation to have a look at her photos on Facebook. I entered the site with no idea of what to expect, and an hour later I looked up from my computer to realise that I've lost an hour of my life. Since then a few more has gone awol.

The nice part is that I've stumbled upon friends and other skeletons from my past. We reconnect, and the rest is not history (any more).
Well, if you'll excuse me, I've just discovered someone else to meet again.

(And if you've succumbed, look me up under 'Maretha Davel Joubert')

Another day

Another day,another blog. Our planned European trip for 2007 is off, big sigh. First we decided we couldn't do Spain anymore because I want to do the Camino di Santiago the proper way (walking), and then we had to put our plans for a lovely cycle holiday on hold due to a lack of cash.
Moving ate up all pour savings, and we thought we had it planned, sorted and ready to roar, but nope.
DUring winter they keep kids in cans here in Scotland. When we first came here all was quiet on the northern front, and then, one day, late one afternoon, somebody opened a door, and the neighbourhood was filled with the cries and jubilations of playful children. Don't know where they've kept them up to now. Not complaining, few things as life-affirming as kids at play.

Taking a tumble

I had my first prang on the mountain bike, unfortunately on the first time ever on a mountain biking trail. Not that it's put me off mountain biking, in fact...
As I whooshed down Pennel's Vennel, feeling invincible, I was already thinking of ways to describe the experience: almost as good as really great sex? More thrilling than sex? (but not when my husband was involved), incomparable to great sex but on the whole as incandescently exciting? You get my drift. (And my husband is one HECK of a good lover!)
But in order to avoid embarrassing my mom, who is also reading this blog, I'll step away from that metaphor. It was just fantastic.
We were taking some kids from school on an outing for tha day, as part of activity week, to the world-renowned Glentress 'The Hub in the Forest' cycling trail outside Peebles in the marvellous Scottish Borders. click this to go there The site is beautiful and feels remote even though it's only half an hour out of Edinburgh, and I felt great to be there. Scottish kids are like the rest of the population: not given to extravagant emotion without due reason - for example a teacher falling off her bike at great speed. So we were all pleasantly, quietly excited, and I managed a difficult ramp-thingy on the skills loop. Alas, even excellent advice by Dave, one of the mountain biking specialists on the trip ("when going down a steep ramp, lift your bum off the saddle and place it to the back, in order to prevent all the weight from going to the front and handlebars, and you going head-over-heels") did not prevent my fall from grace.
I went down the very easy blue freeride, at a steady pace, in control, keeping the bum behind, and then, suddenly, as I was preparing to fly down a steep incline, a ditch appeared. My bum had taken on a life of its own and I executed a classic 'headlong over your handlebars' move, well known in the annals and inventories of mountain biking, road racing and A&E departments worldwide. As I was gliding through the air, I had a sinking feeling in my gut that I was going down (pun intended) and not in a good way, and all I could think of was....my teeth. I struck the ground with my forehead, smashed my right arm and shoulder again and ended up the wrong way around, with my arm being VERY sore. Again, I felt if my teeth were intact (they were, and so much for vanity), and then gave serious attention to the pain, discomfort and loads of white spots in front of my eyes.

In retrospect, the next bit was vastly funny. The boys who witnessed my smash were hysterically trying to rally adult assistance, and I instructed Kieran to slowly put my arm in the right direction. I am very impressed that I managed to do this with the normal assuring authority in my voice, which we teachers seems blessed with as both default setting and emergency backup. Kieran was great and VERY SLOWLY helped put my arms more-or-less right by the time Malcolm, Dave and the rest arrived. My knights in shining lycra. Let me tell you, when you're feeling like shite just after a nasty crash, there is nothing as reassuring as a person in a Scottish accent telling you what to do, with assuring authority (all teachers), and who continues to laugh at your jokes. I must have been beyond hysterical, because I continued to make the silliest, most awkward jokes for quite some time.
(Malcolm: "Anything else sore or broken?" Me: "My ego". Pffffff!!!)

My dad said he's going to ask me in a week's time what I've gleaned from this experience. I've learnt that I make jokes in an emergency, that I cry only when speaking to my husband, and that I am excessively grateful to live in a country where people have a wicked sense of humour.

I ended up in hospital for one night, observation only, my right arm is still sore as I'm typing away (and in a sling, will keep you posted) and my bike is ok. Here is a pick to keep the sympathies flowing:

Sorrie

I'm afraid, my heading is not a spelling mistake, neither is it a heinous Anglicism, it is just exactly the way the Scots would pronounce the word. With a nice 'rrrr' on the r.
I apologise for not writing more often, I am busy settling into a new life.

The trip to Loch Ness was wonderful, amazing, beyond description - it was the innards, cover and stuffing of dreams. I am working on an essay that I'd like to submit somewhere, and over the weekend I will seriously aim to publish a few photos on my blog. To celebrate a fanbulous cycling trip, I've bought a mountain bike. I now have three bicycles:

One for shopping,
One for the mountain,
And one to race on the road.


This is not excess, it is necess.
I am drinking wine again - to celebrate Emma's 7th birthday. Happy birthday, my lovely niece!

PS: I have an article in Afrikaans available on Praag. Follow the link, if you dare...click

Too tired

I am just getting too tired of moving around, of changing countries, jobs, regions...it used to be exciting but now it's becoming too taxing. I am looking forward to some serious settling down here in Fife!
But nevertheless, on our way this weekend for a trip round Loch Ness. On Saturday we'll have to cycle 70k, and I've bought a down sleeping bag for this purpose.
Here is a picture of me getting in the mood:




And of course, I will also be using it in Espagna. Ole. No time for language lessons so far, I have not even started playing the flute again - feel v guilty. The people here still great, must be the nippy, clear air from the mountains.

And here is a picture of my ol' bike with new, snazzy drop-bar handles. I am suddenly cycling much faster!

Anticipation and constipation

What does one call the preparations before the preparations? That is what I am currently busy with, the thing before the real thing.
Equipment for the great pilgrimage:

1. Literature
* General:
Edwin Mullin's The Pilgrimage to Santiago, Tim Moore's Travels with my Donkey
* Travel specific:
Davies and Cole's Walking the Camino de Santiago, The Teach Yourself Spanish language book and cd

2. Information
* Visa: It's going to cost us £101 each to get a Schengen visa, since we are unfortunate enough not to be living close to London in order to cue at the embassy

3. Lack of clarity
* Starting point: Do we fly to France and start at St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, cycling over the epic Pyrenees in order to meditate on endurance and suffering, or do we take the ferry to Bilbao and start in Pamplona or elsewhere in Spain?
* Accommodation: Do we bargain on finding places to stay in the albergues(since we will be doing it "decaf" by cycling rather than walking, we might not be able to find spaces in these hostels, they prefers walkers...) or do we camp the entire way and give in to occasional temptations of comfortable B&Bs?

4. Worries
Who is going to look after my cats!?!

I can just about imagine a Celt fretting over the same things a few thousand years ago. Although one friendly Scot told us the pilgrimage in those days could be likened to today's package tours.

But this is the joy of the journey, the anticipation being as much part of the process as the going itself. Adios!

PS: Please follow the link for a good laugh about a pub and a fart here

The beginnings of a pilgrimage

I have had another long and hard think about this blog. It needs to go somewhere, do something - which is one of the reasons I'm writing it. But now we're settled in Fife, a few things are falling in place, and one of them is our prospective trip to Spain. Ever since I've read Gerard Hughes' In Search of a Way, I've wanted to do the Camino de Santiago. And finally this year, it's going to happen.

We are going to do it decaf, meaning with bicycles, and I guess the journey might not be as spiritual as Gerry's. But isn't everything we do spiritual? I have a feeling every single thing that we think, do, say, or act, resonates somewhere, in some mysterious way. With God, or in God. How, I don't know, and that is also not important.

I seem especially spiritual tonight, possibly due to the wine we've had with supper. Slainte!!

To come back to the point, I want to bog, oops, blog about the preparation for the trip, and then publish a book (in Afrikaans?) about it. I can already imagine the title:
"The journey before the Journey", or
"A pilgrimage in perspective: what to take and what to leave behind"
And so forth.

Good night, and good luck!

Thought for this day

I am back in full swing, with not much to tell.

Why do African governments seem to want to sabotage their countries and peoples? Mugabe maak droog, is my humble opinion, and that of the rest of the UK, according to the Times.

Last week some high placed person from Ghana said that African nations don't like condescension and having Western governments tell them what to do. Who does?
But the problem is, Africa wants to share in the good things of western modern life (cue mansions, tvs, supermarkets, limousines, GUNS...), but mostly without paying the price of democracy and freedom of speech. This is a dreadfully simplistic explanation, I know, and if somebody out there would like to correct me, please feel free.

I am starting to cry for my beloved country. And even though I’m sitting here, in breezy Scotland, it still is my country.

PS: Today, in one of my classes:

Girl: How old are you, miss?
Me: (Very suspicious) Why do you want to know?
Girl: My dad's looking for a girlfriend.

Wonderful!!

Fife adventures

We have moved, now, to Fife, part of the glorious Scotland. In this week, at my new job, a few momentous things have happened:

1. A student asked: "If you're from Africa, how come you're not black?"
2. I was asked, repeatedly, why we decided to move to Scotland.

These two questions I have read in a gazillion English eyes and faces, but nobody ever asked. Not because they weren't interested, but because it is not proper to be so direct. And to be asked these very simple questions in the first week in Scotland, says just about everything about why we decided to move here.

PS: Answers to follow!

Monday blues

(This was written on a piece of paper, this past Monday, faithfully reproduced here)

I realise, after having read the story of the blogger who was offered a £70 000 publishing deal, that mine is lacking direction and a clear purpose. More or less like my life, at the moment.
I envy people who know what they want to do in life, and stick with their decisions. I am still deciding what to do when I'm grown up. Which is, these days, at 40, when life begins. Or, like the BBC Radio 4 comedian said, 40 is how long it takes to realise you have a life.

I've always wanted to be a writer. At 16 I visited an educational psychologits who submitted me to a battery of tests and interviews in order to assist me in the serious subject of future career plans. At 16?!! My number one choice was:
To become a journalist and see the world.
He told me that I was an idealist, and I promtly went off to study music, the more sensible choice. I see now that I'm not much of a rebel.

But since I'm only 33, my life has technically not yet started. And because I am a woman, I am able to a lot of things at the same time, successfully.

Edinburgh, Oh, Edinburgh

We are moving to Fife, Edinburgh, Scotland, in a few weeks' time. What a great place, aye! The Scots are noticeably poorer than the English, or rather, they seem less interested in material wealth. What they are interested in, I will find out as we start a new life there. We found a 3-bedroom house, 1 minutes from the beach, with a garage and workshop, for less than what we are paying now for a one-bedroom flat in Reading. I love Edinburgh!

I also applied for and got a job at a high school, it will be interesting to compare the English system with the Scottish curriculum - which, my dad says, greatly influenced South Africa's schools and churches in the past. Not necessarily a good thing. I'm pretty sure the Sotcs don't have veldskool, though.

I saw a really fat lady (back in England), and I wanted to ask her: "Do people treat you badly because you are fat?" See, being fat is a big crime against health these days. But I'll not dare say the fat word in these politically correct climates. I feel guilty even saying I am a white person. At my old school, one day, as I was teaching the class the difference - on a keyboard - between a black and a white note, a person shouted out:
"That's racist, miss!"

I rest my case. Goodnight!

Children and other offspring

Having children - or not - is a hot issue here in the UK, in the news every now and again. The Daily Mail tends to publish articles on the wonders of parenthood and how 'the experts' agree that it's best for a woman to stay at home and raise the kids, while The Times tends to put things in better perspective. Sometimes they get it wrong, too, maybe just to annoy people like me. For example, this article on the advantages of not having kids. First of all, I hate the picture (I'm afraid you won't see it on the website, but it's a woman - I'm sure she must be American - wearing a T-shirt that proclaims CHILD FREE AND LOVING IT. Bah!) and frankly the arguments for not having children are lame. Yes, it is basically selfish not to have kids, but so what? Apparently the Pope spoke out against this trend to live life only for one's self, but if I'm not mistaken, the Catholic church is run by people who don't choose marriage and kids for 'one's self'.
It's a thorny issue, and I'm getting to an age where we will have to decide sooner rather than later.
But I love kids, always have, and I think spending time with children is a blessed experience. See, here are photographs of my beloved nieces, Emma and Anja:



Whether you have kids or not should be your choice. And that of your conscience, inclination and circumstances.

But two things made me think again about the children issue. On Thursday I taught at a horrible school, what a dump! It looked like a prison from afar and not much teaching gets done, due to the unruly, arrogant, rude and disruptive behaviour of the students. I have a lot of empathy for these kids, because they come from somewhere, like me, and who they are, are to a large extent grounded in their defective upbringing. These kids are mostly (they do have a choice, of course) the offspring of not-being-loved-enough. And their parents, and their parent's parents...it's a pointless downwards spiral. But is it not selfish to bring your own child into the world, knowing there are so many millions out there who desperately need somebody to love them enough?

Secondly, I saw these pathetic photos of polar bears here and it breaks my heart. There is just too many of us on earth.

On enforced identity

As a member of a country that has been facing multicultural issues since its conception, it is my duty to scribble a few thoughts on the UK government's latest idea of teaching Britishness in schools. Seriously.

David Cameron impressed me this morning on Radio 4. People should not be forced into a culture, but be inspired by it. link Apartheid was, to a great extent, a massive project by the Afrikaner government to enforce Afrikanerdom on its multicoloured citizens. In primary and secondary school, I was force-fed the ideologies, histories and conventions of Afrikanerness, and it was alien to me. I resented the instrusion and the fact that I didn't have a say in the matter. In primary school, for instance, we had to partake in volkspele. It might seem quiant to outsiders, but I felt silly wearing a ridiculous dress and bonnet, belting out patriotic songs at the top of my lungs. The problem with this ritual was that it did not develop as a natural expression of Afrikaans culture, but was enforced as such by the government. As a result, I can't stand volkspele, and I am deeply embarassed by it.

In secondary school we had to sing the National Anthem every week. My lips were sealed: even then I knew I'll never 'live or die' for any country. The pinnacle of enforced Afrikaner nationalism was the veldskool, so backwards an institution, it's not even featured on wikipedia. This "field school" was a compulsory week-long camp (taking place once in primary school, once in high school), where one was subjected to endless brainwashing sessions on topics such as the evils of rock music, pseudo-religious dogma, and how to survive in the wild. All these measure failed. It didn't make me or anybody else I know a patriot, in fact, I resented for a long time being an Afrikaner. This is what the UK government will achieve. In fact, today's report on extremism among Muslim youths should serve as a first warning. You can't force anybody to belong to a culture; they must want to belong.

But here I am today, at peace with my Afrikaner roots to the extent that I'm proclaiming it on my blogspot. What has changed?

South Africa, first of all, and suddenly who I was (a white Afrikaans person), was my choice and not something you had to be. I also support the hackneyed concept of Ubuntu - you are because you belong. And my belonging is rooted in a long history of Afrikaners (who never did volkspele!), some more heroic than others. It gives me a place from which to launch my point of view, and an excellent spot from which to exlore the world. Dankie, almal.

PS: For another, funnier view on veldskool, go here

Lessons

So this weekend we cycled up what must count in this part of the UK as one of the hardest hills to climb: the 16% incline at Streatly, Berkshire. No photograph ever does an uphill justice, take my word for it, it's nasty.
I started prepping myself the day before, constantly repeating things like 'never stop' and 'don't look ahead, just look back' and 'breathe, breathe'. I psyched myself up to such an extent that I found the actual ascent to be easier than I expected. What makes this particular climb a bastard, is that it's quite long and it becomes markedly steeper towards the end. I made it, without my granny gear - yoohoo!!

Now, like all things, there are some lessons to be learnt from this endeavour. I learnt that I could achieve something if I make it more afwul in my mind beforehand, and the actual event is not so bad. (This must have a name in pop psychology). I learnt that not to stop means pushing down even if you are going so slow your front wheel wobbles dangerously from side to side. I learnt that I am much fitter than I thought I was, and that you can, actually, achieve something worthwhile if you put your mind to it. Nice feeling!

Now on to writing, and this philosophy deflates. I find reading the Internet and blogs a bit dispiriting, because there are just so many writers and sooooooo much to read. Where will I find a corner in which to make my mark? Yesterday I tried writing and there was a great vacuum of creativity where usually I have a modicum of creative ideas. When my medical examiner - who was not even supposed to appear on the scene!!! - looked at the ravaged victim, and he had NOTHING to say, well, then I knew it was time to stop. How do you force yourself to continue through a famine of craftmanship? And my jokes feel lame, aaarrrgggg!!!

But I will not look forward, but back, to all the thousands of words that I have typed, and I will carry on. Good girl!

Me and Mac

In today's The Times, I read that Apple Computers is now known as Apple Inc. I am proud to be an Apple Mac Mini owner, but the thing is driving me bonkers (and this has nothing to do with cycling). My husband is a lovely total computer nerd, and he assured me that "it's the best". And it is, I don't disagree. But now it's become too slow and it's going to cost me a lot of money to a) get more memory or b) invest in a fancy-schmancy, dual-thingy processor something. The little circle, you see, that whirrs round and round while I'm waiting for
my favourite gossip pages link,
my blog,
the GOB blog link,
any interesting links from the aforementioned blog,
my documents with the various stories I'm currently working on,
and my various email accounts
to open, just takes too long. And I get so angry, I want to smash my precioussss white boxiesss until its microchipped brain provides me with the holy grail of computer use: instant response. My husband is on the case.

Breathe in, breathe out.

According to the Book of Nameslink here, my ideal name should be....Pamela. They must be joking! For my faithful readers (you too, ma), a challenge: go play the game and see what you're supposed to be called.

Pamela signing off.

15 bytes of fame

I got mentioned in today's Grumpy Old Bookman blog link here and I feel as if I've just won my first Costa! Wow! Thank you!

Today I did supply in a Primary School. I am a secondary school teacher, but I was nervous as hell waiting for the kids to arrive. (I've taught classes with small children before, in case you think they're allowing defective teachers in schools, but I taught music, which I'm vastly confident of.)
A tiny maiden comes up to me, and says:
'Good day, Mrs WONG! I've never heard such a strange name before!' and she gives me a few heart-shaped stickers. Huh? The teaching assistant corrects the mistake: they were told the previous day that a Mrs Wong would be taking the class.
I taught them my name, first, and then writing, literacy, and numeracy. Learnt a lot in the process.

For literacy, they learnt about descriptive words, for example the big castle, and how to find settings in stories. None of the fairy tales they later had to analyse, however, had the settings in words (e.g. 'Once upon a time, in a field, there was an Ugly Duckling.'). It was either implied, or in pictures. I don't know if this really matters, but it bothered me.

Children are wonderful to teach - they are beyond sponges. They will soak up information and ideas with the greatest pleasure. I could've folded that square into six parts and told them the bits are called possums, and they would have learnt it, just like that. Which is also a scary thought. Do parents really know what their children are learning? I think I might be a painful parent one day.

Breakin' records

Today, my husband and I cycled 85k in 4hours 18 min! A record for me, for sure. Yesterday we were super organised (for a change) and read through a few back copies of his Cycling Plus magazine and decided to do half of the route of the Hampshire Cyclosportive starting at Highclere Caste. He plotted a route on the GPS, and we woke up at 6 this morning to start cycling at 9.
What a perfect day! Firstly, the wheather was divine, blazing blues skies, not a hint of wind. The friendly staff at the Carnarvon Arms allowed us to park our car there, since the castle is closed. We also missed out on the private roads that were used for the cyclosportive. It was great, great, great! I obviously ride better early in the morning, and we set out on a 22 kph pace for the first 40km. We filled up with cappucino and energy bars at the Sutton Scotney Texaco. Pay them a visit - they have a shop cat! On the way we came across a group of female angels, otherwise known as a group of women walking two disabled children in buggies. Angels.
I lost steam the last 20k and our final average was 19,5kph. I tend to bonk rapidly and the last few miles to The Carnarvon was filled with lustful thoughts of food. But we made it, and had the most incredibly delicious Sunday roast at the pub.

I'm tired today and this is a very unimaginative post, I know, I know. Alas. Can't disappoint the crowds.

Inspiration

I have been writing a lot the past few days. I have finished an article and scribbling away on a novel. Not the novel, a practise story. Never knew it was possible to know so little about punctuation, dialogue, how to create a character without being too obvious and so forth.

The Internet is crawling with help, and I found this gem, The Easy Way to Write. Make your millions by writing a book on how to write a novel in 30 days. Now, I've chased him up through Google, and for some reason or the other, I couldn't find one of the millions of books, articles etc. that he has claimed to have written. Instead, he is the classic Internet bestselling author of the book on how to write a novel in 30 days. Especially interesting is the website link that explains how Rob has had far too many 'recording, stage, film, and TV credits' to mention. He is a master at fiction, it seems. But EVEN MORE interesting is another site link on the easy way to diet, also by Rob. A master at his craft.

I adore the Grumpy Old Bookman. His advice is practical and so negative it brings tears to my eyes and hope to my chest. Thing is, I dreamt of big money and prizes, and his book, which you can download for free from here, is fabulastic. Unlike some other, er, bestsellers, this is simple, old-fashioned good advice. After reading his book, I at least know what to expect (nothing) and that the only (non-existent) chance of literary success is possible after maybe 30 YEARS of hard work, and some luck.

Virgin birth

I am becoming a writer. See, I am using positive, affirming phrases, stating (to the universe, in particular) what will be, not that I might be, or am trying to be, or would like to be. I am becoming a writer.
And it is hard.
It's much harder work, actually, than I've thought. I've read that you have to spend a long time behind the computer, writing, and that is my first obstacle. I love reading stuff - the reason for wanting to be a writer - and I am constantly side-tracked by interesting stuff to read. I bought the Sunday Times yesterday, and I am still reading it. It is better to put more of it next to the toilet, because I forget about it, being there, and am pleasantly surprised when going to the loo.

In yesterday's paper, there is an interesting article on Scientology. The first time I've heard about the ...uhm, religion?religious fantasy?cult?science? that is Scientology, my friend P told me, with his decisive snigger, that it was created by a science fiction writer. At that moment I lost interest, to be honest. (I've got a few other tales to report re this phenomenon, but later.) Somebody should tell them that Christianity is for free.

Back the travails of writing. I am in a bad mood. I dreamt that my father had to play a piano examination and that I was his tutor, and he became very nervous. So one of the first lessons of writing is that it's harder to write when you're in a bad mood. I sat down for two hours trying to make sense of an article, and I gave up in disgust. I feel that I do not know anything.
...But, I wil move towards the positive, as extolled by McKenna et al Moving forward, I am a writer, I can see it. I can feel it, and smell it.

The Creation

This is my first-ever blog. I am tempted to immediately test whether I am able to create a link....


It is now 10 minutes later and because I use a Mac, and I'm not that computer literate in general, I will have to wait for my husband to come home and be his kind assisting self.

This is my problem with computer help manuals: I sort-of know what I want to do, but I don't know what to call it in geek speak. (It would be REALLY useful if I could add a link now to some fancy site) So now I've visited the Blog Helpspot, and it is really useful, except I am using Safari and have no idea where to find that little earth-picture-with-a-link-thingy link...aha!



It is now 30 minutes later and I have successfully erased a nice long blog with links etc. Short version: does anybody know of a user-friendly translator of computer terms for illiterati like me? For example: what does this mean?

'Clicking BlogThis! creates a mini-interface to Blogger prepopulated with a link to the web page you are visiting'...link

And, by the way...geek speak