Damn the mosquitoes

Mosquitoes. That’s what I forgot living in Stockholm. The mosquitoes, buzzing like Focke-Wolfes over Europe, dragging their blood-filled bodies to the safety of the bedroom ceiling after yet another successful attack.

Blood on the ceiling
This morning I went on a killing spree, grabbing the only weapon at hand, a rolled-up bathroom towel. For two nights in a row I had been disturbed by a blood-sucking din as I strove for sleep. This morning I cracked. Bodies flopped from the sky as I wielded the towel axe-like, killing and maiming as I spotted a new target. At one point I nearly pulled a muscle such was the fury of my attack. Blood splattered the walls and cupboards as I flailed at my enemy. I hate to say it but innocents died in the crossfire. I clearly need to get out more.

I have been caught unawares. Growing up in Durban, a sub-tropical harbour on the Indian Ocean you expect mozzies. That’s what we call them in Durbs. You get the badass malaria mozzies down there. Here in Jozie mozzies didn’t cross my mind. Crime, violence, road rage, general chaos. For sure. Mozzies not so much. One way or the other I’ll adjust. And I’ll get some repellent to ease the way. A rub-on stick for the skin, electronic destroyer pad for the bedroom at night, and coils to burn when sitting outside on the veranda. I'll be like some kind of medieval priest, all lotions and insense.

Mid-life crisis
All this mozzie paranoia is part of the adjustment process. Either that or some really zany mid-life crisis. Adjusting to a new city in a new country entering a new era mixed with an air of trepidation and uncertainty. Plus my wife Kajsa is away for the week. I spoke to a mate yesterday and he reckons adjustment is not easy for people our age. He did apologise for raising the age issue but maybe he has a point. I don’t know. I turned forty-six a month ago and have never considered age as an influencer on my behaviour or attitudes. We moved here with very little pre-planning, just rocked up with a vague idea of how to put our skills to work. I think it was more the excitement of change that drove us forward. We are fortunate to have this opportunity to experience something new.

Pretty much everyone we know in Stockholm and Jozie mentions the weather as a reason for moving here. It wasn’t. Although I reckon anything must be healthier than a seven month winter. Ja, there’s the skiing, skating and all that outdoor winter stuff to do. But its usually cheek scalding cold, and pitch black. That I will never miss. But in twelve years you do build something, a life you would say. Friends, family, work, travel, art, culture, booze, bands, love. All that stuff that makes up the thing we call life. Now we want to build something new.

What the heck….must dash, I hear a buzzing in my ear. Time to towel up and let fly.

Positive trepidation - an introductory ramble

I am back in South Africa after twelve years in Stockholm. While I have returned here on holiday a number of times, usually over Christmas, twice to bury friends and once to enjoy a six-month leave of absence. This time feels a little different, hence the hollow feeling in my stomach, a symptom of excitement and uncertainty.

The shock of change
We moved back (Kajsa is enjoying the trials and tribulations as tour leader for twenty or so Swedes on the Chobe River as I write) with eyes wide-open and with what I felt was a clear understanding of the economic, political and social environment with all its violence, desperation, love and energy. While South Africa is not so different to hundreds of countries, it has a special history that complicates and contaminates thought and deed. So I had followed controversies at the SABC, Eskom and the Constitutional Court, the outspoken comments by ANCYL head Julius Malema, Mbeki and Aids, Zuma and Aids, Zuma and children, attacks on immigrants, corruption at all levels and the psychotic violence that seems quite particular to South African crime. We’ll rob you, and then kill you. That did not prepare me for the culture shock (I think that’s what it must be) that I am feeling.

While I feel some trepidation I think it has more to do with the nerves of a new beginning as opposed to any intrinsic fear about being here. Certainly not fear. I have been met with helpful, relaxed people at every turn, and even though steam-driven internet connections and traffic chaos can cause frustration, those are not big hassles compared to what millions of other people deal with every day. A friend phoned me a few days after we arrived and asked with a smile in his voice if I had been robbed yet. Not yet.

Things are happening. There is a buzz about 2010. Perhaps not a buzz so much as the steady rumble of construction vehicles as contractors rush to complete infrastructure improvements for the big event. All major roads around Jozie are being widened and re-furbished, a new fast bus service will be introduced and an n urban rail link between Pretoria, OR Tambo airport and Jozie is due for completion two weeks into the World Cup. The contractors offered to have the project complete on schedule for a fee of half a billion rand and the government politely said no.

Nelson's last hurrah. I hope he makes it to the opening. Sepp Blatter must be doing all in his power to make that happen. For his, not Mandela’s sake of course.

It works
I am now proceeding on a number of necessary bureaucratic avenues. Applying for a phone bill, opening a bank account and checking my tax status. The phone is sorted but I had to pay a R700 deposit on the ADSL line because Telkom had an outstanding phone bill on record from 1998. I didn’t realise I had left for Sweden in such a hurry but at the same time I was heartened by the fact that I was on record and that the system worked. The process went remarkably smoothly, helped by the banter between customers, young and old, black and white as we waited our turn and the charming young lady behind the counter who was both polite and helpful two traits one does not normally associate with bureaucrats. I insisted on paying the outstanding account even though it had been written off. Don’t want any hassles with the bank. I will call the tax people tomorrow to check on tax status. And then there is the Department of Home Affairs. The website has been down for some time but I hope to get a number and make an appointment for Kajsa and me before she jets off again on another tour.

It is interesting that many of the people I have met in the last week, both friends and friends of friends have had good words to say about Telkom, Home Affairs or SARS. Things like the phone should be connected as promised in one to two weeks and that SARS are doing sterling work against tax avoidance and corruption. Also, despite complaints about lazy and corrupt police, none of my friends, or rather not as many as in the past, now drive drunk, a tradition inherited from our youth. They all take a taxi now. That has got to mean something.

Party on
Today, after a weekend out on the farm I returned to our cavernous and still rather empty apartment in Killarney to be greeted by headlines of riots at Diepsloot, a shack settlement that I had driven past the previous evening, on my way to see Eddie Izzard live. Eddie is in South Africa doing gigs for 46664, Nelson Mandela’s Aids charity, bless his heart. I laughed my head off as did the thousands of people who attended. I think we even made eye contact at one point because I had got one of his obscure rambling comments. At least I like to think so.

The guy sitting in front of me, according to my sister is one of Nelson’s grand-children, arrived late and at one point took a photo with his mobile phone. Taboo. There had been an announcement pre-show. I leant forward just to tip him off that he might get into trouble. Anna thought I was over-reacting and told him I had just landed from Sweden, a country where people tend to follow the rules, something I think, despite my anti-authoritarian streak, is not such a bad thing. I was heartened when a few minutes later an usher came by and told the fellow to turn off his phone.