The Cape Town Triangle

Someone said to me the other day that you "work in Jo'burg and live in Cape Town". The comment was not referring to a commuter, but simply to the mindset of the 2 cities.

I have yet to visit Jo'burg but I am informed that it is a very vibrant, fast-moving city full of motivated people making big bucks, making changes. I have no idea how it compares to London, but let's assume for sake of this blog post that it is at least comparable (broadly) to the mindset and motivation in London.

I suppose you can't have beaches, sun, mountains, cafes and wineries without there being a downside.

The downside is doing business here or working here.The pace is slooooooooooooow. The attitude to sticking to deadlines, answering emails is the equivalent of a hippy looking at you through a dope haze, shrugging and saying: "Meh" before taking another puff.

My husband has had a crash course in slowing down- he used to work in the City of London, attached to his  Blackberry which normally had an American voice shouting out of it: "...and I want that YESTERDAY!!"

Here, there seem to be deadlines but mostly for decoration, you know, just something you say to end an email, a phrase to finish a conversation. Kind of like when you say, "I'll call you" after a date but you're not really sure if you will.

Most people from Jo'burg and overseas are convinced that Capetonian work practices would lead to quick unemployment in most other cities and countries.

I spent a signification portion of 2 months sending out my CV- mostly in Cape Town, very occasionally to London. Some emails I sent in November I have not had acknowledged, others have just responded (after 3 months) with: "Sorry for the late reply, I've been so busy." Busy? BUSY? If it took you 3 months to write 3 lines in acknowledgement, dude, you're not busy- you've just come out of a coma! Others reply enthusiastically, saying they'll be in touch soon. Whenever that may be...

 I'd begin to take it personally, if it weren't for the fact that people in other cities and countries are awake enough to give me reasoned and timely responses.

Even workmen (in a country with a 23.5% unemployment rate) are chilled about their response time, about when they will or will not turn up. It's ridiculous to BEG someone to come and fix your toilet (really).

It's so bad it's contagious. I had an interesting email in my inbox the other day, offering me a potential opportunity. My reaction?"Meh, I'll answer  that later..."

I've been try to find a reason for this inertia, this sloppiness, this relaxed attitude, this-well, frankly- rudeness in not getting back to people.

I have concluded that Cape Town, like Bermuda  has a triangle  However, in Cape Town's case it is a triangle where, rather than planes and people disappearing, emails vanish, deadlines disappear and the will to work, to do business simply dissipates.

Why? Well, if you met all your deadlines and answered all your emails, you'd run out of time to go to the beach, climb a mountain, eat some sushi, drink some wine and have a braai with friends.

It's because of the Cape Town Triangle that so many want to live here.

Beach Education

One of the attractions of moving to Cape Town is that, wherever you live, really, you are no more than 15 minutes or so drive from the beach. As someone moving from northern Europe, the prospect of "beach on demand"  is very alluring.

But life is never that simple and, as with everything, there is a learning curve and the Cape Town Beach learning curve appears to be an especially steep one- I have been unable to master the "which beach and when problem" for over 2 years. At first, I assumed that maybe I was just a complete cretin with an inability to absorb and process information, but the other day, I spoke to an ex-pat who appears to be in what I will call Phase I of Beach Education in Cape Town. I have now realised that mastering the beach experience is actually more of a Rite of Passage for Expats; a test, if you like.

So, for those coming to live in Cape Town and for those visiting, I thought I would provide you with a list of phases that you will go through. Perhaps my step-by-step explanation will help you navigate them quicker than I am.

Phase I

This is the phase where you have just arrived and are SO excited about having the beach on your doorstep that, as soon as you see the sun (which is most days), you head to the beach. Your ignore the howling wind that batters your car on your  way down to the beach, you disregard the huge waves that you can see in the distance as you descend Wynberg Hill. Because, after all it is sunny and therefore it MUST be a beach day,

Arriving at the beach, you congratulate yourself on living in a  city where you can get parked so easily at the beach- there's no one else in the car park! Hurray! With a sense of adventurous triumphalism, you open the door of the car and note- just by the by- that opening the car door is more difficult than normal. Never mind. Eager to get on the beach, your hair swirling around your head you open the kids' car doors (using more force than should be strictly necessary but your enthusiasm cannot be dampened!)

It is only at the point where your kids start crying as if needles are being stuck in their arms, shrieking: "Close the door!!" that you realise something is amiss. You are the only people in the car park, the wind and the sea are so loud that you cannot hear yourself think and your children are crying whilst being exfoliated.

A little put out, you head back, feeling slightly cheated and also embarrassed. But you'll do it again, maybe even twice more. I know for a fact that we are not the only family to have done this.

Phase II

You've made some South African friends, they've been polite enough not to laugh at your beach greenness but they have given some wind advice. You're told that if the wind blows in a certain direction, you are to avoid that beach. You feel very pleased with yourself and your new information and you use it, or you think you do.

You see, the wind changes throughout the day (direction and strength) so a cursory glance at the wind website is not enough. It requires some analysis- something that you (in Phase II at least) fail to realise.

So, there you are, pleased as punch, arriving on the beach just as everybody else is leaving. You get out of the car and, whilst you are not experiencing the sandpaper effect like last time, it's clear this is not going to fly with the kids.

You get back in the car- sheepish again- feeling your children's disappointment and contempt from the back of the car.

Phase III

OK, great. You've checked the wind forecast, you've broken it down into hourly segments and you're all set to go!

Setting up on the beach, right time, right beach, gentle breeze, you feel so proud of yourself you could burst. The kids are playing. Or for about half an hour and the whining starts.

"Why? Why? WHY?", you crying, glancing bitterly at the other families happily enjoying their time on the beach, frolicking around. And then you realise: you didn't bring shade. Dammit, what a northern European, sun-happy fool you are! This is Africa, not Brighton!

You leave the beach, disappointed but at least you made it to the beach and had (brief) enjoyment from it.

Phase IV

What could POSSIBLY go wrong now? 2 years in and things have been going for well for a while. The beach umbrella, the wind forecast: although you're getting sloppy with that, everyone KNOWS in summer it's a south-easter.

So, confident as can be, you take your overseas visitors to a beach in January.

20 minutes later, you and your brother's girlfriend and wrestling with an umbrella that's blown inside out and threatening to inflict mortal injury on some poor soul.

I looked around and saw that others had those shade tents that you peg into the ground. They sat there smug, unperturbed, reading, not wrestling and bloody well in the shade.

When I got home, I found out that on that day when everyone knows it's supposed to be a south-easter, it was- unusually-  a westerly. And when there's a westerly, apparently, you DO NOT go to Lllandudno.

Phase V

I'm guessing this phase will involve a pegged in tent shade and more frequent wind checks. Just a hunch..

Will it be the final phase in my beach education- I really hope so.

When is an ex-pat no longer an ex-pat?

No, it's not a joke, there's no punch line (that I am aware of anyway)- it's a serious question: is there a cut off, a time when you no longer regard yourself as an ex-pat or , to quote Wikipedia,: "a person temporarily or permanently residing in a country and culture other than that of the person's upbringing". 

I was speaking to a friend the other day who moved here just over a year ago, and I asked her whether she felt "settled in". She said that they say that the first year of your move is about finding your feet- whether that be at work, in your home, at school or in your city. If you get past the first year, the second year is used for consolidation and if that is successful, after 2 years you can consider yourself to be "settled in".

By her definition, therefore I should be settled in- we moved here in September 2010, that's well over 2 years ago.

When we moved here, my husband was taking a not inconsiderable professional risk, we were taking a financial risk but we felt that, overall- if it worked- the decision would serve us well as a family. We put in place mechanisms to "catch" us if things didn't work out here and steeled ourselves for having to go back-just in case (we'd had to do it with a previous (failed) emigration, we were used to coming "home", tails between our legs).

 It's been 2 years- and some- and it feels like home.My older daughter sounds like a South African, my younger one almost does and has spent most of her life here. Is time to dismantle all the mechanisms that  would allow us to leave very easily, to emotionally and practically give ourselves over to South Africa, make changes that transform "let's see how it goes" to "this is how it is"? 

The definition of ex-pat that I give above doesn't really apply to me: I am living now in a country that was a large part of my upbringing- but then, other countries were too.

For so many people in the world now who move around the world with work or study, the traditional definitions don't apply-  a large proportion of the world cannot fully consider themselves one thing or another; their lives have been spent incrementally all over the globe and they are unable to give a definitive answer when it comes to the question: "where are you from?'. I think the term for us is 'Third Culture Kids' (I read a book by that title, the names of the authors escape me right now, but it is an interesting concept and read).

So do I consider myself an ex-pat, still? I don't think I ever thought of myself as that, simply because in my head, over time that description has come to have  negative connotations.  

Forgetting the term "ex-pat" for the moment, am I at the point where I can give myself fully over to my life here, consign London and other places  simply to "somewhere I used to live"? 

I don't think so- for a start my accent sets me apart, marks me out as a foreigner and I am sure people here, ad infinitum, will mistake me for a tourist or a Brit here on a 2 year contract. Shop assistants still don't understand me when I ask for beer, so I'm quite a way from being taken for a local.

Whichever of the countries that I used to live in I go to, I am regarded as foreign: in England, my name marks me out as being "not from these parts", in Poland, my English accent speaking Polish makes me foreign.

In all, honesty, I don't really care about that. I don't aspire to patriotism at all, I don't feel the need to belong in that way.

I love my life in Cape Town and I embrace my life here with enormous gratitude and enthusiasm . Am I ready to sever ties with other places? I don't think that's in my breeding or my blood.

But it might be time to make some things more (semi!) permanent.

Fame at last!

...well, for my house at least!

A couple of weeks ago, The Guardian newspaper in the UK asked UK expats to send in the view from their window and I did. Well, to be honest it was not quite my view but more a view of me! It's a picture of our house.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/money/gallery/2012/dec/11/uk-expats-view-windows#/?picture=400800009&index=12

Apparently, was one of the photos that made the Guardian want to reach for its passport.

Funny, they should say that because it had the exact effect on us. This was an estate agent's bid to sell our house and, apparently, it worked. We bought the house in a very 21st Century way- having seen it on the web but not in person. We're not that crazy- we had excellent advisers on the ground advising us . Plus Google Streetview and a working knowledge of the area helped us.

We were a teeny bit nervous when we landed and went to visit a home we had chosen but never been in before. Luckily, it was love at first (actual) sight and  the view from the garden towards the mountains is even better in real life with the warmth of the sun beating down on you and the occasional waft from the sea 17km away.

It's an exceptionally beautiful place in which to live- we feel very lucky to live here.

Replacement Parent

As parents, I am sure most of us think at some point that- to our kids- we are irreplaceable  For me at least, this emotion can swiftly be followed by the feeling that I wish someone would replace me, just for a moment.

I got to thinking the other day what "value" I add to their lives and I came up with a list of 4 things they really need someone to do for them.

Someone to drive them places

When I asked my girls the other day what I did that they liked best, they both replied that it was driving them somewhere (the older one said to Monkey Town, the younger one to her grandparents' house).

And it's true, at some point in the last 6 years I seem to have- unbeknownst to myself- applied for the position of chauffeur to 2 noisy midgets and accepted. I'll be honest- the working conditions are tough, the pay non-existent and the only tips you get are on what music they want played.

Someone to find things

My younger daughter has been known, mid-stride, to suddenly burst into tears and start bawling that she can't find something which, judging by the racket she's making, must have life saving properties. It's not that she's been looking for it for a while, she just wants it RIGHT NOW and can't see it in her immediate vicinity  She gives me no clues (very often to what is IS: "I caaaaaaaaaaaaan't find IT!!" - not helpful) as to where it was last seen. Apparently I am blessed with psychic properties.

The older girl is a bit better in that she doesn't howl- she'll just whine, generally after we've put her to bed- but make equally little effort to find it before declaring it to be lost.

Someone to hold stuff.

The children like to take half the house with them when we go out. We have tried to limit the amount to hold luggage on a transcontinental flight. So we fight, tell them to take less, then relent and leave with the boot and back seat so full you wouldn't want me to reverse the car in your direction.

Inevitably, when we reach our destination, after 3 minutes I morph into a porter/valet. Another favourite time to dump me with a load of stuff is when they're getting out the car. I have no idea why   Later, I am held responsible when the treasured item that was flung at me with a million others cannot be found .


Someone to referee

My husband and I are regularly called on to passed judgement on who had it first, whose turn it is, who it belongs to (not easy, as they have engaged in a barter economy, the value of the toys being a mystery to us) or who is entitled to the last ice cream/biscuit (insert any other coveted item in short supply).

I have been giving a lot of thought to what or whom could replace me and fulfil ALL these vital roles for my children.

The conclusion: a psychic donkey (for carrying/holding- it could come with baskets) with a driver's licence and a whistle.

If anyone can tell me where I can get me one of those, I'd be grateful. It's day one of the holidays and I feel I may need a short break soon.

An African menu

Sometimes, it's easy to forget where you live.

Yes, despite the beaches and the mountains,  the weather. Doing the school run, going to work, paying the bills, grocery shopping- you can live so much on the micro level that you become oblivious to everything else around you. I can be driving to the city centre from my house- literally driving around Table Mountain (sometimes you can see zebras)- but I am so absorbed in getting somewhere on time that I could be anywhere.

I like to be reminded of where I live- whether the reminder is about living in Cape Town, living in South Africa or living in Africa. It can be coming round Lion's Head and suddenly seeing that view of Camps Bay, Cape Town, it can be walking into a Padstal (farm stall) and being spoken to in Afrikaans, it can be driving along Route 62 for tens of kilometres- for an age- and not seeing another person, car or man made structure.

Today. my reminder was this:

We were browsing in a farm stall and  I spotted these delicacies which, I suspect, are unlikely to be found in Tesco, Waitrose or Sainsbury's. 

I like to think of it as  "locally sourced ingredients".

In defence of the parking guard

The words "parking guard" in Cape Town will inevitably elicit some sort of reaction from Capetonians. Not always- but most of the time- there are few kind words said.

For those reading from abroad, a "parking  guard" or a "parking marshal  is, in most cases a gentleman (well, of the male species anyway) who guards your car while you leave your car in a public place like parked in the street, a shopping centre, in a winery, a restaurant.

Some parking guards are appointed by a shopping centre/restaurant/whatever and others, are well, self appointed, shall we say. The self-appointed ones are generally to be found around Long Street day and night or around random pockets of commercial development. Normally, they are wearing a hi-vis vest that has seen better days. If you're unlucky, they stagger up to you with a whiff of a drink promising to look after your car. My husband and I often comment in these situations that the person offering to look after our car is precisely the person we want it protected from. In my experience, these self appointed gentlemen are irritating, they can be persistent but not dangerous. Most of these individuals apparently think I was born yesterday as they will often ask me for the tip  now and not when I return to the car because they need to eat, promising they'll be back with a snack. Yes, of course, you will.

Having said that, some of the parking-trepreneurs can sometimes be useful  pointing out places to park on an impossibly full Long Street and will occasionally walk you to your restaurant if you're alone or with a feeble looking friend.

So, asks the foreigner, what are they supposed to do? Well, depending on where they are:

• Point out free parking spaces/spaces about to be free.
• Guide you in and out of said parking space safely (avoiding crashing into other cars/ sauntering pedestrians). They tend to be very vigorous and active in this role, waving and flailing their arms to guide you out.
• Help you push your trolley (if relevant) and unpack your bags into the car.
• Take your trolley to the trolley park (if relevant).
• Guard your car. In one market in the forest, they use a big stick to guard it mostly against baboons- really! They failed me once, I returned to a car with a wing mirror hanging off, the windscreen covered in tell-tale paw prints. In the vast majority of cases, it's simply to guard your car against property crime, it's not always as exciting as baboons.

Why do they do it? To earn a living. Some are paid by the place they guard, others work just for tips.

What do I think of them? When I started coming here on holiday, I couldn't bear them. Their flailing and waving arms as I manoeuvred in or out of a space seemed to me not to be helpful, but instead an indictment of my driving (which doesn't go down well, no matter who it comes from). Their offers of help with my trolley were unfamiliar and felt like an intrusion on my personal space. Coming from London, a tightly packed city, I should have been used to it but instead in this place of space made me feel claustrophobic  I was suspicious, ever wary of crime in South Africa, as repeated on the news- even though once a parking guard ran after me with the credit card I had dropped in the parking lot.

How do I feel now? I could do without the smart-arse self appointed ones that hound me from the car to the cafe about money for a snack.

But for the rest, I think it's a nice luxury that someone will help guide me out of a tricky space, helping to avoid accidents and bumps. I appreciate the help with the trolley, with the unpacking, especially when I'm trying to keep a feisty toddler under control. I like the snippets of information I gain from some of them about Africa (most are not from Cape Town- most are from Rwanda, DRC, Mozambique, Zimbabwe and other African nations). It provides employment in a country where employment is much needed.

Mostly, though, I have respect for them. Standing in a car park all day, waving arms, making chit-chat and packing cars you can never hope to own is not a great way to spend a day. I don't think there's much job satisfaction in standing around in the searing sun or, in winter on a bad day, standing around in the pouring, pouring rain in the the hope of getting R2 here and there. It's a rubbish job but it is a job and  these guys turn up to work, make some money and send most of it home to their families in poorer parts of Africa.

And, you know, most men in this country are secret parking guards, I'm not sure if it just now inherent in the culture or if it is a man thing. The other day, I was trying to park in a tricky space in an underground car park (in these there are not many parking guards). I'll be frank- it wasn't going well. There had been multiple unsuccessful and entry attempts (in my defence  I was tired and stressed, normally I'd nail it one, honest). Out of nowhere, a well dressed young man appeared out of his car, Blackberry to his ear and guided me in. Maybe it's male civic duty here?

Next time: The small town in the Western cape where parking guards are exclusively white, very elderly Afrikaans-speaking people in wide-brimmed hats. Never a dull moment living in South Africa.