Safe as houses

We're here! And its been quite a ride. In the past month I have walked the ancient ruins of Scara Brae in Orkney, shopped in the souks of Abu Dhabi and Dubai and hand fed a Rothschilds Giraffe. As has Bambi. If she ever tells me her life is dull, I'll just remind her of August 2007.

Now begins the next stage - finding a home and getting settled. Fortunately, we've landed on our feet and found a lovely two bedroomed cottage on a lake as an interim let. It means that we're not in a big hurry to find something right away and can wait to find something right for us. So far, most houses I've looked at have been monumental - full of glass, marble and fake gold or really quite frightening with bathrooms that would leave me uncertain as to my ability to actually get clean in them.

In general, my first impressions of Nairobi are really good - it is beautiful, lush and the locals seem very friendly and helpful. Driving is, um, creative - especially on the routes through the city so we are scouring maps to find backroad routes. But Nairobi seems to have an oversupply of rivers and an undersupply of bridges - nowhere is to be reached as the crow flies.

Shopping here is a doddle compared to Lusaka - everything is available and very reasonable too. I'm hoping to slip in a trip to the Indian market later this week - I hear the fruit and veg are amazing.

We've found a lovely Montessori school for Bambi, which we're trying for a week to see how she goes. Judging by this morning, she'll have no trouble - anything to get out of traipsing around more houses with me!

And I've found an internet cafe - which should allow for the odd, irregular posting until our freight arrives...

Wedding bells

Expat postings can be compared to marriages.

At first there's the frisson of being in something new - finding your way around, forming early opinions, the desire to be open minded and to make it work.

Then there's the wedding - the day you find your new home, the furniture arrives and you celebrate having done it.

The honeymoon follows closely thereafter. The routine is new and, therefore, not boring. You relish the new things that are better than the old things that irked in your last posting. You begin to explore your new home. But it still feels like a long holiday.

The marriage begins when the new environment leaves the toilet seat up. The climate may start to challenge, or perhaps local customs leave you questioning your integrity. You offend without meaning to, or take offence where none is meant. For some, these are easily overcome - identified as unique and special, sometimes even embraced.

In other postings, the foibles become too much. It's time for a separation. And then, with the panic of an impending move, you fall back in love with your new home, as you squash all the outings an experiences you were hoping to get to but thought you would have time to do 'later', into a few short weeks. This is where I am now. Marveling at the beauty of Scotland's greenery, splashing in its puddles, in awe of its history. And packing...

We've been lucky so far, our separations have all been quite amicable. Along the lines of 'I think we should just be friends'... but heartfelt.

So Scotland, may I come back to visit one day? And please (please!) do you think you could let it be for a sunny fortnight?

Annoyed and confused

Yup, you're right. Another rant coming. If you're after sweetness and light, go away. Nothing for you here today.

It all started on Thursday when I bought a car on eBay. A four wheel drive which we plan to take to Kenya - cars being ridiculously expensive over there. I got an extremely good deal that would have had me quite worried were it not for the sobbing sounds emanating from the other end of the phone when I called to arrange payment. Anyway, this was not what annoyed me - although I suppose that reveals me as a heartless bitch who had the rest of the story coming to her...

Anyway, the seller would accept Paypal but would then slap an extra 4% on (which starts to negate the joy of a good deal) so we agreed that the Good Man and I would drive down to Durham today and pay him in cash. And then make a weekend of it somewhere pretty on the coast. So far, so good.

This morning I go to the bank to draw my cash over the counter (it was a good deal but still a sum over my daily ATM limit!) and... they're closed! No counter service on a Saturday. What?! I know for a fact that people shop in Scotland on Saturday. And what about people who work 9-5 jobs during the week. What are they meant to do? I'm now confused.

So, now I can't pay cash, I revert back to the Paypal idea. Except they set a limit on the amount you can pay through their system unless you register your bank account - which takes three days. ARRRGHHHH!

I phoned my bank and try to arrange a CHAPS transfer which should have the money in his account on Monday and asked them to email him a confirmation. They do the transfer but say they can only email me 'for security reasons'. Ah, what? How would emailing someone a letter, containing only their bank account details and confirmation that money is being paid into it be a security risk? I don't understand. So they email it to me but via their website and in a format that cannot be forwarded and has no letterhead or mention of the bank name. So it does not prove I've made the payment. Fortunately the seller (who by this stage is utterly sick of hearing from me every five minutes on a Saturday morning) agrees to just let it go.

But the whole experience got me thinking about other things here I don't understand.

Like 'health and safety'. Everything is more difficult because of health and safety. Public pools can sell goggles, costumes and diving hoops for children. But no floats. Health and safety. So it's okay to send them to the bottom of the pool to retrieve a hoop, but God forbid a child should float! Risky that! Children are, however, allowed to bring their own floats to the pool. Somehow having bought them elsewhere renders them 'safe'. Makes you wonder what the staff keep under the till...

We've also been told by various accommodation providers that they are unable to provide travel cots due to 'Health and Safety'. It's much safer for young children to fall out of standard beds?

And gas and electricity bills that reward you the more energy you consume. Now that's confusing! They charge on a sliding scale! You pay less per unit OVER a set threshold. And then you're told how serious energy conservation is. Surely making the first bit cheap and then charging everyone through the nose for using excessive kilowatts or - dammit, I don't know what a unit of gas is - would incentivise people to use less. Bizarre!

Anyway, the upshot is that I'm NOT in Durham. I do NOT have my new car as the seller wants the payment to clear first (fair enough - this does actually make some sense). I'm annoyed, confused and once again convinced that there is a set of rules here that I am simply not meant to understand and that are kept secret from foreigners.

Traveling light

When the Good Man and I first moved in together he packed his worldly possessions into a BMW, fetched me from my parent's house with a suitcase and that was it. We stopped at a liquidation centre on the way through to the house we'd just bought and got them to deliver a bed, table and chairs and borrowed linen from family.

We now also own a few sofas and sundry other items which live in our house in Cape Town. But the tone of our life together was set with this first move. We travel light.

Our approach to moving is a little different from most. We set ourselves a target volume and then shed things until we can pack to that limit. For this move, our upper limit is eight cubic metres. We'd like to come in at around six if we can. Given that I usually get blank looks when I 'speak metric', we're targeting less than a quarter of a container. This is not a lot.

The only item of furniture we'll be taking is my mother's oak cheval mirror so that she can keep an eye on us through our travels. A large chunk of the balance will be taken up by art (paintings and sculpture), clothes, kitchen equipment and toys. Pre-Bambi we we would have targeted four cubic metres. She compensates by taking up less space in the car.

Anyway, I have now begun the process of ditching the things we will leave behind. I tend to be quite unsentimental through this process. If I haven't actually looked at something, worn it or used it in six months, it's out.

According to some, this makes me quite a hard person. But it's not that I feel no emotion, rather that I don't link my emotions to items. I like to remember things - they often look better in my memories than they do in reality.

Anyway, I thought I would throw a question out to Blog world:

If you had to pack you and your family's life into eight cubic metres, what would you take? And, perhaps more interestingly, what would you leave behind?

It's Nairobi!

That's right! In September we'll be moving to Nairobi, Kenya.

I've told a few friends offline and the responses have been varied. There are those whose eyes gleam in anticipation of safari trips. And there are those whose voices rise a notch and who ask tentatively how I feel about the move. The number in the latter camp has increased dramatically since the bomb blast in downtown Nairobi on Tuesday.

So how do I feel about the impending move back to Africa (but not the part I know)? On the whole, I am really happy about it. I have always wanted to explore East Africa and now I'll have my chance. Nairobi is home to good schools, game parks and an outdoor lifestyle in which, I am sure, Bambi will thrive. The weather will undoubtedly be better. And I can hang up my toilet brush - we'll have staff.

On the other hand, I am realising just how cushioned from risk I have been over the past two years. The UK is a far more controlled society than any I have encountered in Africa. This can be frustrating but does make it a relatively safe place to live.

I grew up In Cape Town in the 70s and 80s. During that time we had numerous bomb scares, incidents of politically motivated violence and high crime rates. Being cautious and sensible was simply a way of life and we got on with it. I anticipate this is how we'll be in Kenya.

And, once again, we will be faced with the stark contrast between the comfortable expat lifestyle we will lead and the desperate poverty in Africa. It has become too easy to push these issues to the back of my mind while living in such a wealthy society. I hope to be able to actually do something while we are there.

So there you have it.

PS. I will write about our amazing trip to Skye soon. With pictures. Sorry for the delay - I've been a bit distracted!

A final clue

So far we've had only one real taker on the 'where am I going?' game.

In an effort to ensure webwide success on this question, I offer this picture.

I rank the beastie in the foreground as a pretty big clue....

Alas, this city has also been in the news of late.

Tomorrow, I tell all.

Weekend away

We're taking Granny to the Highlands this weekend. Hopefully, by the time we get back on Wednesday, I'll be able to reveal all about the move.

As a taster though, the picture shows the skyline of the city we will more than likely be moving to. Guesses anyone?

Globe toddler

Bambi was born in Cape Town. At six weeks we took her to Zambia and at ten months we moved her to Scotland. For the first year and a bit of her life, those first six weeks represented the longest period of time during which she hadn't flown somewhere. She flew to the bush. She visited South Africa a few times. She's also been to Victoria Falls. The more I think about it, the more I realise that I have tended to treat my daughter a bit like a laptop.

Perhaps it's because of this early start, but she travels really well. Of particular entertainment value is her early interest in languages. You see, Bambi may have only walked at 15 months, but she's been talking since 11 months. She's just never been worried about giving words a go. So when the hotel concierge in Paris said, 'Bonjour!' to my wee 14 month old princess as she crawled behind the reception desk, she shot back a 'Bonjour!' all of her own. And we got the best service imaginable for the rest of our stay.

In South Africa she leaves most homes with a breezy 'Totsiens!' and greets anyone with a tan with 'Molo!'. As there are actually 11 official languages in South Africa she's not always on the money, but her efforts raise a smile anyway.

I do sometimes question our decision to live a nomadic life and, in the rundown to a move, I do worry about the effect this could have on Bambi. It was, after all, our choice, not hers. She has friends here - in fact she definitely has a best friend here. One whose absence will be noticed and whose presence will be missed. I keep in touch with my friends and I hope to teach her to do the same but it is a difficult one to explain to one so young.

I just hope that her budding interest in different cultures and languages makes it as worthwhile for her as it is for her parents. I hope that she doesn't hate us one day for not having given her a geographic base from an early age. On the whole she seems pretty happy with her lot in life. But teenagers can be decidedly odd - you just don't know what to expect. I fear the hormones, and the ammunition I may have given them!

For those who read between lines, yes, our big news is that we will be moving in the next few months. The details of the destination have yet to be ironed out. But here's a clue. We're probably going somewhere we've never lived before, but I anticipate living there as much as if I were going home...

Flatdogs flashback

When we lived in Zambia we spent as much time as possible in the South Luangwa Valley. It's a magical place heaving with big game, but very difficult to get to, so not heavily populated with tourists.

Those who do make it there are usually either wealthy tourists, who fly in and stayed at the luxury lodges, or backpackers, parking their tents and kicking back after a bone-jarring drive in an overland vehicle over some off the worst roads in Africa. Both groups tend to settle in and use local operators for trips into the game reserve. Many don't even bother with the game drives. Zambian parks have no fences and elephants, giraffes, vervets and hippos are all regulars at the lodges.

We fell somewhere between the two. The Good Man and I prefer bush travel of the DIY variety. We love the thrill of finding our own game sightings, guessing at the rhymes and metres of the bush and, occasionally getting it right. So we would drive our trusty 4WD over potholes you could hide a goat in and over corrugations which shook at least three fillings loose, to this African Eden.

In our quest as big game hunters (of the strictly photographic kind I hasten to add) we try to talk to the professional rangers, recognising that, no matter how great our prowess at navigating sandy river beds while being pursued by rampaging elephants, we have a lot to learn. There is nothing like local knowledge for predicting the whereabouts of the elusive 'pretty kitties' of the African bush.

To this end, on our journeys to South Luangwa, we made a habit of staying at Flatdogs. When we were last there it was owned by a chap called Jake de Motta, hailed by Lonely Planet as 'a legend in his own lunchtime' but largely managed by Jess and Adie, who are still there. The great thing about Flatdogs (other than their riverfront position, proximity to the game park and readily available nachos) was their bar. It was a meeting place for the locals who would regale all who would listen with their adventures and exploits. I think there was an annual award given for the tallest tale - everyone's snake was the longest, lion the most hungry and buffalo the most, well, plain pissed off. It was worth missing the night drive for the excitement of the bushlore.

We were also fortunate enough to be there for a few quiz nights. I'm not really much of a quiz night girl, but these were brilliant. You see, most contestants would have been in the bush for a while and were completely ignorant of anything that had happened since their arrival. As the only one with an internet connection, Jess would structure these fantastic multiple choice questions on current affairs eliciting highly creative responses from her, no doubt, usually well-informed guests.

It was terrific theatre and the only thing cold was the beer.

SA DNA

The Good Man returned from a week in South Africa last night. He came bearing gifts - clothes, treats and biltong. This last item is not necessarily your traditional duty-free purchase. It's air dried meat seasoned with salt, coriander and peppercorns. In South Africa it is the snack food of choice. Keep the crisps, but never forget the biltong.

It's best application is as a teething aid for babies. Yes, we give our children large chunks of dry, uncooked meat to chew on when their gums are sore. Unconventional, perhaps, but highly effective.

Anyway, my husband knows his girls well - he brought us 1kg of the stuff. We piled in last night, Bambi and I. She has grown very protective of her bag of meat - I heard her growl when her father got too close.

This morning, when the Good Man went to wake her he promised her a special treat if she ate her breakfast like a good girl. He had a bowl of warmed strawberries in mind.

'Yes,' she said. 'Biltong'. Good girl! its' the South African genes talking!

This also reminds me of a work colleague the Good Man once had - an American of Chinese descent. He came to South Africa on a business trip and could not understand why people kept chuckling when he introduced himself. It had started at passport control and continued on from there.

But then his name was Bill Tong.

Don't tell!

In my former life, before Zambia, Scotland, child and housewifery, I worked in advertisng. I wasn't a creative, but, rather, a strategist. So I didn't do drugs. I say this to clarify the unique approach I have to observing advertising to this day. Well, unique to strategists that is. What I am about to share with you is actually a trade secret. As I no longer work in the trade, I don't care.

Advertisements, carefully watched, can tell you more about yourself and the things you value than an experienced psychoanalyst. An easy example of this would be Playhouse Disney who advertise a range of overpriced plastic toys, home insurance and cosmetics. The toys are targetted at the children who are fully expected to whine at their parents until the object of their desires makes it over the threshold and onto the pile of unused toys in your living room. The home insurance and cosmetics are targetted directly at you, dear Mom. Concerned for your children's futures and desparate to remove the stretch marks? Those advertisers just know that you secretly watch Dora while little Sally reads stories to Baby Annabelle.

But recently I have begun to suspect that Capetonians living in the UK are a distinct target market - all studiously watching the same shows as me. Emerging from a dark, cold winter that tests our understanding of endurance, we are all longing for the light, the mountains, the rocks on Clifton beach, and advertisers know that we are easy prey.

I know, in my heart, not to take this personally. It's practical, really. You see, Cape Town is in the southern hemisphere (I'm hoping that doesn't sound condescending - it isn't meant to), which means that it is enjoying a balmy summer while this island is in the darkest depths of winter. When outdoor filming in the UK is dissolving in 3 metres of rain, the industry in Cape Town is booming with European producers keen to get ads in the can before spring promotions.

Now it is Spring and I can spot a South African in Tesco at 100 yards. Firstly, they're still wearing fleeces, coats, and scarves. But they've also developed a sudden and overwhelming desire to eat Kelloggs for breakfast, with a Muller yoghurt, while they talk on T-Mobile contracts and waft through a mist of Nivea deodorant. I also suspect they may be buying garden furniture from Homebase.

I know it's not personal, but just so as you know dear advertising folk, I may need therapy to get over the homesickness. And I hold you responsible.

Extreme-ly beautiful Scotland

I've just reread my previous posts and noticed that they both seem a bit whiney and pitiful. Actually, I'm not sad at all. Insecure, uncertain, a bit stressed. But not sad. It would be nice to know where I'll be living in 6 months time. But not essential. Glasgow's not so bad.

Take this last weekend for example. We went to the Trossachs. Beautiful lochs, lovely hills, gorgeous forests. The wee 'un had a fine time splashing about in her wellies and crawling over ruins, safe since the 1200s. And the previous weekend we were in Pitlochry in Perthshire. It reminded me a bit of Victoria Falls - except there were no falls (and least none on THAT scale). And it was considerably colder. And all the people were white. Okay, so not so very like Vic Falls after all. But it does have a few adventure centres where you can go white water rafting, abseiling and a few other 'extreme' activities. - which you get at Vic falls too.

I'm not too sure how this 'extreme' trade works here. In southern Africa things can be pretty gung-ho. When I went rafting the Batoka Gorges we were given a briefing, a short how-to intro and then pretty much told not to drown as we threw ourselves out of the raft on the first rapid. I managed to get myself pinned under the raft (very scary). 'Oh! I forgot to mention. Just let the raft slide over you and grab the rope on the side as it goes past.' added the guide as I regurgitated a few litres of the Zambezi. Yes. Helpful.

When we paddled down the Orange River we were allocated canoes and told to go down river feet first if we fell out. Advice on the Breede River included the gem, 'If you see a snake in the water don't try to touch it or hit it with anything.' No problem there.

But here everything is governed by health and safety. So how does that work. Are extreme sports subject to rigorous checks and balances. Not very extreme. I suppose its a bit like rollercoasters. A bit of a thrill but really quite safe. Except for one other thing I've noticed since being here. Not all that many people can swim.

Here we go again

Well, we left home (Cape Town) in 2002. I drove to Zambia with our dog who was ill at the time. Somehow driving 3000kms through Africa made more sense than putting her on an aeroplane with a heart condition.

We spent three fantastic years there. Travelling to the bush, living the expat dream. Okay, so there were moments of challenge - heat, dust, putse flies, malaria. But our daughter was born there so, all in all, a good time.

And then we moved to Glasgow. Since we've been here my father has passed away, my father-in-law has had a heart attack and we've been cold. Very cold.

And now, as the sun emerges and the weather begins to warm, with promises of lochs to be swum; as islands with romantic names like Skye and Iona beg to be explored, we are preparing to move on again. Such is the life of the nomad.

I'm not sure how long we'll still be in Scotland - could be three months or six. But it's unlikely we'll have another summer here. Please share this one with me.