Category: emigration

It’s all kicking off…

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Ah. The perils of supporting England in the Rugby World Cup.

Actually, there really aren’t very many of them. It isn’t that important to me: after all, this is just rugby, it’s not football. But there’s always someone that suggests that because I’ve moved to SA, I must support the Boks. Yeah right, because when you guys go over to do your two years of bar work in Wimbledon, you all instantly revert to your colonial roots and cheer on “the Poms”, don’t you?

Of course not.

You might not like to know it,
You may not think it’s right.
But within your sea of green and gold,
There’s some proudly red and white.

Please don’t take it personally,
Or refuse to shake me by the hand.
Cos while I live in Cape Town,
I’m born and bred England.

And yes, I have a soft spot,
For Johnny Smit and chums.
But I’ll be wearing red and white,
When the final comes.

Just to reiterate my stance here, once and for all:

I will happily support the Boks (or any South African national team)
unless they are playing England. 

I happen to think that that’s pretty fair, but if it still remains an issue for you, may Martin Johnson have mercy upon your soul.

Stellenbosch Hills Biltong & Droewors Adventure

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This sounds like it could be fun.
Step forward PG Slabbert – winemaker and manager at Stellenbosch Hills:

Stellenbosch Hills is the first cellar to combine two proudly South African delights with their Biltong & Droëwors Adventure to be enjoyed in the cellar door. The art of drying meat nowadays is as specialised as the art of wine making. Our aim was to create a competition where three of South Africa’s most popular products – wine and biltong and droëwors – could be combined.

Wait. What? Let’s just review that again: the plan is to combine wine and biltong and droewors?
It’s only the best idea to come out of the winelands since Big Concerts decided not to have the U2 concert at Val de Vie.
And enjoying them (the food and drink, not U2) in the cellar door may also yield some small degree of protection should a Kiwi-style earthquake unexpectedly hit Stellies.
They’ve thought this through.

So what’s it all about?
Well, essentially, it’s a biltong making competition, which I was alerted to by twitter user @Tara_L_B. Good work, Tara.
And, as Stellenbosch Hills notes (seemingly with a hint of disappointment):

Somebody has to win ….

and by “win” they mean “win” the fat R60,000 worth of prizes for the biltong which best complements their 2007 Shiraz. Surely to do that though, one would have to eat loads of biltong and drink loads of red wine in the name of research?

Damn.

As regular readers will know, I’m a bit of a biltong fan and I have been rubbing my meat with spices, hanging it out, letting it dry and giving to friends and family to nibble on for several months now. In fact, only this morning, I unhung some of my best work so far.

Using Freddy Hirsch spices together with my not-so-secret Sheffield-based (or should that be “Sheffield-Baste”?!?!?! LOL!) (sorry) ingredient, I like to think I have crafted an ex-pat masterpiece, capable of beating even the most ardent of local biltong craftspersons.

So – could an outsider, a rooinek, a soutie – really slip in and nick the R60,000 from right under the local’s noses?

Usurper can like to be my middle name.

Better bring your A-game, Boland, ‘cos I’m in it to win it.
(terms & conditions apply)

Sacrificial anode

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It seems that I have been acting as a sacrificial anode. Of sorts.

If you don’t know what a sacrificial anode is, allow me to enlighten you:

A galvanic anode is the main component of a galvanic cathodic protection (CP) system used to protect buried or submerged metal structures from corrosion.
They are made from a metal alloy with a more “active” voltage (more negative electrochemical potential) than the metal of the structure. The difference in potential between the two metals means that the galvanic anode corrodes, so that the anode material is consumed in preference to the structure.
The loss (or sacrifice) of the anode material gives rise to the alternative name of sacrificial anode.

Basically, in layman’s terms, it’s a chunk of metal which is attached to another submerged piece of metal (like an oil rig leg) and rusts so that the other stuff doesn’t rust. It lays down its atoms so that the oil rig leg (or whatever) doesn’t have to.

And last night, I suddenly realised that that’s what I’ve been doing: sacrificing myself in order to protect my wife. Not by rusting, you understand, but by lying next to her in bed and being bitten by a succession of mosquitoes, which bite me in preference to biting her.
Of course, she claims that it’s purely chance that with a single mozzie in the room, I wake up looking like I’ve had an overnight attack of chicken pox, while her gently tanned skin remains smooth and soft and…wait… sorry – where was I again? Ah yes – she says it’s just chance, but I’ve done some rudimentary calculations and statistically, it seems that I have been imported solely the purposes of baby-making, lawn-mowing and to be a sacrificial anode. Of sorts.
Oh – and to prop up the previous ailing South African brewing industry, which I have now almost single-handedly turned into a global success story.
(It’s ok. No thanks necessary.)

Nothing good ever came out of being sacrificed. The chunk of metal only lasts a certain number of months or years before it is gone – eroded and corroded – and replaced. The sacrificial lamb is braai’ed, devoured and forgotten before you can say “Mint Sauce” and no-one ever remembers which actor played “Expendable Exploration Party Member 3” who was pushed into the flaming lava pit by the African tribesmen to appease their Gods in 1921’s The Adventures of Tarzan, now do they?

But with the baby-making completed and SAB-Miller back on an even keel, maybe I should be happy that the grass is still growing and the mozzies are still biting. The way my joints feel these days, maybe the corrosion metaphor is more than just a metaphor and I should be grateful that I still have a role in this place and that I’m not about to be replaced by a shiny new lump of zinc.

After all, although it is a fundamental element in making babies, zinc can’t mow the lawn and zinc can’t attract biting insects.
I think I’m safe for now…

Slower than me

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Amazing news coming in from the UK, is that there is actually a place – placeS, in fact – in the UK which have a slower broadband connection than me. What sort of a godforsaken, Fourth World backwater are we talking about here?
Well, Kent actually. Home to illegal immigrants, the Neanderthal residents of Maidstone and an
ex-girlfriend of mine. Three good reasons (amongst many others) to avoid the place.

And it’s not just a bit slower, either:

Research by broadband comparison website Top10.com found that Railway Hill in Barnham, Kent, had an average download speed of just 0.13Mb per second.

And when I (eventually) got a result from speedtest.net this evening, it was this:

Whoosh, it ain’t – unless you happen to be a Railway Hill resident, then you’ve never seen anything quite this fast before: “Moy Goodnars!” (Note the retracted first element and slight monophthongisation of PRICE vowel there – that’s Kent for you.)

Let me be honest here, I could get faster if I wanted. But it would cost a lot of money – an extra R300 a month on top of the R300 I’m already paying for this digital equivalent of amputee tortoises sleepwalking through cold molasses. And so while I had to ask myself whether it was worth paying twice as much to get a speed which is still only around one fifth the UK average, I replied to myself with a firm no.

Broadband is hugely expensive here in SA. It’s a luxury and I’m grateful to have it, but I’m paying through the nose for it as well. For only slightly more than I’m paying for my service, my parents are getting 30 Mb/s, which is shortly to be upgraded (at no extra cost to them) to 40Mb/s. For the non-mathematicians amongst you: yes, that’s 100 times faster download speed than I’m on here. And included in that package is phone line rental and a fair few (most?) phone calls as well.

It’s frustrating that even as prices start to come down and speeds start to go up here, we still find ourselves lagging (no pun intended) further and further behind the “developed” nations.

But then I look at it like this – perhaps, in a way, I’ve traded in affordable, super-fast  internet access for Table Mountain, Kirstenbosch and the Constantia Wine Route; for late night dips in the pool and for Castle Milk Stout and Carling Black Label. And while I might only be able to manage a measly 0.43Mb/s; while it might take me 2 months to download a movie, things could be worse.

Because when I open my curtains tomorrow, I’m not going to be looking at Kent.

Glass half full?

Glass brimming, methinks.

7 Up

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Not the sugary carbonated “lemon” drink. That would be a ridiculous subject for a blog post. Although, as I’ve always said: “When life throws you E128 and E204, make 7-Up”.

But no, today marks the day seven years ago that I arrived in South Africa and began my role as the country’s favourite import. It’s a bit of a weird one, but we have celebrated it each year since I’ve arrived.
People are never quite sure what to say when we tell them that it’s n years since I came over.  “Congratulations” is all very nice, but what are they really congratulating me on? “Well done on making a decision to move house”? Or perhaps “Amazingly, you’ve survived more than a few hours in this crime-ridden hellhole.”

Hellhole. Why would anyone come here? I mean really…

Whatever their reasoning, what is the correct response from me? “Thanks for having me”?

It’s been a busy few years: getting married, building houses, playing with TB and making children, but it’s been an amazing few years as well.
And no, I – we – have absolutely no plans to live anywhere else, so you may as well stop asking (or praying). With its vast array of entertaining politicians, days full of decent weather, friendly people and cheap beer, together with the flat mountain, the superb lifestyle and the huge range of public holidays: this is very definitely home now.