Franskraal. 6110 miles from civilisation

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Welcome to Franskraal. A sleepy Afrikaans dorpie so tiny that even the locals aren’t sure where they live. Frans may have had his kraal here, but it obviously wasn’t much to look at. Photos of the main features of the village (that’s 1. the beach and, 2. Alex) will follow when we return to the Mother City, where the interwebs is fast enough to… well… do stuff on.

Today, the weather is beautiful, a stark contrast to the howling gales of yesterday which left everywhere covered in a thin layer of fine sand. This explains the slightly gritty feel to the keyboard as I grind this post out.

We’re away for a few days, enjoying a short break after a hectic Christmas and staying in a little self-catering cottage just back from the beach. Although we’re rattling around a house that sleeps eight, the beds are uncomfortably small. I commented that there wasn’t even room to swing a cat in there but my wife told me to stop being silly. Fortunately, a neighbourhood feline was easily procured and I was quickly proven correct. Cleaning up the mess, as I told the missus, is certainly not the job of the victor.

I’m also using the time to try some New Age fathering techniques. Thus, when Alex screams, that’s fine, because he’s “expressing his inner rage”. Either that or he’s found some chunk of dismembered cat in his parents’ bed. Truth be told, our little boy is a little angel anyway. The only reason he has been upset while we’ve been away is because he’s covered in sand, his toys are covered in sand or most likely, him, his toys and everything else around him are covered in sand.

Of course, that is aside from the journey here anyway, where he was too interested in what was going on around him to get any sleep. And bribing him into his slumbers was a great plan if only the sweeties in question weren’t full of tartrazine.

While he was delighted to arrive here and be free from his car seat after the 2 hour trip out from Cape Town, he reminded me never to put him through such an ordeal again by swiftly expressing his inner rage with a kick to my bits as I extricated him. His mum can get him out of the car at the other end.

Ah. 11am. Time for a cold bottle of hearty Milk Stout to help me through to lunchtime when we will head beachward again. The beach is packed today compared with yesterday when the only brave souls out there were us and a dog-walking couple chasing their fox terrier as it did a remarkably accurate impression of a tumbleweed across the sand. We saw the same lot out again this morning, the dog looking sheepish. In a suitably canine way. 

And so, dear reader, I must away. There’s the company of the sun and a son to enjoy before reality hits home on Monday as I return to the lab and start playing with infected sputum again. Oh, happy days…
 

Disaster

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Remember Ireland in 1845? No. Neither do I.

However, at about 1745 this evening, I was at a local supermarket. Things were going well. Alex had enjoyed the journey there, boogie’ing away in his car seat to the energetic (yet somewhat inappropriate) Smack My Bitch Up by the Prodigy* and was now happily sat in the trolley, nibbling a chunk of biltong. Life was good.

And then – down the snacks aisle, right next to the puffs, this:

Potato Shortage

I have to admit, this was a new one on me. We’ve had shortages of oil here, which led to shortages of petrol and widespread panic buying. Been there, done that back in the UK. We had a lack of glass that almost meant they couldn’t make beer bottles. That was very worrying. We even ran out of carbon dioxide (yes, really!) which led to a scarcity of fizzy beverages. We soldiered on through (though strangely, Seth Rotherham seemed irrationally alarmed by the news of a Coke shortage).

But a shortage of chips really is a true cause for concern.

Immediately, I thought this must be a callous marketing ploy by the supermarket in question in order to raise the price of any available chips by preying on the minds of innocent chip-purchasing shoppers. There was only one way to find out – the leaders in South African potato news and information: Potatoes South Africa.
It’s where we all get our potato-related information over here. Sample quote:

They may not be celebrities, but potatoes certainly get their share of media attention. Read about how potatoes are profiled in the press, the news they generate by just being themselves, and who to contact for more information if you are one of our media friends.

I may have missed something here. Not that I’m a big reader, but are the pages of Hello, OK and the pisspoor South African You/HuisGenoot really packed full with our starchy friends sunbathing on foreign beaches, partying with some European royal or flashing their bits as they exit a sports car?
Can a potato really generate news by “just being itself”?

Surely not.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the great Cape Town potato shortage. It seems that the hastily-printed fluttering A4 warnings were all true. Not a single potato arrived in Cape Town today. Just look at that terrifyingly empty CPT column. Even SPG got more than us. SPG**, of all places!!!

It’s going to be a long, cold, chipless winter***.
I fear that increasing my beer consumption may be the only way to keep my carbohydate levels up.

Oh well. Needs must.

* 6000 miles… does not advocate smacking your (or anyone else’s) bitch up.
** No, I have no clue. Sorry.
*** Once we’re through our long, hot, chipless summer and long, mild, chipless autumn, obviously.

Up the mountain

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“Two out of three ain’t bad”…

So fat, sweaty rocker Meatloaf told us back in 1977. He went on to say that he wanted me, he needed me, but there was no way he was ever going to love me. I could have told him that.

We went up Table Mountain yesterday evening for sundowners. Sundowners is a South African tradition whereby you drink beer and watch the sun set. It should not be confused with other South African traditions, such as drinking beer while watching the braai, drinking beer while watching the rugby, or smoking tik while you rob someone’s house.

So, three things we need for our sundowners up the mountain: Beer, cash and camera.
And thus, we took: Beer and cash.

No camera*. Words cannot express how annoyed I was at this. The first three beers barely touched my rage. The next two were slightly more pacifying. By the sixth, I was chatting with all the little goblins and they pointed out that the whole scene was blurred anyway. They were right, everything was all hazy, including my speech.

I suddenly remembered Dave – my trusty Sony Ericsson w900i. I’d never called it Dave before, but the beer was talking and saying that perhaps I should have done. While Dave’s primary function is actually as a telephone, when it comes to taking pictures, he is the canine’s bits (as far as 2 year old camera phones go).  And while the images would have been sharper and potentially lovlier had we not left Malcolm the camera** at home, I think Dave did a pretty good job as a substitute. Especially if you don’t look too closely. A couple of the goblins did dare to comment on Dave’s poor resolution on low-light images and were immediately flung to the dassies, who pounced on them with eager goblin-devouring delight.

And so I’m especially proud of these efforts, one of the queue for the Cableway on the way down and the second, looking over my beautiful city at twilight. Remember – these were taken with a phone. Imagine how good they’d be if I’d had Malcolm with me… Grr.

Catching the last car down   Table Bay by night

Thus, the flickr set Table Mountain – Dec 07 was born. And I urge you to view it. Several litres of beer and a whole gaggle of critical goblins died bringing you these photos.

* There are decent reasons why the camera was left behind. I’m not telling you want they are though.
** I’d never called it Malcolm before, but…

Just messing around

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I’m playing and experimenting with various themes and plugins for WordPress. That’s why each time you visit the site, it looks slightly different and (probably) a bit crap too.

Length has never really been a problem for me, but I am very concerned about the lack of width. My passages seem to be a little constricted and there’s nothing worse than a constricted passage.  Sadly, it seems that your WordPress theme must either have loads of trashy artwork on it or just be very dull indeed. Thus, I’m despearately trying to find a widthy compromise between simplicity and excitement. 

With 1,625 themes to choose from, maybe I’m just being a bit fussy. But I know that my readers demand nothing but the highest standards from 6000 miles… and I hate to disappoint.

Bear with me. I’ll get it sorted soon. I have to. The boy is due to wake from his daytime slumbers at any moment and then we will have a whole lot of lego to play with and a vast array of teddies to arrange. The fun never stops.

Yes, it’s different here

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“Proper Christmas” just doesn’t work in South Africa. I tried to point this fact out in the article I wrote for the December issue of Emigrate2 magazine. There are plenty of reasons for this, but here’s the biggie: it’s the middle of bloody summer.

So: no chance of snow, it’s hot, it’s light, it’s bright and therefore it’s about as festive as genital herpes. (Obviously, I didn’t put that analogy in the emigrate2 thing: it’s a classy publication, not like this dross.)

Chicken. Safe and traditional.   Pwawns in garlic butter - adventurous

Hence, at Christmas in SA, you get to take pictures of regular readers of 6000 miles… (both of you) slaving over hot braais. Christmas parties take place around swimming pools rather than around roaring log fires; mulled wine is entirely inappropriate and replaced by cold beers (in evidence in both those pics above – you can tell those guys are experts) and you head for the beach instead of watching the James Bond film* on Boxing Day morning.

 Pool party   Building

All well and good, but not ever so atmospheric. Not in a “Proper Christmassy” way, anyway. So if you want to enjoy Christmas here, it’s very much a case of adapting to local conditions and not trying to make it like a Christmas back home. Embrace the change, enjoy the differences. It’s taken me a while, but this has been by far my best Christmas over here, simply because I’ve finally given up trying to fight the system**.

I have a friend who moved over here 2 months ago and who came for breakfast at Chez 6000 on Christmas Day. Seeing her looking so homesick brought back a lot of memories for me. Moving countries is a brave thing to do at any time, but I think that this time of year is definitely the toughest if you’ve done a UK to SA move. I know a lot of expats read this blog and if you’re finding it difficult, my advice to you is just to hang in there. It does get easier. And while you might be desperate for a cold and dark Christmas, try sms’ing your friends and family back in the UK from the beach. Mention the soft white sand and the gentle rolling waves. Hint at the soft, warm breeze that’s blowing and the sun beating down on your bikini-clad body***. Then ask them where they’d rather be right now.

Be prepared for some coarse language when they reply though.

(More Christmas pics are available for fans and family on the 6000 flickr page.)

* “Never say we’ve never seen this one before”.
**  OK, watching 0.6 open his presents probably helped a bit too.
*** Probably best to leave this bit out if you’re a bloke.