Bosmens (Bosch Person)

Soon I’ll be a Bosmens. That is to say, I’ll be living at Stellenbosch. A golden opportunity has presented itself recently. Old friends of the family are away from home on business for the next six months. They have asked my to move into their house for this period. The concern is not as much for the house as for their daughter who is also studying at the university. House breaks (and more serious offences) are not uncommon on Stellenbosch and everyone would feel better if there was someone staying in the house with the girl. That said, I’ve not been given any specific responsibilities or authority regarding the domestic situation; even staying there for the full six month period isn’t mandatory. The arrangement is merely mutually beneficial.

I’m really looking forward to this. Not actually living on Stellenbosch, a student definitely misses out a lot on the entire experience. I haven’t seen the girl in several years, however. The last clear memories I have, we still played together as children. That was a long time ago and neither of us really has an idea of who the other one is anymore. I honestly don’t know what to expect, but I doubt there’ll (too much) cohabitational friction. It’ll be naïve of me to expect that we’ll click like we did when we were kids, but then again, maybe we might. It is this bit of unknown that’ll be unravelled over the next few months that is so enticing for me.

I’ll be moving in next weekend. It’ll be a long weekend and safely spaced away from any impending tests, so I’ll have a few relatively quiet days to settle in.

I enjoy this time of year: there are sporadic volleys of public holidays. Whee!

Winter Atmosphere

Dusk, the past three days, have been absolutely fantastic.

This is what I actually like about winter (well, one reason at least): the cold at the beginning of the season chills you to your bone, but after the long day, after the work and the wind and the rain, you drive home and ahead of you lies the most beautiful colourscape imaginable as the sun’s final rays battle to break through the weary clouds. Everything is peaceful, the air has been washed clean and the streets glimmer as a car hisses past to return home for the evening.

You’ll only find this scene in the city. It is by no means pure: nothing in a city is pure. But it is a thing you grow to love. A thing you’ll always be able to associate with.

At Last

Picture it: a sunrise wedding. Two lovers stand on the sandy beach, the fresh breeze breathing life into this new union; all this underneath that flat mountain that they so dearly love.

Then, on the night before, the heavens open with spectacular ferocity.

Cape Town rarely gets thunderstorms, but on Sunday night, within a very brief period, thunder, hail and pounding rain all crashed to the perched earth. A small scattered group prayed for a clear day, standing against the millions of prayers for the drought to be ended. It was not to be, and when we arrived at the venue plan B was already set in motion for the ceremony to take place inside. We all felt a little bad for them: the zenith of two years’ worth of planning spoiled by a sudden downpour.

But nothing could take away how breathtaking the wedding was. For eight and a half years, I’ve watched my brother and his wife grow closer to each other by the day. It was a true privilege to be able to observe something like that. I’ve seen couple with relationships as stormy as Sunday night, but no matter which way life jerked them, my brother and his wife just ended up closer and stronger, like a good knot.

The ceremony still took place at sunrise, although we know this a priori. After the signing of the register (everything took place within the same building), everyone had a bite to eat and all the group photographs were taken. After that I had to make a quick stop at home to empty my camera’s memory card. Then we set off to the farm.

They originally wanted to get married in France, but circumstance did not permit this. So they did the next best thing: they held a lunch for the close family at a wine estate nestled at the edge of Franschoek. The experience was completed with tasteful accordion music and songs reminiscent of Edith Paif. The weather had cleared up for a bit and the sparse sunrays illuminated the couple dancing alone in their little bit of France.

At one stage, the wedding planner commended the bride that she handled the day so well. A month ago, apparently, there was a bride in complete tears because of the mere thought of rain on her wedding day. A little later, after a very brief group photo, light rain drove us inside again. As a jogged along, I heard the bride say “I don’t want to go inside now. I like the rain. It’s my favourite thing now.” I hope I never forget that testament to their euphoria. As I looked back, they started to dance in the rain.

After another brief stop-over at home, we all finally gathered for the reception in the evening. Upon arrival, we found a disposable camera on each table. This was so the guests could all take pictures of themselves through the evening. Each couple and family also received a CD which held most of the evening’s songs. The dance floor was opened with Etta James’ “At Last”. That evening was spectacular and even I, without any recent practice, took to the dance floor to enjoy the evening of celebration. A fantastic end to a fantastic day. I sleep well, knowing that everything is indeed alright.

Gareth: Guess what is the number one song requested by couples to open the dance floor with at their weddings.
Co-DJ: I don’t know.
Gareth: The number one song requested for opening dances at weddings, this is in America, is Bryan Adam’s “(Everything I Do) I Do It For You”.
Co-DJ: [short pause] That means there’s a lot of white people getting married.

- Gareth Cliff and Co-DJ on 5FM

Mornin’ is Smearin’

Jamie: Come along, Alfie.
Doolittle: How much time do I have left?
Jamie, Harry and Friends:
There’s just a few more hours.
That’s all the time you’ve got.
A few more hours
Before they tie the knot.
[Doolittle bows his head in despair]
...
Doolittle:
I’m getting married in the morning!
Ding dong! the bells are gonna chime.
Pull out the stopper!
Let’s have a whopper!
But get me to the church on time!
...
[The Crowd pulls out a stopper and has a whopper; a final street dance of farewell. When it’s over, dawn begins to make her presence known through the glass roof. Doolittle’s friends line up to bid him a formal good-bye]
Harry and Everyone:
Starlight is reelin’ home to bed now.
Mornin’ is smearin’ up the sky.
London is wakin’.
Daylight is breakin’.
Good luck, old chum,
Good health, good-bye.
Doolittle:
[Solemnly shakes hands with all. In deepest gloom]
I’m gettin’ married in the mornin’
Ding dong! The bells are gonna chime...
Hail and salute me
Then haul off and boot me...
And get me to the church,
...

Act 2 : Scene 3 of My Fair Lady by Alan Jay Lerner

Don't call me that!

In Afrikaans, when addressing a person who is a few years older than yourself, it is respectful to add “oom” or “tannie” in front of the person’s name. The former literally means “uncle” and the latter “auntie”, but the terms are used for family and non-family members alike. Its not set in stone, but the descent thing to say. Entering your twenties coincides with gaining the prefix, usually from small children (who regard anyone older than 10 as ancient anyway). So far, I have rather successfully avoided being called oom. Except on two occasions. On both of these occasions the children weren’t the culprits: it was their mothers. The first time was when my cousin introduced me to her eldest son. The error was soon corrected and I am now “Mommy’s Nephew” (doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, but I like it). Today was second occurrence. This, however, was no 3-year-old, but a girl who must be quite far in primary school already. In any case, I am not 10 years her senior, so I’m still not comfortable to be an oom. When I was younger I held the belief anyone who is five or more years older than you is an oom. My brother is eight and a half years older than me, so scratch that.

Its just weird, that’s all. Perhaps that doesn’t justify me ranting about it, but an oom is a person who deserves respect because he holds years’ of experience, knowledge and wisdom above you. When you are a teenager, a person of 30 or 40 is an oom or a tannie. When you are 30 or 40, a person of 60 or 70 is an oom or a tannie. The divide is a generational one. And a psychological one. I’m not an oom yet. Even to a toddler.

It is strange for a man to take notice of such things. The protestors are usually women in their mid or late 20’s who desperately try to relinquish the title of tannie. I just don’t see me as that old. Its just weird. Perhaps its just time to accept that my generation has progressed to a new age. Meh.

Today I threw all caution and sense to the wind and went out to buy myself a new toy: the Konica Minolta DiMAGE Z2! After a brief period of research I convinced myself that this camera would be perfect for me (for the next couple of years, at least). Whether I can afford it or not is still debateable; well see when its time to pay my tuition ;-). I was planning on buying it next year, but a special offer and a blitz mental indaba convinced me to take action now. Now I have a shiny new camera to keep me occupied and away from studying for those pesky impending tests (o-oh why me!?)! I’ll be looking forward to trying it out after the tests and when I find a subject matter more interesting than the cat (I mean no offence, Borrie, but I already have many pictures of you).

I shall again rise and reclaim my lost title of photographer in stead of subject! Muwahaha!