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Only in Africa….

By Genevieve Richards

Until fairly recently I thought my childhood in South Africa was fairly normal. I have since been put straight on that idea because, apparently, it was anything but. 

I think this might have more to do with my parents’ somewhat off-beat approach to parenting rather than the country itself – but the more I think about it the more I believe that practically anything was possible in the South Africa of my childhood.

The circus is in town…

When I was little more than a toddler my dad and one of my aunts took me to see the Boswell Wilkie circus in Durban.  My mother loathes the circus and flatly refused to go. Dad and Aunty had a great time and enjoyed the show. I however didn’t. This was because I had spent the whole time watching the little boy behind me, totally oblivious to what was going on in the ring. And no, I have no idea why I found this little chappie more interesting than the usual assortment of clowns, elephants and trapeze artists.

Needless to say, it was a very long time before I was taken back to the circus, and only then it was as a last resort.  My mother and aunt, despairing at having 4 kids at home during the long school holidays, had the brilliant idea of dropping us at the circus venue and paying one of the clowns to look after us four kids while they nipped off to the Royal Hotel for a drink and a bit of peace and quiet.  This idea worked so well they did it every year – we got to know all the clowns fairly well – until we were old enough to stay at home on our own. 

The zoo is not much better

I have only ever been to two zoos: Mitchell Park zoo in Durban and the Pretoria zoo. I don’t recall Mitchell Park zoo as being too much of a risk to life and limb (although I do vaguely remember there being a croc there many years ago) but it could have been a very different story at Pretoria.  It was the mid 1970’s and we were on a family holiday – our original destination eludes me because I simply cannot imagine why we would have chosen Pretoria as a holiday hotspot?  My sister and I were duly lined up in front of all the animal enclosures and snapshots were taken, and true to form promptly forgotten about.  It was only years later when we looked at the pictures properly that we saw that not only was my sister standing very close to the bars of the tiger’s cage, but she had her arms entwined in the bars – with the tiger smacking his lips in anticipation of a little snack very close by. 

Getting lost in suburbia

We moved house only a few times when I was a child (4 times in total) and although most of the moves and subsequent settling-in periods are lost, I do have memories of one memorable such move.  We had just moved from the appropriately named “snake belt” (but more of that later) to a new house in the then up-and-coming area of Glen Anil in Durban North. After escaping the threat of “death by snake”, I very nearly met my maker by a seemingly less dangerous beast. There is no easy way to say this: I was stung on the bottom by a bee.  And because of a previously unknown, and severe, allergic reaction nearly died because I couldn’t breathe.  This house and its surrounds were definitely not endearing themselves to me!  And it got even worse when my father, who used to work in Zululand and commute, arrived home very late one night with one of his teeth in one pocket, and the tip of one of his fingers in the other.  An accident at work was the cause of the “tooth and tip saga” but the reason for arriving home late in the first place was because after the shock of the accident he was apparently in a state of auto-pilot on the way home and went to the old house out of habit.  It was an understandable mistake. But the next time it happened there was rather less of an excuse, and the next too. Let’s just say my dad enjoyed “checking up on the old house” fairly regularly.

Snakes, snakes everywhere

As I mentioned we lived in the aptly named “snake belt”. This was because there were snakes everywhere, all the time – not because the yummy mummies ran around in kitten heels and snake belts!  But never mind what their attire at least two of the ladies I knew were very adept at dispatching the snakes that were unfortunate to cross our paths (sometimes literally).  My mom and grandmother were a terrific tag-team: one would hold the snake down while the other cut off its head with a spade.  To this day the things that scare me most in the world are snakes (understandable) and geckos (no idea).

Domestic goddess, not

Now it has to be said that my mother is not the greatest of cooks. It’s not that she can’t, she just doesn’t really see the point. We grew to live with that but some of my friends found this pretty odd, to say the least. I have one friend who still remembers coming home with me after being out and being within earshot when I asked my mother what was for supper. Apparently the answer went something along these lines: “If you want supper, cook it yourself. What do you think this - a hotel?” Now that I am older, if not wiser, I can completely understand my mother’s point of view….if you are old enough to cook without burning the house down, please, be my guest…and I’ll have one too while you’re at it.

When in doubt cry….very loudly

We had moved into yet another house in Durban North and not long after received our water bill.  Now, water was always considered to be “free” when I was a child so it was a rather nasty shock when this water bill turned out to be what could easily have been the water bill for the greater Durban area.  It was ENORMOUS, and there was no way we were responsible for anywhere near that amount of water consumption – it could have filled several swimming pools several times over. 

So, my mom and one of my aunts paid a visit to the Water Board only to be told by the officious little supervisor that the bill was indeed correct and it would have to be paid within the stated amount of time or face legal action. After some scouting around and various tests by various experts it was concluded that the swimming pool theory wasn’t so far-fetched after all.  It transpired that a rubber tree planted by previous owners was very near to the swimming pool and had cracked the pool’s foundations with its roots.  As a result the water was draining away, only to be “refilled” with the hosepipe each day by our garden boy. The roots had also cracked our water pipes and the water was leaking into the surrounding ground at a rapid rate. 

Armed with this information my mother and aunt went back to the water board and spoke to the same supervisor.  Not only was he even less inclined to listen to their story than before but he was even more adamant that they would face legal action.  But, what he hadn’t counted on was what I consider pure genius on their behalf: They cried. Not little sobs and snivels but loud, distraught wails. And when he kicked them out of his office they waited until the next day and did it all over again. And again the next day too.  I really don’t remember what happened after that, but I do know that we never paid that water bill.

Bio:  Genevieve Richards was born and educated in South Africa and has lived in London since 1995. A graduate in public relations and journalism, she has now branched out into freelance writing.

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