six

Please indulge me as I leave my adopted homeland. I'm writing a series called

 "Top Ten Things I Would Have Never Said in America" 

6.  What’s the exchange rate today?

A dollar is a dollar and cents are cents and everything gets more expensive as the years go by in America.

We don't have oodles of money and we have never been investors, except with our hearts.  We knew only of the dollar before moving here - it's value seemed the same to us, every day.

In South Africa, like many emerging nations, the currency’s strength is measured against the dollar and pound.  Every day the value of the rand, our currency, changes.  My radio station gives the exchange rate each day with the weather. 

“The rand strengthened today against the dollar, now exchanging at 8.5 to 1.  The local temperature is 25 degrees Celsius.”

The rand changes like the weather here; its value on the world market, like any other currency, depends on the interior strength of the country.  After three credit rating downgrades since October, and as labor disputes shut gold and platinum mines, South Africa’s economy had suffered.  This is one of the key reasons that the rand has devalued – and a weak rand is bad for the people. 

It is seen in the price of our food and it makes us pray for the country.

Let me clarify: A shop owner can advertize rice for a price of 20 rand – available in his store at that price from Wednesday to Tuesday.  If I buy on Wednesday when the rand-to-dollar is 8.5 to 1, it will cost me two dollars and thirty-five cents ($ 2.35).   If I buy on Saturday and the rand-to-dollar exchange is 9 to 1, it will cost me two dollars and twenty-three cents ($ 2.23). 

Those pennies add up – especially to the shop owner.

To have unstable currency when you are very poor (80% of South Africa lives well below the American poverty line) the fluctuation affects your transport costs, your grocery bill and your bus ticket home during the holidays.  They work for a set wage – as most South Africans do. 

If you are wealthy in South Africa you can gain or lose millions of rand a day in one exchange.  That’s why the shrewd business people of South Africa are the ultimate speculators.  Their investment in their country is deep from the heart and their pockets.  They have invested to win. 

For us, the exchange rate mainly determines whether we use cash or a credit card on high or low days.  Since we pay off our card in dollars, some days (when the rand is exchanging at ten-to-one, say) we will opt for the credit card.  This causes us to spend fewer dollars than we would if we used our rand.  Especially if we bought those rand-notes at eight-to one.

I now am moved with compassion for people who live in who live with the fluctuating value of their currency.  They work and then stretch their money as far as they can – going without luxury items many times.   They are my heroes.

Today’s rand-to-dollar exchange rate, for the record, is 8.89 to 1. 

God Bless us, everyone.

seven

Please indulge me as I leave my adopted homeland. I'm writing a series called

 "Top Ten Things I Would Have Never Said in America" 

"Oops!  I bashed the hooter!"

7.  I bashed the hooter at the robot.

I love words.

In words we communicate our hearts.  We make ourselves known.  We can master the art of story-telling so perfectly that people can rest and escape at the same time.  In school I loved etymology, the study of words and how we (as English-speaking) piece together our language from several “mother tongues”. 

When I became a Christian I held fast to the Bible, the Word of God.  Jesus is even called “the living Word” – a name not carelessly given.  He translates God’s heart for the nations.

With all of this love of words, I cannot believe how clueless I am about words here in South Africa.  I should clarify this: I am challenged by the vocabulary and the use of English idioms here.   

Being in South Africa I have had to learn a new host of idioms (proverbial sayings) and new words. I was astonished at how much I didn’t know of real English vocabulary.  

I grew up speaking American.

When I first visited this country I was attending a rather large conference.  Like all conferences, there were a few public bathrooms and a few scheduled breaks.  The line for the bathroom wrapped around the corner and I took my place at the end of it. 

A woman came up behind me and said, “Hello, is the queue to the loo?”

I looked at her blankly, then panicked, realizing she was asking me a question in another language.  I couldn’t very well say “Sorry, but I don’t speak proper English.”

The woman in front of me smiled and answered her, “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

Note to self: “queue”  means “line” - and “loo” means “bathroom”.

We were also invited to a “lekker braai” (a killer BBQ) while we were there by some friends who really knew what they were doing – Afrikaaners.  I knew then that I would have to learn a host of Afrikaans vocabulary as well!  

Then, came my Zulu friends.  My Shona friends; Xhosa, Venda and Sotho friends.  All with their vocabulary.

I started memorizing the vocab as soon as I could. Some things were necessary: the traffic lights were called “robots” here.  When someone wanted you to honk (or not honk) your horn, they asked you to “bash the hooter” – or advised, “Don’t hoot.”

Being the student that I am, I started keeping a journal of new vocabulary.  It looked something like this:

If I memorized it all, I could even say it, right? 

Maybe not.

Sometimes we were just pronunciation-challenged.

“Excuse me, but can we have some water?” Mario asked a waiter at a local restaurant. 

“Some what?” the confused waiter asked us, making a face.

“Water,” I repeated (my American accent is “less thick” than Mario’s).

The waiter disappeared and came back with his manager, also a black man who bent over our table and listed carefully as we asked again.

It just occurred to me that I was asking for “water” – instead of “Whoo’ – tər”.  

When I asked using my best English accent, he stood up and smiled brightly.  “OH, yes, of course!”

Of course.

Back in America my English pronunciation stuck and my family accused me of developing a South African accent.  Ha! If only my Joburg friends could hear that!

Idioms were worse.  I was accused of “picking up stompies” when I overheard only part of what someone was saying;  asked to “give it a bash” when I should just jump in and try something; and learned to say “Shame!” when something had not gone so well. 

All of this I take back with me.

My brain can't keep up as fast as it should be able to.  I've said things here that have caused a roomful of people to burst out laughing.  I try to speak South African to make it easier on everyone else, and I never ever dreamed my words would cause confusion.  

In my conversation, I have to remember where I am and draw from a wealth of words to communicate properly. 

The only idiom I will never get used to is “NOW”. Here, "now" means "later", maybe "when I get around to it."

To the rest of the English speaking world,  now means “this minute”  or “at this time”.  South Africans, listen up!  Listen to the clueless American here. I’m right about this one. 

"Now" means now.  

That's actually an American idiom.   

eight

Please indulge me as I leave my adopted homeland. I'm writing a series called

 "Top Ten Things I Would Have Never Said in America" 

A hot cup of Rooibos tea

8.  I don’t take milk in my Rooibos.

 South Africans elevate tea to a new level. 

In America I drank coffee and that was it.  Starbucks could keep all of the foo-foo drinks, all I needed was coffee. 

And often.

Here there is a great English influence and tea is amazing.  Some are better than others, but my favorite is a red one called Rooibos. 

On my first trip to Africa, three guys from Bloemfontein (all future Pastors, mind you) took us under their wing.  We affectionately called them “The Bloem Boys” and we never ever would have figured them for pranksters.  In a camp-game of “Get the Americans” they hid the instant coffee and told us there was none. 

“We don’t drink coffee on these trips,” the Bloem Boys told me.  “We only drink Rooibos.”

“Okay,” I said, carefully.  I was nonplussed, but I had also been trained never to complain in the bush.  It was a sign of weakness.   I bit my lip and sucked it up….

“Wait until you taste it,” they said, waiting for the pot on the fire to boil.  “You’ll never want coffee again.” 

I found out that day that Rooibos was a name for a red tea they had here in South Africa.  They poured me the hot liquid and I had never before seen a tea with that color. 

It was delicious.

It had a smoky and bright flavor at the same time, and it tasted like a berry of some kind.  I later learned that “Rooi” means “red” in Afrikaans;  “bos” means “bush” – red bush tea. 

Made from the plant that looks more like a weed than a bush, Rooibos is grown only in the Western Cape of South Africa. The leaves are harvested, oxidized, and dried, producing a reddish-brown color that enhances the flavor.

It is said to contain antioxidants and have immune boosting properties.  Many South Africans drink it only when they are sick; many don’t like it at all.  I was an instant fan.

When the Bloem Boys surrendered the coffee (on the last day of the trip) I wondered how I managed without it.  I was addicted to caffeine and thought that maybe Rooibos was the cure for my addiction. 

Rooibos is basically an herbal tea, low in tannin and virtually devoid of caffeine.  This is the reason it’s so easy to drink.  It’s the best drink at night on the back porch when there’s a thunderstorm. It’s the best lift for afternoon weariness. 

Some people stir milk and sugar into it, but Mario and I like it best with a bit of honey.  It is sold in America, but the best brand is produced here in South Africa.  I am sure it has something to do with the African sun.

After dinner, as is the custom here, tea is served.  There is always a tray with a bowl of sugar, a pitcher of milk and maybe a few cookies on it. 

“What can I bring you?” our hostess will ask us.

“Rooibos, please,” we say.

“Milk and sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Plain?”

“Yes, please.”

Recently when someone calls Rooibos plain, I want to object.  I want to tell them that it’s a gift from God. 

One of the little unexpected surprises that endeared us to this country.  

nine

Please indulge me as I leave my adopted homeland.  I'm writing a series called 

"Top Ten Things I Would Have Never Said in America"

Lorraine in the first year she worked for us

9.  My maid knows all of my “dirty little secrets”.

There are two things you can never call a Mexican-American woman: jealous or messy.  Both insult the deep identity of la Chicana. 

Add this bit of trivia to the fact that I was raised by Jennie Ryan, the Emily Post of my hometown.  As the designer of modern etiquette she taught me skills that would take me far: how to be tidy, organized and welcoming to the outside world even in the chaos of normal life.  She kept our home spotless with five growing children and made it look easy.  As a bonus, her cooking filled our house with delicious smells. 

I wanted to be just like her. 

I knew what was expected of me growing up.  I rose every morning, made my bed and straightened my corner of the world.  As I grew I became kind of a neat freak and then I got married.    

I kept our house spotless and smelling great (with growing children) for twenty years before I moved to South Africa. 

As soon as I arrived in Johannesburg, I was approached (constantly) by ladies who asked me if I needed someone to clean my house.  What were they insinuating?   I was offended. 

Later, it was explained to me that most women have domestic help – maids.  The economy of this nation is so unstable that some families can go hungry without much help from the government.  It was up to my landlady to encourage me to do the right thing: she provided a set wage for me and encouraged me to employ one of the staff on the property.  It was the way this country worked, she explained. 

Our property has five homes and one staff headquarters.  The “staff quarters” houses two families: Joe’s and Christopher’s.   Both men keep the property looking like botanical gardens.  Their wives and daughters work keeping the residences clean and the clotheslines filled with freshly washed laundry. 

I was given  Lorraine, the young mother at the staff house, as a domestic char.  She was shy and beautifully svelte with a newborn son, Thembani, constantly strapped to her back. 

At first, having Lorraine come over to clean was excruciating.  I had to watch her clean my house once a week, agreeing to pay her the American equivalent of fifteen dollars a day.  She would scrub the floors, do the bathrooms, wash our clothes and iron them.  At the end of the day I was in knots.

I was ashamed of myself for employing her at such a low wage and watching her clean a house that was my responsibility.

“I can’t do this,” I told Mario as soon as she left.  “I feel so guilty.”

“We need to give her a job,” he reasoned, like all of the South Africans.  “She has a family to feed.”

Lorraine in one of her favorite outfits

Lorraine came over once a week for a whole year and I got used to being pampered on Mondays.  After all, Sunday was our busiest day and we needed the help.  We had Monday morning elders meetings and sometimes visits into the township after that....  By the time we got home we were exhausted and sometimes took a nap. 

I ended up falling in love with Lorraine’s servant’s heart – she was a God-send!  She made life so wonderful for me by ironing all of my clothes with such care.  I loved the way she made my house sparkle.  

We ended up falling into the beautiful relationship that most ladies here have with their maids: she became part of the family.  When she needed medical care we took her (and paid); when she needed a dentist I found one for her (and paid); when her kids needed school books we ordered them(and paid).  

“My Wednesday lady fired me,” Lorraine said one day as she ironed.  I was livid.  Who in their right mind would fire her?

“Why?” I asked.  She smiled at my reaction, happy that I was offended for her. 

“She had to move back to England,” she said.  I realized Lorraine was not fired; but she was out of a job.  Emigration was common and people around us from other countries were always leaving to go “back home.”

“What will you do?” I asked.  The other ladies on the property worked full time at the other houses.  

Lorraine pieced all of her jobs together to make one salary.  Without one day a week her income would suffer greatly.

“Can you hire me on Wednesdays?” she asked, putting the iron down and looking up at me. 

I didn’t know what to say.  We didn’t need her two days.  We also didn’t get paid in South Africa and we didn’t have a lot of money.  Still, Lorraine needed work and she was asking me to help her.

“Let me talk with Mario,” I said.

She nodded and continued ironing. 

“What will she do?” Mario asked me when I approached him with the idea later that evening.  “We only need her one day a week.”

“Maybe she can do things like the windows,” I said, cluelessly.  “I don’t know.  She needs the money.”

After he agreed we got Lorraine two days a week.  My sheets were always fresh.  My linen cupboard looked like a showcase.  My refrigerator was always scrubbed.  The silverware was always sparkling.  Our windows looked like Baccarat crystal. 

After awhile we hardly washed dishes on Sunday and Tuesday night.  Lorraine would be here the next day, after all.  Sometimes I would bring home the church tablecloths and she would wash and iron them.  I would ask her to use less laundry soap.  I would tell her to be more careful with the glasses. 

In a few years I grew spoiled and used to her service to us.  I hated when she was gone to her native Zimbabwe on vacation.  I had to do my own laundry and ironing! 

As time went by we grew accustomed to each other and she knew everything about us.  She knew that I never cleaned my hairbrushes and I could tell she thought that was disgusting.  She knew how much wine we drank; how much food I wasted; how much I read the Bible vs. how much time I spent on the computer. 

She shook her head at the amount of books I left lying around the house.  She thought I used too much toilet paper.  She rolled her eyes about the organization of my living room.  She even knew which shelves the cups went on and was irritated if I put one away in the wrong place. 

Once when I took her to the dentist she told me that I would need to pay for better pain killers than the ones I got last time.    

I felt myself getting irritated with how she was taking me for granted.

When my friend, Beth, moved here from England she stayed in one of the cottages on our property until their house was ready.  She met (and loved) Lorraine and kept employing her even when she left for her new house by the church.

One day Lorraine’s aunt died and she came to my back door to tell me she was leaving for Zimbabwe for the funeral.  I hugged her and went to get dollars to give her (Zimbabwe uses American dollars at the borders).

“Let me take you to the bus station,” I said. 

“No,” Lorraine said, brushing away tears.  “Christopher is taking me to Beth’s house.  Beth will help me get the bus ticket.”  

Lorraine told me of Beth’s generosity to provoke jealousy in me – a tactic used to up the ante.  I was supposed to insist on helping Lorraine with more money than what Beth would be giving her.   I didn't take the bait.

"Oh, okay," I said.

Lorraine looked at me, then sighed.  I felt bad for her, but we were not rich.  I had no other money to give her.  If I had, Lorraine would have possibly felt perhaps a bit more valued.  We ended up saying goodbye awkwardly as she left for Beth's - her new benefactress.  

In a way, I was a little jealous of Beth.  I missed that feeling I used to have when Lorraine came around.  I missed the way I would sigh in beautiful, luxurious, pampered satisfaction of a spotless house at the end of the day.  I missed that genuine admiration that Lorraine used to have for me and the ministry I was involved in.  I missed how we used to regard each other in the early days before I got used to her hard work ethic and she realized I wasn't such a saint.  

I have grown to be messy and jealous… and I can blame it all on Lorraine, if I wanted to.

Last month we told her we were moving “back home.”  I remember the day very well and the sadness in my heart as she looked back and forth to me and Mario, incredulously.

“Where will you live?” she asked.  Lorraine knew we sold our house to come here.  She knew we stayed with friends when we went to visit.  She knows we are not wealthy people.

“We will have to find a place,” I said.  “There are many options.”  She looked at me closely and she knew I was speaking in faith.  She knows how I look when I am speaking in faith. 

She knows most of my secrets now.

How much I will miss her...

ten

Please indulge me as I leave my adopted homeland.  I'm writing a series called 

"Top Ten Things I Would Have Never Said in America"

Saeed Ajmal celebrates

10.  Did you see that crazy Pakistani bowler?

I grew up hating sports.

I have no expertise in the field.   As a school girl, I was the last to be picked on any team and the first to be “out” in whatever sport we were playing. 

As I grew I hated seeing it on television.  I ended up marrying Mario, an All-American athlete who played every American sport and finished University thanks to a sport scholarship.  He taught me to tolerate baseball. 

That’s it. 

When we moved to South Africa I was suddenly surrounded by more sports than I ever could have imagined. Not only was I ignorant of the “big three” (football, basketball and baseball), I was now ignorant of a whole bouquet of world sports.

But the subject of sport now did something amazing:  it helped me see how insulated Americans are.  Not only do most Americans not have passports; most Americans grow up seeing America as the center of the world.  

The way that Americans think of sports illustrates this.

In America our version of “football” is not played anywhere else in the world.  To the rest of the world “football” is what I grew up calling “soccer”.  In any third world country in Africa the kids learn football at a young age.  They learn to make balls from plastic shopping bags tied together with string.  There is a big attraction to football, the game you play with feet.

I grew up thinking that football is a game centered around catching and carrying a ball that can only be kicked if it is held or stood on something to keep it upright.  To the rest of the world, that game is called “American football.”

In America, baseball is seen as the national pastime, culminating with a playoff in October called “The World Series.”

No other teams in the world are invited to join in the World Series.

Basketball in the states is a game that dominates television.  Here?  No basketball hoops can be seen.  Hoops around here are for a game called netball – played in all of the commonwealth nations.

For some reason the play of sport has made me humble here.  After bragging about American restaurants, the service, the police, our incredible roads…I can look at sport and remember that I am part of a bigger world that celebrates different things.  I came here with no knowledge of rugby, soccer and cricket – the “big three” of the rest of the world.

This past week South Africa has been involved in a “test match” with Pakistan in cricket.  Test cricket lasts FIVE DAYS!!  FIVE DAYS of watching one match… the thought exhausts me.

Still, it is marvelous to hear the stories of the play.  To see my friends’ faces light up as they talk about the matches and the skill involved. 

“That Pakistani bowler is a spinner,” one of them told me, pointing to the match on my gym's big screen TV.  Everyone in the place is watching.

My brain has to switch suddenly to a world perspective.  Bowling in the USA involves a lane, a gutter and a heavy ball with three holes in it.  For the rest of the world , a bowler pertains to the sport of cricket: bowling is the action of propelling the ball toward the wicket defended by a batsman.  A “bowler” in cricket is similar to a “pitcher” in baseball.

“Yeah?” I say, trying to look bored. It's no use; my mind is woken up and I engage.

“He’s the best spinner in the world,” he says in awe and admiration.  As he says this, Saeed Ajmal releases the ball and it curves, causing the crowd to go wild.

“Yeah,” I say, watching the cricket match at my gym.  “He’s got a crazy, wicked spin on that ball.”

Did that just come out of my mouth? I watch as a group of men in beards and pill-box caps and jilbabs jump around in celebration.  

They are proud of their bowler. 

I have learned to think of things from a world perspective and not just from an American perspective.  Part of what taught me is world sport.  

If you look up "bowling" on the very world-friendly wikipedia, you will find that it prefaces the article with: “The examples and perspective in this article deal primarily with the United States and do not represent a worldwide view of the subject.”

Well put.

Valentines

       

I hate getting ripped off.

It shows two things about me:

1. I was impulsive;
2. I was stupid.

Valentine's Day is a day to get ripped off.

"Guess how much that chocolate heart cost?"  I asked Mario as he opened it one year.

Mario loves sales; even more he loves coupons.  

"Five dollars," he mumbled, unimpressed.

"Two dollars and fifty cents," I said, beaming.  

Mario smiled.  The chocolate tasted better, I could tell my the look on his face.

I left the price tag on but paid half-price at the checkout.  Why? Because I bought it on February 15th.  

We began taking advantage of the day after Valentine's Day shortly after we met.  I was raised by a Bostonian - an Irish Catholic father - who never paid full price.  My mother was a romantic.  I inherited a bit of both in my personality.

I did notice that I had married a frugal guy who wrote down everything we spent and leaned toward the ridiculous when it came to saving money.  He even had a coupon carrier.

The first few Valentine's Days we were set up to fail - Me because I labelled it (like it was sold to me) the day that my husband was supposed to show me affection.  Mario was set up because Valentine's Day is a day that nothing is on sale; nothing is bargain priced.

Once I accepted my frugal husband and his habits I began to relax.  The chocolate hearts were half-price the day after and after awarding him a discounted treat he was particularly amorous.  I learned quickly how to get my needs met.

Tomorrow I am prepared to live through the day like any other - then celebrate the very next day for half price.

Funny?  Maybe....

But no funnier than celebrating the execution of a generous man and labeling it a day for love.  

  

To see the real story of St. Valentine's Day click here

confession

I’m about to write something truly amazing.

It is a confession of sorts, painted in burnt orange and brown and bright blue.  I am going to write about my new homeland, a place that has mystified me from the moment I arrived here.  It is Johannesburg, South Africa. 

Jozi’s northern suburbs, I should say.  No one from Joburg says I live in Joburg.

We are moving back to the USA on March 15^th or thereabouts.  We still haven’t bought our plane tickets but we are scheduling the moving company and scheduling the going away party. 

For the last two years I’ve been turning my face more and more toward my homeland.  I’ve lived with the haunting terribleness of missing my kids, my grandkids and my parents.  Sometimes I’ve missed them in utter pitch blackness inside of a lonely night.  Other times I’ve missed them as I jealously watched exchanges between families here in church.  For a girl like me to be oceans away from her family has been excruciating.  God created me with a love for the nations and a desire to serve the poor; but He also created me with a fierce love of family.

Interesting paradox.

So for the last six years we have walked out the deep calling of God to be here and work into Africa.  We are based in (live in) South Africa – the France of Africa.  All foreigners here are always going to be foreigners and don’t share in the unique camaraderie of all of the others who were born and raised here. 

I used to joke with others that I wished the ground would swallow me up and spit me out as a South African, magically.  Instead, I am hopelessly American – with an American accent, my American preferences and an American personality.  I don’t know how to be a South African woman – I am the American woman who grew up believing women and men had different but equal voices.

Now it’s all happening too fast and I am leaving, after six years of pouring my life into this beautiful and unusual place.

Here’s my confession: I don’t know if I want to leave.  I don’t know how to say goodbye to this beloved land; these beloved people who have hosted us for six years.  I am a permanent resident now and I proudly carry my green ID booklet with me everywhere.   

I don’t want to leave the ubuntu, the gorgeous lovely dysfunctional feeling that we are helpless against the corruption that infiltrates government.  I don’t know how to get the music out of my head – the Zulu worship songs that have colored our lives here.  I can’t figure out how to gracefully exit a homeland I want to weep over and flip off at the same time. 

I am one conflicted woman.

I have fallen in love; been used and abused; been awestruck and left tearful…. 

 And I have to leave Portia. 

How do you like that? I buried the lead.