I wanted to wait awhile before trying to write a post encompassing my host mother, Priscilla. I apologize if any of this description is repetition.
But I worry that I will wait too long and then it will never come to fruition and then I'll have left out of this blog one of the most important parts of Cape Town.
I live in Steenberg. She has declared that it's Retreat, actually, and if it is, then it's the Steenberg side of Retreat. (I've come to learn that these neighborhood distinctions are actually incredibly important to the people who live here, but more on that later.) I live on a small side street opposite the train tracks that divide the white side of Steenberg from the colored side. I stay on the colored side.
The house is small, two-stories and full of character. There is a small carport outside, where her little green car lives.
One set of iron gates swings in to let the car in and then closes (manually, of course) upon entrance. From there, you walk across the bricks of the carport to the front door. The front door is barred by a gate. Think a screen door but made of iron (like Mom's house - those white gates). Both gates have the potential to be padlocked, although one is padlocked all the time and one is only padlocked at night or during the day when no one is home.
After the padlock is opened, the gate must be lifted to be opened and then swung out.
And then there's the front door.
I remain legendary for my inability to open this system of padlocks and chains and gates when slightly inebriated, but I am slow at it even stone sober.
The front door has a charming, antiquated key that I thought was a keychain the first time I saw it. My keys have an adorable little zebra keychain that I bought at a market on them. (You'll notice that for the first time in my life, I don't have one of those long lanyards trailing after my keys - this is so they can fit nicely into my bra when I go out so I don't have to worry about losing them. One of the other volunteers almost got beaten up by his host family for trying to climb the gate at four in the morning after losing his keys. You see the problem it might present.)
Alas, the inside of the house. A charming, modern art deco style lounge (living room) and a kitchen and then my room and then the winding staircase that leads upstairs to Priscilla's bedroom and bathroom and the spare room.
It's by all US standards a relatively tiny house.
But it's lovely. I feel so at home.
Priscilla is nearly fifty and going through menopause. Between the two of us, we're always looking for a set of keys, or something that we've misplaced. She loves to talk about her life and I've discovered that she and I are the quite the set of kindred spirits. We sit on the chairs in the lounge and talk and talk about everything.
And I do mean everything. We talk a lot about South Africa, a lot about racism, a lot about class structure, life struggles, and stuff. Boy stuff, you know.
She takes good care of me and reminds me that I'm a strong woman and an adult and worth everything. She's quite determined to see me wined and dined and taken care of. She reminds me that everything was "lekker" when she was young and has informed that I'll never regret any adventure.
We tease each other quite a bit - her about me never wearing socks, and that she's going to get out the wooden spoon and hit me, and me about her and well, everything.
She likes nice things, and works hard to keep her house lovely on the inside.
She's terrified of things like spiders and snakes, and every time we have the door open, we sit in the chairs and we have to watch in the mirrored bar separating the kitchen from the lounge to make sure that nothing comes in.
Every year, she buys something nice for herself. This year, it was a computer. Some other years, it was a wood floor, two nice chairs for the bar, that wrought iron spiral staircase.
She's simple - she keeps to herself and likes to reminisce about the past - but she's nowhere near simple minded. She's sharp as a tack, witty, and sometimes rude. (She mutters things in Afrikaans and then laughs with me - I'm starting to always be able to at least understand the gist of what she's saying. Last night, she was telling Mike she was going to hit him but it was a word that sounded like murder. I knew what she meant, and as the two of us laughed, he told her she'd have to catch him first.)
We laugh, and we drink tea, and we talk about our days while she serves me dinner at night. And then we sit and have tea and wait for the weather to come on the news.
I have to pause in the middle of this to explain that there is no eloquence necessary for this post. I can't contain it in words. It's love. She's my South African mother. Don't expect grammatical grandeur here, you won't find it.
Expect respect and admiration and companionship.
When I told her that I was switching projects, she was terrified that they were going to move me from her. And I realized that even if they offered, I wouldn't accept. I love where I live. I can sit down and have a glass of wine and relax, while in other host families, those things aren't allowed.
I have a lot to learn from her - this woman who apologizes for nothing, who owns her experiences, who lives for her children, who is stern and funny and generous, who teases Mike for me.
I listen, I'm practicing listening, and I know that she's listening too.
One day, I wasn't feeling well. Surprise, surprise, it was a Sunday morning following a late Saturday and she came in with tea and hugged me.
And it was the first time we'd really hugged. And she said, "I know you're not feeling well, but don't you miss your mom right now?" and I told her she was right and that the hug helped a little bit.
Last night, she invited Mike over for dinner. None of the other volunteers from his house were invited, which I thought was cute. We ate chicken curry and rooti (this is bad spelling, I know), a Muslim sort of tortilla and finished off with sago pudding and cream. She put the pudding in the oven to brown on top and when we took it out, the top was a little bit overdone (read: blackened) and the two of us just starting laughing.
Mike's face was bewildered because he had no idea what we were laughing about.
But we took it out and pulled off the crust and ate it anyway and it was delicious.
She likes the way that Mike looks after me, the way that he's protective of me, the way that he is in general. The two of them tease each other all the time, which I like. Dinner last night was wonderful. It was so nice to have a chance to chat with Mike - he told Priscilla all about the township where he works and the school.
She teased him and then sent him home with leftovers.
She's short and sarcastic and wonderful.
I couldn't be in better hands.
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