Kaalvoet Klonkie

 

I found this lovely artwork online entitled “Kaalvoete” by Elizabeth Kendall.

I was backing up all my blogs from Multiply. It’s not such a terrible thing. I’m rather enjoying the trip down memory lane. I found a blog which had absolutely nothing to do with Kaalvoet Klonkies, but, as often happens, the comments evolved into a hilarious bout of South Africanisms and Klonkies.

Kaalvoet klonkie basically means ‘barefoot ragamuffin’ – or at least, that’s my interpretation. To me, it holds no negative connotation, though some say it has. My gran sometimes called me a kaalvoet klonkie on those days when I played outside barefoot and grubby.

In the comments of that blog, my Dutch friend, Riete found and posted a poem/song by Gill Steward that gave us a chuckle.

Kaalvoet (pronounced "Carlfoot") Klonkie, the Barefoot Flea
(Tune: On top of Old Smokey) (Johannesburg 1970)

I'll tell you the story
Of Klonkie the flea
Who dabbled his tootsies
In my cup of tea.

'Twas there that I saw him
And asked him his name
And now I will tell you
His reply to the same -

"Sir, my name is Klonkie,
the barefooted flea
And I'm fishing for tackies
In your cup of tea.

Some fleas wear pink tackies,
And some fleas wear blue,
So I'm fishing for tackies
And any will do,

Because as you'll notice
My tootsies are bare
And it makes it much harder
To run through your hair!"

So that is the story
Of Klonkie the flea
Who's still fishing for tackies
Although there's no tea!

 

‘Tackies’, incidentally, are what South Africans call trainers, tennis shoes or sneakers. We’ve always joked about “…but my fleas have pink tackies!” This brought back memories :)

Magic on the tracks

I was listening to some Afrikaans songs tonight when "Trans Karoo" came on. Ah... memories...

Tchuk-tchuk- tchuck-tchuk, Clickety-clack... clickety clack.... one of the best lullabies a child can sleep to as the train rocks gently on the tracks. As I slept, I was conscious of pulling into midnight middle-of-nowhere stations and the quiet fuss of loading up fresh coal and passengers.

Come morning, the call of the stewardess, "Coffee, tea, Milo?" That is still used in our home. For once, I wasn't interested in what was being served. I'd push up the window, resting forearms on the sill and leaning out as far as I could, I wanted to see the huge locomotive in front, gaze in awe at upcoming tunnels that secretly terrified me. Gran would get annoyed at the soot she'd have to clean off my clothes then. Looking back, I'd see the long red and beige train snaking behind.

The bathrooms were an adventure in themselves and the tiny metal washbasins. Going to the dining car was a journey of unbelievable excitement and trepidation. Crossing the concertina joins between carriages required a huge amount of courage and the comforting hand of an adult. White linen table cloths, linen serviettes and heavy silver cutlery. I can't, for the life of me, remember the food. I think I had my nose pressed to the window.

The train whistle blows, then Parrrp... parrrp... Khssshhhhhh.... we pull into the station. There's the fuss of pulling cases down, checking nothing is left, the noisy compartment door crashing open. I look out the windows in the passage for the last time. The train empties out onto the smooth concrete platform. Train stations always seem to have ornate metal supports and rails, red brick or cream and grey buildings and pretty gardens.

 

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Tonight I cried...

Tonight I cried for the land I believe I'll never see again. I cried for longing of old, familiar things. I cried for memories that are now only in my head... for the good and the bad... for the people, for the soil... for the beauty. The longing is fierce.



I'm picking up and carrying my life and soul yet again. Each time, a few fragments break off and are left behind. Each time, there are irrevocable changes, losses, and sometimes gains.



I love my country. That will never change. I'm ready to move on.

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Capy-what?

You may have heard of it as a capibara, capybara, capyvara... or you may well never have heard of it at all. The capyvara, as we know it, is the largest known rodent, if I'm not much mistaken and it comes from Brazil. I've been told they can be found scurrying around alongside our riverside highways. Apparently plentiful in the cane fields of Brazil, I've heard they almost a staple diet for the cane cutters. For that matter, I believe they are food for the poor around the highways too.

 

Photo credit goes to Zooborns or the Buffalo Zoo

One of my regular pick-me-up sites I visit is Zooborns. The photos and antics of baby wild animals almost always puts a smile on my face. Today, I checked into Zooborns, only to find the capyvara. Yes, Zooborns spells it capybara. It's etymology is somewhat confusing. I think it is only here that we call it a capyvara. My Oxford dictionary sheds a little light on that:

capybara
n    noun (plural same or capybaras) a large South American rodent resembling a long-legged guinea pig. [Hydrochaerus hydrochaeris.]
ORIGIN
    C17: from Spanish capibara or Portuguese capivara, from Tupi capiuára, from capi 'grass' + uára 'eater'.

Tupi is a local tribe of South American Indians. Many of our local names come from Tupi. Our last street address, both the street and neighbourhood were Tupi names. I love the way they roll off the tongue : )

Here is what Zooborns have to say about these giant rat-things:

"The Buffalo Zoo welcomed three baby capybaras on September 10th. The zoo tells us that the three babies were running around and even swimming the day they were born. The proud capybara parents have had three previous litters for a total of 20 offspring! Capybaras are the world's largest rodent with the largest recorded size at 232 lbs (105 kg)!"

My first encounter with the capyvara was back in 1988. We were visiting the Johannesburg Zoo with Hamish. Ceinwen was bored by most of the animals, but when she spotted the capyvara, she lit up. She absolutely loved those ugly animals. Yep... 'ugly' was my first thought when I saw them. They have these long very yellow, very ugly incisors. Think giant yellow rat teeth. This lot hadn't seen a toothbrush in a while, let me tell ya.


Sadly, I have no photos of Ceinwen with the capyvaras, so a photo of Ceinwen and Hamish will have to do.

Later, we returned to the Johannesburg Zoo with Tatiana. I figured, as I'd learnt my lesson with Ceinwen, having taken far too few photos, we'd take many photos with Tat. I was particularly determined to get a photo of her reaction to the capyvara. She was, for her part, particularly unimpressed with them, so no photos were taken. She did, however, enthuse over the ponies, so I got this really odd photo. I doubt she'll be impressed with me posting this photo, but... I claim the Mom's Amendment ; )

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** Seffies take note! **

I just got this via my contact with the Dept. of Foreign Affairs : )

Just in case you are interested in voting and were not aware that we can now vote whilst living abroad.

Please note... To check if one is registered, one needs to go to:

www.elections.org.za

 

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Hoesê?

I posted the photo of Jorge and I as a group challenge on the subject of 'humour'. The South Africans will 'get' this one.

I'm the hard of hearing one in the family. Jorge, on the other hand, has selective hearing, but we often tease him about being deaf because he is so 'tuned out' a lot of the time. For our anniversary, Tatiana sent us an anniversary card from home with "Hoesê?" (translates directly to "How say?" or "What??" with emphasis) on it. Correctly written, it would be, "Hoe sê...", as a lead in to asking something like, "How do you say....?"  "Hoesê" in this form, though, is a catch phrase in South Africa. It comes from an old TV series where one of the characters would often shout that term. Seffies... please help me out with the name of the program. It is killing me!
PS. Did any of that make any sense to anyone who didn't know what it meant?

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Sophie

(a 360 repost) Someone asked me what we're having for supper ; )

Tonight, we had samp and beans or as the Xhosa call it, umngqusbo, for supper and it made me think of Sophie. Samp, for those who don't know, is a white hominy. It is cooked with sugar beans and beef. My version contains tomato extract too - delicious!

Sophie is on the far left in the photograph. I'm the grubby looking kid with the bright red ribbons. My gran always put ribbons in my hair, no matter what the activity was or where we were going. I think she loved ribbons and they were always big and bright. On the far right, is Hamish, my brother and between us is Jemimah, Sophie's daughter and my playmate. Next to me is my gran. The other lady is a friend of hers, Gloria... a crazy lady.

Sophie was our maid. She worked for my gran from before I came along. Then she became my nanny. She is the one who walked me to and from school in the early grades. Ouma (my gran) was at the shop (for those who don't know, I was raised by my grandparents.) I remember sitting at the kitchen table, eating my lunch after school and telling Sophie to sit with me. "No, miss, it's not right." No amount of nagging on my part would get her to sit with me. She would stand at the counter, eating her lunch. Sophie was the one who taught me how to mop up the gravy from the stew with a chunk of bread... yummy! Sophie was also the one who taught me how to enjoy and later to make samp and beans. I have since used the dish for winter comfort food and even entertaining.

I remember once as a fairly new wife, we had had dinner with friends who were way out of our financial league. It was like eating at a hotel. They had servants doing all the preparation and serving. I was duly intimidated, as I knew we'd have to return the favour. In the end, I made samp and beans... something my friend had never tasted before. It was a hit. I love that stuff :)

Sophie was with us through my primary school years. It was Sophie who fetched me from school the day my grandad died. That was the end of an era. We moved and Sophie retired. Within a couple of months, I lost my beloved grandad, Jim, and Sophie. I can still picture her in her ever-present black beret, leaning over the kitchen counter, mopping up her gravy with a chunk of bread.... or chopping meat for supper, listening patiently to my jabbering.

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~ Extravagance ~ a Picture Perfect Theme

Every year, we would go to the South African Consulate Function in April. It was usually a rather grandiose affair, but on this occasion, they had outdone themselves. Food was French style, ie. more artistic than designed to sustain, with an appetiser of Carpaccio of Ostrich, a rare meat here, but fairly common in South Africa. Wine flowed freely the whole evening. Designer gowns, flashy jewelry, and fancy cars abounded. The venue was an upmarket Bingo hall, Imperatriz. The building was palacial, done in an African style, with dark African warriors lining the walls, huge tusks curving up towards the ceilings, which were lit with myriads of tiny lights. The entrance hall boasted enormous statues of elephants and giraffes.
The place and the event epitomised extravagance to me in every sense of the word.

Lindiwe Zulu, the South African ambassador to Brazil broke out in song during the speeches. I think the chap standing behind her looks somewhat uncomfortable. As you can hear by the background noise, the song was a hit, especially among her fellow Xhosa's.

The "African" dancers. Their performance was very un-African, performed by Brazilian dancers who had never been to Africa, and the ambassador was angry. A few nasty office memo's flew around after the event.

Apologies for the video quality with this last one.

Visit Picture Perfect to view more examples of Extravagance or to join in the fun.

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Cheese, whine, worms, and words

First the whine.... Well, the end of the whine, at least. In case no one noticed, I was absent for a while. My last blog was a rather half-hearted attempt at Picture Perfect what seems like an age ago. Looking at that photo and the one I have here makes me want to toss the camera or at least let someone else take over the shutter. The last photo's excuse is that it is a very old scanned in photo. This photo has no excuse, but it still illustrates the point.

I was having a chat with a friend last night when I needed to pop off to the kitchen to deal with the cheese. It was one of those meals. I thawed what I thought was stewing beef, but, once thawed, it turned out to be mince, or what some of you call ground beef or hamburger. Where on earth does that come from anyway?? No connection at all. This brings me around to the point of this blog.... words.

A Brazilianism for you... They don't grate cheese here. Some of you would call that shredded cheese. Cheese is offered whole or sliced, more often sliced. I prefer sprinkling grated cheese on my food. One place that I found did 'grated' cheese, actually minced the cheese..... erm... what some of you would call 'ground', as in the 'ground beef'. Ever seen minced cheese? It looks like worms. Seriously not appetising.... but back to the words thing...

While having this rather confusing conversation, I came to the conclusion that British English, South African English and American English are three different languages. In South Africa, we speak British English, for the most part, though there's a healthy addition of localisms that would confuse the best of you. For us, for example, a traffic light is called a 'robot'. Words like 'bakkie', 'biltong', 'boerewors', and 'lekker' abound. The Americans take the prize though.

The cheese I have photographed is, what I would call, 'grated'. Americans call it shredded. I use a grater to grate cheese. The grater slices off slivers of cheese. Shredding is a different process, to my knowledge. Our cat shreds paper. I think she'd make a mess of cheese, if caught on a fussy day when she deems cheese inappropriate for diet. Then there's the mince, or 'ground beef'. I don't know about you, but I grind pepper and other spices, either in a grinder or with a pestle and mortar, or we grind flour in a mill. Grinding beef would be rather hard to do. We won't go down the hamburger route. According to Webster's Random House, 'hamburger' is ground or chopped beef. 'Chopped'? That would take forever! I tried to understand... honestly I did. I looked up 'grind' and found no beef. How is your... uh... finely processed beef actually processed? Is it processed with an odd-looking machine with a funnel thing at the top and holes in the front, producing, dare I say, 'meat worms'? Now before I'm accused of word prejudice, Webster's Random House is American, giving British 'alternatives'. 'Mince' according to Webster's is also, finely chopped. Ah.... I give up! I'm not one to mince my words.... Gee... that was bad... Bad, bad pun..... really bad... *slinks off again*

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Looking back... looking forward

I've been gone so long. It's just been crazy around here! Nah... I lie. I wish it had been crazy. Let me rephrase. I've been gone so long because I've been going crazy... or is it because I am crazy? No... don't answer that.

As you may remember, I was looking for my brothers. So far, I've come up with loads of dead ends. Then I figured that I'd try looking for people who may know how to find them or at least be 'on location' to find them, which sent me on a rollercoaster of memories. I started with Facebook. I have tried looking for some of these people before and come up blank. This time, I entered a name and there they were. I was suddenly finding heaps of people, from my best friend through primary school through to the best man at our wedding and many more. It was as though someone had switched on a light. This was both wonderful and terrifying. There are many memories and experiences I'd love to have gone without recalling. Contact with these people has brought all those to the fore again. Of course, not all have come back to me. A couple, I am sad about, but others I don't mind that much.

For so long, while living here in Brazil, it has bothered me that there are so few people in my life who have seen me face to face, who know me, and still consider a connection to me worthwhile. I regularly hear accounts of my friends getting together with each other and, while I am thrilled for those friends, I long to have the same thing, though I know it is out of the question for now. I became a little obsessed with the looking up of old friends. Here were people who have known me face to face, who have been with me through some... interesting times and who still accepted me. A few have even been glad to have made contact again. I was sitting here tonight though and thinking.... I can't go back. Going back is an illusion. I know that sounds weird to you, perhaps, but to me, it was something I had to face. I have to make friends with these people all over again, some easier than others, but so much has changed. We've all moved on. Any friendships I pick up now again would have to be built on as though new. I can't build on history. So I got my wish... in a way. I can't meet with a friend for coffee now, but I have had times where I've sat and talked over coffee or a glass of wine with a good friend. Those memories will have to carry me for a little while longer.

On the subject of 'a little while longer'... and going forward...
Many folk ask me whether I've had news on immigration yet. The answer is... if I had news, I'd have shouted it from the rooftops, so.... no. We have, I think, until at least the end of May to have heard about the last application. Not much time left, is there? I suppose I should say... well, there's always next year. We've said that every year so far. What's one more? I hate even thinking about that. Everything in life has a reason. There is a reason for this too. It will all work out.

In all, I was in something of a muddled funk... on a rollercoaster ride all of my own, so I haven't been terribly talkative. Balance has never been my strong point... balancing my moods, my activities, my various obsessions. I'm trying to find the balance now between new friends and old. I'm still here though...

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