In a previous post, I said that emigration was a little like seduction. Well, having gone a little way down that road, I reckon I was spot on - it is the kind of seduction where someone ends up getting knocked up.
In the beginning, there is the excited anticipation of the Happy Event - poring over books, guides and how-to's, planning the steps and stages, learning everything there is to know about the new arrival and the brave new adventure on which we are embarking. There is some mourning too - all those girls' nights out and creature comforts will have to be sacrificed, at least for a while. Many parts of the 'old you' disappear; your focus changes, and people around you notice and quietly begin to stand back. There is the shopping and planning and preparation and pre-event parties. Everyone knows someone who has done it, and everyone has their share of advice to give. We listen sagely, privately resolving to do things our way and not be fazed by what lies ahead. And then the Grand Moment approaches. Everything is in place: we've read all the books, consulted all the professionals, got the 3-D photos and chartered, as far as possible, the unchartered territory.
And then the labour begins.
At first it doesn't seem so bad: it's tough, it hurts, but you were prepared for this, the books warned you. Sure, you have to give away your stuff and chuck those sentimental high school love letters; yes, you must turn mercenary and sell things to your friends when you'd rather give them away because now is the time to exercise some financial savvy; the paperwork is annoying and laborious but eventually you get it done and maybe even get a smile from the official at Home Affairs; you say goodbye to your house and your beloved cats; and after years of living there, your neighbours finally come over to say hello just as you leave... but it's okay. Just breathe through it all and you're doing fine.
Then the contractions intensify. You can't find a home for your cat. You finally throw the kinds of parties in that spacious, underused lapa that was the reason for buying that overpriced property in the first place; and while you down that magnificent Fairview pinotage your close friend brought, you comprehend the wasted quality time with her that has gone before, and the lack of time that lies ahead. (Kicking back a third glass of your favourite fermented fruit over Skype just isn't the same.) You realise you probably won't ever see your grandmother again - and then your mother falls ill and you are seized by a particularly painful contraction: you may never see her again either. Eish!
For those of you who have been through natural labour, you might recall that stage when you grabbed the nurse by the collar and snarled, "I've changed my mind! Get me a f*** epidural!" - or, if you are like me, "I've changed my mind! I don't want a baby any more!" You might even recall what she said (although, if you were in labour, it's not bloody likely). If she was experienced and patient, she probably would have told you that "the only way out is through". Which is true. But not particularly comforting. So when the packers arrive on Monday morning to a house that, despite a weekend of sleepless toil, had not yet been completely cleared of all illegal and offensive items (e.g. woven reed baskets, mud on the soles of our shoes, decorative Christmas pinecones, old bank statements, dry kokis, too-small baby clothes, Pretoria telephone directories, aerosols, evil flammable Tippex and glue sticks, etc), there is nothing to do but push on. And when the labour becomes protracted on Tuesday, with the packers asking for tea when the kettle and mugs have already been packed, and a nest of old files discovered at the same time your passport goes missing, you take deep, focused breaths. And then when the container finally arrives for loading on Wednesday, and you stare helplessly at it and wonder how on earth it will all FIT, you spit out a lot of very bad words, and remember that this is hard work and it's really too late to go back and you push. And then you curse some more, and remember that there will be something wonderful at the end of it, and you breathe. And when the packers can't fit all your stuff into the container despite the consultant's unctuous reassurances, you spit and fume some more and recall that you are making a new life for the rest of your life, and you push. You swear a lot, but you push.
I've birthed two children, so I know that labour does end eventually. And that the wounds heal. And that there are post-partum consequences which are also difficult, but not insurmountable. At the moment, swigging champagne (okay, sparkling wine) at the end of Moving Day, with most of my stuff crammed in a metal crate headed for Durban harbour and the rest in a Joburg warehouse waiting for space in a part-consignment, the pause between contractions is a relief. And yes, even a little exciting. After all, a new life is something to celebrate - even with contractions.
Penny
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
A-million-decisions-a-day
Today was loading day. Sparkling wine ready in fridge for sundowner time when we kick back and say, "Phew! All done, possessions safely on their way to NZ". I wish! I have had the most gruelling week that I possibly have ever experienced. Frantic packing and sorting and THROWING AWAY so many papers and slips and mementos I haven't thrown away in the last three moves. Finding homes for our cat (and three other cats that appeared on our property and stayed, in the last month!). The best way I can describe this last month and especially the last two weeks is: a million-decisions-a-day.
When you prepare the contents of your abode for shipping and you have been "making a home" for the last 10 years, you accumulate stuff: some valuable, some useful, some precious, some meaningful, some sentimental and some of it just stuff you might need in future. DECIDING what you will need, and what not, what you will want and what not, WITHOUT knowing where you will be staying, what it will look like, etc, makes taking a single decision a tough task. Now, imagine that you touch everything you currently have in your house and ask yourself, "Will I need/want this in my house/life of unknown dimensions?" Then, add two fragile, unsettled children below the age of 7 to the mix, who want your CONSTANT reassurance that you still love them and won't forget to pack them.
Back to loading day. The day the packers load all your stuff you have decided to take with to its new destination (which, by the way, does not exist yet). In order for the packers to load all our stuff, they need to bubble wrap EVERYTHING.
This is very cool on Day One, which was Monday the 18th of August 2008. They arrived, ready with kilometres of bubble wrap, clear duct tape, a mountain of boxes and a friendly disposition. You quickly notice that they have done this before. You are most impressed to see them flip over a dining room table on a huge piece of bubble wrap, filling up the cavity with clothes, curtains, carpets and close it up with more bubble wrap. The result: a heavy, squarish blob of bubble wrap. Soon the contents of your whole house are transformed into heavy blobs of bubble wrap with cryptic descriptions like: "Mr WP Louw's step leader (sic)" or "Bed, toys and clothing".
Sometime during the day a man from the shipping company arrives to "finalise insurance and payment of the shipping". You listen to the options, and one option very clearly stands out: insure only for total loss, at 3.5% of what you reckon the total value of your contents amounts to. You sign, you smile, laugh at his jokes, and just before he leaves you ask the one question that has been bugging you the last two weeks: "Do you think our stuff will fit in the container?" The answer you get is a reassuring non-answer, something to the effect of: "I'm sure it will all work out, the packers, loaders and person who determined the volume of your content are all very experienced."
At 3pm they leave your property with more than half the contents of your house still unwrapped and a nagging thought starts to make its appearance in the back of your mind: "What if they don't finish wrapping before loading day?" - but you quickly dismiss that one with, "It's their problem, not mine - Ha!"
Tuesday the 19th of August. The packers arrive late. They seem unconcerned. This is strangely not reassuring. They pack, they wrap, they leave. By the end of Day Two, there is still a significant amount of content to wrap - and tomorrow the container arrives. Still, you reckon, "Their problem, not mine."
Loading Day. Container arrives early. It looks terrifically cool, it is finally happening! It also looks horribly small, it won't all fit!!!! "But no", you tell yourself, "leave it to the professionals, this is no time to panic". The packers arrive late again. They start wrapping the rest of the contents and after about an hour the supervisor strolls over and asks if they really should wrap the rest, because their dedicated "loader" is convinced that everything won't fit. So if we could just indicate what we want to take with and what to leave it would help. F.......................K!
You panic, you remain calm, you panic, you look for someone to blame, you phone the shipping company head office, you blast the poor secretary who sounded too blasé in answering the phone in the first place. She promises that the relevant person will phone you back. They don't. You panic some more. The supervisor asks you again, should they continue wrapping or leave it?
At this point you reach enlightenment and realise the value of non-attachment. You decide that you are not attached to your identity of being a nice person and just have to deal with this crisis that seems to be of monumental proportions.
So, half the container is loaded with amorphous blobs, contents diverse and unspecified. What is left to be loaded is all presumably valuable, useful, sentimental - after all, why otherwise would you have kept it? Something has to give. You have no time to decide, for as you are thinking about it, the packers are loading blobs into the container, slowly filling it up, possibly with stuff of lower priority than the stuff that won't fit in the end. You are on a rollercoaster and cannot get off. The only way out is through. Make a decision with insufficient information, and deal with the consequenses. Then do it again, and again, and again.
It is now half past 11 at night. I had my sparkling wine today at 10pm while writing this post. It was a lovely wine. What pleasure one can find in small mercies.
Willem
When you prepare the contents of your abode for shipping and you have been "making a home" for the last 10 years, you accumulate stuff: some valuable, some useful, some precious, some meaningful, some sentimental and some of it just stuff you might need in future. DECIDING what you will need, and what not, what you will want and what not, WITHOUT knowing where you will be staying, what it will look like, etc, makes taking a single decision a tough task. Now, imagine that you touch everything you currently have in your house and ask yourself, "Will I need/want this in my house/life of unknown dimensions?" Then, add two fragile, unsettled children below the age of 7 to the mix, who want your CONSTANT reassurance that you still love them and won't forget to pack them.
Back to loading day. The day the packers load all your stuff you have decided to take with to its new destination (which, by the way, does not exist yet). In order for the packers to load all our stuff, they need to bubble wrap EVERYTHING.
This is very cool on Day One, which was Monday the 18th of August 2008. They arrived, ready with kilometres of bubble wrap, clear duct tape, a mountain of boxes and a friendly disposition. You quickly notice that they have done this before. You are most impressed to see them flip over a dining room table on a huge piece of bubble wrap, filling up the cavity with clothes, curtains, carpets and close it up with more bubble wrap. The result: a heavy, squarish blob of bubble wrap. Soon the contents of your whole house are transformed into heavy blobs of bubble wrap with cryptic descriptions like: "Mr WP Louw's step leader (sic)" or "Bed, toys and clothing".
Sometime during the day a man from the shipping company arrives to "finalise insurance and payment of the shipping". You listen to the options, and one option very clearly stands out: insure only for total loss, at 3.5% of what you reckon the total value of your contents amounts to. You sign, you smile, laugh at his jokes, and just before he leaves you ask the one question that has been bugging you the last two weeks: "Do you think our stuff will fit in the container?" The answer you get is a reassuring non-answer, something to the effect of: "I'm sure it will all work out, the packers, loaders and person who determined the volume of your content are all very experienced."
At 3pm they leave your property with more than half the contents of your house still unwrapped and a nagging thought starts to make its appearance in the back of your mind: "What if they don't finish wrapping before loading day?" - but you quickly dismiss that one with, "It's their problem, not mine - Ha!"
Tuesday the 19th of August. The packers arrive late. They seem unconcerned. This is strangely not reassuring. They pack, they wrap, they leave. By the end of Day Two, there is still a significant amount of content to wrap - and tomorrow the container arrives. Still, you reckon, "Their problem, not mine."
Loading Day. Container arrives early. It looks terrifically cool, it is finally happening! It also looks horribly small, it won't all fit!!!! "But no", you tell yourself, "leave it to the professionals, this is no time to panic". The packers arrive late again. They start wrapping the rest of the contents and after about an hour the supervisor strolls over and asks if they really should wrap the rest, because their dedicated "loader" is convinced that everything won't fit. So if we could just indicate what we want to take with and what to leave it would help. F.......................K!
You panic, you remain calm, you panic, you look for someone to blame, you phone the shipping company head office, you blast the poor secretary who sounded too blasé in answering the phone in the first place. She promises that the relevant person will phone you back. They don't. You panic some more. The supervisor asks you again, should they continue wrapping or leave it?
At this point you reach enlightenment and realise the value of non-attachment. You decide that you are not attached to your identity of being a nice person and just have to deal with this crisis that seems to be of monumental proportions.
So, half the container is loaded with amorphous blobs, contents diverse and unspecified. What is left to be loaded is all presumably valuable, useful, sentimental - after all, why otherwise would you have kept it? Something has to give. You have no time to decide, for as you are thinking about it, the packers are loading blobs into the container, slowly filling it up, possibly with stuff of lower priority than the stuff that won't fit in the end. You are on a rollercoaster and cannot get off. The only way out is through. Make a decision with insufficient information, and deal with the consequenses. Then do it again, and again, and again.
It is now half past 11 at night. I had my sparkling wine today at 10pm while writing this post. It was a lovely wine. What pleasure one can find in small mercies.
Willem
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
