I’m living in a compound. Mostly British, Pakistani and South Africans. And the South Africans are mostly black nurses. You can spot them a mile away, these big mamas. I greet them friendly and with enthusiasm. There were three walking behind me the other day, chatting in their own language. It sounded so familiar and made me feel quite homesick.
The area we live in is one big sprawl. Its high in a mountainous region - dry and dusty and all monotone. Contrary to what I had imagined, it is not very pretty. I live in a compound where we are quite isolated. There should be around 100 people here, but you never really see anyone. Sometimes it looks like a ghost town. There are almost no cars in the compound. We rely on busses to get anywhere. They stop at the gate outside the compound. Although there is a schedule, busses come and go as they please. You can sit for hours just waiting. Never mind African time. The only thing that is punctual, is prayer-times. (and even that changes)
This morning we went to the local stores. Had to take a bus and waited for an hour coz the scheduled one didn’t show up. You simply get use to waiting. Went to the equivalent of our R5-shops (One Pound shops in the UK). You can buy jolly nice things - all made in China or India. Locals and foreigners frequent it. It's like shopping at Chinatown or the Oriental Plaza. Could become quite addictive. The kind of retail therapy that I can afford. Lucky me! The only restriction would be that everything has to be carried back. It takes some planning.
In one store I noticed bundles of firewood tied together with wire - exactly as my father would do it. I picture him at the fireplace outside where he constantly finds reason to light a fire. I pray that God will allow me time to share that one more time.
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