Moving house

Moving house is traumatic, to say the least. It is even more traumatic when there are logistical complications that would even challenge an air traffic controller…I’m referring to all the stuff that has to be sent to three different houses at different intervals, all linked and related to each other. And then, there is Sumithra. My lovely gem of a housekeeper, who has decided that SHE would be the station manager, the chief cook and bottlewasher, of this operation. She is packing things in boxes faster than any automated packing robot in any factory anywhere. The problem is that things are disappearing as if into some sort of black hole…now you see it, now you don’t. I’m at the point where I’m hiding my underwear…I might have to walk around without briefs tomorrow at the rate she’s going on. Relentless. No rest. No relaxation. “Madam, what I pack next?”
Well, I have to relate a few Sumithra stories. She was a security guard in Sri Lanka many years ago and left her family to look for work as housemaid. She’s worked in Singapore, Saudi, Oman, Kuwait, Egypt and the Emirates. She is the most fantastic cook and produces lovely light puff pastries, curries, Chinese dishes, KFC type chicken. She even makes barbequed chops, sosaties, kebabs and other fantastic meats. I often come home to the smell of a “braaivleis” fire. She makes stuffed chicken, briyani, pancakes, oats bisquits, fudge, cakes of all sorts…the list continues. But o dear, don’t interfere in her kitchen because she regards any attempt at help as a sign that she’s not needed anymore. So, I’m not allowed to wash dishes (Last time a huge drama) . Any friend who cooks becomes a big threat. “What if the madam doesn’t like my food anymore”, quickly becomes “the madam doesn’t like my food anymore” becomes,”My madam is going to fire me’ BIG TRAUMA!!!
Sumithra once told me (the day before my parents were due to arrive and I was busy reading a book)“Madam, no more laziness in this house. Your mama (my mother) is coming.”Once, in absolute hysterics, she ran to me and grabbed me by the hand:“Madam, madam, come quickly. We have automatic tree!” (Sumitrha loves gardening, and even managed to produce lovely big pumpkins and tomatoes in the desert sand).“Automatic tree,Sumithra?”, I replied as I was being dragged through the house into the blinding hot sun.“Yes, madam”, she pointed to some kind of a shrub with lovely purple flowers that had mysteriously started growing in the garden.“See, it is total automatic! No planting, no watering, it grow automatically”.From then on we’ve been referring to all the “automatics” in our garden.
I’ve diverged again. Let me get back to moving. I’ve been writing about this topic regularly, but do feel I have to explore it a bit further. Yesterday, everyone that I’d contacted regarding the telephone, internet connection, satellite connection, furniture delivery etc suddenly decided that they had to do their jobs on the spot. I was driving up and down like a maniac. Furthermore, I had to transport my teenage son to school TWICE. He’s writing his final Cambridge A-level exams, AND GOT THE TIME WRONG! Fortunately he thought he was writing in the morning, and it was only in the afternoon, and not vice versa. O yes, I forgot, Sumithra had taken ALL of Peter’s toys (6 years’ worth) and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor. “Madam must choose. I don’t understand these toys”. So, I’ve been sitting for hours, laboriously sorting out little animals and big animals, little men and big men, LEGO, Megablocks, construction sets, cars…good grief. Why do I do this, I ask myself. Why did I buy all these toys? Why do I allow myself to be manipulated, cajoled, pushed…I have never seen anything like it. Half of it will GO. Today. It is completely and utterly ridiculous.
We have to make headway today. I’m fed up. Little bits of little bits everywhere. Boxes full of stuff. It reminds me of the song…Little boxes on the hillside…Amazing how you can “box up” your life. How you can sit with one box, packed by a person who doesn’t really know your life, and be transported back into your past. How each item, whether it is a post card or a photograph, a book, some kind of nicknack, can just take you there on its Aladdan’s carpet. I’ve been travelling back through my memories the last few days. I’ve been reminded of arriving here…of the places I’ve travelled to…the jobs I’ve had…the houses I’ve lived in. I’ve been reminded of my job as principal of Future International School, of the fire in our house, of my ex-husband, of hopes and dreams, friends long gone. And at the end of this exploration through a box full of memories, unknowingly gathered together by an eager and loving Sri Lankan woman, I realise why they say that moving is a traumatic journey, because you are confronted by your life. It is a serious shift out of your comfort zone! You are forced to deal with things, face evidence of your life lived often in disarray? But it is also a wonderful opportunity to reflect on who you are, and what you’ve become.
So, hard as it may be, it is sometimes necessary.