Out of Sync

Out of Sync

a memoir

by Belinda Nicoll

Copyright 2012 Belinda Nicoll

Smashwords Edition

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Illustration copyright 2012 Stuart Taylor: all rights reserved. No part of the illustration may be reproduced by any means now known or hereafter invented without the written consent of the copyright holder.

Disclaimer: While all of the incidents in this book are true, some of the names and personal characteristics of the entities involved have been changed in order to protect their privacy.

ISBN

Cover design by Yi Kim.

Dedication

To my husband, Bruce,

and my children, Warrick and Juanita,

with love.

When you look at the events of the past,

you see the meaning they give to the present.

Prologue

I took a deep breath and twirled slowly to view myself in the mirror. Tight, black leather pants were offset against a glitzy, gold-flecked knitted top with fake fur trim around the collar and cuffs. A leopard-print hat completed my outrageous outfit. I lifted my chin and winked at myself. Okay then, let the future begin!

As I watched the reflected image—fine, blonde hair, green eyes, dimples below high cheekbones, and a sharp chin—a familiar sensation passed through me, a realization of my body being just a fraction of my self. Although I had embraced the concept of soul awareness only late in life, my fascination with the ethereal body had started in childhood; I would make eye contact with myself in the mirror, wondering about my inner being, hoping it would show itself if I held my gaze long enough.

The sound of wood scraping against glass drew my gaze to the giant blue gum close to the bedroom window. The tree stretched higher than my partner’s fourth-level art deco condo. I soaked up the sight of the sprawling branches etched against the winter twilight, relishing the illusion of living in a tree house. It stirred up memories of a six-year-old me climbing a weeping willow to jump from the top branch into a muddy dam; doing equestrian vaulting on my Shetland pony after Boswell Wilkie Circus had been to town; fishing tadpoles and frogs from a river; dancing with a make-believe Serpent Goddess—my childhood on our farm in Magaliesburg, a village in the vicinity of the Cradle of Humankind, where humanoid fossils dating back three million years had been found. I still had a soft spot for this rural area that embodied the rich and fascinating history of South Africa.

Through the blue gum’s branches I could see Johannesburg’s lights glimmering in the distance. My legs felt hollow at the thought of leaving it all behind—the bright, star-gazing winter nights and the hot summers when the streets were paved with purple Jacaranda blossoms. I was already missing the friends who had shared my milestones, not to mention the pains of the multiethnic strife that had become a part of our nation’s social DNA. My family. My children.

I heard the swish of Juanita’s shoes on the carpet as she came rushing down the passage, and I closed the curtains with a quick yank.

Are you ready? asked my eighteen-year-old daughter. We’ve got to go.

Turning my attention back to the mirror, I fluffed and sprayed my hair once more. Oh crap, it looks worse than a bird’s nest.

You look great.

Whatever possessed me to dress like this?

Because you didn’t want to look like an ordinary bride. She tapped her watch. For heaven’s sake, hurry up—we’re late!

You’re such a bossy bridesmaid. I twirled and gasped one last time before rushing out the apartment into the next phase of my life.

Juanita opened the passenger door of my white Nissan Sentra, and I took care to ease into the car without splitting a seam. As my daughter drove me to my wedding, my heart pounded unevenly: thumps of joy interspersed with throbs of sadness. The event marked our parting—in a couple of weeks I’d be following my new husband to America for the sake of pursuing his advertising career abroad; she would set off on a one-year adventure in Germany to work as an au pair before returning home to start her studies in occupational therapy.

Clearing her throat, Juanita looked at me askew. I can’t believe you’re marrying Bruce.

I wiggled uncomfortably on the seat. So much for vowing never to marry again…hardly a year after the divorce, and I’m on my way to the altar.

What really made me uneasy, though, was putting my own career in advertising on hold when, at forty, I should rather have been taking it to the top. Then again, Bruce had promised it would just be for a year or two while he earned some dollars. We’ll quickly apply for green cards to get you working again. And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll come back, he’d said.

Juanita laughed. You’ll love the way he has art directed the venue. She parked the car at the curb outside a rambling mansion in Forest Town, an affluent suburb on the border of the Johannesburg Zoo.

Bruce had wanted an eclectic backdrop for our wedding, touches of various belief systems to reflect our holistic sentiments. A celebration under the African night sky so we can wave to the moon and blow kisses at the stars, he’d said. We’ll have all the feng shui elements present: fire, earth, metal, water, wood. It’ll be perfect. Close friends of his had offered their beautiful home, so he’d set about creating an altar in the garden and a party area on the patio next to the swimming pool.

It was perfect, all right. Juanita and I walked through the fortress-like wooden gate onto a fabulous scene: candles glowing in paper bags lined the avenue to the house and the paths to the garden; fire pits were dotted around to counter the winter chill, and strings of fairy lights enhanced the festivity; the altar displayed flowers and greenery, candles in medieval candelabras, a cross, and other sacred paraphernalia. The entire area was strewn with sunflower petals.

Bruce met me halfway down the avenue, dressed in an informal suit: dark trousers, yellow jacket, golden tie, and a Moroccan fez he’d brought back from a temporary stay in Saudi Arabia. My body tingled all over when I saw his sparkly eyes and gorgeous smile. Holding hands, we walked down the improvised aisle, lined with familiar faces. We stopped halfway to watch my twenty-year-old son, Warrick, and his best friend perform a fire dance in our honor. As he twirled and juggled the shimmering flame, I imagined an invisible thread connecting me to my free-spirited son. Memories flashed by of the time I nearly lost him as a sickly newborn. I blew him a kiss and got a smile beaming with affection.

Bruce and I took our places in front of the altar. Our friends and families gathered tightly around us. A mutual friend and ordained minister, a guru who ran a self-empowerment workshop called Magica, conducted the ceremony. We repeated the marriage vow after him: I promise to love and support you as best I can. Warrick and Juanita handed us the rings. To a new life, together, Bruce said. Forever, I added. We kissed and rose petals rained down upon us.

We moved to the top terrace patio, where the food and drinks were set out. Amid copious toasts, each guest tied a prayer string to a dream catcher I had made from cotton, bird feathers, and crystal beads—an inexpert replica, but a special ritual all the same. We danced to our DJ’s world music collection until, shortly before midnight, Juanita tugged at my sleeve.

Come quickly, she said. Rinki is acting strange.

Rinki was Bruce’s housekeeper. Her Zulu name, Busisiwe, meant she’s been blessed. Except now it seemed like she might’ve attracted an evil spell. She was pacing up and down next to the altar, tugging at her Afro hairstyle and muttering in a language that sounded way more alien than Zulu. I noticed her wild tear-filled eyes when I got up close. As I reached out to touch her, she drew her breath in with a sharp wheeze. Her body stiffened like a rod.

The bad one’s coming…no, my mother’s not dead…take me home, she wailed.

Call Bruce, I said. She’s had too much of something again.

As Bruce led Rinki away to take her back to the servant quarters at his Killarney apartment, the lions from the zoo across the road started roaring. The hollow sensation returned to my legs. The moment felt surreal, like I had one foot on stable ground and the other dangling over an abyss. I shrugged off the foreboding. Life had to take me where I needed to go.

*****

Bruce and I kept squeezing just one more farewell party into our tight timetable those next weeks until the last day before leaving. I took great care mentally cling-wrapping every face, every smile, every conversation, every tear to make sure I’d preserve the precious memories for as long as I could.

I had reserved the airport send-off for my children. Juanita’s departure was scheduled two hours ahead of our own, allowing me to see her off safely like a good mother should. However, shortly after we arrived at the airport, the public address system blared the details of her flight’s delay. Suddenly, I was no longer seeing my daughter off; I was leaving her behind.

Warrick pulled me toward him with a firm hug. Look after yourself, Mom. I’ll miss you. Juanita will be all right. I’ll stay with her until she checks in.

I took strength from his composure to take my leave from Juanita. I saw my misgivings in her eyes. She was only eighteen! Tears were spilling down our cheeks. I turned up the volume of the mantra in my head: She’s leaving home, anyway; she’s leaving home, anyway.

I planted kisses all over her face. Let me know that you’ve arrived safely. Have lots of fun. Make this the best year of your life.

I waved to them. Goodbye, my darlings. I’ll miss you. I love you. Write lots. I’ll write lots too.

Bruce put his arm around my shoulder, ushering me through security.

I turned around one last time, for one more wave, one more promise. It’s only for a year; see you in a year from now.

South Africa

Chapter 1

It’s not unusual for South Africans to leave their native land in search of freedom and prosperity elsewhere. Since the fifteenth century, when our mineral-rich country was first discovered by European traders, our history has been composed of Dutch colonization, British occupation, slave trade, two Anglo-Boer wars, many tribal wars, drought, floods, poverty, starvation, industrialization, urbanization, racial segregation, global economics, and international meddling. People come and go all the time—some by choice, others not.

During apartheid the outside world described South Africa as a deeply divided multiracial society of great complexity. That was no overstatement. Even the white bourgeoisie was split between Afrikaans and English, like a marriage without commitment. And non-whites comprised a multitude of ethnic groups: Zulus, Xhosas, Sothos, Tswana, Swazis, Vendas, Ndebeles, and Shangaan, plus Indians—all with their unique languages, tribal traditions, and cultural idiosyncrasies. Sadly, until now little thought has been given in local history annals and foreign media reports of the real indigenous people of Southern Africa—the bushmen who were enslaved and driven off their land by the white European settlers advancing from the south and the black tribes migrating from the north. Exiled in resettlement camps in Botswana, they’re appealing for help by whatever means they can. One website’s headline reads, I want 2 go home.

There was a time when I had wanted to get the hell out of the country as much as anyone else who felt scandalized by the past and fearful of the future. But that option was mostly open to the oppressed who qualified for political exile or those nationals who also held British and other foreign citizenship. The rest of us, deservedly, had to face the consequences of forty years of political injustice that ranged from petty laws excluding blacks and coloreds from privileges whites could take for granted (like a decent education) to atrocities, such as flogging a worker for disobeying some senseless rule and police raids on sleepy villages under the pretext of protecting the regime from political activists.

Opposition to the brutal apartheid laws was dealt with swiftly. Freedom fighters, like Nelson Mandela, were banned, arrested, and imprisoned. But the racism started backfiring in the seventies, and when black protests met with fierce resistance from the ruling Nationalist Party, things turned bad. The two main rebel factions, the ANC (African National Congress) and the PAC (Pan-Africanist Congress), joined in an armed struggle that escalated to sabotage and terrorist attacks against all civilians. Violence and hatred between right-wing racists and left-wing revolutionaries raged until the early nineties.

Then all that grandiose entitlement on the side of the privileged few and the bitter resentment and revenge fantasies of the underprivileged majority just evaporated, thanks to Nelson Mandela’s forgiving spirit which turned South Africa in an about-face and diverted a civil war. Suddenly, we could hold our heads high. The peaceful change of power in South Africa was so miraculous it should have been declared a New Wonder of the World. Despite years of international pressure to reform, in the end that transition came, mostly, from the heart. President de Klerk’s announcement of Mandela’s release from prison after twenty-seven years set off scenes we’d never witnessed before: blacks celebrating in the streets of Johannesburg, whites dabbing tears from their eyes, hugging and hand-shaking across the color line, all of us singing Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika (God Bless Africa in Xhosa).

I’m not saying there were no murmurs of Oh phooey, there goes the good times. For some, the euphoria and good intentions lasted only as long as the coming-out party. More than twenty years later, that ambivalence is still hanging in the air like the smell of boerewors on a barbeque, as is the pollution generated by the squatter lifestyle of the poor—these days, on both sides of the color line.

When I did leave in 2001 it was by virtue of love, even though the sanity of the Mandela era had worn off and mindless crime was causing people to leave in droves—the trademark of a post-apartheid government that was either condoning chaos or incapable of controlling it. My new husband’s reason for relocating to the United States was simple: he wanted to cash in on the promise of the Land of Opportunity. The currency trade was favorable for earning dollars and converting them to rand and his skills were in demand. He had worked in Italy, Spain, and the Middle East, so he was no newcomer to this type of commercial exchange. By then the global economy had become the new planet of the universe—people from all over the world were migrating every which way to benefit from the latest trend in free enterprise.

Seeing that I was freshly divorced, at the midlife mark, and facing an empty nest, moving abroad with my new husband seemed like an exciting continuation of my transformation, even if my heart was set against abandoning my family. Besides, I believe in synchronicity: a Jungian notion that life is not just a series of unconnected incidents but rather a network of cosmic consciousness. Or per my mother’s favorite saying: To understand where you’re heading, you have to remember where you come from.

*****

I left my country heedless of the possibility that I might never return. Ten years later, I appreciate the unforeseen trajectory of my life—before and after my relocation to America—in terms of certain phases, each composed of the gains and losses that affected me. I can finally accept the consequence of my expatriation seeing as the nagging sense of not belonging really stems from childhood. These days, being rootless is an integral part of how I choose to be.

Growing up, South Africa had as many facades as my family had quirks. As the youngest child, I had always felt like the laatlammetjie who did not quite fit into the kraal. I was born in the late 1950s in a famous mining village. My father, a burly man with piercing blue eyes and a booming voice, worked as a rigger at the Premier Diamond Mine in Cullinan, where the world’s biggest diamond had been found: the 3,106 carat Cullinan Diamond, pieces of which were set in the British Crown Jewels. Despite his belief in racial segregation, he was known by his black mining team as The White Lion, a symbol of courage he’d earned for his fierce protection of their well-being in the treacherous mines. When he died from a heart attack in 1991, I chose to remember him as a complex soul with callused mine-rigger hands who would weep at the beauty of the stars.

I guess that’s what younger generations do—they forgive the sins of the fathers, because they love their families.

I joined the Basson flock four years after my youngest brother, Michael. Three other brothers, Arnold, Andre, and Jan, were the rungs higher up in the ladder that led to my sister, Veronica, at the top. Although my father insisted on naming the boys after ancestral family members, my mother favored film-star names for her girls. Mine was inspired by Belinda Lee, the British actress who rose to stardom in the movie Dangerous Exile in the year of my birth. Perhaps my soft-spoken mother had a premonition that I would be destined for either stardom or exile, since she knew how Fate worked: picking up a penny meant you would have good luck, while bad luck was sure to befall you if you passed underneath a ladder; and she’d always remind us to take care whenever the thirteenth day of the month fell on a Friday.

Although I had a perfectly delightful nickname—Lindy—my siblings liked to call me Little Miss Nuisance. But I did come in handy at times, they acknowledged, especially for our weekly movie treat when my mother sent the six of us off with a few shillings. Veronica, being the eldest and always acting like the queen of the castle, would request only five tickets at the booth. Jan, the second-in-command, took charge of buying our Coca Cola, Willards Chips, Beacon Licorice Allsorts, and Chappies Bubble Gum. Of course, one less ticket meant a lot more snacks, but it also meant I had to sit on their laps throughout the movie. Taking ten-minute turns, they’d whisper, Time’s up, and pass me from one lap to the next. Starting with Veronica, my journey would go like this: Don’t tell mom, okay? Then Jan: Sit still, dammit. Andre, who was the family’s joker, would always rock me on his knee, pinching my bottom or pulling my ear every now and then to make me giggle. From there I’d be passed to Arnold (the family’s hoity-toity artist): Don’t you dare pee on me, he’d say. I’d end with Michael, also known as Shorty: I can’t see, he’d whine, moving me this way and that, and before his ten minutes were over I’d go back to the don’t-you-dare-pee-on-me lap, and back up the row I’d travel.

Whenever the story is told at family reunions, my siblings crack up laughing, seemingly unaware of their unfair behavior at the time and the embarrassment it still causes me. But they tell it so lovingly, it’s easy to laugh with them. Besides, memories like those are the contours that shape my map of the world; they give insight into my actions, values, and beliefs; they tell me who I am. Living on different continents means family reunions can no longer be taken for granted, causing me to crave those reminders of the past even more.

*****

When I turned six, shortly after my sister’s wedding, all of us except she and her husband moved to a farm outside the village of Magaliesburg, an area surrounded by mountains, valleys, rivers, trees, and small wildlife. My father’s long-awaited dream. My fantasy. That part of my childhood (until my twelfth year) was so removed from reality I might as well have grown up in the Other World. I remember living by the motto run free, play hard, and imagine the impossible. It’s that world I still escape to in my mind whenever life turns unkind—my favorite playground, where the Magalies River soaked the lower rim of our farm; where the wind and clouds gathered round the poplars and kiepersols to chitchat with the loeries and sparrows; where the sun and rain teased the meerkatte, rabbits, and porcupines from their burrows; where I built fortresses of sticks and stones with my best friends, Charlot and Evelyn; where I could just be, whatever I wanted to be.

I’ll never forget the good times I had with Charlot and Evelyn. We grew up practically like sisters. Their parents were our farm workers, and the family lived in a stone and mud house at the foot of the koppie behind our homestead. They were different from my other friends—they didn’t question the existence of the Serpent Goddess (an imaginary snake charmer who acted as my spirit guide), and they were black. My father said they were black because Africa was black and that black people had been around much longer than we had.

We fitted well together. Charlot was one year older than I and I was one year older than Evelyn. The world was our playground. We always danced with the Serpent Goddess at sunrise, play-acting our worship of nature. During the day, we hid in caves and dongas. At night, we stalked rabbits and counted the stars in the heavens. We played other games too. One incident stands out in my mind, because it’s so telling of the cultural intricacies of that time. The three of us were sitting under the willow next to the dam, paging through my mother’s Huisgenoot magazine.

Charlot tapped on a page, saying, Look at the princess…ooh, so beautiful.

Don’t be silly, man, I said. That’s a bride; my sister dressed like that when she got married.

I wanna be a bride, she said, cooing like a turtle dove.

Me too, Evelyn said. Let’s make a wedding.

We’ll need music and food, I said.

We’ll need a dress, Charlot cooed again, still tapping the picture.

A plan started germinating in my head. "Okay…tomorrow…let’s play at your kaia. You get the food; I’ll get the dress. We can make music with sticks and tins."

I could hardly wait to get