Carol’s Column

Ag shame for a world which is oh so deprived

Compared with South Africa, the world is deprived. The British are deprived. So, in fact, are Americans and Portuguese.

I've always suspected this but it was brought home to me with a bang this week when I read the following reports.

The first concerned a young man called Craig Daniel who organised a special gala show to be held on Republic Day for expatriate South Africans living in England. Last year, the enterprising Mr Daniel arranged for a Currie Cup final to be shown live to homesick expats and they flocked to watch Natal knock the hell out of Northern Transvaal.

The response overwhelmed Craig and he decided that this year, he'd have a South African-style party to celebrate Republic Day.

So in England, expats ate kilometres of boerewors, braaied mealies and listened to comedian Joe Parker telling Van der Merwe jokes.

The second report concerned Portugal, where South African expatriates were so miserable, that funnyman Eddie Eckstein, and some boerewors, flew across to the Algarve to entertain them.

They came from all over Portugal, and even Spain, to see and taste a little bit of South Africa.

Meanwhile, my personal experiences confirm that deprivation exists in these countries.

"Ma, Alan's coming to London," said my second-youngest son, presently studying there.

"Won't you give him a few things for me."

"Of course," I replied to Ralph. What mother wouldn't respond to a plea from a child far across the sea.

"So, what do you want?" I asked.

"Nothing much. Biltong, chutney, some Peppermint Crisps, dried mangoes, koeksisters, paw paw and lime atchar, and a packet of mealie meal."

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Well, I'd love the latest Mango Groove and Johnny Clegg tapes," he added.

My poor deprived son. Plucked from the heart of his family, all alone in London, sitting under pissy-grey skies, eating soggy Yorkshire pudding.

Not for him deep blue skies, a warming sun, the smell of sizzling boerewors and the sight of Western Province playing magnificent rugby under the oaks at Newlands.

Not for him the open veld, a weekend in the Kruger Park with hyenas snuffling his sleeping bag and being woken by the trumpeting of an elephant.

I packed a small parcel for Alan to take to Ralph. It weighed 43kg. No matter, he could take it as hand luggage.

Then my oldest unmarried son phoned from Buffalo, USA.

"Ma, you'll never guess what happened this morning," he said.

"What?" I prompted.

"This morning I got out of bed, chipped the frost from the curtains and prised the window open. And there, in the sky, was the sun."

"The sun!"

"The sun," he confirmed. "I was so happy that I immediately rushed outside and began jumping up and down. My neighbours think I'm mentally deranged. They don't realise how deprived they are living in a sunless world."

I was silent, my heart filled with sorrow at the thought of my poor, cold little lad. "Ma," he added, "I thought you could post me a few things."

"sure, sure," I said eagerly.

"I'd like some biltong, some chutney, some Peppermint Crisps and even a packet or two of dried mangoes," he said. "And if you're not using that big, old, double-bed duvet, perhaps you could send that too."

"Don't Americans have duvets?" I asked in surprise.

"No, not like the fat, fluffy South African ones," he replied.

Yes, there's no doubt the rest of the world is deprived. Life without biltong, boerewors, mealie meal, mangoes, koeksisters and a fat, fluffy South African duvet is like pap without sauce. Dry and boring.

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