This last week saw the start of the Edinburgh Festival 2008. It's hard to explain the incredible size and excitement of it. The festival completely takes over the entire city for all of August, whilst the population of the city grows to literally 3 times it's size. The buses are busier, the pubs are busier, the streets are busier, and you right off the fact that a trip through central will ever be a quick experience during this time. It's extremely festive. People flock from all over the world which means that every time you walk along the streets you hear another language being spoken. In fact, just yesterday I was walking along George Street (the most prestigious street in Edinburgh - all business like and commercial) and I heard a group of woman speaking Zulu. It was pretty wicked. So here are the photos from the opening parade that runs all through the main streets of the city, as well as an embedded video of the starting lines of the parade - bag pipes, of course. It's a great time to be living in Edinburgh. Photos here.

Edinburgh Festival Parade 2008 from Ducklight Travels on Vimeo.

This morning I overslept, and got into work 1:45 minutes late. I opened my Gmail in time to see a friend’s status saying ‘Happy Birthday Madiba’. Since then I have done little work, instead watching footage of the 46664 concert, birthday wishes for Madiba, the Asimbonanga video in Frankfurt, and trying not to cry at my desk (and failing).

Today, I want to be at home, with other people for whom today has the same meaning that it has for me. For all that I am happy, I wish I was driving along the N1 with the dusty South African winter passing my window.

Instead, as a form of catharsis, I will write about my memories of Mandela- few and small as they are compared to the memories and knowledge of some.

I was 7 when Mandela was freed from jail. I remember sitting on the floor, watching TV with my mom and my sister. Do I remember him thrusting his hand skywards, or do I just think I do because of the images of the day that abound? I remember the texture of the carpet, and the anticipation.

I had been watching a video at school, and I rushed out to the car to greet my mom, that day in 1992. She was a bit late, because she had been voting in the referendum. I remember her using that word. My mom was in educational book publishing and didn’t believe in talking down to children. “What is a referendum mom?” “It’s a yes/ no vote.” “ What about?” “To ask white people if they want the changes in South Africa to keep happening.”

We stayed up late to watch the Olympic opening ceremony. The parade of nations got pretty boring after a while- I think countries beginning with a ‘A’ get the best deal. Grandad was selected for the Olympics, for weight lifting. That was the year we got banned, so Grandad always tells us. Suddenly it gets to the ‘S’s…I am so excited. “South Africa.” The crowd roars…the tempo lifts palpably, noticeable even to a little girl thousands of kilometres away. The world applauds us and welcomes us back.

We went to the voting station with my mom, because she wanted us with her, and because she didn’t want us to stay at home. The line went for about 5 blocks. Two enterprising teenage boys from one of the houses that the queue was slowly snaking past had bought take away pizza and were selling it off at the ridiculous price of R5 per slice to a captive audience. Everyone was in a really good mood, in spite of the heat, in spite of the hours on our feet. Black and white people lined up next to each other to vote. Is it possible to convey how significant that was? Better people than I have tried. Angie and I ran down to the corner shop to buy Coke and chips. We shared them with mom and the lady standing behind us in the line.

We watched the inauguration on tv. The union buildings, where we often went when we went to visit Granny and Grandpa (and would sometimes get bought a quick-melting ice cream!) was packed with people, rows upon rows of people, all cheering, all in the sun, and the heat, waiting to see the new nation begin.

I love our new flag- it is so cool.

I had watched a few rugby games as World Cup Fever gripped SA. Claire-Marie and I watched the final in her lounge. I ate naartjies, convinced they were helping us to win. Claire’s family were sad- her sister was supposed to be one of the dancers in the opening, but she had been too ill. Claire and I were un-affected, with the unselfconsciousness of our 12 year old’s grasp of propriety. Our eyes were glued on Joost, not wanting him to get hurt. Willing James to tackle Jomo and keep him down. Nail biting. Naartjie after naartjie- what if I stopped eating them and we lost? We won! Mandela presented Francois with the trophy. Claire and I went out into her front garden to do cartwheels. The streets were at a standstill with hooting cars- later the same would happen with the African Cup of Nations, but this time vuvuzelas would mingle to create the music of an elated people.

Natasha, Tanja and I are at Natasha’s aunt and uncle’s house. “Did you send an sms for Mandela’s birthday?” Tush asks me. “Yes- but I kept it very simple. Just ‘Happy Birthday Madiba. God bless and have many more. Love Jenny”.
“ Not me,” Natasha says “I got quite emotional, saying ‘Thank you for sending our country on its way to democracy…”

Today- grey skies. I slept past my alarm clock. I got to work late. My eyes are teary. I wish I had baked a cake. I wish I could share with someone how much today means. I listen to Asimbonanga, Impi, Scatterlings of Africa and others on Youtube. I watch the video of Madiba on stage in Frankfurt. I want to cry for our country, and our people, for being so far away but for always having Africa in my heart.

Mandela is an icon, but the key thing about him is it feels like each one of us carries a piece of him- a quote, a special memory, the image of Madiba shirts hanging in OR Thambo- in our hearts. Not only does he remind the world that we count, that we mean something, but in some small way, his birthday has the power to bring me home.

Happy birthday Madiba. God bless you.

We took a weekend trip to the Czech Republic and spent a few days in Prague. What an incredible city with unparalleled architecture as we as beer prices! The photos just can never do such a beautiful city justice. Next time you're planning a trip make sure that Prague is one of the destinations - a real pearler. Check out the photos here.

Three months worth of digging around for information to prove Jen and my relationship and it all came down to one day. Last week Friday, 20th June 2008, was the set date for the application to be submitted by my lawyer, on my behalf. He gets to explain all the goods and bads about the application to the officer rather than myself and that's definitely a good thing because of all his experience with applications such as these. The paperwork was finalised last week when the last steps were taken to send through our passports to him in Glasgow, Royal Mail, special delivery. £5.05 later and I was given a tracking slip that would ensure my package was on his doorstep by 9am the following morning. Would I have trusted two passports and a 10-thick pile of legal documents in South African post? Most definitely not. Was I still unsure of the safety of it even with the Royal Mail special delivery stamp? For sure. It worked out okay though and just as promised the passports were with him the following day, just 24 hours prior to the application. Nail biting stuff.

Of course it was nail biting. Though the repercussions were never completely life or death, there were many parts to our lives that would be greatly affected by the outcomes of this application. If it was denied we would almost definitely be heading back to SA on a plane in August due to my inability to continue working in the UK on my working holidaymaker visa. It meant the loss of many thousands of pounds of potential earnings and savings. Not to mention our six month lease that we just signed in our new awesome penthouse flat, and my mobile, broadband and many other service contracts needing to be cut short. Knowing Britain, ending those contracts short would have been quite a costly exercise, coupled with the fact that... I'm just not ready to leave yet.

I'm not ready to leave it behind. As many posts before this have said, my views on the life that we have made over here have almost always been positive. We have established ourselves in a completely foreign country and we've built up comfortable lives over here even when faced against many difficult struggles. And it didn't just happen. We worked for it. I'm not the type of person who talks of fate, nor luck, very often. Just as I don't believe in our paths being out of our control, I don't believe that things just "happen for a reason". I damn well fought for this. I worked my butt off to make sure that I reached a stable position over here, I never accepted failure and I certainly didn't accept a half-ass effort. The position in life that I am currently in was worked for and wouldn't have been achieved by just sitting and waiting for it to fall on my lap. Our jobs, our flat, our friends, our trips away, our car, our gadgets, our lives... didn't just happen. We made them happen and just as we can take the credit for them, we can also take the blame.

That is why this application meant so much... it was the ability to continue on this path and keep up what we have worked so hard for. To have it declined and sent packing would've been to lose all that we had worked so hard for and just like all the adversity we've come up against so far, I wasn't going to fail. We called in favours, we had to use snail-mail (many many times), we dug through our personal lives, we got other people to dig through our personal lives, we were thorough and I didn't want to think for one second that I didn't do everything I could have possibly done to ensure it's success.

And just like our previous successes. My residency permit was approved. Within half an hour at the home office Richard called me and told me the good news - "We're about half way through the process now, they've just taken your passport and documentation away. It's all been approved." Can I explain the feeling when he uttered those words? Not a chance. For lack of a better saying, it was oodles of weight off my shoulders. Months of stress all bundled in to one package that fell from my shoulders and down the stairs I was standing next to as he told me that my permit was approved. A huge sigh of relief and the start of yet another chapter in our lives together. Another story to tell people about - another box ticked. After all, we worked for it and we succeeded.

(I was going to post a picture of the actual passport but then I decided that it may be a pretty controversial thing to have publicly available. Not to mention that I suddenly realised I would become one of those people who gave all their privacy data away just for a blog post.)

Muppet and Chicken met up for a man-weekend in the city of Amsterdam. They hired bikes and spoke Dutch. It was an epic time and whilst these were the documented images from my camera, Muppets "manual" cam hopefully captured some equally impressive shots. We must've ridden like 30 miles at least that weekend and drank our weight in beer. Amsterdam ftw.

Check out the pics here.

I awoke to Jen lying smiling next to me. She was softly telling me to wake up and get out of bed. It was far earlier than I usually wake up - my puffy face showed this. 7am. Rolling out of bed is still slightly disorientating – we have only been in our new flat for 3 nights now. Though it's strange not having Jack and Isje around anymore, the incredible flat always makes an attempt to make up for it. Breakfasting on your 4th floor penthouse balcony with views of all of Edinburgh including the famous centuries old Castle, can do that to you.

So, out of bed and into the shower. Jen leaves for work just minutes after my eyes have fully adjusted to the light. How strange that human beings wake up so early. My mind ponders early wake ups for a second whilst the water heats up to steamy. I don't think about it too long because my mind is packed full with all the logistics necessary over the forthcoming hour. The early wake up call was because of a meeting in Glasgow at 9:30am with Richard, an immigration lawyer. Richard will be the one who will solve all of my permit issues and will be instrumental in my not far off now application for an unmarried partner visa for the UK. He's tight with the home office and his services are almost mandatory when lodging an application such as this.

I make my way out of our new ensuite bathroom and, after I choose my clothes for the day, head straight to the cupboards which have been storing all of Jen and my “paper lives” for the last few days. The stack is intimidating. Three folders full of bank, mobile phone, and internet provider statements; pay slips, personal letters, photos together, cards and ticket stubs from previous travels. It's comprehensive. It's invasive. It tells a story - A story about us.

As I flick through each paper-separated month, I stumble upon nuggets of our personal paper trail – boarding passes from one of our trips to Italy; a stub from the Edinburgh Beltane fire festival; photos of us from Rhodes graduation; the card Jen gave me for my 21st birthday. It's been tough gathering all of this information and anyone who's been involved in that, and is reading this, I'd like to thank you again.

I'm running out of time so I stuff all the folders into my backpack, throw my Eee PC in the bag for good measure and dash downstairs to get my bike. I have only 20 minutes to cycle to the train station – there's no way I'll make the 8:31. I push myself – months of cycling has made me quite agile on my bike and I've learnt just how hard I can push myself and what my capabilities are. I ride up the large Edinburgh hills, sharing lanes with buses, cars and other cyclists. Skip the Leith walk turning circle – it will take too long. Almost there, just one hill to go. I know I've missed it when my cellphone alarm starts going off in my pocket – 8:30, my usual time to wake up. As it blurts out an irritating song, too tightly stuffed into my jeans to be able to be switched off whilst riding at the same time, I think about how much I sound like an ice cream truck driving, though cycling in my case, and wonder how feasible it would be to run an ice cream service on a bicycle. My mind wanders...

Once I lock up my bike and purchase my day return ticket to Glasgow, I grab a roll from the Upper Crust. £1.25 for a bottle of water – oh how they take advantage of the worker on the move. I make sure to be at the platform when the train arrives to ensure I get two seats for myself – I'll need the second one for the document sifting that will need to take place for the 45 minute duration of the journey. The train sets off and I text Richard to let him know which train I'm on.

I dig in straight away and amongst the sifting and sorting, I pause to take bites from my “Breakfast Bacon” roll. The journey progresses. By now I'm elbow deep in documentation ranging from personal bank statements to the invite I gave Jen for my 21st party. The British sitting around me seem to glance every so often at the piles of paper work surrounding me. I stop and think about whether they vaguely realise that all this paperwork is some (hopefully all) of the evidence necessary to grant me working rights in the UK. They most probably see the South African passport pop up every once in a while and curse under their breaths that it's “yet another immigrant. If it's not the Poles, it's the South Africans.” I chuckle to myself as I pass over the photo of our circle of friends at our Rhodes graduation as well as one of our hall balls. I ignore the people around me because they are not the people in the photos. I carry on sorting.

The meeting with Richard goes well – we chat for 2 hours about multiple scenarios which may arise from the outcomes of this application. Backup plans, forward plans, Stockholm in the Summer and Iceland in the winter. We move off from the Costa we'd sat down in and I head towards the train station to board the next service to Edinburgh Waverley. Now parted with all my documentation – so that Richard could look over it – the burden that the application has placed on myself, and Jen, is physically and metaphorically off my shoulders. The train ride back will be fruitful – with the Eee PC in my backpack I'll most certainly get enough time to write a story about the happenings of today and post it on Ducklight. And here it ends.

I will list them in order from most exciting to least exciting:

-I became an Aunt. Aunt Jen(bug). My sister Angie and Halfhaggis oversaw (and participated in) the birth of Jethro Guy yesterday. I have not seen a picture of him yet, but I am full of glee in welcoming him into this big, crazy world. It is, to use a completely over-used word, 'hectic' that I am now part of the second generation, that as of yesterday my sister and her husband will be parents for the rest of their lives, and that there is a tiny baby out there who shares at least some of my DNA. So, big ups to the whole new family. I will be praying for you guys. Good luck!

- I was retrenched and then un-retrenched. Both didn't happen simultaneously, obviously, but happened in close enough proximity that it was highly amusing. Hopefully I don't get re-retrenched, because losing the same job twice in one month can really get a girl down.

- I began to count down my time til I go back to SA for a whirlwind trip. Not really un-exciting, and clearly related to the first bit, but still deserving of its own little paragraph.

-I bleached the walls in the shower in preparation for the Big Move on Monday. Bleaching was in aid of the 'Please, we really need our deposit back' panic that besets all renters eventually.

-I got angry with Standard Bank. Trying to sort out Kylebug's visa has driven me inexorably into their awkward embrace, because they have documents that I need. However, unfortunately, they are not able to give me these documents, even though a 14 email long exchange ends by them guaranteeing that the documents were on their way. They weren't.

It is hard to think of something less exciting than dealing with Standard Bank, so I might have to end there.

Anyways, the main point of this post: wishing the best to Ang, Neil and Jethro!

Possibly the best band in the world, live in concert at one of their most recent gigs. They published it all live over a webcast. They're incredible. This concert is *just* like the one we went to in Glasgow. Sweden, we'll see you again soon.