The three women initially obstinately ignored our greetings and simply walked down the middle of the road as if it belonged to them. But Mr Bright Shoes and old Smiley were friendly from the start. So was Howard with his crippled leg and walking stick.
In fact, he took the greetings so seriously that he set himself up as my personal mussel dealer. He and his bag of mussels now wait for us near the beach after low tide every morning, hoping for a lift. At first he seemed to think I ought to buy his harvest every time, but after some negotiations he understood that there are only so many mussels a person can eat. Now he is mostly satisfied with just being able to hitch a lift.
But Howard can hardly be described as reserved. Every chance he gets, he reminds me that the mussels are twice as expensive in Port Edward. And yes, he now also waves to other people. King of the mussels.
My granddaughter and I have been driving down a winding road under an arch of milkwood trees every morning for the past year, to her school near the lighthouse.
Where we used to live in the mountain valley in Mpumalanga, everyone on the farm road greeted one another.
‘Why don’t the people here greet us?’ she asked on the first day.
‘Because they have different customs.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know.'
‘Then we need to teach them.’
