Somewhere South of Here_William Kowalski: A Book Review

Last December I came across  William Kowalski. I started on his book, Somewhere South of Here,on the eve of my 35th birthday which was effectively the 3rd Dec. 2010, nevertheless I was up all night all night reading, falling intermittently into fits of giggles and the 4th - D-day dawned without having slept a wink

I was completely taken by this story, there is something about his style that reminds me of conversations I've had with some of my white SA male friends. That is an odd statement I know but there is just something in the way he tells his story that is so incredibly hilarious, very down to earth and yet quietly confident. I think  it's his "familiar" tone that endears him to the reader and if you've ever watched the main character in the South African movie Faith Like Potatoes, I think you'll have a good idea of what I mean. This book feels warm, comfortable with generous dollops of great humour.

Here’ a little extract from the book I read titled: Somewhere South of Here, he writes about a young New Yorker's journey  to finding his natural Mexican mother and the young man is narrating:

“That is, I didn’t know who half of me was, the half that came from my mother, neither for that fact, did grandpa. I was delivered to him in a picnic basket – a fact of which I was always slightly ashamed, until he reminded me that Moses had arrived in a basket and so had numerous other notable people throughout history. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, there was a fine tradition associated with baskets. This happened when I was a few weeks old: my arrival I mean. Presumably I was put in that basket by my mother on that strange morning in 1970. I must have known her a short time, but of course I don’t remember anything from those days, and Grandpa never even got a glimpse of her as she dropped me off on the back steps and promptly fled the scene.”

Promptly fled the scene! Someone else may not find this funny but this is my family. This happened to my cousin who was dropped of in just such a manner by his mother at my grans, and only met her in his twenties too. I imagined my own father whom I have never met (except at conception) doing the same thing: skulking around as he went about trying to dispose of me, had he been in such a predicament. It's the first time I've laughed so hard at the deplorably tragic circumstance of my paternity.

I’ve actually just noted that he writes: Grandpa – is he South African as I suspect or is that my imagination over doing it again? But I am betting I am right this time. 

Ok, the end becomes a bit of an anti-climax for me because it doesn't end in the same explosive note it took off with but neither is it disastrous....I'd say it has more of a.......predictable end.