Pink Shit and Popcorn

"Mal" about Amalfi

2011-10-23T21:40:00.002+02:00

Mafia, legendary pirate invasions, cliffs cascading into the horizon, plates of fresh pasta, Fiats, pottery made from Versuvius's volcanic rock, azure grottos and crazy bus drivers. Yes... we were finally on Italy's Amalfi coast!

Our first introduction to the UNESCO world heritage site and one of the most magnificent coastlines in the world was from the window of our easyJet flight. With Capri on the horizon, and if we overlooked the budget seats and lack of leg room, we could almost imagine being movie stars (I was definitely going to be on the look out for George Clooney). This was, in fact, my easyJet debut, and I had been completely unprepared for the improprietous stampede that followed the exit from the airport bus. Luckily my husband was a semi-experienced easyJetter and made a good job of making it up the stairs and securing us window seats away from the loos while I was still standing near the bottom of the plane wondering what the hell had happened.

Our taxi driver (Giovanni), having grown up in Sorrento, was well practiced in piloting down the winding roads that had been carved into the vertical cliffs, so we took off at an expected breakneck speed with him frequently taking his hands off the steering wheel so that he could wave them around at appropriate intervals while he regaled us with stories about Naples and his native coastline. Napoli is all about the Mafia, Versuvius and Margherita pizza, and we did not, unfortunately, have enough time to check it out or visit Pompeii.

Following some awesome stops at the stunning viewpoints, and a side-trip to taste some homemade strawberry liqueur and limoncello (always good before lunch), we were dispatched with a heartfelt "Grazie, arrivederci" at the bottom of the 414 steps we had to scale to reach our B&B, located in Arienzo, Positano, on a working farm that the family had owned for generations, and just under the famous "Walk of the Gods" (Sentiero degli Dei), where you have to (and we did) climb about 2000 steps to get to the top of the escarpment to look over the stupendous vistas. And, yes, the view was totally worth the cardiac arrhythmias and semi-paralytic gasping attacks we suffered.

The authenticity of the coast, with the little white houses stuck on to the cliffs as if by magic, the little fishing boats bobbing on the wave-less ocean, the little stores selling brightly-painted pottery and the total lack of eyesores (apparently the few large, ugly hotels that were built in the 70s were demolished), makes for a landscape almost too beautiful to be believed. And the best part is that you can feast your eyes and your tummy all at once because they have numerous bistros offering fresh pasta loaded with garlic, olive oil, fresh seafood and the reddest, ripest, most flavour-packed baby tomatoes with just a dusting of Parmesan.... and all washed down with a rich bottle of Chianti... and to end off: tirimisu, pannacotta, gelati, a cheese platter with figs, or a host of other delicious choices that are best complimented with Italian espresso... ...what more could you ever want to eat?

The bus schedule never running to time and us only being able to purchase tickets at random garages and mini-stores anyway, we often just did the suicidal walk along the single-doubling-unconvincingly-as-a-double-lane-road-without-an-emergency-lane "freeway" (both fast and with the drivers taking liberal freedoms with the rules of the road) instead. This seemed stupid, especially at night when one particularly rabid-looking dog seemed to take great joy in chasing us down the road, only re-treating when some mad driver came hurtling around the corner. But the buses seemed even more stupid. Seriously suicidal. The bus drivers seemed to concentrate more on styling their hair in the rear-view mirror than on the road, and were quite happy to negotiate sharp turns and blind corners with just a toot of the hooter, all the while chatting on their mobile phones or with the passengers behind them, hand-jestings and all. It was especially thrilling with a sheer cliff on the one side, which it felt like you were looking straight over when the bus cavorted around the bends, causing the entire carriage of the bus to slide horizontally. The bus ride on Capri was the most death-defying because the tiny orange vehicles that ferry tourists all over the island only have 6 seats in them so most of the time you are left standing, clinging for dear life onto the pole and the people around you and hoping that you weren't making the bus too top heavy as you watch your life continuously flash before you. I will never complain about minibus taxi drivers in South Africa ever again.

We visited the mountaintop villages of Nocelle and Ravello, ate at seaside restaurants with the Mediterranean stretching out luxuriously in front of us, took the funicular up to the top of Capri to gaze down upon the rich and famous and survived the crazy byways. We saw cars parked, impossibly, bumper to bumper and with their hubcaps grazing the barrier. We ate home-made lemon cake and fig jam and bruschetta with tomato and basil and enough pasta to carbo-load for a marathon. We passed through groves of lemon and olive trees and vineyards and tomato fields. We walked the narrow cobbled streets of the adorably authentic alleyways and marveled at the preserved buildings with their almost designer-looking peeling paint and just the right amount of disheveled-ness. Now all I want to know is, when are we going back?

Always bigger, always better. Gotta love the US of A.

2011-07-09T14:55:00.002+02:00

And I do.... I do, I do, I do, I do, I dooooooo.....

On the other hand, my first introduction this late June was not a good one. Having decided to take the "Super Shuttle" from the airport to Silver Spring where my workshop would be held, I finally made it to the National Labour College almost 3 hours later. The grid-locked traffic, mixed with the unfortunate combination of passengers needing to be dropped off across the far corners of Maryland, meant that, as I was last to board, I was also last to get dropped off some 3 hours later to a destination that was usually a 30 minute drive from Washington Dulles. By the end I was intimately associated with the entire state. Note to self: always board a shuttle bus as the first passenger.

The conference center and hotel were located on sprawling beautiful and verdant grounds, just outside of Silver Spring, and my hotel room was the size of my apartment back in Switzerland, with the bathroom being 3 times as big. This contrasted with the sad little town of Silver Spring, which seemed to be frozen in the worst fashions of the 70s. It consisted of rows of ugly, grey concrete bunker-style buildings with a few swirly blue signs that looked like they should be advertising a water park rather than the home of the FDA.

If I thought my hotel room was generous then it was only out-competed by the variety and portion sizes of food available at the dining hall. Full disclosure: I love the food in the States! Coming from Europe, with their reputation for fine cuisine, you probably think that I'm a philistine, but I have been more than pleasantly surprised by the food quality and variety in the States. Although they are more well known for their none too healthy junk food (and, let me tell you, they make the meanest, juiciest burgers in the world), their healthier and more gourmet-type food is just as good. Moreover, and unlike stingy Switzerland, it is well-priced and available in generous portions. And again, unlike Switzerland where the stores are only open during business hours, in the States you can stock up on a mind-boggling variety of groceries any time of day, on the weekends, and well into the evenings. Americans have choice and convenience up the wazoo. As an amusing but rather sad example, an Aussie friend of mine in Switzerland just wrote a food blog entitled: "When lamb is expensive, go legumes". We both come from sheep-farming countries and this is what the Swiss have reduced us to.

The first evening of the workshop, I was invited out to dinner by Alere, a medium-sized diagnostics company that seemed to be rapidly accumulating any smaller company that looked like a good investment. The two gentlemen who were representing the company at the workshop had hired a spacious American car and proceeded to try to find an Italian restaurant on the complementary GPS. Having located one with suitable reviews, we jetted off down the hi-way in the thick of a thunderstorm. I began getting suspicious after we had flown past the signs for Silver Spring and seemed to be heading for Washington D.C., so, mindful of the fact that guys are quite sensitive about these things, I asked ever so tentatively whether we were, in fact, headed for said Italian restaurant. We eventually discovered that there were 2 Italian restaurants of the same name - one in Silver Spring and one in Arlington, Virginia, and we were clearly headed for the wrong one. After a rather lengthy and scenic drive back to Silver Spring we finally found our intended restaurant 1 hour later. At least the storm had past by then.

Following my culinary journey at the conference (yes, I did some work too), I was taken to my brother-in-law's place in Gaithursburg in his Plymouth Nyon - a car in desperate need of replacement and with brakes so dodgy you were obliged to avoid downhill drives. It was in this vehicle then that my husband, his brother, and I headed off to the Appalachian mountains - a visual spectacular of rolling peaks covered in forests and cut my magnificent gorges. The USA makes Switzerland seem puny. Like a toy country. Lichtenstein must feel like a pimple by comparison.

Virginia is an American cliche. It is dotted with wooden farm houses with big trucks parked out front and restaurants offering barbeque and all you can eat buffets. It makes you want to sing songs like: "Take me home! Country Road! To the place.... I belong! West Virginia!". Of course we had to stop off at a "Chinese" hi-way diner called Jumbo Buffet. If you think it was bad, it was. I declined to partake in the pink, sticky and deep-fried food but the guys got stuck in, trying to wash down the taste with bad American beer, and seriously regretting their culinary choice later on.

My husband, who had let his hair grow long in Switzerland, too appalled by the prices of Swiss hair-dressers, and with definitely no permission from his family to shave it off like he had done earlier in the year (clearly the Nazi look is both unfashionable and inappropriate), had booked a visit to the "Hair Cuttery" as soon as he was off the plane and was therefore no longer looking as though he was growing a mullet, although he would have fitted into Virginia quite well if he had!

We eventually reached the majestic Shenandoah park and took a leisurely drive through the forested, mountainous reserve, stopping at the various look-out points. I spotted a couple of hiking paths and suggested we do a walk to stretch our legs, so we decided to stop at the next trail entrance. Just then we saw a black head pop up through the undergrowth. A black bear! And then two little cubs scrambled up the tree right in front of us! We watched them play until they scampered off into the undergrowth. A wonderful sighting but hiking was definitely out! Mama bear looked way too scary!

Our drive home was exciting to say the least. We happened to hit the longest mountain pass ever. Downhill. It was not long before we started to smell burning breaks. Lovely. Fearing for our lives, we decided to pull off to the side of the road intermittently to let the break pads cool down and were very relieved to finally reach the bottom. Alive. Thinking that a root beer float might calm my nerves, we stopped at a roadside farm stall. It was deliciousness in a polystyrene cup.

Next day we decided that a braai (barbeque) would be in order so we headed to Wholefoods to stock up on their marinated kabobs (kebabs) and sausages. We even bought Swiss cheese and crackers (for less than we would have paid in Switzerland). Being able to shop on a Sunday: priceless. There was a beautiful picnic spot close by nestled under a forested canopy overlooking a lake so we unloaded our bags at a suitable spot and got the fire going with some sort of insane charcoal that burned instantly (perhaps they soak it in paraffin?) and watched in disappointment as some big black clouds rolled in. I decided to take the bags to the car lest out crackers get soggy and the guys decided to brave it out until the meat was good and cooked. Drenched but at least not struck by lightening, they stayed until the last burning coal, and we headed home to put the half-cooked meat in the oven.

The following day we headed into the nation's capital to celebrate the 4th of July with about a million other Americans, all dressed in various combinations of the Stars and Stripes. Interestingly there was a world fair on along the mall, complete with a Hindu festival and bushmen dancers from Botswana (who kept asking, "has anyone seen the God's Must Be Crazy?"). We had expected the festivities to be all American but instead ended up eating West African food at listening to Colombian music. We did get to enjoy to some awesome New Orlean's style R&B music, though, and watched in amazement as the audience danced around the marquee in 35 degree C temperatures.

It finally started feeling like the 4th of July when we headed towards the Lincoln memorial for the concert and fireworks display. We had a long wait ahead of us and looked forward to some classical American tracks being performed by the military band in the lead up to the massive fireworks display. After a few traditional songs, mostly out of the 60s, that must have really made you feel good to be an American, their most famous Country and Western singer took to the stage. For the next 2 hours. To be fair, she never sung Achy Breaky Heart, not once, but the 3 of us reached our Country and Western limit after 30 minutes and were pretty thoroughly tortured for the rest of the concert. It was worth it to see the fireworks display though. Almost half an hour of the most specular light show I've ever seen. Yeehaa! Then the shit hit the fan. All those thousands of people who had entered D.C. in dribs and drabs earlier that day suddenly all had to make it out of Washington en masse, and most of them by the same way as we had come in: on the metro.

We realised that this had been a major oversight by the public transport officials when we hit a wall of people coming down into the subway and somebody at last had the foresight to hit the emergency button on the escalator before a near catastrophe occurred. Hordes of people were coming down but only a negligible number were getting though the turnstyles. We very nearly had a suffocating body pile-up. There was not a single police officer in sight and the metro authorities seemed unwilling to open the turn-styles. Boarding the train was even worse. Desperate people have no queue etiquette and I was wondering how the mothers were coping with their small children. To make matters worse, the metro authorities had not increased the number of trains so through-put was painfully slow. I wonder if this happens every year?

The next morning I had to get up at the crack of dawn to catch my flight to Seattle - the Emerald City. Although there for work, I had the evenings free to wander the Waterfront and even take the ferry to Bainbridge island - one of the many islands scattered along Puget Sound. Maybe it was the perfect weather (unusual for the famously rainy city) or maybe it was my Frasier obsession, but Seattle really is one of the most beautiful cities I've ever been to. And the food! OMG the food.... One particular highlight was Black Bottle restaurant - a gastro-tavern with a menu to make your mouth water before they've even brought the food out. My colleague and I shared 4 mains and a dessert, and would have ordered more if we could fit it in. We had grilled lamb with hummus, lemon caper squid salad, gruyere emmentaler beet gratin with rocket, and grilled portobello, polished off with Chardonnay and perfectly ended with a difficult to choose dessert of peach and blueberry kettle tart with thick cream and espresso. OMG. The last time I had food like that was in Cape Town. We wanted to take the chef back to Geneva with us as nothing even close to that good exists in Switzerland. Even if you wanted to make that sort of food at home you would be hard-pressed to find / afford the ingredients. Leaving the restaurant much satiated and with the waitress thinking we were slightly insane, we took a stroll back to our lovely waterfront apartment (booking though airbnb is always a winner) and bemoaned our imminent return to the land of mediocre cuisine.

Flying back to Switzerland, over the jagged mountains of the Rockies and the snow topped and still active volcanoes down the west coast, I was looking forward to going home. After all, Switzerland is pretty and has great public transport and does make good bread.... and cheese, and chocolate, and ice cream. And I would hopefully be back in the States soon enough for another outlet mall shopping trip, a well-needed hair-cut, and a foodie fantasy come true. Because I do want to go back. Oh yes, I do. I do, I do, I do, I do, I doooooo....

To Paris, with love

2011-05-08T17:44:00.001+02:00

Now I know why the Parisians are so glam and slim, the lucky buggers. Other than living in one of the most beautiful and vibrant cities in the world, their diet, shops and Metro system ensure that they are always kitted out in the height of fashion and get a daily cardiovascular workout thrown in for free (I guess that the chain smoking and genetics help somewhat too).
The Mediterranean diet, fine red wine and endless boulevards of gourmet restaurants are one of the perks I love most about visiting Paris - and its all good value for money - and I don't have to wonder how I'm going to work off my culinary over-indulgences because all I have to do is spend the day walking down the Champs-Élysées, or around the boutique stores of the Marais, or around one of the many picture-perfect jardins, or, and this is probably the most effective in terms of getting the heart-rate up, I can take the Metro!
The sadistic Parisians have designed the subways and trains in such a way as to maximise the number of stairs possible to fit inside an underground system without having to do some serious geographic alterations. Many a time I have wondered why, especially while lugging around a suitcase that would otherwise be a pleasure if I could only take advantage of the fact that it was on wheels, after just having reached the top of a long staircase, I am forced back down a long line of steps. Why couldn't they just have built it flat in the first place? In a straight line instead of up, down, up, down, up, down? And all the Parisian ladies are stepping daintily around in stilettos like they are made of floating barbie dolls, Vogue cigarette in one hand, Louis Vuitton in the other, like steps are almost impercetable. If I had any French genes running down my family line once upon a time, they are long gone now!

What's a box to do?

2011-04-16T10:21:00.000+02:00

Just to set the Swiss mental atmosphere (oh, I do love a good pun) - we recently had the International Film Festival being hosted at our little town of Nyon. Our excitement was soon deflated, however, after learning that their main feature film last Saturday night was to be about the territorial inclinations of pregnant Swiss cows.

This week we have regressed to the dubious title of 'Cardboard Criminals'. Having purchased a microwave, we decided to do the responsible thing and lug our box down to the big recycling bins down the road. Unfortunately, the little circular hole provided on top of the big recycling bin did not provide us with the right dimensions in which to load a capacious, rectangular box, so we left it neatly by the side of the bin. A few days later we received a serious looking letter from the Municipality, in French, which we readily and painstakingly re-typed into Google translate, to find out that we have now been classified as illegal garbage dumpers and, if we do it again, they will send the police around to hand over a summons and fine us CHF115. Ouch. Apparently I had been stupid enough to leave my name and delivery details on the side of the box (not realizing, as you don't, that I was performing a criminal action at the time), however, it is likely that they were satellite tracking us anyway. Or filming us on web-cams. To be fair, there are 3 days of the month where you can leave larger items by the bins for collection the next day. I think we'll do it under the cover of darkness anyway. Wearing a beanie. And with camouflage face paint. This is the wild west after all.

What lies beneath?

2011-04-10T11:38:00.001+02:00

In Nyon, the Swiss village we have made our new home, there is no noise allowed on Sundays. Shops are closed, almost all restaurants are closed, and it is forbidden to do washing or mow your lawn. People hide in their apartments, reading books, sleeping and watching TV. We have come to terms with this lifeless weekend tradition. We have even come to embrace the peace, quite and relaxation. But we do find it difficult to come to terms with the sheer incredulously hilarious pettiness of our Swiss neighbours. I guess it is true that when you live in a country where no real problems exist, you lose all perspective.
Although we have tried to be friendly and warm towards the people that we share our rented house with, tried to communicate with them despite the fact that we speak no French and they no English, it is safe to say that they have reserved only the worst kind of disdain imaginable just for us. We do not, however, take this personally, because the petty things they complain about are so trivial that, instead of taking them seriously, we can only shrug and laugh in amusement and amazement.
Our first heinous act was to move into the loft apartment, period. To be here at all is, apparently, unforgivable. The couple that live on the bottom floor have rented here for 20 years and their mother lives on the second level, with us in the loft. They obviously see this house as their family home and we as the intruders on their personal space. The lady that we are subletting from had already warned us that the neighbours were crazy. The day she moved in, they told her that she wasn't allowed to park her car outside the front door, even temporarily, and even though she was trying to move heavy furniture inside. So, we weren't expecting a welcome with a sunny hello and freshly baked cookies then, but we weren't expecting outright dislike, either - although you'd never suspect it from the way they always smile and say hello each time we happen to pass on the stairwell. Perhaps its more of a grimace.
Our second heinous act was to use the tumble dryer, which no one told us was dysfunctional and leaking water, and which ended up flooding the basement. At least we were sticking strictly to our 2 allocated washing days - Wednesday and Thursday - and making sure to fetch our washing off the lines in the basement by early Friday morning. Our neighbour made it clear that even early Friday morning was unacceptable, as it was cutting into her wash time, by pushing our clothes to the side so that she could hang up her own washing as early as 7am.
Our third heinous crime was to sit in "their" garden and, oh horror of horrors, take our cat for a walk. I mean, the damn animal might pee in their veggie garden! We suspected that this was going to be an issue so had even taken him out on a dog lead - an interesting experiment and something that worked out about as well as trying to teach a cat to like water. This entertaining spectacle brought out the curiosity from the cat next door who came to stare at him with pity and derision from her sunny spot on top of the garage. I bet she pees on our neighbours veggies.
These indiscretions have resulted in them making many heated phone calls to the rental agent (who has confirmed to us they are, indeed, insane), the last one being that, because they look after the garden, and mow the lawn and plant tulips, we are not allowed to enjoy any part of it and neither, and especially not, is our cat. And because they simply can't abide us, they thought they'd throw in an unfounded complaint that we have far too many noisy visitors, although we've have exactly 3 friends over since we moved in 2 months ago and with noise levels that can only be described as mellow, and that we must stop parking our car in "their" drive-way, even though we don't even own a car and neither do any of our friends. Must have been that one time we called a taxi.
In the South African spirit, we have decided to be the better neighbours. To continue to be kind and conscientious and to keep out of their way as much as possible without penalizing ourselves to the point of ridiculousness. But I do hope the kitty next door pees on their veggies. Regularly and with relish.

Pavement Special, all the way!

2011-04-10T10:43:00.000+02:00

Spring has well and truelly sprung. I bet the weather here is even better than the autumn Cape Town must be experiencing already. The sun is setting past 8pm and there are tulips and daffodils blooming everywhere. We thought, as our cat was soon to join us in the sun-kissed hills of Heidi-land, that we couldn't have asked for a more perfect time of year to introduce him to his new home.
He was booked to fly from Cape Town to Amsterdam on March 29th and then, once clearing customs, on to Geneva where we would finally be able to fetch him from the airport after what we could only imagine must be quite a traumatic trip for an animal previously familiar with only two things: living in our apartment in Cape Town and exploring the small garden at the bottom of the stairs.
We were in quite a high state of excitement as we had last seen him as long ago as January, before our move to Switzerland, and were wondering if he would even remember us. One of the conditions that Switzerland insist on is a booster rabies vaccination followed by an antibody titre test and another 3 months wait before your pet can travel out of South Africa to rabies-free Europe (this is completely biologically implausible if the animal has had all its vaccinations, including boosters, as a kitten - I mean, you don't see them asking humans for booster vaccinations before traveling the globe - but we won't split hairs).
Expecting him to arrive on March 30th, we took a trip to "Cats and Dogs" to stock up on his favorite food, fresh cat litter and a cat scratch pad a tiger would have been happy with. We had been warned that our kitty might just hide under the bed for a few days and only venture out with much spoiling and coaxing, and that we had to keep all the windows and doors shut in case, in sheer confusion and delusion, he decided to run away. We were therefore justifiably concerned when he was delayed at customs in SA because they gave him the wrong permit number and further delayed, after finally reaching The Pet Hotel at Amsterdam airport on Friday morning, because KLM had lost all of his paperwork. They assured us that, because his documents were part of a container-full of important post that some CEOs in London were already making a hoo-ha about locating, his documents should be found readily. They also assured us that, even though they had made their own personal copies, they could not release him until the original paperwork had been found. As it was, they only found the container late Friday afternoon and so our poor cat had to spend the entire weekend in The Pet Hotel. I realise this sounds considerably less traumatic than I make it out to be. I mean, it is a hotel. With food and water and soft bedding and vets looking after your every need. I guess we were just disappointed at not having him with us for the weekend.
Air France, his flight carrier between Amsterdam and Geneva, tried their very best to get him released on copied paperwork, and there were many phone calls back on forth between Geneva, Amsterdam and Cape Town, but to no avail. By the time my husband finally went to fetch our cat from the Geneva airport on Monday morning kitty was quite famous. Everyone knew him by name and couldn't wait to meet him. Plus he had a case file as thick as a book.
As it was, Geneva was having one of its intermittent spring downpours so poor kitty had to be carried home in the rain - not a very welcome introduction to his new homeland.
Despite being taken from the only home he has ever known, held captive at multiple airports, flown for 13 hours in cargo-hold and getting wet on the way to his new apartment, he settled in remarkably quickly. There was no hiding in dark corners or refusing to eat. No accusing looks or depressive behavior. In fact, from the moment he arrived, and after thoroughly exploring the apartment, he settled comfortably on the couch for a nap, following the sun along the seat, and staring out the windows with interest at his new world, purring in ecstasy whenever we showered him with attention. I guess that's what you get for having a pavement special!

Boarding on the insane

2011-04-03T18:36:00.001+02:00

Moving to Switzerland in the middle of winter, it took a visit from our South African friends to get us to brave the snowy white slopes on a snow-board aka 'speed-demon with a mind of its own'. We boarded a shuttle - Skiidy Gonzales (no kidding, the drivers were wearing sombreros) - and set forth on a beautiful and windy road into the French alps and the resort village of Montriond.

Getting there a bit late in the season, there was no snow to be had at the base of the mountains, but up there, below the sharp glacial peaks, it was still possible to ski the slopes. Having no professional winter clothing whatsoever, we were marched to the sports store to stock up on waterproof pants, with braces, that made us look like we were wearing unfashionable sleeping bags, and hire some intimidating looking snow boots and boards.

This felt foreign. This was the sort of sport undertaken by adrenalin-fueled teenagers wearing jeans so low their underpants stuck out the top, and peak caps pulled to the side, and big skater pumps. This was the sort of sport mastered by guys who had been skate boarding since they were 3 years old. This was not us. But at least for Saturday afternoon we had the pleasure of relaxing in the wooden cabin we were staying in and enjoy some tea and cookies. There was even a fireplace so I encouraged hubby to pile on the wood. As soon as he had a nice raging fire going, the lady who owned the B&B ran into the lounge in a flat panic and accusing him of trying to burn her house down. Apparently we weren't supposed to make a fire with more than one log as she had no insurance. We thought that it might not be prudent to point out that that wasn't really going to be very effective and snuck back to our room while she poured a bucket of water over our lovely fire and hoped she wasn't going to spit in our breakfast.

Next morning we rose early and nervously, dressing in our puffy waterproof suits and squeezing our feet into our enormous snow boots, with what felt like a million laces, and clomped outside, with our boards, looking like alien hobbits and unable to straighten our legs (which is supposed to be the idea when you are snow boarding but makes walking a little uncomfortable). Our friends had promised to give us lessons so we took the gondola up to the nursery slope, which was full of toddlers zooming around like marshmallow rockets. Two hours later we were no closer to mastering the board. We had given it our best shot but, in the end, had to admit that we may have needed to invest in some professional lessons. All we'd gotten for our troubles was ice down our pants and bruises on our bums. Plus my fingers were aching. Every time I started picking up too much speed I would fly into a panic, tip myself forward and slow myself down by grabbing at the snow with hands like makeshift pickaxes. Smooth. Real smooth. We finished off with hot dogs - on French bagettes, of course - and beer, and made our way home for a well-deserved hot bath to ease the pain in our already stiff muscles.

It was wonderful seeing our beloved friends again but snow boarding will just have to wait until next winter when some miracle worker of an instructor will hopefully be able to teach us how to make it all the way down the nursery slope standing up, like the rest of the toddlers. Our friends toddler, on the other hand, did not think much of the snow at all. It was cold and wet and it was the first time he'd had to wear shoes in months. He was clearly not used to his new winter outfit and kept shrugging off his impractical mittins and tripping over his big boots.

Next step, after skiing lessons, will be to master the button lift - a slippery bugger of a contraption that you are supposed to be able to tuck between your legs with one foot still strapped into your snow board so that you can be taken up the hill without having to walk. Only problem is that its metal, and has a tendency to liberate itself, make a wide circle, and almost hit someone in the head, while it sends you flying backwards onto your bum, again, and while all the button lift fundis are flinging you looks of pure disdain. Just makes you want to shout out loud: "What on earth am I doing here? I am from Africaaaaaaa!!!!"

Brussels - sprouting not much

2011-03-12T20:38:00.002+02:00

Out of the 5 MSF operational centres (Geneva, Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris and Barcelona), my first work trip saw me jetting off to Belgium - a strange little country divided by language and with no formal government. Although I'd heard rumours around the office that Belgium wasn't the most happening place for a visit, when living in Europe for the first time, you may as well explore! So hubby and I decided to tag on a tour to beautiful Brugge.

I took the late morning flight, so that I could have a bit of a Saturday morning sleep in, and hubby took the budget 5am option with "easy"Jet, which turned out to be a safer bet than Air Brussels. My flight ended up being delayed by 1.5 hours, which was crap, but I didn't mind too much as I was shut off to the world in a land of 3GS iPhone bliss. Two weeks down and that phone is still like heroine. Never again will I be bored, lost, out of touch, missing the headlines, or unable to photograph, copy, phone, find or locate something or someone. You go Steve Jobs et al. And thank you.

Landing in Brussels was a bit of a shock to my Swiss-spoilt expectations. Every ticket machine was out of order, and didn't except credit cards anyway, so I had to queue for 15 minutes to get a train ticket to the city center. After leaving Geneva at 9h30 that morning I finally arrived at the B&B at 3h30 that afternoon. It would have been quicker to take the train. And my sanity would have been intact.

Our first impression of Brussels was not good. We had somehow ended up staying in the dodgy end of town where all the buildings looked close to crumbling in on top of each other; and the gray skies just made the entire neighbourhood look depressing and gloomy, so we headed into the town center as soon as possible to find the famous square. The place was buzzing - more than any Geneva Saturday night ever would - and there were so many shops selling beer and chocolate we hardly knew what to buy first, so settled on one of the many seafood restaurants down "restaurant alley" - a quaint side-street reminding me of little Italy in NYC. The square was indeed very grand, with its gilded and opulent buildings, and was lit up beautifully at night.

Next morning we headed for the train station in time for the 10am train to the much anticipated Brugge. The sun was out - a rare occurrence - and we joined the throng of tourists on the platform. The Belgian train system, while comprehensive, is completely disorganized. Unlike Switzerland, multiple trains going to multiple destinations leave from the same platform with no way of discerning from the train itself where on earth its headed. The only option is to check the time your train is supposed to leave and then hope for the best after you've boarded. So, thinking that hubby was right behind me, I confidently hopped on the first train that arrived at 10am. The doors shut instantly behind me, after-which I heard a panicked knock on the glass and turned to see my husband gesturing wildly for me to get off. I tried to jimmy the door open but it was locked down. In full terror at ending up in Budapest or somewhere, I ran to find the conductor who obliging let me get off. Close one indeed.

After that excitement, we then found out that the train to Brugge had broken down and blocked the entire length of track in-between. Some Flemish people managed to translate a message for us that we were going to have to wait over an hour for the next train. What an anti-climax! Fortunately these same Flemish people were also going to Brugge so, an hour later, when we finally got the message that our train was on its way, they managed to catch a message, 2 minutes before departure, that it was now leaving from an entirely different platform. Running like mad to get on the train, and leaving half the other tourists behind, we were finally on our way to Brugge. And it was all worth it. Maybe it was the sunshine, maybe it was all the good beer and Belgian chocolate, but Brugge really was one of the most beautiful historic towns I've ever been to.

We did a looped walk around and through the picturesque and well-renovated parks and homes, shops and churches, only stopping at a cupcake-stocked tea-room for scones and to watch the swans bob for food on the tranquil canals. The town square definitely rivaled that of Brussels and offered horse-drawn carriage tours and original 'pomme de frit' just to complete the experience.

We headed back to the train station with the throngs of people that had descended on the town that day and found ourselves having to sit on the floor because the conductor would not let 2nd class passengers sit in 1st class, even when no more seating was available. Not very visitor friendly but I guess they don't want to let the riffraff into premier class.

Heading back to the airport on Tuesday afternoon, our disappointing experience with the public transportation system reached its apex. The ticket machines were still out of order, necessitating a 30 minute queue for a ticket. Some guy in a wheelchair was able to jump the queue in front of me (I'm being insensitive, I realize, but being annoyed doesn't bring out one's generous side), and by the time I got to the front their systems went off-line and I had to wait another 15 minutes. At this rate I was betting on missing my flight. Luckily I'd checked in on-line so, once at the airport, I flew my suitcase over the counter at baggage-check and prayed that there wouldn't be a random screening at security.

I managed to get back to my beloved Switzerland and on to a train home that left on time and was clearly labeled with its destination. What a relief. Poor hubby was delayed 2 hours with his "easy"Jet flight and only just made it out of Belgium before the 11pm flight cut-off. I can just imagine how a night at Brussels airport would have gone down. Close one indeed.

Where have all the people gone?

2011-02-20T13:17:00.000+02:00

A month down in Switzerland, I'm still searching for good shopping stores. I thought that, especially coming from summer in Cape Town to winter in Geneva, the sort of things I'd miss the most would include obvious examples such as warm sunshine; clothing and people in all colours of the rainbow instead of a line of black-, grey- and brown-jacketed pale-faced people stretching down the street; walking on white sandy beaches alongside wild seas with a ball of red setting sun stretching vivid colours across the horizon. But no, yours truly, the previous anti-consumer prioritizing you-have-to-drag-me-to-the-shops-screaming-in-protest me, is, first and foremost, missing the variety, price and products of the South African stores. What I wouldn't do for a Dischem... a Woolies... a Cape Union Mart... even a decent electronics store! I think, right now, I would give up a weeks worth of Lindt supply to find a decent pharmacy with a display of supplements bigger than one shelf's worth. It's useless over here. I have always assumed that, if you can find it for a decent price in the bottom of Africa then surely you will be able to find it in any 1st world country? Apparently South Africa is quite a bit further along on the products front that I had previously given it credit for.

The second aspect that I am missing is the buzz and entrepreneurship pervasive throughout both the cities and the small towns and villages popular for weekend visits. Apparently we do French-style markets better than the French. I haven't seen a cheese here that isn't available at the local Checkers. Whether you are at a Saturday morning market in the middle of the CBD or 2 hours drive away in one of the many newly renovated, trendy little historic villages that circle the cities, you will find all sorts of delicious homemade produce from organic veggies to crispy, hot bread to refreshing lemonade or gingerbeer to baked quiches, pies, cupcakes and pastries. The High street becomes jammed with weekenders stocking up on the delicious selections, whether at the market or at one of the many gourmet restaurants that are open the whole weekend. And, although you can't go snow skiing, there are plenty of other activities available such as hiking, fly fishing, quad biking, wine tasting, and adventure sports such as "kloofing" and water skiing. And nothing shuts down on Sundays. In Switzerland I sometimes wonder where all the people have gone?

I have been assured that, come Spring, people will suddenly flock outside to soak up the sun and sample a swim in the lake. I wait in anticipation. Until then, I'll try soak up the peace and quite. It's worth a try.

Another South African Export

2011-02-13T15:25:00.000+02:00

A long time dream come true, I boarded a flight on the 15th January to start a long-awaited and long-anticipated job for the Access to Essential Medicines Campaign at Médecins sans Frontières / Doctors without Borders (MSF) in Geneva, Switzerland as their new Diagnostics Advisor.
The week before leaving had been insane. Hubby was still working and we both had some mutant version of the flu that we must have picked up on our flight back from the States. Somehow between coughing fits, narcolepsy and running out for more tissues and Vit C tablets, we managed to pack up our whole apartment in Cape Town, say goodbye to our friends and prepare our boxes for shipping. If that didn't kill me I reckon nothing will. Hubby was traveling 10 days after me so I left him to spring clean in 30 plus temperatures and headed into snow-capped Heidi-land.
I boarded my Lufthansa flight with a multitude of emotions and trepidations and wondered when I would see my beloved home-land again - a land where skis and snow-boots are about as foreign as the super efficient public transport system I was about to experience. How would I cope knowing that I couldn't just go to a game park and see ellies and rhinos and lions, or go for a tropical holiday on the east coast, or go on a wine tour or a walk down the magnificent beaches of the Cape? I squeezed myself into my midget-sized seat and wrapped myself in the complementary blanket that was about as thin as a frayed bed sheet, and wondered if I should brave the evening meal. We didn't even get those little bags of goodies with socks and toothpaste and earplugs that you get on SAA. I prepared my airline pillow and tried to sleep a full 11 hours to Frankfurt.
Arriving on a Sunday morning in Geneva's tiny international airport, 4 bags of luggage in tow (which i had somehow managed to weasel past the over-baggage police), I headed for a trolley. I was surprised to discover that 2 francs were required to liberate one from lock-down - this in international arrivals, where none of the foreigners have any Swiss francs yet and, if they do, it certainly isn't in change.
Lugging my bags out through customs and trying to suppress multiple hernias, I decided to forgo the free public transport available for 80 minutes after arrival and hail a taxi instead. I was too tired and had too much luggage to be my usual frugal self.
Speaking no French at all, I managed to sign language sufficient information across to the taxi driver to get me to my hotel, the Drake Longchamp, my home for the next 2 weeks and a convenient one minute walk from my new offices in Rue de Lausanne. It even had a meager kitchenette and so, after dumping my bags and having a brief but catatonic nap, I headed out to the main road in search of a grocery store.
The city was in shut down. It was like happening on a once vibrant town after Armageddon but with no signs of destruction. So it couldn't have been a meteor or WW3, I reckoned, but maybe a virus or lethal gas? I sniffed cautiously but then noticed a few lone people out on the side walk and a restaurant open here and there. There were a few foreign-run superettes open selling overpriced shampoo and bananas but I decided to try a meal at one of the cafes and popped into the nearest one. The entire menu was in French. I scoured the pages for any familiar foods and settled on a mozzarella and tomato crepe with a vanilla milkshake. Feeling weird but at least satiated, I headed back to the hotel to get some rest before my big day. I also decided to buy some overpriced bandwidth so that I could check emails and find out what the normal shopping hours were.
Coming from Century City, with the monolithic Canal Walk shopping centre a stones throw away, I was used to 400 stores being open until 9pm every day of the week. Apparently, in Switzerland, I was going to have to get used to shops closing by 7pm and sometimes over lunch, and not being open at all on Sundays. I could have a minor shopping spree on Thursday nights, their late shopping day, where shops closed as late as 9pm. I was also soon to discover that, with the exception of the incredulous IKEA (all hail, all hail), the merchandise was mostly lacking in variety and was unreasonably over-priced. Clearly a yearly trip back to the outlet malls in Virginia, USA, might be justified.
I threw myself into my new job with the sort of zealous that is completely foreign to laid-back, sun-tanned and beach-soaked Capetonians. In Cape Town, office workers (those poor sods unlucky enough not to have been born into substantial trust funds or those not working for the movie industry) clock out by 4h30pm at the latest to get in a few hours of surfing or hiking on Table Mountain or strolling along Seapoint promenade before finding a good spot for sundowners. I was undaunted, however, and adapted, quite impressively, I thought, to working until 6pm.
My next challenge was finding an affordable apartment that wasn't the size of a cat litter box - no small feat in Geneva where accommodation is in high demand and landlords can afford to be as fussy as they like, interviewing 10 or more people before deciding on which lucky person gets to pay an over-inflated price to stay in their less than spacious apartment. I was not looking forward to this mission impossible and had already resigned myself to eating baked beans just so that we wouldn't have to stay in studio apartment that last got renovated in the early 1900s. Thankfully, though, through a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, I found a sublet in the beautiful little lakeside village of Nyon, just 15 minutes from Geneva. We are now very happy in our sunny loft apartment and hubby managed to hook us up to the amazing world of high speed, uncapped internet. We've gone from 364KB/sec of 3GB bandwidth a month in SA to 20000KB/sec, use as much as you like, for only twice the price!
We were also looking forward to having 120 channels at our disposal (from 4 in SA) but, as it turns out, only 3 of them are in English and they include BBC World, CNN and CNBC, so if you don't wish to watch the news (Egypt, Egypt, Egypt, Egypt...) or the markets, or tele-evangilists on CNBC on Sundays, there isn't anything else. At least in SA you could get satellite tv; here, as an English expat, especially at 12 francs to rent a dvd, you just have to learn to find illegal internet streaming sites or take up bridge.
We do want to assimilate into the Swiss way of life as much as possible, without losing our African routes, and so far that hasn't been too traumatic. Delicious chocolates, cheeses and wines are readily available and we are surrounded by breath-taking mountains along a lake with water so translucent it looks like purified mineral water. The freedoms that the safety and the comprehensive public transport system bring are also incredibly alluring for someone who was once living in the sort of place where burglar bars and smash-proof windows were the norm, and having a car, when the only alternative is to walk or catch a dodgy, manky train that may or may not arrive on time, was an incongruous priority for a country where most of its citizens lack the basic of services.
I have never before been able to walk or catch a train alone, at night, with no fear of danger, without feeling that I must be the craziest person in the world to be taking such a risk. I now board a sleek, high speed train, which runs every 15 minutes (to the second), with my ipod, phone, money and laptop. My only worry is that I might just miss the next tram to work when I get to Geneva or that I might leave something on the seat that I will, inconveniently, have to later go locate at lost and found. In fact my exercise routine is compiled of a power walk to catch my morning train (because I still manage to oversleep every morning), a wild dash from the train to the tram in the hope that I will just make it on before it leaves the station, followed by a 10 minute walk to work when I do miss the tram, because Swiss transport waits for no one (even if you are sprinting in front of the almost moving vehicle, waving your hands around like a crazy loon). And the whole thing repeats itself in the evenings.
The tram system, at least on my route, operates on a weird timetable whereby the 2 trams, each running in 10 minutes intervals, run in parallel to each other so that they are either 3 minutes apart of 7 minutes apart. My husband has since become the public transport blitz (from "The Blitz" episode in "How I met your mother") because every time we go anywhere we always either just miss our train or have to wait the 7 minutes for a tram. It definitely is a conspiracy. I hope he can pass his blitz curse along to some other poor sod sooner than later. The bouts of sprinting are doing wonders for our cardio-vasculature but are pretty inefficient otherwise. There is no sadder sight in Switzerland than seeing your train happily riding out of the station just as you reach the top of the steps. The other minor inconvenience of not having a car is schlepping groceries or even bigger shopping stash (e.g. trips to IKEA) back to your apartment before gangrene has set into your fingers. So the other day we bought a wonderful solution - a wheelie bag! Now we look like two old biddies without walking sticks and rain coats but who cares! If people can have suitcases on wheels, why not shopping bags!
Most people have asked me what it is like to live in Switzerland, compared to South Africa, and the closest answer I can give is that it is just different. They are both amazing and beautiful places in their own ways. Switzerland is an incredibly first world country, with all the amenities that go with it, and yet there are still things that amaze me about how backward it is. The fact that when I was living in the arse end of the world I could buy a Simmons mattress from dial-a-bed and have it delivered the same day, or Pistachio Lindt chocolate from my corner store. In Switzerland you have to have a mattress of that quality shipped in from the the UK and many varieties of chocolate are only available in the very big grocery stores. They just don't have a consumer society. Might explain the troubling high suicide rates in a country where the only other thing you could die of is boredom.
It is also strange how much they love spitting and smoking and having little midget dogs that look like deformed mop heads; and that, in most restaurants, horse meat features on the menu. But I have found, at some very popular international stores for expats, Marmite AND Mrs Balls chutney at 4x the normal price so life ain't so bad. We even have glamorous Swiss bank accounts (0.25% interest rate, woohooo!! - I think we might keep some savings in SA), which were surprisingly easy to open unless you are an American citizen, have a Greencard or have ever lived in the USA (what up with that??). The uber sophisticated internet banking comes with a funny little calculator thing that spits our security codes so that you can log in and make payments. But don't lose it next time you are in the Bovilian highlands because they can only post you a new one when you're back in Switzerland.
Now that we're semi-settled, next on the list is French and skiing lessons - both of which will make hilarious and top-rated podcasts on Youtube.
Stay tuned.

The Big Apple just got bigger

2011-01-10T01:13:00.000+02:00

Having visited my brother-in-law last year in the middle of winter, we decided to return at a similar frosty time of year to enjoy the Christmas festivities in a long anticipated trip to New York City. With a snow blizzard warning on the way, I am sure we were all wondering why we never choose to visit at a more balmy time of the year. We spent Christmas itself in his home town of Gaithersburg, Maryland (no I don't mean Gettysberg, as everyone, even Americans, always ask me - that's further north and we went there on Christmas day to marvel at the fields of monuments erected in honour of the battle fought there; we got to wear our lovely new North Face jackets that our generous bro had presented to us and didn't take them off for the rest of the trip, even through we look indistinguishable from one day to the next and come across in the pictures as those sorts of backpacker types who, to save space, only have the one outfit).

The next day we took a scenic drive to the historic town of Harpers Ferry in West Virginia, passing through many towns all looking like the original Hicksville. We took a walk alongside the Potomac river where we passed a gentleman walking his dog who berated the guys for not wearing beanies as "most of yer heat escapes out the top of yer head". He also, upon hearing that we were from South Africa, pronounced "I'd love to go there! I really want to climb Mount Kilimanjaro!" I wished him luck and, frozen to death, we hurried to a cosy cafe for some apple pie.

Excited about our trip to NYC the following day, we checked in with the bus company to confirm our seats. We were dismayed to find out that the mother of all snow storms had hit the east coast and the bus was grounded indefinitely. After much deliberation we decided to book expensive train tickets instead and so we were able to make it to our destination, nine hours late but at least there.

As we emerged from the depths of the station and out into Madison Square Gardens, excited to see the bright lights of The Big Apple, we landed in 15 inches of sludgy snow. Yuk. And cold. We entered a long queue for a taxi, lugging our bags through the mountain of unforgiving ice and feeling water seep into our entirely inappropriate shoes. Finally we managed to hail a taxi driven by a Pakistani guy, of course, and made it to our 30m2 studio apartment in lower Manhattan. Our intrepid NYC landlady had decided to maximize the use of space by erecting an additional level which was basically a wooden loft just below the ceiling, big enough for a double bed, so that you could have full use of the lounge. This presented some problems in the middle of the night when, forgetting the ceiling was inches from your head, you got up to go to the loo and nearly took out the roof and numerous brain cells.

With the snow storm abated and the sun shining brightly, we skipped onto the newly cleaned pavements the following morning and headed for the Rockefeller Center. The municipalities way of dealing with snow is to pile it long and high down the edge of the road where it will stay pretty much until the end of winter. It doesn't melt very fast and only fragments fall down through the grates. The bit that does melt forms a pool of manky sludge right at the junction between the pavement and the road so that when you are crossing the street, which is frequently, you have to navigate great big puddles of icy muck. Clearly we were going to need new shoes. I was expecting serious fashion afishionados in this clothing capital but noticed that we weren't the only ones who had forgone vanity in favour of big ugly waterproof shoes. We hit the Sketchers store and got a pair of hideous sneaker cross gumboot hybrids that looked like something a farmer would go fishing in. Well, next time I need to cross a leach-infested mud swamp, I'm good to go.

We had hoped to try our long out-of-practice ice-skating skills at the Rockefeller Center ice rink but, with hundreds of other holiday makers swarming the city, famous landmarks were packed, so we headed up to Top of the Rock instead for a stupendous view of the city. Which is big. Very big. For an island. Especially when you include the other four burrows as well. Perhaps it also felt big because of all the walking we were doing. The metro stops are quite sparse and we were still trying to figure out how the seemingly complicated train system worked (something that had never been a problem before in other cities). Every different colour train had multiple different numbers and letters so we were completely flummoxed. Eventually it dawned on us that not every train stops at every metro station, as otherwise it would take passengers a million years to reach their destination, and the numbers and letters referred to which stations applied. This took us two days to decipher and so, until then, walking was still quicker. And no, we couldn't have asked someone. New Yorkers are every bit as rushed and uncommunicative as TV would suggest. Especially on the metro. There are also quite a few crazies who have heated and senseless monologues with themselves and who everyone ignores like poop on a side walk.

Times Square was complete chaos leading up to New Years Eve. Its like Picadilly Circus times a hundred. The little clock tower with the famous ball was squished between a line of tall buildings and flashing billboards. Hundreds of tourists were milling around and a large squadron of police were already fencing off pedestrian areas. We escaped into the King Tut exhibition of Tutankhamun and the treasures found in his tomb.

Feeling more confident about our metro deducing skills, we decided on an outing to the Brooklyn Zoo for the following morning. Seeing as were almost certain never to see lowland gorillas in Central Africa, it was a real treat to see an extensive family residing at their vast and comfy quarters at the zoo. Another probably once in a lifetime experience was to see the magnificently beautiful snow leopards, one of the few zoo inhabitants happy with the icy weather. We then headed to the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, situated in the wealthy upper west side of Manhattan. There would, of course, be no question of where I would like to live if I was to move to NYC. Upper west end. Either along Riverside or Central Park. Of course then I would be a celebrity and if I was compelled to answer to a higher power that would be Tom Cruise.

The Cathedral is apparently the biggest in the world and the Statue of Liberty would fit inside. We were spoilt by a classical concert because an orchestra was practicing for their New Years Eve production. With acoustics like that we could definitely have sat there for the afternoon but with only 5 days in New York, we had to move on. My husband wanted to see the restaurant from the Seinfeld comedy and we headed there for a burger. We ambled back to the east side through central park and along the Jacky Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. The sunset had bathed the water and the city on the horizon in shades of pink and, from that vantage point, New York looks the most beautiful city in the world. Back in the frenetic east end we were soon back to the noise and the sludge and our pokey apartment and wishing were living it up in a penthouse suit instead. But that didn't stop us from embarking on the mammoth journey up the Empire State Building - all 102 floors, making Top of the Rock look puny. Unfortunately every other tourist in the city seemed to have the same idea and it took us 3 hours of standing in a painstakingly slow moving queue to reach the top, by which time I hardly cared about the expansive and staggering view.

Footsore and tired, we decided to embark on a site-seeing cruise the following day. The only possibility was a 3-hour boat trip around the entire Manhattan island. We zipped up our jackets and, it being a sunny day, we braved the outer deck to get the best view of the city. With the cruiser in motion, the wind chill factor soon turned the temperature to less than tropical and I was very soon covering my face with my scarf and pulling my beanie down. With police patrol boats on the river and me now looking like a Taliban recruit, I decided to go indoors rather than risk getting taken out by a sniper. There I sat, with a partially obscured view but otherwise happy that I could feel my toes again, listening to our guide relate stories about Manhattan, which is, incidentally derived from the Native Indian word, man hattan, meaning many hills. Also of interest is that such sky scraping high rises are only possible because of the hard shale bedrock that the island is composed of.

Hungry after three hours of concentration and hypothermia, we took the metro to Little Italy for some authentic pasta and Chianti. It was delicious. We loved the way the Italian Americans talked (just like Tony Soprano) and zoomed around the tightly packed bistro tables in their white aprons, dexterously grinding Parmesan cheese with one hand while dispensing espressos to the next door table with the other. We sat for a long time ensconced in the opera music and background chatter. Later that evening we somehow got lost at Times Square trying to make our way to our Broadway show, Phantom of the Opera. Luckily there were about a bazillion police officers to ask. The opera itself, once we had successfully located the Majestic Theater, was goose-bump amazing. And sad.

The last day of the year was spent walking to the museums through Central Park. This amazing expanse of inner city greenery was completely blanketed in snow and too pretty for words. There were horse-drawn carriages and roasted nuts for sale and musicians busking and children riding sleighs. We eventually existed on to museum mile along 5th avenue, the same street that, further down, had opulent stores decorated in full Christmas regalia. The Guggenheim is a unique Frank Lloyd Wright design. A white spiral that looks like a honey spoon. A great idea but, the guys thought, bearing a little too much resemblance to a parking garage. The monstrous Metropolitan Museum, which contains something like 2 million exhibition pieces, has you almost floored after level 1, wing 1. I guess you need to go prepared. After a full nights rest and with a bottle of Lucozade.

Having decided that we didn't want to become one with the other human sardines at Times Square, and where we would have had to have been seen 10am already, my brother-in-law decided to scan his amazing iPhone for alternative ideas. He had already been successfully navigating us all over NYC using Google maps and street view and we would have been lost many times if it wasn't for the fact that he could use his Apple in the Big Apple. He settled on Battery Park as the best vantage point for the fireworks but was worried it would be too crowded and so suggested a park further north if Battery Park proved to be too inundated.

We had a bizarre set of trains to transfer to in order to get as close to the park as possible and, as it turned out, we managed to get onto the wrong platform. Realizing our mistake we made our way to the opposite platform only the realize that out cards were malfunctioning. We had to flag down two military-style policemen to get us through the emergency gate. The police presence was stifling that evening and law enforcement officers seemed to out number the public. We were wondering if a threat had been detected but the terrorism meter was at a lowly 1.

Exiting at Battery Park we were surprised to find no one else there. So much for worrying about crowds. We chatted to two Aussies who were standing outside a restaurant at the dockside and they assured us that fireworks had been promised in the nearby vicinity. Clearly the tourists were either all at Times Square or we hadn't gotten the memo. Where were all the New Yorkers? Perhaps this year everyone was throwing roof parties. The only sign that tonight was different from any other was that women were venturing out in high heal shoes instead of Uggs.

My brother-in-law, feeling unjustifiably guilty about taking us to a seemingly celebration-devoid location, spotted the ferry to Staten Island and suggested we hop on. We managed to catch the 11pm boat and my brother-in-law, who had mistaken Staten Island for Ellis Island and was expecting to be taken there instead, watched in horror as we sailed straight past the Statue of Liberty and on to an island even more devoid of people than Battery Park had been, and certainly out of range of the fireworks. Calling himself all kinds of doosh-bag names under the sun and berating himself for stuffing up an evening that he had pictured very differently, we decided to catch the ferry back to Manhattan and hope to make it back in time for the fireworks. Unfortunately we had to disembark only to re-board the exact same boat for the journey back. By now I had huge blisters on my feet because, in a moment of mental shutdown, I had decided to wear my boots without any socks because I hadn't had time to wash a pair. As such I could only manage a hobble that made me look like a possessed hobbit.

Running up the boat ramp at five minutes to 12, we raced/hobbled back to Battery Park just in time for the first fireworks to appear. By this time there were about 100 people in the park and three drunk Scotsman with flashing tiaras were singing at the top of their voices. We had smuggled a bottle of champagne in my handbag but with the army of policeman kitted out like a military squad and visible police patrolling on the river we were too scared to unleash any celebratory behaviour, let alone champagne. The after effects of 9/11 are still very fresh.

I somehow managed to make it back to our apartment where I left the bros to share the bottle of champagne while I crashed into bed where I pretty much stayed until it was time to emerge for our 4 hour bus trip back to Maryland. Everyone in the States has the latest gadgets and my husband and I felt like out of touch technophobes as I read my book and he played tetris on an ancient Samsung phone while everyone else was being entertained by their iPhones and iPads and Mac Books and Kindles. At least no one was talking so I could have a good nap.

The next day, although still exhausted, we decided to drag ourselves to Washington D.C.'s Smithsonians. The American History Museum has a proud display of the 1st Star Spangled Banner. This behemoth of a flag was hand woven and kept by the original family of weavers until its hand over to the Smithsonian where it is now kept in a security and climate controlled chamber. The flag has seen better days. It looks as though a canon was shot through the star spangled bit and rectangular chucks are missing from the striped bit. Apparently the original owners thought it generous to cut snippets out of the flag as mementos for their guests.

We end off with an all American dinner at Ledo's pizzeria. We start off with Buffalo wings coated Kentucky style with fries topped with chicken and American cheese. This is followed by a pizza and a few jugs of beer. Wow, I can feel my cholesterol clamping closed my left ventricle just thinking about it. We've eaten some damn delicious food in the USA. Everything is tasty and larger than life. But we are all feeling a little overindulged so next week, before we end up with diabetes, its time for more healthy food choices. Next week its time for more apples. But for now I'm content with the memories of having tasted The Biggest Apple of them all.

What I wouldn't give for a foofy slide

2010-10-05T15:28:00.003+02:00

What do you get when you cross a birthday with the yearly anniversary of the Otter Trail? - a two-day hike across Table Mountain! Having not learnt from my previous endeavors to cross mountains, untrained, on blistered feet and shattered knee-caps, we launched ourselves and our back-packs onto the unforgiving peaks of Table Mountain National Park in the far too early hours of Saturday morning. Already questioning why I hadn't booked hubby and myself for a two-day spa treatment instead, for my 32nd birthday, we shivered in our optimistically-chosen shorts and t-shirts on the misty mountain-top, waiting for the rest of the group to arrive. Those of my friends who had been crazy enough to join me were either coerced, given no choice, or made to feel too guilty. And there was also one overly fit Mountain Bunny who had just completed the Table Mountain challenge two weeks previously (where he ran, in half a day, the trek we were about to walk, making our grueling 40km hike look paltry by comparison). Mountain Bunny's Herculean reputation was only slightly diminished by a group of tri-athletes who traipsed past us after their early morning bike-run-swim training session.

Nervous, but still feeling strong, our ten-person group headed into the mist and towards the Orange Kloof tented camp where we would be spending the night. The parks board had not provided a map, or much information at all, but we thankfully managed to locate one the night before departure, so I had no idea how close the camp was to civilization before I had a good look at the map on Saturday morning. While we had shunned the parks board's invitation to transport our bags for us at an over-priced R100 per person, little had we realized that, rather than hiking 20km with heavy packs on our backs, we could have asked someone to drop off our bags for us practically at the camp itself, for not 1km from the tents was Constantia Nek - with a pub and a main road passing straight through it. Damn, crap, bugger. The parks board was now definitely on our shit-list. As soon as we found a signal, there was a mad scramble for cellphones and a quick arrangement was made to have beers delivered and bags fetched later that day.

We hiked through breath-taking scenery with the turquoise ocean following us below and inviting us to jump in. We eventually descended the brutal escarpment down into Constantia Nek and crawled breathlessly into the pub, backpacks discarded and beers readily ordered. Sitting down after a 20km hike and drinking alcohol turns out not to be such a great idea, however, when you still need to hike 1.5kms to your accommodation, but it was a luxurious novelty to be able to stop for a beer half way through a hike which is, at all other times, in the middle of nowhere.

Stumbling into our tented camp, we were greeted by a friendly park ranger who offered to make us tea and build us a camp fire. She was wonderful. I think next time I'll pack her in my survival bag (which usually includes tea bags, chocolate and headache tablets). We were shown to our beautifully arranged A-frame tents and descended on the bathrooms, built into the forest, for lovely hot showers. Feeling crippled, but at least a lot less stinky, we were suddenly ravenous for food other than crackers and energy bars and braaied up some juicy steaks and boerewors.

I had made a deal with Murphy the Friday before that, that if he gave us good weather for the weekend, he could torture me in another way (he drives a hard bargain). Sure as nuts, I had woken up on Friday morning with a thorn in the ball of my foot. How I had managed that, Murphy only knows, because I had been wearing shoes all week. His ways are certainly mysterious. Having had a painful and limping walk the whole of Saturday, my doctor friend, who was with us on the hike, insisted on giving me a foot operation. This sent me into a such a panic that I didn't know whether to try flee on my broken legs or play dead. This scenario was happily averted by the appearance of my chocolate birthday cake that someone had managed to smuggle down to the camp with the beers (I have such great friends). I placated myself with a generous slice while my doctor buddy prepared his surgery tools: whiskey for disinfectant and a very sharp needle usually reserved for sewing. I eyed both suspiciously and started wriggling in my chair. Some brute held me down while the whole horrible operation proceeded without my approval and without anesthetic. Apparently the thorn had caused a small abscess which, once burst, relieved much of my pain and suffering. Feeling violated but cured, I went outside to find my husband who could not bear to see me so tortured. He was polishing off the rest of the whiskey. We enjoyed the remainder of the evening around the camp fire toasting marshmallows and discussing the various air-releasing talents that males seem to have in abundance. Apparently all it takes for them to let rip is for them to lie horizontal in bed and pull up the duvet. Interesting talents. Stinky, yes, but, on the bright side, am sure getting gassed all night helps us sleep better!

Sunday morning we awoke to a perfect and sunny day and were very happy to send our backpacks away with our friend's parents, sure that all we would need would be lunch, water and a map. My foot was feeling much better, however, so I eyed the sky suspiciously, sure that Murphy would send a hurricane now that I was no longer suffering. I drank some horrible concoction for breakfast - some juice, protein and fiber cocktail called Get Up or something (more like Throw Up) - and we headed into the beautiful Orange Kloof and up through Disa Gorge. There were rusted and long-disused phone lines strung haphazardly to a corrugated iron shack on the river where, we supposed, someone from the water works had had to live, and wondered if we could redesign them into the monster of all foofy-slides. Now that would be a much better way of getting down the mountain! Stuff this walking shit! My knees were feeling like they had been splintered into a million little bits and my thighs were screaming in agony. To make matters worse, I hadn't packed a jersey and some damn miserable weather was blowing in. Eventually we were walking completely though cloud cover. So much for the view. We were driven on, however, by the knowledge that we had the luxury of taking the cable car back down the mountain. So we thought. About 30 minutes from the end, we heard the siren signaling the last trip. There was another scramble for cell phones. Someone got hold of the cable way office and begged them to wait for us but it was no use. Due to the gale-force winds, they were forced to send the rest of the staff down in the last cable car trip and, unless we got there in the next 10 minutes, we were going to be left behind. Damn, crap, bugger. Now the cable way people were also on our shit-list.

Thinking we could still make it, we started running, as fast as crippled hikers can, hoping that the staff would somehow in some freak accident be delayed long enough for us to make it to the cable way before they left. We put every last micron of energy into our mad dash. Oh, if only they had known how desperate we were! We even passed three lost American students on the way, freezing and bedraggled in their shorts and t-shirts, but loving their African adventure none-the-less (they promised to blog vociferously about it), who joined our scramble. Mountain Bunny ran ahead, promising to make them wait until we got there, but it was all for nothing. That beautiful, luxurious, Swiss-made car made its way smoothly down the mountainside without us. The fact that those cars are able to ferry people, year round, up and down the Alps is apparently not a good enough reason to keep ferrying people down Table Mountain in poor weather conditions, even when the people have phoned three times and begged and pleaded.

We gathered our little group together and headed for the precipitous Platteklip Gorge - the only way we would now get down the mountain. Our American friends were still in high spirits, despite the fact that they were dressed for summer, had water damage to their cameras, could see nothing at all and had missed the cable car. They were from a larger group of students who were on a cruise - studying and traveling the world for 6-months. Sounds amazing! So amazing that Desmond Tutu himself had joined them for a while. How unfair is that?! I work for the Desmond Tutu HIV Foundation and they were getting more of his time than I ever would! That made me sulk a little and I was soon even more amazed by the endless line of students making their way up the gorge as we were hobbling down. Group after group of the most perfect-looking young people you've ever met in your life were skipping up the mountain as though they were headed for a picnic. I asked, incredulously, why they had chosen today of all days to hike up the mountain when they could see nothing at all though the blanket of cloud cover, but they were apparently very goal orientated and merely wanted to state that "they had done it". It was like a pod of Gattaca-designed youths had been released onto a ship with a tan and a to-do list. Their annoying energy was starting to make me want to kick them back down the mountain. They kept blinking their perfect white smiles at me and telling me that "I could do it". The girls all had flawless little figures which they flaunted in hot pants and the guys were all built like US marines and kept making shrieking money-calls. I was secretly hoping they would attract a troop of baboons and that forced mating would ensue.

After an eternity, where the road just didn't seem to be getting any closer, we reached the bottom as broken and defeated forms of what we used to be. Mountain Bunny had jogged down ages ago and phoned his wife for supplies. Looking like a crippled Quasimodo, I was greeted with a snack and a cup of tea. I thought, if I could just have a shower and a pizza the size of Japan, I might just live to see Monday. As it turned out, I was too tired for anything other than my bed when we got home. My cat took one quizzical look at me, gave me his "I think you're crazy" eyes (he wasn't far wrong), and flopped down next to me - exhausted after a days lying out in the sun, no doubt. Next time, I'll take his advice!

Damn that enertia

2010-09-27T21:28:00.001+02:00

Driving back from work today, I nearly got hit by a flying chair. Some tonsil decided to transport a desk and a chair on the back of his dented old backy with absolutely no attempt to fasten down his load. I can just imagine his noodle of a thought process going something like this: "Well, the items aren't moving when the car is standing still so I am sure that once I'm speeding along the main highway at 100km/hr though a breezy south-easter everything will stay perfectly in place!" Wow, what a light-bulb moment. It's like that Seinfeld episode where he rips off that one guy for transporting his mattress on the roof of his car - not tied down with any rope, oh no, because he is "using his arm"... yes, as Seinfeld so humorously points out, the stupid idiot actually thinks that if he is driving down the highway and a gust of wind decides to take hold of his mattress, he will be able to simultaneously hold down his giant piece of bedding while operating his vehicle.

The dude in the backy in front of me, meanwhile, was lucky enough to be in the left hand lane so when his chair went hurtling skyward, it whizzed towards a grassed embankment instead of the three lanes of traffic on the right hand side. This was similar to another backy incident where the driver's batch of tyres, piled high and free on the back, liberated themselves when he turned around a sharp bend. Screaming on the brakes behind him as he frantically pulled over and scuttled after his tyres, which were by this time happily rolling far, far away from him, I thought fondly of what Seinfeld would have made of it.

While Murphy usually ensures, with unflinching dedication, that my steady misfortunes remain constant and unforgiving, by a magical turn of events, my little car has remained unscathed. The south-easter must be messing with His aim.

Cowabunga

2010-09-01T22:16:00.003+02:00

A very happy spring day to you all! Capetonians celebrated what is still essentially the middle of winter for them with a good and thorough downpour of rain, which will help all the little flowers to bloom in Namaqualand - the things we sacrifice for nature.

I celebrated with a sleepless night and an early morning telephone interview with Medecins Sans Frontieres (MSF).... Again.... The first time I was interviewed, just before my wedding in 2008 and for the same position, they flew me all the way to Geneva and put me up in a hotel, no doubt funded by donor money, only to later inform me that, not to worry, they had found an internal placement (a year later the Gates Foundation did the same thing to me, specifically advertising the position for someone with developing world experience - South Africa! Helloooo! - and then hiring someone from the USA because they didn't want to cover my visa costs).

They also tried to fly me via Amsterdam, which would have been one amazing and happy-muffin filled evening but for the fact that I had no visa and no place to stay (the only thing worse than a South African passport to ruin your travel plans is a Colombian passport, or being Arab). So, after the flight plans had been hastily rearranged, I ended up having an extra night in my sparsely equipped and profoundly overpriced Geneva Hotel (153 euros a night to stay in an establishment that considers paintings of cows on doors endearingly decorative, and where you get a plank for a bed and a bread roll, jam and poisonous tasting tea for breakfast) and an extra day to see the sites of the French-Swiss capital. Score!

I didn't know whether to hit the shopping streets first or the many NGO tour options. As window shopping was very much the only sort shopping I had budgeted for, I decided to go to the United Nations and Red Cross first. After a scintillating and sobering morning, where I fulfilled my hippy fantasy of picketing about some or other cause outside the UN buildings, surrounded by sufficient military security to defend a small country against invasion, I picked up some delicious Swiss cheese and a French loaf and picnicked in one of the more beautiful parks that Geneva has in abundance.

Enjoying the free transportation that comes with being a tourist in the city, I caught the shuttle bus back to the more retail-orientated part of town to browse the haute couture, Swiss-designed watches and other name-branded items. I must have looked like a lost and wide-eyed fashion faux pax and blended in more with the refugees, who were staying in housing projects in the dodgy side of town just behind my hotel, than with the locals (who were no doubt living in those palatial mansions alongside the lake). Not being able to apply for refugee status myself, seeing as my country was not embroiled in a civil war or any other major human rights violation (apparently sprawling shanty towns with absolutely no basic services doesn't count as a major problem), I considered bolting for the border and disappearing into the French countryside, but at that point in time I was still an innocent optimist and mistakenly assumed that the MSF were seriously considering me for the job.

Now, nearly 2 years later, I am sufficiently jaded to realize that, if I do get invited back to Geneva, I'm making a run for it, all the way to wine country; because if I wait for the MSF to offer me a job I'll be waiting until the cows come home (to seize the bovine eyesores that are hanging on the walls of the Geneva Hotel, masquerading as works of art, and to make an example of them by incinerating them and replacing them with The Far Side comics).

August - I think I'll skip it next year

2010-08-27T20:53:00.001+02:00

August has not been a good month. It started out with me falling prey to an email scam written by an opportunistic and intrepid bunch of criminals masquerading as the Gates Foundation, and who I suspect are a group of out of work scientists. Not only did I fall prey to this diabolical phishing scam but, due to the fact that I was the one responsible for sending it viral throughout my organization, another two unsuspecting colleagues also gave up their weekends to get the factitious grant in on time, one of which was the co-director of the institute who had prioritized applying to the "Gates Foundation" above all her other more pressing deadlines.

When we got the "letter of acceptance" just three days later (perhaps the out of work scientists had gotten a little greedy and forgotten to leave sufficient time for the sometimes months-long peer review process), asking us to deposit $2,500 into a dodgy bank account, we knew we had been duped. My only consolation is that the little F-ers didn't get any money out of us; only 2 weeks of our precious time! Plus I am resolved to find another legitimate foundation to submit our grants to - maybe even the real Gates Foundation (who were completely unsympathetic about our plight, and hadn't even sent out a warning email despite the fact that they had known about the scam for weeks - thanks Bill! Is torturing us with Windows not sufficient punishment already?)

Just as I was slowly starting to recover from the guilt, shame and nauseousness of one of my greatest moments of idiocy, beating myself up for not trusting that uncomfortable niggly feeling that I had had about the email that something was not quite right (despite having just finished reading Malcolm Gladwell's book, Blink, about that very subject! Sorry Malcolm - you did try to warn me!), I ended up being poisoned by some bacteria-ridden hummus yesterday and puking my guts out the whole night. Actually there was a long while where I wasn't sure which end the putrid-acid mix was going to escape from. Luckily I have a caring husband and Cape Town is blessed with an all night chemist, which stocks Imodium and Buscopan, otherwise I would still be bent over the toilet trying to correctly decipher the timing of my body's inner workings, which seemed to be swaying wildly and indecisively between purging my insides out the top or the bottom.

If things happen in threes I'm screwed between now and Wednesday!

Premature explosion

2010-08-22T16:13:00.002+02:00

Cape Town is known for its bad timing, bad driving, bad wind and bad hospitality; and it seems for its bad organization as well.

To be fair, that's not quite true. I have lived in Cape Town for 8 years and have loved every bit of it - from the beautiful mountains to the stormy sea - but today we all have cause to rant a bit about one of the biggest F-ups this year. Two of the great old ladies of Cape Town, the 48-year old and long-retired Athlone cooling towers, went down at noon today, by carefully planned demolition. Despite the rain, cold and wind, Capetonians turned out in crowds reminiscent of the FIFA world cup. Media crews and professional photographers gathered as close to the site as self-preservation would allow. They were promised a count down so that they could prepare suitably for their talk-ups and visual footage. At about 5 minutes to 12 people were still jostling to find the best viewing spot and a sudden deluge sent cameramen scrambling to cover their electronic equipment. Newsmen were still adjusting their microphones and doing sound checks when suddenly, and without any warning, the cooling towers vanished in a plume of smoke at about 4 minutes to 12.

No one had been ready. While the entire city had been getting their cameras out, and checking their microphones and scrambling to keep their electronic gear water-free and popping back inside for that last beer, the cooling towers exploded prematurely. After 2 hours of rained-soaked preparation, most journalists were lucky to catch the tail-end of the seconds-long demolition. There must have been some series of miscommunications where the guy whose watch was 4 minutes early told the guy who was responsible for pushing the button that it was time, and that guy in turn was so excited at the prospect of blowing something into bits and pieces that he forgot to tell the count down guy. Either that or he tripped and fell on the button by mistake. The wind then quickly sent the cloud of concrete dust onto the Cape flats to cover the flooded townships in a gooey concoction of old building material mixed with explosives. Boy, they really kick you when you're down.

After that slight anti-climax, we headed back to our car only to get stuck in a traffic jam that lasted 1 1/2 hours; but we were adequately entertained by our friends who regaled us with endless stories about how Barclay's bank had repeatedly and inexplicably canceled their cards and internet banking while on a 6 month trip through Africa, which involved them having to buy sufficient prepaid cell phone credit to be able to phone their bank to get reconnected. Imagine standing on the side of the road in Uganda, trying to get through to the appropriate person at your bank in the UK so that you can have access to your own money again, and just when, after 15 minutes, you do get through to someone who can help, and actually manage to partly explain the situation to them over the din of goats, your 5$ credit runs out and you get cut-off. The Barclay's bank policy, if a foreign transaction occurs, is to cancel your bank card and write you a letter mailed to your home address, in order to find out whether or not the transaction was legitimate; at which point you wonder how the hell this can be logical if you are, in fact, traveling. Boy, they really kick you when you're down.

Vergenoegd (Far enough)

2010-08-14T20:36:00.000+02:00

Part two of my loony bin rant continues with this sequel on my Irish insurance company who have inflicted almost as much torture on me as Murphy himself. Actually they are probably in cahoots. After said heaps of paperwork, and a 4-month delay in service to due to a deluge in claims after the volcanic ash cloud, I finally got the ok from Deidre (a red-haired, blue-eyed vixen) to send her my bank account details, so that she could deposit my refund that I had lost about 6-months interest on so far. Yippee-yay. So I send her my South African bank account details, with swift codes and ban codes and all the other relevant FOREX stuff, and what does Deidre do? Deidre decides that it will be much more convenient to post me a cheque so that, instead of getting the money deposited into my bank account the same day (isn't the internet a joy), I have to rely on antiquated technology (I refer to both the postal service and visits to the bank), wait another month for the money to arrive, and then brave a 2-hour queue at the bank on a Saturday morning only to be told that their FOREX services are only open during the week. Now, not only have I wasted my precious relaxation time and paid a ridiculous parking fee to achieve nothing at all, I have to take leave from work to go BACK to the bank, stand in another back-breaking queue and pay hefty exchange charges because the cheque is in euros.

Deidre, you have caused me a bit of bother. You have pushed me far enough. For that I have instructed the little green leprechauns to put a curse on your teabags and your Guinness. You will suffer as I have suffered. There will be no more line-dancing for you!

Patisserie Gallery

2010-07-31T18:17:00.001+02:00

Bursting with more pride than Martha Stewart the day she found out she really was a domestic goddess (and promptly starting making a fortune out of dispensing recipes and useless advice, such as what to do with left over wine), I give you, my baked goodies.
Orders welcome. (You know you wants 'em. You know you gotsta have 'em.)

Happy birthday cupcakes

Got to eat 'em chocolate cupcakes


American-themed good-bye cake

Freakishly chocolaty cupcakes

Girly-girl goodbye cake

Squiggly wiggly cake

I won! I won!

2010-07-22T22:46:00.000+02:00

They need to puh-leeez install, as at the airport, a credit card facility at every parking payment station. I am not one to remember to draw cash, and almost never have change on me - that usually gets dished out on a frequent basis to car guards and petrol attendants and runs out pretty quickly - and I am therefore always put in a compromising situation when attempting to leave a shopping centre. I am forever cursed to be the lone sod who, after zipping in and out of the mall as efficiently as possible, realises that she doesn't have any money to pay her ten rand parking fee. This requires a curse-ridden power walk back into the mall to locate the nearest ATM, a device that only carries infuriating large denominations and which results in me getting a metal-clanging cacophony of ninety rand paid out to me in slot-machine style five rand coins because I've had to pay my ten rand parking fee with a hundred rand note.

If I am fortunate enough to scrounge up sufficient coins to pay my parking, one of them (invariably a two rand coin) refuses to lodge into whatever shape it's designed for in the depths of the parking machine and keeps cascading through pin-ball game-style maneuvers to arrive back out the change slot. This mockery continues, with me frantically trying to transcend the laws of physics by rubbing the coin furiously against the metal box, in the vain hope that this will make it lodge appropriately, until some kind and severely impatient customer, stuck in the ever-growing queue behind me, decides to swop out my delinquent coin, or just pay the rest himself.

This mechanical rejection of cash is not limited to coins. I have often been faced with the prospect of being plunged into darkness, and not being able to make tea and toast for days, when our home electricity pay-point has refused to accept my crispy new bank notes. After spitting them out with glee for at least five times in a row, it will suddenly and inexplicably suck the note in like it hasn't eaten for a week. I guess we all need our George Costanza moments and capricious pay-point machines have definitely got mine covered!

Happy Birthday Madiba

2010-07-18T18:31:00.002+02:00

I am officially a rebel hippy. Today I attended my first ever protest march. Charlie's Bakery organized a walk through the city to protest against the xenophobia that is threatening to take over our country yet again. We wanted to do our 67 minutes for Mandela day and this, plus the promise of free cake, seemed very worthwhile. Plus we didn't feel energetic enough to hack Australian vegetation out of the fynbos.

Although a serious issue, the protest itself turned out to be a little hilariously pathetic. That's what happens when a bunch of fairly non-aggrieved white people, who can neither dance nor sing, try to launch a peaceful protest. Optimistically, the police had arrived en masse to escort us through the city, and there was even a fire truck on standby lest things got really out of hand and the rubber bullets proved ineffective. In the end it felt more like we were enjoying a sunny stroll around our newly beautified city center rather than protesting a serious and life-threatening issue; and my husband's excitement about the prospect of reviving the Woodstock-style million-man march on Washington D.C. was unrealised. A couple of people were waving their South African flags enthusiastically but most of us tried to stick close to the three lone black ladies who were singing Shosholoza, a capella style, in their beautifully rich voices and somehow managing to walk and dance at the same time.

I want to end with an apology. Mzansi is going to have to have a lot of patience with us. I realise that we were a little disappointing today but we are not all practiced in the art of protest and we are cursed with fragile voices and no rhythm; but our hearts are hopefully in the right place. Next time we'll even make some protest boards.

Finally, I want to say a very happy birthday to Mandela. Ninety-two years old and sixty-seven years of service to your country and its people. You go Madiba! We are blessed to still have you around.

One form away from the loony bin

2010-07-15T20:51:00.001+02:00

I am defeated. There is an angry vein throbbing and protruding from my forehead. As I sit here, slitty-eyed and slumped in my chair, I have to admit that the insurance companies have won. The mammoth pack of forms that I had to fill out in order to get refunded for the 100 rand window chip fee I had to pay over to the rental car company was not worth the effort. I know they do it on purpose. It is an incredibly efficient means of dissuading clients from claiming for anything less than a total vehicle right off. I mean, who cares if half your door is falling off? Who cares if there is a big whole in the roof from some truck dropping bricks on your car, which results in you getting drenched and hypothermic every time it rains? Who cares? It's a complementary sunroof! Let it be. It still beats spending the next few weeks filling out the insurance claim form... proving you weren't negligent... proving your identity... proving your car exists... proving YOU exist.. proving you are not an alien-being who has come to earth and infiltrated a human body just to rip off insurance companies! Yes, having a bumper bash so bad it prevents you from ever using your boot again is still better than having to deal with your insurance company!

My husband, who had a minor ultication with a BMW's bumper over the weekend, has still had to submit a claim form to our insurance company EVEN THOUGH WE ARE NOT CLAIMING ANYTHING. The mere fact that Mr BMW wants to claim third party insurance for a scratch of white paint that can be washed off with a bit of sunlight soap is reason enough, say the kings of wasting-lots-of-your-sweet-ass-time, for YOU to have to fill in the paperwork as well! Go figure! After you download the 25 page damage report, having spent 5 hours trying to find it on their well-encrypted website, you then have to schlep to not one, but TWO, insurance-approved garages for a quote on what it might cost to fix your microscopic scratch. Being the opportunists that they are, the garage usually goes on to insist that the entire bumper needs replacing. In fact the one garage, that my husband spent an entire afternoon trying to locate in the depths of industria, no longer even exists! He had to inform the insurance company that their own approved garage that they just sent him to that morning had shut down months ago; and could he please send them a bill for his time, petrol and the wear and tear on our vehicle?

Yup, I'm really on a roll now, so am going to continue unburgeoning myself with an egregious complaint about the reams of paperwork required to open a basic, bottom-of-the-barrel, cheap-ass cell phone contract. I don't want an iPHONE with roaming, 100 internet based applications, a GPS and complementary massage vouchers; I just want a phone that I can use to call other people on and maybe send a text message to. That's all. For that I have to fill out 10 pages of information, initial each page, sign my bank details away, prove I am alive, prove I live in the country, prove I have a job, prove I have enough money to settle a 49 rand per month debit order, and prove that I am not an alien-being who has come to earth and infiltrated a human body just to rip off cell phone companies!

To all those companies out there... I am officially having palpitations! My blood is boiling and dangerously pressurized! You have ruined my last three weekends in a row and taken years off my life! I hope you're happy!!!

BaGhana BaGhana - Our Black Stars

2010-07-03T10:33:00.001+02:00

With Ghana being the only African team to make it through to the quarter finals of the 2010 Football World Cup, they took a continent's dreams, and a hybrid Bafana name, onto the field at Soccer City, where they were to challenge Uruguay. The teams were clearly quite evenly matched and nail-biting was reaching an all time high when they were still tied towards the end of the 2nd half... and then DickFace made his move. This malingering ninny had been faking injuries for penalty shots since he first slithered onto the field in his first game against France, and maliciously jabbing his elbows into the backs of the opposition players every time he thought the ref wasn't looking. It is no wonder there was major dissidence among the French footballers, after having to face a two-timing coward like that. Luis Suarez doesn't know the meaning of the word sportsmanship; and he doesn't understand the meaning of football. He should be banned, along with Thierry Henry and other cheating scoundrels, from ever competing in international tournaments ever again.

Is DickFace regretting his decision to hand-ball Ghana's goal shot out of the net? Hell no. He thinks he is his country's biggest hero. He is quoted as saying "I think I made the best save of the World Cup," and labeled it "the hand of Suarez." Well I would like to take that hand and punch his own DickFace in with it. A broken nose and a few missing teeth would certainly wipe that self-satisfied smugness off his face... And he ain't no hero. He isn't the type of person young soccer stars could ever look up to. He isn't the type of person you would ever want any child to aspire to be like. He isn't a hero because he is a shameless, snot-nosed brat with no scruples and a face that needs to be punched.

Fortunately these rotten eggs seem to be the exception. Most of the football players are gentlemen, and take a lot of pride in their reputation, and many have come to South Africa to involve themselves in charities like 'Football4Africa' and the amusingly named 'Balls for Charity'... Balls indeed! We need 'em! In both courage and character. Show me your balls!!!

Go big or go huge.

2010-06-26T11:52:00.003+02:00

Not to be outdone, my second football match was equally electrifying (see previous article, LADUMA). Wanting the all-encompassing experience, we decided to take the park-and-ride from Century City. A few of the hell's angels minibus taxi drivers had been hired to ferry us to the train station. Perhaps it was the new combis, or perhaps it was a threat of death from the organizing committee, but they drove like sedate old gentlemen in Volvos and we embarked at our lovely new gleaming white train station amid a rapidly gathering crowd of expectant Netherlands supporters. I had wanted to support all African teams, and had therefore decided to route for Cameroon, but quickly realised that, with the Orange Army out in full force, that was going to be difficult.

An animated petrol attendant, who had won a ticket to go to the game in an Engen raffle, kept us entertained for the whole trip into town. With a little help from amphetamines that he most likely enjoyed earlier that day, he began to babble like a race horse commentator, but in that hilarious braying Kapie accent, and then proceeded to load some music onto his play list on his phone so that he could dance around the carriage. He was indefatigable; between the exuberant dance moves, and him blowing his vuvuzela, he soon had a wide berth around him as people tried to squash into the far end of the carriage. We didn't mind being spectators but were a bit worried about having to join in. One elderly gentleman had already been suckered into an R&B rap dance and had turned his peak cap sideways to give his moves more authenticity.

We finally rambled into Cape Town station and joined the throng of football spectators headed for the fanfest. The station had received a beautiful makeover in honour of the world cup and I felt as if I had been transported to Europe. The fanfest was a sea of Orange. I was the lone Cameroonean supporter, and felt tempted to join the Dutch football army, but after hearing some awful band singing some awful traditional Dutch music, to which the whole crowd was joyfully wailing along to, I quickly changed my mind.

It is a sad and wondrous fact that the watered-down piss that is Buddweiser had secured the beer rites for the world cup. It was not surprising, therefore, that some scantily clad blonde bombshells had gone to a previous Dutch game in orange dresses advertising the Bavarian beer logo. FIFA was having none of it, and a lawsuit ensued, after which the ladies got off scott-free. As it should be. We therefore decided to grab a good 'ol Castle, while decent beer could still be had, and headed off to the vendors for some purchase bargaining. I wanted a mad-hatter hat in the SA flag but settled for a scarf in the same theme because I thought I would have the opportunity to wear it more often. I was alone in my practical purchasing decisions. The Dutch fans had kitted themselves out with wig afros, royal-crown hats, flag-suits, 'klompen' and orange vuvuzelas. They had painted their faces and were orange from top to bottom. Even their national touring transport/party bus was orange; and when they proceeded to the station, all 20 000 of them in total, I could understand why they had been dubbed the Orange Army.

Joining the orange march, which wound its way down the fanwalk like a massive centipede, it was almost impossible to extricate yourself to stop at the entertainment pieces. There were a group of African drummers, an Afrikaans opera trio, an African jazz singer, a teenager doing super-human jumps around a skipping rope, and various processions including a group of dramatically costumed performers on stilts, people dressed as soccer balls and the Cape minstrel band.

The stadium was abuzz with people and vuvuzelas. A total of 63 000 people were to watch the match, about 100 of which were Cameroonians. From our seats on the third level we could see a small of crowd of green in amongst the hordes of orange. Many South Africans were supporting Cameroon and I found myself positioned next to a tiny group of them. This was clearly fate and I decided to scream my heart out for our fellow African team, seeing as the universe had been kind enough to put me with a few more Cameroonian supporters, despite the odds. Plus its such a cool name. CAMEROOOOOOON! Sounds like a delicious nut. Like a macadamian.

The match itself was nail-biting. The Cameroonians were playing for pride and the Dutch were playing to win. The final score, 2-1, saw the Dutch through to the second round and now there was only one African team not ousted in the first round, Ghana. Let us pray that they will be the hope of Africa. No pressure! I still feel, though, that even though African teams haven't dominated and Bafana didn't make it through to the final stages, we have still hosted a damn-awesome world cup and have shown the world what global celebration is all about. Ubuntu!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/shari-cohen/south-africa-rolls-out-th_b_611802.html

LADUUUMAAAAAA!!!!!!

2010-06-22T20:47:00.001+02:00

WE WON! WE WON! WE BEAT THE FRENCH! - Rated 9th in the world no less, and previous world champions, with us ranked 83rd. We wouldn't have even made it in to the football world cup if we weren't the hosts; and our Bafanas have done us proud. Of course it did help that SA REALLY REALLY wanted to win, and had the entire country cheering for them, whereas the lead French players were practically on strike, their dissidence leading to a firm snub from all their fans. If positive psychology alone can win a game then Bafana proved that hands down today.

Although the win was bitter sweet, in that they did not get through to the second round, Mzansi can still be proud of their soccer team and enjoy the ramifications of this unifying experience. We have proven that we can overcome adversity. Government have proven that they can improve infrastructure if the will power is there. Africa is alive with opportunity. Business interest in our emerging markets is growing; and tourists continue to be attracted by our warmth and hospitality, and because we live in one of the most diverse and beautiful countries in the world. We may be a rainbow nation but this world cup has united us into one brilliant bright light of success, celebration and patriotism. Lets hold on to this feeling. For as long as we possibly can. VUKA SIZWE! KE NAKO! FEVAH SINAYO! Nation arise! It is time! Together united! We are 2010.

The beautiful game

2010-06-21T23:03:00.003+02:00

My very first real-live soccer experience was completely electrifying. On a rainy Monday morning, in the cold city of Cape Town, we wrapped ourselves up against the winter misery and headed out to the beautiful new Green Point stadium for the group game of Portugal against Northern Korea. My husband was feeling a bit worse for wear as he had decided to take the last train home from town the night before but, due to the heavy mist, had gotten off at the wrong station in a dodgy part of suburbia and, not wanting to wake me, had decided to walk the 4kms home in the freezing cold and fearing for his safety.

I am still not convinced that he was completely lucid at the time because Ysterplaat, which is where he mistakenly disembarked, is a station which is starkly lit, splashed with graffiti and doesn't even have a proper building. Some well-meaning guy in another carriage even yelled at him to get back on the train. Our brand new Century City station, on the other hand, is emblazoned in flood lights, hospital-standard clean and encased in a very generous white building; but ok, the mist was very dense. So instead of subjecting himself to a relatively short and infinitely safer walk back to our flat, he ended up wading through mud practically knee-high and sticking close to the train tracks lest he get lost in the fog. In at least one moment of clarity, he decided to remove his credit card from his wallet lest he get mugged; he didn't get robbed but ended up bending his card into multiple pieces. Fortunately he was able to get home before frost-bite set in and I have a suspicion that that will be his last nightly train trip. However, despite his early morning ordeal, as soon as we entered the fan-walk, he and I were totally swept up in the football fevah.

Between a cacophony of vuvuzelas, and a visual feast of flags, and painted, dressed-up fans, we made our way down the 2km stretch of road leading to the stadium. We passed a few theatrical people on stilts, a group of break-dancing teenagers, the Cape Minstrel band and group of elderly white women drumming extremely impressively on African bongos. Go mamas!

The stadium itself was buzzing like a swarm of giant bees and the mood was totally exhilarating. I had my South African t-shirt on (over my polar-neck and under my jacket) and was hoping to wave my South African flag like a fan possessed, but the otherwise friendly policeman at the security entrance had confiscated the puny cheapy-Chinese plastic handle that I suppose, at a stretch, I might have felt compelled to beat someone to death with, or poke an opponents eye out with at the very least; but neither the rain nor the flag incident could dampen my enthusiasm (and this after some sod, who I hope gets piles, stole my flags off my car mirrors).

By the end of the match I was supremely relieved not to be N Korean. Portugal creamed them 7-0 (the highest 2010 world-cup score to date) - Aish! Eina! The Portuguese team were firing those Jabulani balls into the goal as if they were pumping a shotgun, and Ronaldo wholeheartedly deserved winning man of the match.

History was made... and I was there! Thanks FIFA for hosting the world cup in our back yard; even if you are robbing us blind, its still pretty cool! Ayoba!

I'm dying, I'm dying!!

2010-06-20T22:49:00.001+02:00

What do you get when you cross a hypochondriac with someone easily prone to injury? - a soccer player!

Oh, the drama! With all the crying in agony and rolling around on the grass as if they had been shot, clutching their broken and battered body parts with more exaggeration than a tall story being enacted by a drunk at his local pub, I really have to wonder how many serious physical transgressions actually occur. Some injuries are sufficient to ensure that the fallen player be carted off, spectacularly, on a stretcher (AARG, very AARG), but once the "foul" has given the opposing team a disadvantage, the terrorized patient stops writhing on the floor, wipes the tears from his face and scampers back in to position faster than you can say "red card". The previously immobilized victim transforms, miraculously and rather instantaneously, into a vigorous athlete once again, ready to shoot a penalty.

Although South Africa's other two favorite sports, rugby and cricket, have been completely overshadowed by the soccer world cup, my husband and I were flicking between the rugby game and the football on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Other than a ball and two teams, many parallels there were not. While football is clearly a more elegant game, with artistic and ostentatious ball skills, the rugger buggers hold infinitely more appeal to my atavistic heart. If soccer players and rugby players were competing for cave-women, the brutes would have won hands down; not just because they would have had more strength to club their women over the head and drag them back to their caves, but also because, for most women (as much then as now), a manly man is infinitely more appealing than a malingering ninny who is prone to injury and drama. You want a husband that can defend you against a lion attack, hunt down a buffalo and sweep you off your feet without putting his back out and breaking into tears. Rugby players can service a slipped disc with nothing more than a spray of Voltaren and a 5-minute ice pack before they're back in the game; being ploughed down by 140kg opponents, five at a time, who look like bullets on steroids. If a soccer player loses a tooth he may never be able to play a match again for fear of disfiguring his pretty boy face even further. If a rugby player loses a tooth he will consider it a personal triumph, and a perfect match for his pockmarked cauliflower ears, and he might try to remember to wear a mouth guard and a scrum cap next time. Now that is AARG, very AARG.

Tshabalalalalalalalala

2010-06-14T20:25:00.006+02:00

Feel it! It is here!

Despite a few hick-ups (from striking workers to rain in Cape Town to traffic jams in Joburg to Denmark scoring an own goal; and lets not even discuss the intense corruption and raping-the-developing-country-dry mentality permeating FIFA (see the ever brilliant HAYIBO on http://www.hayibo.com/mastermind-blatter-happy-with-final-preparations-for-operation-rob-the-darkies/)), the 2010 FIFA football world cup has been one big successful fanfest so far. VUVUVUVUVUVUVUVOOOOOOO!!!! Although we knew that many football players would complain about the deafening BZZZZZZZ of the vuvuzelas, they are far from getting banned by anyone except the body corporate of Woodbridge Island - a humourless bunch of unpatriotic residents controlling a small complex in Milnerton, Cape Town. Not only have they banned the vuvuzelas, they have banned all world cup paraphernalia, including the South African flag. I therefore whole-heartedly encourage all passers-by to blow their vuvuzelas at full throttle and wave their flags with gusto.

As for the official world-cup outfit, you absolutely must have a multi-coloured wig, a painted flag on your face, huge yellow plastic glasses, a makarapa hat, an official Bafana t-shirt, a flag to wave and a vuvuzela to blow. Join up with a few other similarly attired fans, position yourself in front of a football game, and you will then attain "The Fevah". I can assure all the international fans that you will feel "The Fevah" in this world cup like never before. No other country or continent will welcome you with quite as much 'gees' (spirit) or with so much overwhelming hospitality. You can dance the diski and sing the waka waka and blow the voo-voo-zela and wave your flag. Our rainbow nation has been showing its true colours and no other world cup in history has been this noisy or this much fun. Brazil - you will have big shoes to fill!

Tshabalala you are our hero - what a goal! Bafana - we wish you all the best for the remaining games. We are sure you will do us proud! Go boys go!!! And if by some freak of nature you don't win, well just comfort yourselves that things could be worse... you could be called the Socceroos!

One day detox guaranteed.

2010-06-06T10:57:00.003+02:00

I recently attended what was one of the most beautiful and colourful weddings I've ever been to. The Hindus really know how to celebrate a marriage. Along with mastering the complexities of sari-tying, the thing that Indian's are most famous for are their curries. I was initially savouring the prospect of digging into a generous helping of mutton biryani, but was disappointed to discover that not only was the food vegetarian but also laden with chili; even though the chef had apparently been given strict instructions to keep the hot factor as mild as possible. This resulted in most of the Indian guests complaining about the blandness of the meal, while the rest of us tried swallowing mouthfuls whole in order to minimize contact time with the tongue, dousing our flaming mouths with water in between bites, or just giving up altogether because hunger seemed a lesser evil than running to the bathroom every 5 minutes with diarrhea so hot it could strip the enamel off the toilet. This reminded me of a funny article about 'Frank the inexperienced curry taster'. You can read all about his spicy experiences here:
http://humour.200ok.com.au/curry_taster.html

The 'you-know-what' is finally here!

2010-06-05T22:50:00.005+02:00

South African Flag - check. Car side-mirror covers - check. Football shirt - check. Tickets - check. I've missed every football Friday up until now but have finally gotten organized enough to participate in some world-cup football fevah. Lets just hope FIFA isn't reading my blog because I've already violated a number of trademarks including 'South African', 'football', 'FIFA', and, most egregious of all, 'world-cup'. I may as well throw '2010' into the mix and let their lawyers come get me. If you think its ridiculous, you are right. The big business that is FIFA has forced intrepid advertises to come up with ingenious names for what is really OUR Soccer World Cup; from the 'you-know-what' to just plain '2010', everyone has been filling in the blanks. Thank goodness 'Banana Banana' have somewhat redeemed themselves the last few months, and die-hard Bafana Bafana fans are sporting their team shirts and blowing on yellow vuvuzelas. The vibrating dissonance, for those of you unfamiliar with the cacophony of the plastic kudu horn, is a deafening noise that sounds something like a pressurized fart crossed with a well-needed nose blow (see http://www.spitorswallow.co.za/blowme.php). Cape Town has had the least world cup fevah of any major city and would have to hang its head in shame if Hyundai hadn't placed a guiness-world-of-records-winning sized vuvuzela on the edge of the notorious unfinished freeway (this will elicit a sound every time a goal is scored), or if a giant carousel hadn't been put up at the Waterfront. Am hoping that this has more to do with our winter rain than the apathy of the people. As for me, I am super duper excited. I've never watched a full soccer match in my entire life, nor have I ever before felt a desire to, but this is the 2010 Football World-Cup; and WE are hosting it! If you want to know how momentous this really is then you only need to look at how wide the smile is on Madiba's face, or how many youngsters are playing soccer in the park, or how every traffic light hawker has given up his usual stash of rip-off sunglasses and beaded key-rings in favour of football paraphernalia, or how everyone is so happy that you can't even try to put petrol in your car without 5 assistants bending over backwards to help you, or how if you go to any mall the buzz is so audible it feels like Christmas; and Germans, please note, our beautiful African stadiums were finished bang on time and they kick ass. This is our proudly South African moment. Lets love every minute of it. Viva the fevah!

Murphy spreads the love

2010-05-24T20:37:00.008+02:00

I like to think that Murphy has an especial fondness for me. I like to think that he reserves his best work for me alone. From rain on my wedding day to two flat tyres in one day to my toast always landing butter-side down, I've learnt to expect life to run by His rules. However, I've recently noticed Murphy's humour extend to my friends and family and am now wondering if this is his new angle, for why stop with me alone? Getting someone indirectly works just as well. His first misdemeanor was to cause torrential downpour and blustering wind during my friend's beautiful Hindu wedding, and this in Durban, which is not supposed to get winter rain and where the wind never blows. He then went on to incapacitate our transport for the week by engineering the cracking of my friend's car's drive shaft and CV joint during the middle of our holiday and far away from her usual mechanic (and this after a mosquito bit her under the eye so that it puffed up like she'd been clobbered by a drunken and abusive boyfriend). His final flourishing act was to give my husband the flu just before my return (a malady which I am sure he has subsequently passed on to me and the symptoms of which I imminently await); and then the cat peed on him. The kitty, after being locked inside for the evening, was waiting to be let out for his morning ablutions, but we were taking a bit too long to open the cat flap, so he clambered into his cat litter instead. My husband, thinking that he could do without the smell of cat pee, lunged for the kitty and tried to carry him outside before his ablutions began. Unfortunately his timing was a bit off and the cat had already commenced with a healthy stream of concentrated urine. The poor kitty, surprised at being yanked from his toilet, could not stop mid-flow and instead sent a volatile spray of cat pee all over the bathroom and my husband. Just in time for me to leave for work (as fast as I could).

Murphy's Kakulu KAKula

2010-05-21T10:32:00.003+02:00

There are those days when you know, irrefutably, that you should have just stayed in bed. Thursday the 13th was one of those. I had been getting up at 7am for work, a new hour of the morning for me after three weeks holiday and, in the pitch dark of winter and usually in the rain, it still felt like the middle of the night. My body objected decisively but, with my mind on my paycheck, I managed to tear myself from under the covers, my cat and my husband still cocooned under our down duvet, and out into the icy fingers of a still sun-deprived morning. Could anything be more horrific to my unique and borderline reptilian physique... well, yes... getting up at 6am, a reality facing me on said Thursday the 13th. The rain was drowning Cape Town with a particularly thorough intensity, which made the sun even more shy than usual. I had my first meeting at 'my' clinic, an hours drive away, and had to fetch someone on route in Kalk Bay. My windscreen had turned into a blurry, gray and spotted excuse for glass but I made my way, launching my Opel through road lakes, without any apparent problem, all the way to the peninsula.

After a quick coffee with Dr Phil, with a chocolate croissant to help defrost my extremities, I sprinted through the drizzle back to my car, now fully illuminated by the rising sun, only to find my front left wheel completely flat and my car undriveable. Strike One. We have a beer advert in South Africa at the moment that strikes fear and shame into any man calling roadside assistance to change a tyre, so Dr Phil was having none of it. Out came the jack, pouring rain and all, and on went the new tyre. Brilliant. Only problem was that now I had no spare tyre and, fearing another puncture, I decided to drive past a tyre-shop on my way back to work. Of course this meant skipping my clinic visit altogether. Let me see... Hideously early morning and long drive all for nothing... Could have slept an hour later and not given Dr Phil hypothermia. Strike Two.

The tyre-guy informed me that I had a great big nail in my front tyre; and, not only that, I had a great big nail in my other front tyre too. Fearing sabotage, I quickly called my husband to find out who was trying to kill us. A debt collector? An ex-girlfriend? Our pet-insurance company? No-one came to mind. Two patches, some wheel rotations and realignments and a big bill later, I was finally on my way to work six hours after I'd ripped my protesting body from the comforts of my bed. Strike Three.

There was no time for sympathies. I was leaving for Durban the next day and had tons of stuff to finish-up before then. I rose before sunrise, again, and was nice and early for my flight, which was supposed to depart at 10h45. I was super organized. I had even remembered to wrap my toiletries in a plastic bag so if my shampoo burst it wouldn't run all over my clothes. As I said, super organized. Unfortunately for me, Kulula, otherwise known as KAKula, weren't similarly equipped and I got to the counter only to realize that my flight had been postponed until 16h00 and I could have slept until bloody midday if I'd wanted to. Strike Four.

We were all shuffled into the queue for the 14h30 1Time flight, however, there was some miscommunication between KAKula and 1Time and so during the half-hour that we were so patiently waiting to get re-boarded, the 1Time office was merrily selling our seats to other customers. Strike Five. KAKula was rapidly becoming Kakulu KAKula (kakulu meaning big in Zulu; kak meaning rubbish). Their customer service, which was advertised to make their customers feel like happy super heroes, was , in reality, putting us in the mood for a bottle of whiskey and a baseball bat.

Considering that I had to be at a wedding ceremony in Durban at 5pm, I made a last desperate attempt at catching the 14h30 SAA flight by running the length of the airport to put my name on the standby list; but, of course, they needed authorization from KAKula so, now sweaty from frustration and olympic cross-airport sprints, I dashed back to KAKula whereupon the manager lied and said that SAA had taken me off the stand-by list, presumably because KAKula were too stingy to buy me a brand new ticket. I raced back to SAA again, my two bags flying behind me and bashing small children and moribund old people out the way, only to be told that my name was still very much on the stand-by list and that I had five minutes to get authorization. Strike Six. I stormed back to KAKula and set my eye on the friendliest assistant I could find. Maria, a darling angel of a human being, approved my ticket and I was finally on my way, not only to my destination but to a well-needed shower as well. As compensation, KAKula sent me an sms the following day to say 'sorree' (KAKula spelling). I'll consider that a Strike Seven. Sorree for me.

Murphy did grant me one sliver of respite. While I had kept my baggage with me, other stranded passengers had handed their baggage over to KAKula who had gotten the luggage completely mixed up, what with the delayed flights and people moving to other airlines. In the end, people were just hoping that their luggage would eventually get posted to them within the next couple of days. That's Seven Strikes minus One. Thanks a lot Murphy.

5 days down, a million to go...

2010-05-09T22:25:00.005+02:00

I made it though the first week of my new job in a blur of catatonia. Training yourself for early mornings is not easy or welcome when winter has arrived and settled like icing sugar on cupcakes. It is cruel, inhumane and insufferable to expect someone to get up in the dark and the cold 5 days a week, every week. If my angel of a husband hadn't filtered strong coffee into me after been woken, as if out of a coma, by my darstardly alarm clock, I might never have made it to work at all.

My formal title of 'Scientific Officer' has been imaginatively stretched into whichever hierarchical colleague needs what done. My loopy Professor, who despite been completely off-the-wall wants everything finished yesterday, prefers the title of 'Research Assistant'. My official boss, who despite being a botanist by training and a bonsai guru has gone into database administration to pay the bills, prefers the title of 'Data Manager'. My other colleagues (including a dry clinician called Phillip, who is trying unsuccessfully to shake the nickname 'Dr Phil', and my mathematician office-companion who vocalizes every thought in his head) haven't quite figured out what I am there for yet, but I anticipate they will find further uses for me in the weeks to follow. I am but another minion in the great cog of the institute. A juggler of projects and a manager of people. Am I in control or what.

http://www.desmondtutuhivcentre.org.za

The rental car makes it and other tamer stories

2010-05-01T19:45:00.003+02:00

Having survived the trip down the beautiful and potholed Wild Coast of South Africa, we finally hit roads more traveled in the real Eastern Cape (see previous blog: Trashing the rental car and other wild stories). Our first stop was to the hobbit-land of Hogsback and the Amatola mountains, where the myth of JRR Tolkien's writing of 'The Lord of the Rings' still lingers, even though he left Bloemfontein when he was a baby.

Driving had become pretty uneventful. We no longer had to pin our eyes on the road to swerve around potholes and could concentrate more on the panoramic views. Gaining altitude through the majestic Hogsback pass, we left the dry, scrubby bush-veld behind and entered verdant, misty forest. The temperature dropped about 10 degrees and we quickly scrambled through our luggage for jerseys, gloves, scarves and beanies (well I did anyway). We entered 2 days of drizzle, mist and forest that held the promise of fairies and the uneasy feeling that a troop of giant blood-thirsty orcs were going to come marching down the road. I didn't feel very intimidating looking like a well-wrapped snowman.

We got to our cottage, Granny Mouse, only to find that the gas for the geezer had run out (story of our lives). It was already dark, freezing cold and pouring down with rain. While I warmed myself by the fire, my husband had to run around in the rain, find a fresh gas canister on the other side of the property, haul it back to the cottage, dislodge the safety seal in the half light of a match, connect the pipes and try to relight the flint, which seemed apparently flint-less. Although I was no help throughout the ordeal, I wasn't exactly comfortable. The smell of gas was extremely pungent and, with all the lighting of matches, I was sure we were going to blow ourselves up, and I thought it would be very inconvenient to die before the end of our holiday. Shortly after getting the geezer burning again, the electricity cut out. Happy days; and we thought we were fully back in civilization.

We awoke to a frosty morning, not dead by cold or gas, and were disappointed to find that it had not snowed (apparently it had been too cold for that). Survival instincts kicked in and we decided to eat our way through Hogsback. The little mountain village is full of coffee shops with fireplaces and comfy couches and all serving the most divine grub. It feels just like the English midlands and its no wonder the British settlers loved the place. They built the first establishment, 'Ye Olde Hoggesbacke', in 1880 and the hotel still looks the same. Someone also planted 5 Californian redwoods, which are now massive and over 100 years old, so if you can't make it to the States...

We left Hogsback with about 10 bottles of jam, some cheese, and the feeling that we'd been living in a haunted fairytale, and headed to Addo Elephant Park (which could also be called Addo Kudu, Dung Beetle or Warthog Park), glad to feel the warm sun again. We passed through 1820 Settler country and my previous little University place, Grahamstown. It had been exactly 10 years since I was last there and nothing had changed; still with only 2 main streets and the infamous Rat and Parrot, I relived some good student memories and bad hangovers.

Arriving in the massive Addo Elephant Park, which boasts the 'Big Seven' (rhino, elephant, buffalo, lion, leopard, whale and shark) and stretches from the pyramid-like coastal sand-dunes of Alexandria to the Karoo, we were met by a prodigious bull elephant munching grass and seemingly unaware of our puny little car. We had heard that an older bull elephant had been killed in a territory fight in this area a day before and we wondered if this guy had been the competition.

I took my husband on his first game drive and we encountered another massive bull elephant who was clearly in musth. We weren't too worried by him, being in a big game drive truck, but the humorous ellie did decide to mock charge a little Kia Picanto that was coming up the hill towards us. The car, which could easily have fitted underneath the beast, somehow managed to speed up the dirt track, past the ellie and behind our truck. All the passengers were sweating and hyperventilating and seeing their lives flash before them, and little car stuck closely behind us all the way home.

More excitement was to follow with the discovery of a very scary-looking monster of a spider in our chalet. It looked like a mutant baboon spider, without so much hair, and we called him Goliath. I had to keep a beady eye on him while hubby went to find emergency help - although he would have happily smashed it into bits himself, the thing was sitting too far up the wall for him to reach it. I was in favour of capturing the spider and sending it to the Smithsonian where it could be loved my arachnologists for the rest of its life. But no... it had to be dead. Goliath met his fateful end after an Addo staff member propped a dodgy-looking ladder against the wall and slammed a broom into him. Goliath curled up and fell into three separate pieces and was flushed, unceremoniously, down the toilet. Sorry Goliath. You should know better than to enter chalets and display yourself prominently on cream-coloured walls when arachnophobes are visiting.

Next stop was St. Francis - a picturesque little seaside resort built around canals and termed the 'Venice of SA'. From there we started our scenic drive down Route 62 (the longest wine route in the world and stretching along the awesome mountain ranges of the Western Cape). We kept swerving off the road to stop and take pictures until we reached Oudshoorn - town of the ostridge feather boom and what must surely be the food capital of the Karoo (including Prins Albert). We ate big fluffy omlettes filled with salmon and cream cheese, ostridge steaks, Karoo lamb, venison pie, bobotie, roast chicken and potatoes, pumpkin fritters, apple crumble, strawberry sundaes, and scones with clotted cream, and all washed down with big pots of tea and coffee; and all so reasonably priced. Even if you just visit for the food, it will be worth the trip, but the majestic Swartberg pass, with its mountains of squashed and folded volcanic rock, coloured red and black and yellow from mineral deposits, and a visit to the Cango Wildlife Ranch, will make your visit astounding.

Although it is sad that animals have to be born and bred in captivity, once the species is endangered, there is not much else to be done. The Cango Wild Ranch specializes in the conservation and breeding of the big cats - lions, tigers and cheetahs; and how utterly magnificent they are. One of the greatest highlights of our lives so far was the opportunity to spend time playing with the cheetah and tiger cubs; like over-grown kittens with huge hairy paws, they are very similar to domestic cats in the way they play, sleep and purr like mad when you give them a good scratch. It is completely devastating that there are so few of these beautiful cats left in the wild.

The last night of out trip was spent in the pretty winelands of Rawsonville. We had enjoyed a backdrop of cloud-topped mountains the whole way down Route 62 and Rawsonville had especially beautiful mountains. After a day of driving and site-seeing (we had also made sure to stop at Ronnie's "Sex" Shop - the most famous pub on Route 62 where no-one stopped until Ronnie added the word sex to his title and where he hangs autographed undies, caps and t-shirts that Spud would envy), we were happy to sit in front of a roaring fire, lost in our own thoughts and sipping port.

Our rental car made it back to Cape Town mud-caked and with more than 3000 kms added to her clock, but ok except for a small chip in her windscreen. Next week brings new adventures. They will not include dirt roads through mountainous passes or gorging on delicious Afrikaans food or playing with tiger cubs, but a new job awaits and, with it, a new challenge. Until the next road trip, I'll have my photos to get me by...

Trashing the rental car and other wild stories

2010-04-23T22:09:00.012+02:00

Having spent months looking for a job during a recession, and finally having success at the Desmond Tutu HIV Center at UCT, I decided to ditch the post-doc early and take hubby for a two and a half week road trip down South Africa's east coast from Durban to Cape Town. I wanted, particularly, to see the Wild Coast (previously the Transkei homeland and incorporated into the Eastern Cape since democracy) and it definitely lived up to its name. The Wild Coast, and I quote from the AA Tour Guide that has, for the most part, so faithfully guided two directionally dysfunctional travelers down the right roads, "takes its name from the rough seas that pound the coastline and which have been the cause of many shipping disasters" - well, yes, but I manifest that it is wild for many other reasons too, not least the hideous roads that we tried to drive along in a normal little Opel 2-wheel drive city car. Well hats off to German vehicles because we managed the whole nerve-wracking trip without a single puncture. Although the rental company might not get the car back in quite the same condition; and I'm not just talking about the mud and a few extra rattles. We scraped the bottom a few times, over big dongas and rocks, and a weird beeping noise has developed in the top left-hand corner. Trashing the rental car is so much fun.

Our first stop was at the Umtamvuna and Mzamba river mouths at the border of Kwazulu-Natal and the Wild Coast - easily spotted by Sol Kersner's kitschy gambling Hotel, the Wild Coast Sun. At this naive stage of our trip, I remember us getting horrified by one or two potholes in the tar and wondering what the country was coming to. I had booked our trip in a spontaneous mood - booked being optimistic because this entailed a flight, a rental car and a map, and I was just going to wing it for roads and accommodation - so with this lack of research and preparation (very foreign to my husband of German descend), we had no idea what we were in for.

We booked a walking tour with the infamous Benny (a man of prolific talents including tour guiding, painting and guitar playing), to see the petrified forest and marine fossils between the river mouths, which was also the setting for the filming of Blood Diamond due to the perfectly undeveloped beach and forest. After this pleasant excursion we siked ourselves up for the trip to the beautiful Mkambati. We were expecting the roads to be bad. Our expectations were exceeded. Despite the fact that tourists have to dodge potholes, cows, people and taxis, the unspoilt beaches are still so popular that, in peak season, you have to book months in advance. I suppose its because people are yearning to find isolation and beaches that are still in their natural state, not lined with chalets and beach bungalows.

We drove down the regional road to get to the coastal track, which was fine except for the sad little towns we passed through, all poor, dirty, littered and stuffed with people, taxis and hawkers. The old Transkei is pretty much the same as the new Transkei. Development has not progressed to this area and it feels as though government has forgotten about this part of the country completely, or perhaps the amount of work required is just too daunting. There are endless green rolling hills dotted with colourful thatched mud huts (pink features prominently), little children herding cattle and goats, and people walking along the side of the road, despite the lack of an emergency lane. Women carry 5L buckets of water on their heads for miles and the little kids come running for kms over fields if it looks like you might be the type of people who would give them sweets or money. About the only English they know is: "Sweets! One Rand! Yes! Yes!" - which they scream at you at every opportunity; and its a bit difficult to get away from the hordes when you're traveling 20 km/hr and dodging potholes.

There was 45km of dirt track from the tar to the entrance for Mkambati; and I'm not talking a nicely graded road with a few bumps and stones, I'm talking bolders and craters filled with watery mud. This was not just 4x4 country, this was freaking army-painted hummer country. The only other cars we passed were Toyotos. After a few sweat-soaked and nerve-wracked hours, we were much relieved to make it to the park entrance, sure that at least the roads in the park itself would be maintained. Wrong again. What we had just driven through was nothing. Luxury. The woman at reception saw the car we were driving and yet still gave us our rondavel keys and waved us on our merry way with a map and a good chuckle. Had we known that we could have requested a lift, we would not have attempted the torture of what is the Mkambati park road. The roads are simply not drivable in anything but a Humvee. The park is absolutely ginormous, which is great for the ecosystem but bad when you are trying to get to your accommodation a couple of kms away. After taking out the underside of our car, getting stuck in the mud and pulling our hair out for a while, we bumped into Headman in his 4x4 backy just past the main lodge (but still miles away from our hut). Headman was a park ranger and would prove to be our guardian angel. After a good chuckle and half hour chit chat to his fellow ranger in Xhosa (probably something on the lines of: "These stupid whities in their little car! Hee hee hee! Nobody warned them about this place then, hey? Hee hee hee."), he explained that we could have and should have asked for a lift at reception. He insisted that we park at the main lodge and get a lift to our rondavel. We were so grateful that we gave him a 6-pack of beer. After 45 minutes of spine-rattling driving, we made it to our hut; which was just that - a hut and only a hut. The amenities are as sparse as a camping trip. Besides a bed, you literally have to bring everything else with you. We had 2 plastic cups, 5 paper plates, a 15 rand knife and a torch; but we were promised toilet paper and hot water so we decided to stay for 2 nights.

The reserve is magnificent. If you can survive the fact that slack-packing it is NOT, then you can visit a vulture colony, see the largest lagoon in the country, watch waterfalls cascade into the sea, fish in isolation and say that you have seen the Mkambati palm-tree (unique to this area and with teeny-tiny coconuts). Due to the fact that we were stranded without a car and only there for one full day, we only had time and energy to walk to the Mkambati waterfall - a day trip in itself, but, according to the ranger, only a short way down the coast... No really, just over there.

We had brought meat to braai but had arrived sans wood, braai grid or tongs. We went through almost a packet of fire-lighters to get a pile of wet drift wood burning, found half a discarded metal grid and managed to cook a string of boerewors for dinner from which we did not die, despite the fact that some of the wood looked treated with varnish. Explains why we slept so well. The wors was supposed to be accompanied by Natal avos but, despite the fact that we had bought them some days ago, they were still rock hard (yet bruised, none-the-less, from the car trip). We braaied from the shoreline, watching a huge storm brewing over the ocean and wondering if we would survive the lightning in a thatched hut whose roof would probably turn into a burning bonfire after one fatal strike. We were imagining the roads that we had to travel back on turning into rivers and being stranded for weeks with nothing but two bright pink plastic cups and a blunt knife.

Our hike to the Mkambati waterfall started with a walk in the wrong direction. With a poor park map and no signage we were again rescued by our guardian angel, Headman the ranger, who, after another good chuckle, gave us a lift back to camp on the back of his backy and pointed us in the right direction. Apparently all we had to do was go over the river, stick to the coast line and find the path through the foliage. It was clearly marked, he said, and the waterfall was not far, he said. Well, there was no path. We spent some time trying to find it but with no avail. The dense bush had obliterated it completely. We spotted a different ranger running towards us over the beach and, although he couldn't speak a word of English, he must have realised that we were trying to find the hiking trail and proceeded to show us how to hack through the undergrowth. It seems that, in Mkambati, it is not so much finding the path as making one up as you go along. Eventually we decided that rock hopping along the coast was far easier than tearing skin through bushes in potential snake territory, and a few hours later we stumbled upon the waterfall, which was, indeed, an impressive cascade.

We had not expected to have to walk so far and the trip back was tiring. We were sunburnt, thirsty and hungry. I had stuffed up my hiking shoes by stepping into a swamp and hubby had sprained his ankle (of course, it doesn't help to go bundu-bashing in Croc slops). Although I have promised vehemently to never, ever go back, unless we get a Unicat, I can honesty say that the reserve is so beautiful that it was worth every pothole and every blister. That night, after a heavenly swim in the ocean, we perfected our fire-making technique with the rest of the fire-lighters and made spatch-cock chicken. Of course, trying to turn it with a plastic fork doesn't work so well and we ended up with ash-flavoured dinner after the chicken fell into the coals a few times. Yummy; and the avos were still rock hard.

The next day, after a cold shower because the gas for the geezer had run out, we made it back over the hideous dirt track and were very relieved that our next stop was Coffee Bay - a more popular stop and at the end of a tar road. We would be able to look forward to fully equipped accommodation and travel faster than a tortoise on tranquilizers. Yippee! Well, at least the former was true. Turning off just past Mtatha, we hit the turn for Coffee Bay and straight into an 80km stretch of potholes the size of satellite dishes. It took us nine hours to get from Mkambati to Coffee Bay. Not only did you have to dodge the potholes - nearly impossible in parts where they overlapped, which was frequently - but also the cows drinking water out of the potholes, stray dogs and taxis that, despite the state of the road, were still overtaking us with alacrity. The only other car we saw was, once again, Toyotas. Apparently these cars are so in demand that you cannot leave a Toyota parked anywhere as it will get stolen. They won't touch any other make of car but pitch up in a Toyota and the guest house will have to hide your car.

With internet speeds so slow dial-up would have been a pleasure, I had booked us into the first self-catering cottage I could find. We arrived at Coffee Bay only to find out that the lodge was down another 8km of horrible dirt road towards Hole in the Wall, so, gritting our teeth, we pushed on. After scraping the underside of the car again, skidding through mud and nearly blowing tyres on rocks, we had to admit defeat half way there, turn around, and try to find accommodation in Coffee Bay itself. Just passed the hotel, our second guardian angel was to present himself - a charitable American by the name of Charlie. He and his family had moved out all the way from North Carolina to pursue social work in the Coffee Bay area and were running a guest lodge called 4 Winds. We fell on their hospitality with such relief that they must have thought us rather dramatic; but they had found us in a frazzled and exhausted state, it was already after dark, and even the hippy Coffee Shack backpackers (that looked grimy and half falling apart) was fully booked. Charlie and his wife Robin have seven children but had come out to Africa, knowing almost nothing about the place, with their three youngest children and a great will to do good. They had only been in Coffee Bay for three months but had already helped with the schools, the orphanage and the building of soccer fields. Their entire three year mission will be funded solely on their own money and kindness. We felt very blessed to have met them.

With no decent food shops in Coffee Bay, we decided to breakfast at the Ocean View Hotel - famous for its view but, unfortunately, I can now confirm, not for its hospitality. We arrived just as they were trying to tidy away the breakfast buffet and it took much deliberation before we were allowed to stay for toast and coffee, for which the bill was outrageous. We left the amount of money we thought the measly breakfast had warranted and made a speedy getaway, not because we felt guilty but because we didn't feel like getting into another protracted deliberation with our waitress. Thankfully, the day was to improve substantially because Charlie, his three sons, and Boetie the dog were taking us to all the must-see sites of Coffee Bay in their Landrover. How lucky were we!

First stop was the magnificent Hole in the Wall. Boetie had rolled in some cow shit at the look-out point, given us all a stinky ride down to the beach, and was force-swam in the ocean until clean again. Next stop was Raven's View - a character-filled lodge build from scratch by Spud and Dee with the best beef-burger I've ever tasted. You can also see, from their viewing deck, Jackal Buzzards hovering over the gorge in search of prey. Spud is a real ladies man and is known for his infamous line: "I'd ride a porcupine naked just to see you again." Despite the fact that his wife seemed unworried, I was too scared to sit next to him. Spud's bar is as infamous as his pick-up lines, with many t-shirts, caps, and lacy underwear (when he can get them) strewn from the ceiling boards that the guests have autographed. After a few more breath-taking viewing points, our last stop was to the Mtatha river mouth - a lush and untouched forested gorge with an undulating river that eventually meets the sea at the line of the mangrove forest.

The next day it was time to leave our charitable Americans behind with a gift of raw, bruised avos and a funny feeling that it was amazing that we had found foreigners to show us a part of our own country. Our final stop along the Wild Coast was the Kei River Mouth - the old border with the Eastern Cape. As we progressed southward the roads became infinitely better, huts changed to houses, kids stopped screaming for sweets, and we slowly got the feeling that we were back in the country we were used to. Charlie reckons that, just before he leaves SA for good, he is going to buy huge packets of sweets, drive down the road, and fling hand-fills out the window. It will feel so liberating despite the consequences for anyone who drives that way again :)

We decided to end our Wild Coast trip with a wild horse-ride down the beach, however, as my husband had never ridden a horse in his life, we decided it best to go for a gentle walk up the river rather than galloping down the beach. He was also scared that he would break Kingstone, his handsome black stallion (of course this was not possible but Kingstone did lie down, exhausted, once we were back at the stable, just to put him on an undeserved guilt trip). Although horses don't usually obey my well-meaning signals (in fact previously docile horses have been known to spontaneously break into a canter and tear off over the terrain, with me clinging on for dear life, while the flabbergasted guide has to catch up with us and rescue me), my auburn mare, Starlight, was pregnant and I felt it unjustified to prod her in the side. She returned the favour by marching me straight through sharp branches; and this after having Kingstone shit three times right in front of me. As if torn flesh and horse poo weren't enough punishment, we both had extremely painful post-ride thighs and bums (despite my husband's padding equipment, which consisted of a sock and 2 pairs of underwear).

We might never have it in us to ride the potholes of the Wild Coast again, or even ride a horse again for that matter, but the beautiful beaches of the Transkei will remain a magical part of our memories forevermore. For now, though, I'm just happy to be back in the land of the tar!

Not born to be an impi warrior

2010-04-11T11:00:00.007+02:00

I live at the giant modern concrete monstrosity that is Century City. Its not all bad. We have a lovely new apartment - modeled, unforgivably, in pink faux-Tuscan, but at least not in the ugly 70's square bunker style of Bauhaus architecture - with a luscious communal garden. Although, eventually, we are going to have to look for apartments built before 1997 because everything constructed after that only lasts until the day the structural guarantee expires, after which giant cracks start forming, like something out of The Mummy, and the whole complex crumbles into rubble. The foundations can not possibly stand more than five years of onslaught from the force of wind that blasts its way across the Cape flats, with Century City being directly in its path. Not being able to open a window, without feeling like you're using it as a windsurf in a hurricane, is bad enough, but try get out of your car without letting the car door slam into the wall, while simultaneously trying to haul out your lap-top bag and 4 packets of groceries. You can just manage it with one foot pinning the door in place (the other, inconveniently, must remain on the floor), two packets in each hand, your bag strung around your neck and your keys in your mouth. Then you must make it up 3 flights of stairs before the strap of your bag strangles you to death and your fingers fall off from lack of blood supply; and that's after wasting 1 whole hour of your life in the stand-still traffic to drive the 12kms between work and home.

In order to avoid the vehicle clogged byways of peak-hour (or peak-hours, seeing that the endless stretch of traffic can last 3 to 4 hours each morning and evening), I have devised ways of postponing my trip home. Not often being inclined to work late, I try to go to the gym, or do shopping, and have even joined a hiking club. Every Wednesday we traverse the beautiful slopes of Table Mountain, feeling like we are in the middle of nowhere and often not being able to see the city from our forested paths, and all this just 5 minutes from the CBD. The group, called CRAG, consists mainly of hyperactive athletic trail runners, most of whom compete in races that take them kilometers up and down the various mountains along the peninsula. If you are familiar with Cape Town, you will appreciate that running up and down Devil's Peak, Platteklip Gorge and Lion's Head in 3 hours is no mean feat; however, that is just what the winner managed to do. He should, incidentally, be applying for movie roles as the bad Scandinavian-looking criminal athlete in action movies.

Knowing that my body was not built for running, I have joined up with the walking group. This bunch consists of retired trail runners that have no cartilage left in their knee-caps, or injured trail runners who have sprained an ankle or ripped an Achilles tendon. Old and injured as they may be, they power-walk up and down the mountains like dassies on gummy-berry juice, with me trailing behind, trying in vain to keep up, breathing like an asthmatic and tasting blood; and just when we've all reached a point where I can take a breath, gulp a drink of water and admire the view, they immediately take off at an incredible pace again, feeling that they had waited there long enough. "Well don't worry about me!", I'm thinking, "I'm only 30 years younger and still have working knee-caps!"

After that weekly ego-bash, you would think I would eventually get fitter or eventually stop going altogether; but I love the nature and the split second that I get to see the view, and have this probably highly optimistic hope that I will eventually get as fit as those old people. Therefore, even when I was working from home last Wednesday, I still decided to drive through to Rhodes Memorial for our weekly power-walk. Of course it took me over an hour to get there through the traffic, and CRAGgers wait for no-one, so by the time I arrived at the parking lot 5 minutes late, there was not a person to be seen. I continued up the long, steep drive to the memorial, hoping to spot them, which I eventually did on the way back down. A distant bunch of heads were bobbing through the veld. In my panic to reach them, I pulled my car over on the side of the road and half way into a ditch, grabbed my water bottle, and started running like a klipspringer through 1m high grass, dodging rocks and leaping over dongas. My last flying leap over a stream brought me to within site of the path and I hurried up the slope to join the group. I was panting so hard that my lungs were making a sharp rasping sound and I swear I was coughing up blood. I like to think that somewhere in this European-looking body lurks some Zulu warrior blood. How amazing it must feel to be descended from Shaka - king of the Zulus! I now know that my running style, pace and inability would have gotten me a swift trip to Shaka's rock, to be thrown into the waves below and pounded to death on the jagged rocks; and I would have deserved it too.

Realising that I had no time for a break after my run through the veld, if I was to keep up with the power-walkers, I forced my legs to take me up the mountain, my lungs still heaving and bleeding and my heart close to shut-down. After about 20 minutes, when it finally dawned on me that I wasn't going to die, practical thought processes set in again and I realised that I had left my car on a no-parking-allowed spot, where drunken sunset watchers coming back from the memorial would probably drive straight into me. Either that or the park ranger would get my wheels clamped; so when we reached the memorial I decided to leave the group and wend my way down the road and back to my car before it got too dark. I was expecting to see a couple more walkers or runners or cyclists, or at least some cars passing by me on their way back from the memorial, but I was all alone. All alone in the woods. Suddenly every sound was magnified by my paranoid imagination into wild animals or would-be rapists. Despite my body's protests, I launched myself back into a run and didn't stop until I'd reached the bottom of the mountain and was safely in my car, which had thankfully remained un-dented and un-impounded.

The next day, I gingerly arose from bed, like a cripple without functioning lungs, and took my bent and broken body to work. Concentrating more on my own pain than my surroundings, I failed to notice the cleaner mopping the floor or the big yellow warning sign. I bailed onto my bum just before reaching the stairs. My left ankle connected solidly with the first stair, sending a bolt of pain up my leg and my shoe flying 3 floors down. The poor cleaning guy apologised readily, even though it was my own fault, and sprinted down the stairs to retrieve my shoe. Not wanting to make him feel even worse, I pretended that I was fine, smiled like a loon, and tried not to emphasize my limp up the stairs.

Some day I will be very happy when they legalise self-medicated morphine drips.

The chronicles of Ralf

2010-04-10T00:02:00.006+02:00

We, at my previous place of employment, had the great misfortune of hosting a German post-doc from Switzerland aca “Ze best country in ze voreld”. Thank goodness not all Germans are like him otherwise they'd never survive international travel. The Ralf was an obsessively compulsive spineless runt. He moved into my office and insidiously worked away at my nerves for an excruciating one and a half years. With skin as white as a translucent deep-water fish and more ‘allergies’ than a hay-fever-sufferer submerged in pollen, he provided us with quite a bit of morbid fascination.

Episode 1: Ze Girlfriend
The Ralf’s Japanese girlfriend, aca S&M chickie, infiltrated his paranoid brain with many alternative theories on how perfectly harmless things can be downright lethal. Water-flowing through pipes, for instance, can send forth such a forceful wave of negative energy that, if positioned anywhere close to the pipes, you will be lucky to survive until the end of the day. And if the water pipes don’t get you, the air will. The only way to protect yourself is by venturing outdoors as little as possible. If you have no choice but to leave the house, make a mad dash for the car equipped with your mask and goggles for protection against the elements (enemies = air and sunlight). When you have such little perspective on ‘problems’ as The Ralf, your imagination tends to run rife with thoughts of allergies and illnesses that may attack you next. You will need to carry the Scientific Book of Diseases with you so that you can circle all the infections and disorders you may have, and so that you can inflict your absurd premonitions on your colleagues.

Episode 2: Ze Concussion
After Feng Shui and acupuncture, the torture S&M chickie most likes to inflict on The Ralf is kama sutra. We were surprised one morning by an announcement from The Ralf that: “My girlfriend concussed me in bed last night” (too much information). It must have been a very rough night because he needed 3 weeks to recover (he bruises easily).

Episode 3: Ze Very Weak Back
The Ralf has to be the most emasculated ‘man’ alive. I cannot imagine any other male asking a woman to carry a 1kg item for him because he cannot possible manage it on his own. Against the chiropractors orders. Aaaarg, very aaaarg.

Episode 4: Ze Desk
This scenario all started with the previously described “death-by-water-pipes”. There were 5 of us all working in a small office together, so practical use of space, as opposed to crazed notions of diabolical water energy, were logical and necessary thought processes behind the layout of the desks. The Ralf was unfortunately positioned on top of the water pipes running under the floor and to the basin in the corner. This was not done with malicious intent, we simply didn’t know about his crazed theory (as you don’t). A plan was hatched over the week-end (clearly the mushrooms got to his brain even more than usual – see bathroom problems) and together, The Ralf and S&M chickie, moved the desk away from the wall and the evil pipes and into the middle of the office. The fact that his computer and screen had to remain on the fixed ledge far away did at no time seem idiotic or senseless. The solution was simple - read everything on the screen in 40+ text and strain your eyes; and the fact that his keyboard had to be positioned at the end of his desk because the cord ran out? Again, simple solution, slouch over the desk like a cripple (and eventually you will become one – enter ze back problem); and finally – expecting your work colleagues to perform the high jump over your chair every time they need to enter or exit the office is reasonable, of course.

Episode 5: Ze Accommodation Crisis
“Zer are mushrooms in ze bathroom” (algae is a consequence of water vapour – open a window and invest in some domestos);
“Ze ants have taken over ze kitchen” (Oh no! That is not a good sign. They excrete cyanide from their feet. You are sure to die. (In retrospect not a good idea – he doesn’t understand sarcasm);
“Ze varnish gives me ‘head-itch’ – zis would never happen in Europe” (apparently nothing bad ever happens in Europe);
“Ze people drink beer and stay up late” (I think you’d definitely be the sort of person who would be happier living alone).

Episode 6: Ze Allergies
The Ralf is not only allergic to air, sunlight and people, The Ralf is allergic to food and drink. The Ralf obviously takes immense pleasure in denying himself all of life’s greatest pleasures, except for kama sutra. A staple diet has to consist, undeniably, of red peppers, raw oats, mineral water and his girlfriend’s latest plaster-of-paris ‘cake’ – made from couscous on account of his gluten allergy.

Episode 7: Welcome to Africa
“How can you live in zis place?!” – quite easily actually, it’s not for sissies like you. The test: home affairs office. I knew he didn’t have the balls to survive that one. I think he thought Cape Town was going to be home away from home, seeing as 40% of the CBD is German, and I suppose Cape Town is very European so what the hell was he complaining about? I would love to drop him in a poor township for a week to get a reality check. All his inane hang-ups would soon dissolve. It would give him a bit of real perspective. I think it would be good for him. Aah, who am I kidding, he wouldn’t survive the night. He wouldn’t even survive the ride there in a minibus taxi. I think he should just go home.

What's a girl to do?

2010-04-09T20:36:00.009+02:00

You know, before I moved to Cape Town, the gay capital of South Africa, I used to assume that every guy I met was straight, but the general consensus of every single woman in Cape Town who is looking for a sweet, chivalrous, attractive man is that, when found, he is “booked or gay” – or just simply not interested because he has a thousand more single, and infinitely more appealing, women to choose from. This has forced many women to be 'celibate in the city' for many years. It has also not helped that men struggle to cope with the new-improved, assertive and career-driven woman - a theme humouressly portrayed by Tim Plewman and David Newton in 'Defense of the Cave- and Laid-Man', respectively. I'm all for equal rights, but, as a woman, I feel slightly cheated by the feminists. They lied when they said we could have it all. Women had to fight so long and hard for their rights that, in the end, to succeed in what was still a man's world, they had to become hardened and resolute and unstoppable. The reality is that we can’t, in fact, juggle a family and a career and look perfect all the time. We still want equality but now we realise that we kinda miss being a little domesticated, and we do want a big strong man to take care of us. For all those confused men out there, I'd like to set the record straight. We're not that scary. We don't even want to be that scary. Although marriage is probably going to ultimately be a dying institution, many of us do still want a life partner to share our troubles and our joys with, and perhaps even to carry on the species with. Although, suffer the little children of today because they seem to have the raw end of the deal. Climate change, dwindling resources and over-population aside, so much is expected of them – achieve in school, achieve in sports, achieve in life – and this without the benefit of having a parent at home during the day. Technology has given them many advantages, such as computers and the internet, but this has also lead to an unhealthy lifestyle of senescence and junk food. What happened to having the afternoon off to run barefoot in the garden, climb trees and ride your bike everywhere? What happened to 10yr-olds who were still children – not dressed up in designer labels and make-up, dumped at the nearest shopping mall because their parents are divorced and Mom’s got a late meeting again? I am so grateful to have had the childhood that I did, but these days, even if you wanted to give your kids a home with a garden and give up work you couldn’t do it – the price of living and property is too extreme. The best you can give them is a semi-detached townhouse with their own 1mx1m room and try take the odd afternoon off from your hectic schedule. Sounds more like a prison sentence than a childhood. With all the benefits of modern living, I still sometimes wonder if they really were the good 'ol days?

Vat jou goed en trek Ferreira

2010-04-07T09:13:00.010+02:00

Ever since the advent of The Great Trek (where Afrikaners decided to escape British rule in beautiful, verdant Cape Town, by hauling all of their possessions in ox wagons over the Karoo desert and 3000m high Drakensburg, only to meet up with the British again in KwaZulu Natal and have to hike back over the mountains once more), us South Africans have felt a need to travel into the middle of nowhere. Fortunately, in South Africa, with the deterioration of roads just outside the city and the complete absence of roads off the beaten track, one can do just that. After a quick 2-hr drive from Cape Town, you can be well on your way into the mountainous Cederberg, along an un-graded dirt track that weaves its way along a cliff-face, until you are deep into Niewoudt country (this surname seems to incestuously dominate the area; its like the rural version of the Bold and the Beautiful where everyone's dressed in khakis).

We do not own a 4x4; and yet this has never once stopped us from trying to take our little city mobiles on pot-holed stretches of sand only fit for Land Cruisers. After our first trip to Sanddrif, the heartland of the Cederberg, my car suffered rattles for the rest of its sad little life. We swore we would never go back, but the beauty of the place warranted a second visit and the car was already stuffed anyway. We invited an old school friend of my husband's and set off with some braai meat, a lot of port and an emergency flare. My husband's friend, lets call him the 'Eskom guy', worked as an electrical engineer for our SA electricity supplier, had been shocked a few times, and was a bit off-the-wall. Our 2-car convoy was carefully winding its way up a mountain face, a deathly cliff on one side (we spotted a rusty VW that had met its fate at the bottom), when I noticed that the 'Eskom guy' was performing daring wheel-spins around the jagged corners. I decided to stop at the viewing point to check 'Eskom guy's' sanity. As soon as he had brought his car skidding to a stop, my husband, who was his passenger, lept from the death-mobile, launched into my boot and upended the bottle of port into his mouth. When I asked him why he was covered in dust he said that he had had to keep the window open because 'Eskom guy' was leaking noxious gas. Apparently he needed the toilet quite badly. This resulted in his stinking out our cottage as soon as we arrived. We were all bursting for the loo but had to sit outside on the grass for an hour to wait for 'Eskom guy's' fumes to disperse sufficiently.

A few months later, the memory of the awful road had faded and only the magic of the mountains remained. My husband therefore decided to plan a 4-brothers trip back to Sanddrif, past the rusty VW at the bottom of the cliff and back to the cottage that still smelt vaguely of the 'Eskom guy'. Unfortunately they never made it. Half way up the mountain one of the wheels liberated itself. It shot over the cliff, with the car skidding to a stop just over the edge. The boot was once again raided for alcohol and they had to spend a few long hours at the road side waiting for help, fending off wild animals and huge hairy spiders and finishing off their wine supply by the light of a full moon. I guess having a spare tyre would have come in handy. Eventually it turned out to be one of their best trips ever. Although I do have photographic evidence of my husband kissing the tar road that they ultimately got back to.

Perhaps, one day, if we ever get a 4x4, we'll go back to Niewoudt country again. Until then, the dreams of my intrepid ancestors will just have to remain unfulfilled...

Its funny when its not you

2010-04-01T22:15:00.009+02:00

Many of us have had to live down the mortification of at least one embarrassing work experience. Take, for instance, the office worker who inadvertently opened an email containing graffic pornography while, unbeknown to him, a few meters behind his desk, his boss was giving a serious news interview on the current financial woes in the USA. This little tit-bit soon made its way from national TV to You-tube, and I believe that he might have suffered, in addition to his intense humiliation, a suspension from his job.

My friend suffered a similar, but fortunately less advertised, fate when she was hunting online for insurance quotes. She had heard that an Australian company offered competitive rates and, while sitting adjacent to her boss and surrounded by her colleagues, she typed in 'www.downunder.com'. Suddenly an x-rated porn site, replete with sounds bites, appeared on her screen. This was quickly followed by numerous lascivious pop-ups; so numerous, in fact, that she could not keep up her mouse-closing clicks with the speed at which the ads appeared, and was eventually forced to give up and turn off her monitor. She then had the battle of convincing her entire office that she had meant to type in 'www.downunder.co.au'.

My brother-in-law, who worked for a post-production company and had a pretty good relationship with his boss, had to face post-drunken evening mortification when his friend got hold of his phone and text messaged the boss that my brother-in-law had been secretly in love with him for years and wanted to do all kinds of kama sutra-style sex acts with him. This perhaps explains why he has recently decided to go freelance.

This is the same friend who emailed me a seemingly innocuous jpg that opened full screen to reveal a Speedo-fitted, oil-glistening beef-cake, just as my boss popped in to chat to me. I blushed bright red and wondered if I should try to explain away the vision before us. In the end, seeing as the floor would not be obliging enough to swallow me up, we both tactfully chose to ignore the situation and I closed my lap-top as fast as possible.

This humiliating experience was perhaps only a smidgen less mortifying than the time that by previous boss received the account and result of my pap smear test. At that time I was still a wondering student, so decided to use my work address as a more permanent postal address. My gynae had gotten his accounts mixed up, which resulted in my private medical information receiving a swift trip to my head of department. Clearly too embarrassed to face me in person, I received a polite note from my Prof assuring me that the University was not liable for my medical bills but that he was happy that my test results had been negative. Wishing an expeditious death upon myself and the path-care lab, I too could not bear to face him in person. I wrote him a note that I hoped explained the situation sufficiently, rang my gynae and threatened him with broken knee-caps, and my Prof and I decided, telepathically, never to mention the situation ever again.

If perchance once day, the heavens should swallow me whole,
Then you know an inexplicable fate, has once again been Murphy's goal,
A porn site's gone berserk on my computer at work,
So my colleagues all think that I need to see a shrink,
And my dignity's gone with my soul.

A New Normal

2010-03-31T22:23:00.013+02:00

I confess that I am usually mean about Americans. Following cliche, I rip them off about their worldly ignorance and jealously comment on their ability to book trips into Africa that I can only dream of. But I have been unfair. I have met many, many vastly intelligent, well-educated and even trim and healthy Americans; and I realize, most especially now after the thorough coverage of the Wall street and housing market collapse, that the majority of Americans are not advantaged, nor are they particularly wealthy.

How can this be? We're talking about the richest country in the world! Is capitalism not the answer after all then? How can it be when it has lead to such irresponsible behavior? Such disrespect and dis-compassion for the working class and the unemployed? Perhaps the answer is in the form of some sort of democratic socialism? Capitalism has encouraged entrepreneurship, business development and economic growth. Yes it has, but it doesn't anymore. Not for the 99% of people choking on debt and employed by companies that offer no incentive to work any harder than an allotted 40 hours a week. Other than risk losing the job altogether, why should workers risk their health for a company that offers no share in the profits or say in the management? America may be a democracy but its big corporations are not. How else do you explain the fact that only 1% of its citizens own the bulk of its riches? Is it fair that salary earners bear the brunt of the tax payments? Is it fair that families are evicted from their homes because the breadwinner was retrenched or because the bank loaned them money that they knew was ultimately impossible to pay back? I am not saying that people should get to stay in unpaid-up houses for free, but shouldn't the government and banks share some of the punishment for the depravity that sent Wall street spiraling out of control last year? Oh no, sorry, I forgot, white collar crime and the casino that is the stock market is totally legal. And, best of all, when you make a big oops you can use tax payers money to bail you out!

What is happening in America is not unique. Its greedy behavior was shared by most capitalist countries, but unfortunately, when America sneezes, the rest of the world gets the snot. In South Africa, for example, our recession followed immediately on from, and because of, the American financial crisis. Not that we'd had a say in the matter. The irony is that America has always been the shining example to the rest of the world. The land of the free and the home of the brave. Its the country we wanted to be and the people we wanted to emulate. But gone is the America of the 1950s where middle class families were flourishing and could survive quite comfortably on a single income. The same can be said for the rest of the world. Pay cheques seem to get smaller while living expenses increase exponentially. As outrageous as this sounds, American pilots have been forced to take on extra jobs to meet their basic expenses (ref Michael Moore documentary). Tell me, do you really want a dead-tired, stressed-out, coffee-hyped guy in control of a Boeing 747??

Instead of leaving work at 5pm to play with the kids and enjoy a home cooked meal with the family around the dinner table, we depart at 7pm, if we're lucky, grab a big Mac and wolf it down in front of the TV. Perhaps I am romanticizing the old days - I wouldn't want to go back to a time of female inequality and typewriters - but instead of making our lives easier, improved technology seems to have brought us more work to do in less time. Do we just want more material stuff than our parents did a generation ago, or has the increased global competition and war over resources lead to a genuine increase in living costs and difficulties in career advancement?

I don't have the answers. I do look back on the 1950s as a simpler time, an easier time, but I do not yearn for it. I yearn to set the current world right. Warren Buffet has been a long time advocate of choosing a career for the contribution it will allow you to make rather than the amount of money; and the financial crisis has apparently finally encouraged bright young minds into careers in science, medicine, engineering and ecology again. It is clear that we cannot go back in time, but we can move forward to a 'new normal' that writes its rules by old-fashioned values; and I quote from Alec Hogg: "Doing unto others as we would have them do unto us. In national affairs, business and our own lives. What a different world that promises to be." I don't know if its possible to ensure that each and every person has the dignity and security of a place to live, a job to work at, decent health care, access to clean water and electricity, and a proper education, but I do know that, until that time, there will be no world peace.

Paranormal subconsciousness

2010-03-31T17:04:00.008+02:00

Being South African, I don't have to try to be security conscious, I just am security conscious. Being innately street-wise is an indoctrination you learn from birth. I would never walk around by myself, especially not at night, and even hike the foothills of Table Mountain in a group. My bag is automatically slung diagonally across my chest, so that no opportunistic mugger can snatch it off my shoulder, and I never drive anywhere in my smash-proof windowed car without my emergency number-ready cell phone. A sorry indictment of our society? Perhaps... but to be honest, such behavior is so normal to me that I don't even think twice about it. I've insured everything I own up to the eyeballs and consider it money well spent; and I'm grateful that I don't like expensive jewelry or fancy phones, as this would only make me more of a target. That's not to say that South Africa is not a wonderful place to live or come on holiday, but don't expect to pitch up here all carefree and innocent if you don't want to be taken advantage of.

Take the example of the traveling Texan, on his way to Botswana, on route via Joburg. This bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tourist had every reason to be excited about his safari trip (Botswana, incidentally, is the same size as Texas, but their entire population tops less than that of Houston CBD); but had the unfortunate necessity of having to fly via Oliver Tambo International. His first bright idea was to book a day trip to the slums of Soweto and then on to the Apartheid museum. Sobered, depressed, and wondering how any government could continue to let its citizens and refugees live in such abject poverty, he donated most of his cash and all of his sweets to the children running barefoot through the dust alongside his air-conditioned luxury tour bus. Arriving in the Okavango Delta for what was to be the better part of his trip (immersed in the bush and bubbled off from any further exposure to poverty, violence and oppression), he found that the untrustworthy Joburg airport baggage handlers had broken open the locks on his stylish suitcases and rummaged through his luxury goods. Thankfully, perhaps noticing by the luggage tag that he wasn't returning home but off on a 2-week holiday, they left his clothes behind but did make off with his ipod and dvds. My first reaction to this story was not one of shock and horror but of expectance. I deliberately carry only hand-luggage so as not to expose my possessions to criminal baggage handlers and, if forced to relinquish my bag to the Bermuda triangle that is airport luggage transportation, I endeavor to use the oldest, dirtiest and shabbiest looking bag I own. This, I hope, will ensure that my luggage won't be singled out as worthy of theft. My second reaction was surprise that his bag had arrived at all, considering the shear volumes of luggage that the airlines manage to misplace every year. (Its most mysterious. Will we eventually find huge mounds of luggage buried in the Sahara or floating down the Nile?) My third reaction was that this guy was a total idiot not to have put his ipod and dvds in his hand-luggage. I usually fly with my prized possessions (as few as possible) clutched close to my chest, only relinquished for security checks, for the duration of my flight, and only consider hotels with a safe. Crazy? No... Paranoid? Maybe... South African? Definitely... But I still have my ipod and you don't.

Devil may care...

2010-03-30T12:41:00.009+02:00

I recently read a M&G commentary by Charlotte Bauer (http://www.mg.co.za/article/2010-03-19-life-in-oz-is-too-ruff-for-us-saffers) concluding that "life in Oz is too rough for us Saffers". Besides the fact that she is probably right - us South Africans love breaking rules and getting away with stuff (in fact we view it as our new South African democratic right) - it got me thinking about how other countries compare as well. Probably the two most strikingly different places that I've visited are Switzerland and Zambia. In Switzerland, at least in the German part, when the train is due to depart at 5 minutes and 33 seconds past 7, there would be a national outcry if it was a nanosecond late. The country is so clean and tidy that the perfection is a tourist attraction in itself. I found myself deliberately trying to spot litter, untrimmed hedges, wilting flowers or anything else the Swiss would consider out of character. Even their firewood, cut into neat and perfectly even strips, was piled squarely into Jenga-style towers with not a log out of place. While always polite and well-spoken, this proud and unflinching desire to maintain such high standards has resulted in the Swiss-Germans forfeiting their senses of humour. The Zambians, on the other hand, are all smiles and warmth, despite their relatively dire circumstances and the fact that they are lucky to catch a seat on a minibus taxi within half an hour of waiting by the road side. With the lack of high-speed trains, or any proper public transport systems, Africans are often seen walking for miles down a road in the middle of nowhere with great heaps of wheat or a large container of water balanced on their heads.

We had the privilege of visiting 'The Smoke that Thunders" (Mosi oa Tunya or the Vic Falls) for a weekend in their semi-dry season. Seeing the magical waterfall had been a lifelong dream for me so my husband and I rushed down to the Victoria Falls National Park as soon as we had dumped our bags at our hotel. We had elected to stay at the Zambezi Sun - the budget hotel that was on the same property as the National Park and a close neighbour to its more luxurious sister hotel, The Royal Livingstone. This allowed us to spend most of our time at a hotel that we otherwise couldn't afford to stay at. We lounged on their generous wooden deck overlooking the great Zambezi river, spotting hippos, crocs and ellies and feeling relieved that there was an electric fence between us and the river bank. We enjoyed high tea, a great painting of David Livingstone looming down at us from above the fireplace, amid all the rich Americans and felt a bit absurd getting served in this colonial establishment by staff dressed up like butlers in the sweltering heat. It was from this anti-modern and utterly decadent world that we entered the Nature Park. Being a World Heritage Site, I had imagined Western world-style safety standards with great big fences erected along the cliff edge to keep you well away from danger. I guess that is because, in America at least, if you are stupid enough to fall off the cliff you can still claim legal recourse for being an imbecile. Refreshingly, this did not seem to be Zambian policy. In true African style, there had once been a puny stone and wooden barrier erected so close to the edge that you could still see down into the gorge below, but it had long since disintegrated. Now, if you were idiotic enough to fall to your death then it was your own damn fault. We ambled down a slippery path of mud, chilly from the water spray and totally transfixed by the roaring expanse of water before us. I exclaimed in delight when I spotted an impressive rainbow that I assumed had materialized just for us, but later found out that it is a permanent feature spanning the aptly named Rainbow Gorge.

Vic Falls is adrenaline junkie heaven. You can white river raft, canoe past crocs and hippos, bungy jump, go for a microlight flip, ride an elephant or walk with lions. The latter I found most scary of all. I have a domestic cat at home and his mood can swing from purry cuddle-bunny to leave-me-the-hell-alone-or-I'll-bite-your-hand-off in half a second, so I wasn't going to trust my life to a 150kg kitty who might have a bad mood on the way. We opted for a short helicopter flight instead - completely blowing our budget for the trip. The main difference between us and most of the other rich international tourists visiting the falls is not so much being able to afford the trip there but in the number of extra activities you can do. For example, you can enjoy a beer and a couple of peanuts from the banks of the river or, with more dollars in hand, you can take a sunset cruise to Livingstone island and soak up as much champagne and salmon cakes as you like. Being part of the budget crowd, we decided to join other back-packing types for a swim in the Devil's Pool. Its easy to latch onto an illegal guide at the water's edge and you can then bargain a fee with him so that he will lead you safely to the edge of the waterfall. These locals know the river very well. So we assumed. They know where the animals live, where to fish and what paths are safest to wade through during the various seasons. We were there during semi-dry winter but that still meant shuffling along through knee-high water that was hurtling in rather strong currents straight over a 100m drop into a rock-studded gorge below. What was I mentioning about being an idiot? We found an athletic-looking guide, were joined by a mad Scotman, linked arms and hands for safety, and began a slow 2-hour trek over the Zambezi river, all the while thinking to ourselves that we had gone completely crazy and were sure to die. I wondered how it must feel to be wrenched into the river by rapids, have my coccyx shattered by boulders and my leg torn off by a crocodile before free-falling over 100 meters through water spray and finally being pounded into bits and pieces. Not a bad way to go then.

Looking like a sweat-drenched centipede half-submerged in water, we eventually arrived at the edge of the falls, just as the great mass of water fell into the space that is smoke and thunder. Looking over the edge gave me such vertigo that I felt as if the waterfall had taken control of my senses and was magnetically pulling me towards the gorge, like a great force that needed to be fed. The Scotsman and I sat down gingerly on a rock and surveyed Devil's Pool suspiciously. We were not going to risk being washed away, but my husband had come here to swim on the edge of one of the greatest waterfalls on earth and swim he would. He followed our guide's lead and lept 2 meters off a rock into the murky pool below. Once surfacing, they had to swim like mad to get through a river of water that was flowing over an unobstructed gap in the pool's edge. Once safely on the other side, they were able to clamber onto the rim and survey the cliff of water directly below.

Although I had chickened out of a swim in the end, I was grateful that the Vic Falls weren't in Switzerland. Firstly, they never would have been as grand (Switzerland's most impressive waterfall, the Rhine Falls, is a puny 23 meters high, and looks more like a series of rapids that barely cause a ripple downstream, much less a mammoth sheet of water hurtling into a gorge), and, secondly, they never would have let us get that close. An illegal Swiss-German guide bargaining for a payment to take you to the edge of a 100m high waterfall so that you can jump in and have a swim with no safety equipment whatsoever - now that would be something! In Africa, we wouldn't blink an eye.

Woody or wouldn't he?

2010-03-29T21:56:00.003+02:00

I wonder, if we weren't so obsessed with special effects and people getting their limbs blown off, if Whatever Works (the 2009 Woody Allen movie) or UP (the endearing animation) would have won an Oscar for best picture instead. As it was, the battle for the statue was between blue Pocahontas in 3D and American troops patriotism, with the directors of Avatar and The Hurt Locker competing not just over best movie but also over divorce settlements. I must confess that Avatar was brilliant, but lets face it, the story sucked. It was special effects porn. The Hurt Locker, on the other hand, seemed brilliant only to those still supporting the oil war in Iraq. Neither of the two movies will be truly legendary in the long-term. The gob-smacking technology first featured in Avatar will become the norm in every post-production company, as will 3D effects, and once you've watched The Hurt Locker once, you never have the desire to do so again. Where are the movies that transcend time? That transcend generations? The only person, that I can think of, still producing classics is Woody Allen. It is so refreshing to watch an adult movie that is completely devoid of any 3D animation, special effects, guns, blood, violence or graffic sex. A movie that is purely about life and every day issues. Perhaps its depressing that I find a cynical hypochondriac erudite and amusing, but the same can be said for voyeurs who enjoy seeing blood splatter all over the walls and people being dismembered. If you ask me, we need a lot more Jewish comedians. That is not to say that I am not an avid Brucie fan. I can watch the Die Hard movies a million times over and never get sick of them; but somehow even they have more substance than most of the drivel passing unmemorably over our screens today. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to picket down Hollywood boulevard with: "Bring back Seinfeld! We want Seinfeld!"

Volcanoes, spices and cow bells

2010-03-24T16:05:00.017+02:00

Having spent a totally decadent honeymoon in Zanzibar at the Pongwe Beach Hotel, all sun, beaches, palm trees and seafood, I was quite keen to also see the mainland safari bit of Tanzania, which I had the opportunity to do at a conference in Arusha some months later. It felt like a different country. Zanzibar has a strong slave trading past, with many Arabian influences and Muslim is still the predominant religion there today. A hot and sweaty visit to Stone Town, where everything is crumbling except for the wooden doors, is a historical adventure with lots of amazing goodies for sale in the markets and shops. While the buildings themselves are propped up by wooden scaffolds, the massive and intricately carved doors, still sporting spikes from when elephants used to rampage through the streets, have stood the test of time. The locals have retained their artistic skills and many a beautiful door, chest and ornament can be bought - but of course waaaay out of my price range! Although haggling and bargaining are the orders of the day, I still couldn't get my sarong cheaper than 10 dollars.

My husband and I were taken on a 1 hour tour by a very charming guide, who, although already boasting three wives and plenty of children, would still flirt with every lady we passed and took a long break at 12h00 to go pray at the mosque, leaving us in the shade of a tree where we soon found out that all of the locals were similarly chatty and proud of their large broods. Other than the wooden carvings, visiting Queen's place of birth was a definite highlight. The market, with its giant bunches of red bananas and other exotic looking food, is also lovely, until you enter the fresh fish section - perhaps a bit of a misnomer considering the length of time the fish lies in wait, without refrigeration, to be sold, and the fact that it is barely identifiable under the hideous layer of big black flies settled on what would have been marvelous steaks. Gagging in the stench, I was suddenly very happy that our hotel chef cooked our fish right through. No seared tuna for me thanks! The other endearing thing about the market is that there are no set prices for any products. The system depends on supply and demand and, at the end of every market day, left-over produce is auctioned off, resulting in huge crowds of people all nudging each other out the way for the best deals.

We had a "two-fer" outing with Stone Town followed by a "Spicie" Tour. We were introduced to a different, but equally charming, guide, who took us on a detailed and fascinating walk through what looked like normal forest to the untrained eye but which actually contained many 'spicies' (guide-speak). King of these is the clove, with cinnamon as his queen, and I think in close competition with nutmeg. All the spices had such diverse uses, from curing male impotence (ginger) to dying women's make-up (nutmeg), and were completely unrecognizable in their natural form. We were put through quite a rigorous testing procedure where we had to taste and smell the fruit and leaves of the plant to guess what the spice was and I detected a distinct chuckle from our guide as I bit into a peppercorn and my eyes nearly shot out my head. Well, if I wasn't going to die by peppercorn then it was going to be by fruit pod, for, hanging in many of the big trees surrounding us, were the most gigantic melons I have ever seen. If one had to ripen and fall on your head, you would be dead in an instant, or terribly maimed at the very least. I was also becoming increasingly suspicious of our guide's companion who followed us closely, working on his grass weaving, but never uttering a word; however, all was soon revealed when he presented us with his masterpieces at the end of our tour - crowns and jewelry worthy of royalty plus a froggie pendant for me and a tie for hubby. Our guide then proceeded to climb a coconut tree, singing his Jambo song all the way, to fetch us a juicy coconut to eat. As soon as he had cut it open we were mauled by a gaggle of scrawny chickens and, fearing for our toes and shins, we ended up throwing most of the flesh to them. This resulted in a frenzied turmoil where most of the smaller, scraggier ones got pecked half to death, explaining their bald spots. Mean, lean, coconut-flesh eating chickens. Who knew?

After that it was back to the good life at the hotel where our beach (yes, ours, it belonged to the hotel) was swept clean every morning before breakfast, and we had not a care or worry in the world. The only perturbation came in the form of a demonic bush baby who screamed its evil little laugh at us every night from the tree outside our window. After a few days of moving from lounger to pool to ocean to buffet table, we eventually felt compelled to explore the reef out on the horizon. This was quite tough going because you have to wear flip flops in case you step on an anemone (the hotel does not want to have to get you air-lifted to hospital because you got a bevy of poisonous spikes through your foot) but, because the water doesn't drain out completely at low tide, you are performing some hectic wading through some sticky sand for most of the way. Its worth it to see the large, varied and colourful starfish though. With blisters on both feet, I gave up on my flip flops half way back and prepared myself for an anemone attack. I decided to pass my flops on to a young local girl who was trawling for shells and pointing encouragingly at my shoes.

After that brief taste of the sea's wildlife, and having avoided an anemone attack, we decided to book a proper reef snorkeling trip. At this stage I should point out that my swimming capabilities end at treading water, which I only learnt for self-preservation (not that this has stopped a heavy backwash and a large wave, that dumped me back on the Natal south coast sand, from nearly drowning me anyway). I fitted my mask and snorkel, clearly not made for anyone with my facial proportions, pulled on my flippers and sprang off the boat in an ungracious frog leap, landing stomach first. This sent a rush of salty water passed my mask, down my snorkel, and into my eyes and lungs. Blinded by salt and my own coughing fit, I peddled my flippers furiously to keep from drowning. I eventually managed to de-liquefy myself, refit my gear, and resume my reef snorkeling. Water still kept streaming into my mask but I managed to get a blurry sense of the beauty that lay beneath me in the corals. 20 Minutes was about as much salt water intoxication as I could take and, spotting a horde of slithery sea snakes, decided to call it quits.

It was with this sense of Tanzania that was all sun, sea and Arabian influences, that I caught a flight to Arusha some months later, into the heart of safari-land. This was to be a very different Tanzania and at the heart of it was the Serengeti - the most famous game park in the world. Alan Fox gives some very eloquent commentaries on the more luxurious African holidays: http://www.africasafari.com/when_africa_calls.cfm?cfid=60989689&cftoken=57597585

Although primarily in Arusha for the TB seminar (which was held in the UN building's conference room; the same venue that hosts the criminal reconciliation tribunal for human rights violations committed during the Rwandan genocide, sending chills down the spine at the very thought of the caliber of people that had been present in that very same room and the nature of their discussions), a new found friend and I were desperate to see the Ngorongoro Crater. Our hopes were dashed when we realised that we only had one spare day and that all tours to Ngorongoro contained at least one nights stop over and were way outside of our budget anyway. Although Julie was an incredibly talented and decently paid emergency medic from Colorado, she had just donated a year of her life to the MSF in Zimbabwe and was feeling a bit cash strapped; and my rands weren't going to take me far in dollar terms. So we begged and pleaded and battered eye lashes until the tour guide took pity on us and arranged a 12-hour, cost-cutting day trip. What luck!

Up at the crack of dawn, herded onto a Land Cruiser game vehicle with our packed lunches and cameras, we set off on a 3 hour drive to the Ngorongoro Crater. The Toyota handled the potted, rutted dirt roads beautifully and we got a good view of Mount Meru (often confused for Kili) and the forested Great Rift Valley before stopping to look for souvenirs in a humid, overgrown and aptly-named little village called Mosquito River. I had expected the dry, endless savannas with local Masai and Hazda tribes herding their cows and sheep among scraggly thorn trees, but I was totally unprepared for the forested jungle that overtakes the valley. I felt like I was in the Congo basin and that a family of gorillas were going to tear out of the misty undergrowth in front of us. As we drove out of the valley and ascended to the rim of the crater, the vegetation became drier again and huge, bare baobabs dotted the landscape, but as we gained altitude, forest began to dominate again and our driver had to navigate slippery mud smeared roads that were being repaired by a Chinese company that kept us waiting behind a line of trucks for some time. This gave us an opportunity to admire the view from the look out point - a view that dropped all the way into and across what has been rightly described as the 8th World Wonder. Although we were too high to spot animals, we had a swooping view across the crater that encompasses dry grassland, hippo-infested swamp and a flamingo-flooded lake. Looking back the other way into the rift valley, you could have been in the rainy English midlands - as a British tourist standing next to me was quick to remark.

Although the park fees are hideously expensive, they ensure that the world heritage site is properly taken care of and believe me, its worth every dollar. Nowhere else will you find such a concentration of game, easily visible due to the lack of trees, and seldom migrating out of the crater (unlike the great herds of the Serengeti). Ngorongoro (which is a word taken from the sounds that cow bells make) is not actually a game park but a conservation area that is shared with the Masai who claim it as their territory (even though they stole it from the Hazda). It takes a couple of hours to traverse all the sections of the park and you can enjoy a welcome lunch stop on the banks of the hippo-happy river; though eating in the car is advisable, as I soon discovered, when, just as I was about to bite into my sandwich, a kestrel swooped down out of nowhere and stole my lunch straight out of my hands with dead-straight aim. Other than a scratch on my thumb and an empty stomach, I was unharmed, and grateful that the bird had decided to descend on my food before I got it closer to my mouth, otherwise it may have broken my nose.

All too soon it was time to wend our long way back and I still wanted to hunt around for a chess set. I was feeling sad that my husband had been unable to join me in such a magical place and hoped that a beautifully carved chess set might assuage the guilt. Determined not to get ripped off, and having priced soap-stone chess sets in Cape Town's African malls, I put my bargaining skills to test. In the end it was not so much a bargain as an ultimatum. I only had a few Dollars, Tanzanian Shillings and Rands left in my wallet. This equated to about 350 rands, which I felt was a fair price, and I told the guy to take it or leave it. He was not happy. Firstly, he didn't believe I was South African (as few can ever afford to travel to Ngorongoro) and, secondly, it was a price significantly below what he had first suggested - a crazy 110 dollars. Well, I am sitting at home, with my soap-stone chess set positioned safely on the table next to me, so I guess he wasn't too fussy after all.

Our extraordinary day was sublimely replete after we got a magnificent view of Kili silhouetted in the African sunset. Some days I am blessed to be me.

Disk Jockey Jimmy

2010-03-23T10:31:00.005+02:00

If you are a medical science, then best of the international conferences, most probably, are the Keystone seminars. Intimate, personal, specific and incredibly well organized, they offer scientists great learning and networking opportunities in some of the most beautiful locations in the world, with the experiences culminating in a raucous party on the last evening. What could be better? Most memorable of these for me was hosted by Colorado-style cowboy, Disk Jockey Jimmy. With a white mustache that curled down past his chin, a Stetson hat and leather boots to his knees, he kept us all on the dance floor until the early hours of the morning with his legendary tunes, despite his antiquated technology. All he had was an amp hooked up to a record player, and he would studiously page through his plastic flip file containing type-written sheets of all his music, before switching records. Then he would bop along with us, a contented smile on his face, accepting beers and song requests.

The Keystone parties always start a little uncomfortably. No one wants to see their professor getting down with some moves he learnt in the 60s and no professor wants to lose the respect of his students. Moreover, us younger scientists cannot even imagine the old gray-haired profs listening to anything other than Mozart, much less bee-bopping to Mustang Sally with their two left feet. But after Disk Jockey Jimmy stood up, we just could not sit down. As alcohol levels rose, inhibitions wavered, and we all soon went from sitting by the tables and tapping our feet to some serious dancing. By the end of the evening, clothes were starting to peel away, shoes discarded; people were dancing on chairs and tables and singing along in bad, drunken voices. All barriers of social class, working hierarchy and age gap had fallen away. Everyone was hugging, swaying together, dancing in one big swirl. Now if only I had been drunk enough to blot out the image of my 60-something head of department, shirt half undone, on the center table, dancing like the hippy he once was and using his tie as a make-shift lasso.

S-No Fun

2010-03-19T17:20:00.011+02:00

I am from a sunny, warm place, and I like sunny, warm weather. Although originally of European descent, I seem to have inherited more acclimatization genes from my Italian great-grand-daddy rather than my more northern ancestors, and the teensiest cold breeze can cause my skin to break out in goose-bumps. In true human style, though, this does not stop me from envying James Bond's lightning manoeuvers down the snow clad Alps or wishing our family had a cosy log cabin in Aspen.

As a child it felt stupid to celebrate Christmas, all bells, whistles and Santa, in 30 degree C temperatures, while your Mum was slaving over a hot stove and you were splashing around in the pool, and I longed to see real snow. One winter, I got my wish. We had a smidgen of white fluff, and the dry winter grass was still poking through, but, as a 5 year old, I managed to scoop up a sufficiently impressive bundle to make a mini snowman. Exciting stuff. Many years later, as a teenager, I started to realize that one should be careful what one wishes for. Leaving South Africa's summery shores behind, my parents and I decided to spend Christmas in England one year, and arrived during the coldest weather they'd had for the past 75 years. Well it was all jingle bells and sleigh rides for us, but the novelty soon wore off, when, trudging around in the freezing slosh in our ill-equipped outfits, we were soon pining for a sun that tanned your skin and set after 7pm, instead of just making it above the horizon and melting nothing before plunging you into darkness at 3 in the afternoon. Pathetic. All you could do was get close to a roaring fire, eat chocolate and enjoy the Christmas carols.

After that miserable adventure, I was not too keen on any more snow infested trips. But then I became a scientist. In order to attract the most guests, conference organizers try to entice would-be participants by hosting seminars in what they consider to be the most attractive places in the world - ski resorts. No, not tropical islands or safari lodges or even the south of France. Ski resorts. This is all very well for those scientists from Europe and the States who have spent every winter since they were 3 years old donning skis and traversing snow-packed slopes, and all very well for scientists from Europe and the States who have both the budget and the wardrobe for such establishments, but for poor little 'ol researchers from the sunny plains of Africa, as excited and grateful as we are to have a sponsored trip to a foreign land, the impracticalities are insurmountable.

My first snow conference foray was at the Whistler Resort in British Columbia. A picturesque little Heidi village surrounded by perfect ski slopes and Christmassy pine forests. We happened to arrive after a heavy snow storm and the slopes couldn't have been more inviting for ski fundis. After 24 hours of traveling, my first day was a write-off. I had boarded a plane in Cape Town a day before, been packed into an economy class seat to London, repacked to Toronto and still repacked again to Vancouver, before boarding a bus for Whistler. At Toronto I had emphatically decided not to get on another plane. I was nauseous, tired, jet-lagged, starved of oxygen and proper food, never-mind toilet facilities, my feet had swollen to twice their normal size and my legs felt like jelly when I tried to walk. I could not focus my eyes, had a pounding headache, and had a great desire to invent instant transportation. However, being a poor student with precious little SA money and an exchange rate heavily biased against me, I realized, through a hazy blur of a brain, that I (a) could not afford to pay for accommodation in Toronto while awaiting my flight back; (b) could not afford to pay for a new ticket to take me back immediately; (c) would not be able to endure the trip back immediately, even if I got a free plane ticket and; (d) would miss the conference, and my supervisor, who had paid dearly for the privilege, would be pissed. So I made it to Whistler, determined to make my trip half way around the world worthwhile (I was going to learn lots of new stuff and, more importantly, I was going to learn to ski!), and planning how I was going to break the trip back home into manageable chunks (I ended up stopping in the UK for a week).

It took me 2 days to feel like I was no longer catatonic. Woken by the crisp mountain air, I emerged, gingerly, from my cabin, determined to hit the ski slopes. The fact that I had no snow gear, and had never skiied before in my life, was just a minor hick-up. I headed off to the rental office to get suited up. Balking at the prices, and forking out my life savings for a ski lesson, I rushed to the baby slope, all kitted out and prepared to put my life at risk. It was mortifying. Not only was I surrounded by 3 year olds in Oros Man outfits, but they caught on to the whole skiing technique much faster than me. Weightless and with a low center of gravity, they scooted down the slope with alacrity while I flailed around, hopelessly off-balance, with my skiis zig-zagging in opposite directions. Furthermore, I nearly tripped on my face every time I boarded the escalator back up the hill and had great difficulty scooting off the damn thing without upended my skiis in the snow or going down the slope in the wrong direction. I was totally, idiotically, dysfunctional and decided to fore-go skiing for the rest of the week, for the sake of my budget and my dignity. So while all my science colleagues were shooting down the black-level slopes, Olympic style, on skiis and snow boards, I decided to take a stroll through the woods, where the hungry Grizzly bears were just coming out of hibernation. Relaxing it was not. Every time a block of snow crashed from a branch onto the forest floor I nearly pissed my pants. Making it to the scenic lake and back was a great feat of bravery. The rest of the week was spent at the pub, in front of a log fire, where it was warm, safe and not at all embarrassing.

My second snow conference foray was at the Keystone Resort in Colorado. I felt that I had somewhat learnt my lesson from my Canada trip some years before. I was not going to ski, not going to stroll far out into the woods where the cold and the bears could get me, not going to rely on one little bomber jacket to keep me warm and not going to forget my jet lag tablets. I felt suitably prepared. Unfortunately, I still had to be packed onto a torturous flying device to be taken half way around the world again, but I had sorted myself out with a comfy airline pillow and sleeping tablets. I disembarked in Denver, surrounded by totem poles and with Davie Crockett-type music blaring over the speakers, and prepared myself for the January cold by wrapping myself in my German-made, goose-feather stuffed, knee-length winter jacket. Brilliant. Even if you got hypothermia from the knees down. Who needs shins and toes. Boarding a bus to the Rockies, I was the only one not carrying skis and eating MacDonalds, and decided to keep my mouth shut lest I confuse someone with my accent or they wanted to know how many pet lions I had. We passed a great herd of American buffalo - probably the last remaining and opportunistically positioned for passing travelers - and continued to head into the most awesome mountain range, little wooden houses and pubs dotted along the way and an unusually named restaurant called Mango's Mountain Grill (??).

I had booked a beautiful log cabin in the woods. A great plan at the time but it did mean that I had a long and chilly walk to the conference center and back, with a virgin forest spanning the length of the pathway on one side, a forest that I imagined was infiltrated with big scary bears and ravenous wolves. It was therefore, with great terror, that one particular night, half way home in the dark and all alone, I heard the sound of vicious barking, getting ever closer. Adrenaline shot through my body and switched off my brain. I tried to climb the nearest tree but, with all my layers of clothing, couldn't get my arms up. In panic, I jumped into a pile of snow which froze me numb, preventing any chance of running, and that only covered me to my waste. My last hope was that the wolves would take some time to get through my think jacket before my screams for help resulted in a swift rescue. However, numb to the bone and scared stiff, I could not find my voice and did not imagine anyone would be in ear shot anyway. Finally the beasts were upon me. I could see them, large and menacing, on the bridge in front of me. Self-preservation kicked in. I began shouting at them in what was supposed to be an intimidating and authoritative boom, and instead came out more like a chipmunk squeak, but it surprised the dogs sufficiently to stop them in their tracks. The commotion eventually brought the dog-owner from her chalet. She emerged, casually, in her night gown, as though annoyed at been woken, and lazily remarked that her dogs must be disturbing me. Yes, I assured her, I think I have shat myself.

I leave you with one last little tip. Layers. Layers and a spacious bag. When outside in the snow you need multiple layers of waterproof clothing to keep you warm and dry. When inside you need to wear merely slacks and a t-shirt. This is because the northerners like to set their thermostats at tropical temperatures. Have gas, will burn it. Hence the necessity to strip off multiple layers of clothing when entering a building, only to have to put it all back on again when you exit into the cold. And because you do not want to mislay your beanie, jacket, big jersey, little jersey, gloves, scarf and waterproof over-pants, you need a big bag to put all your trailing wardrobe into when you are safely inside the warm zone. Although it is advisable to leave your puffy, wet jacket on the coat stands provided. This would never work in South Africa. Everyone would have bought the same coat, on sale, at Woolies, and they would end up taking someone else's that was too small and containing vital bits of notes in the pockets, or they would just steal a nicer one. S-No joke.

A wedding day with Murphy

2010-03-14T11:38:00.009+02:00

You know you might have picked the wrong date for your wedding when your husband-to-be finds out, subsequent to you booking and confirming the venue, that he has to write a big exam one week after your wedding. Not that we had much of a choice, mind you, as my brother-in-law from the USA wouldn't have been able to make it, had we picked any other date. So the 29th November 2008 is was. Not an otherwise auspicious day. Not a special date for any other reason. Just an ordinary summers day, on a quiet Saturday in Cape Town, with Murphy as an uninvited guest.

I had not been a Bridezilla. I had not poured over catalogs of flower arrangements and different shades of bows and place-card designs and lavish venues. I had bought only one Bridal Magazine, found a simple dress design, and had it made, inexpensively, by a sweet old seamstress working from home. I did not want a veil, insisted on flat comfy shoes, and made a bouquet from a bunch of bright orange roses bought from Woolies the night before the wedding, tied with a ribbon of toule. We had planned to have a small garden wedding at an intimate venue near Kirstenbosch called Ottimo Cibo. I had imagined a perfect summers day, running barefoot across the grass, surrounded by roses and willow trees and eating ice-cream from a cone. Everyone would be relaxed and sipping G&Ts in the dappled sunlight. There would be a short, simple service, with my husband and I standing under a Victorian gazebo, white taffita billowing gently around us. This would be followed by a long and lazy lunch, mellow jazz slipping into the background noise, a couple of short speeches and then we would hit the dance floor until early morning. The photographer, very talented (see www.heiko.co.za), and another brother-in-law, was to take only "in-the-moment" pictures. Nothing staged. Everything was set for a perfect, lazy, summer garden wedding. But Murphy had other plans.

The week prior to the wedding I developed chronic insomnia. I took sleeping tablets. I drank. I tried oxygen deprivation. Nothing could get me to sleep. It did not help that my husband was trying to study for his exam and that every time I checked the weather report - from 5 different reputable sites - the general consensus was the same. Rain. My only hope was that, for the most part, not even the best meteorologist could accurately predict Cape Town weather. Even so, I checked with our venue that they had inside facilities just in case. To make matters worse, my hair and make-up lady had double booked herself and had to leave for Stellenbosch by 9am on the morning of my wedding day, meaning that I had to be at her house by 8am, showered, long hair washed and dry. So, no sleep in for me! Not that I could sleep anyway.

I awoke at 7am on the morning of my wedding day, groggy from lack sleep, to a perfect summers morning. As it had been the whole week. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Suddenly all buzzing and excited, I jumped into the shower and rushed off to be beautified. My face was made into that of a doll's, my hair styled like a wig, curled and fixed with industrial strength hair spray that had the texture of toffee apple. I was done by 9am but still had to wait until 11h30 before I needed to go through to the venue; and everyone was running late, except for the bride. I took my time getting dressed and checked with my brother-in-law that he had put the chairs out for the ceremony. He replied: "Yes, now what do I do about the big black cloud?" Water vapour was apparently congregating behind Table Mountain, directly above our wedding venue.

I arrived early to sprinkle rose petals down the aisle and set cones of confetti on everyone's chairs. I great wind had sprung up so most of the rose petals ended up strewn all over the garden and my coiffed hair was beginning to come loose and look bedraggled. Never-the-less, I braved the outdoors and welcomed the guests to the ceremony. By that stage I had had to come to terms with the fact that it wasn't going to be a short one. Our minister had brought along a make-shift plywood cross and stood, stoically clinging to it, behind his alter (a picnic table covered in a white table cloth), trying not to get blown clean across the grass in his parachute-type robe. The guests clung to their chairs, their hair and their confetti cones, straining to hear words stolen by the wind, with our minister being the lone voice during the hymns he insisted on singing, a Capella style; although my husband and I, being up front, received the full brunt of his high notes during Amazing Grace. After 45 minutes, we were all very pleased to be allowed inside the house, just before the rain started coming down. Feeling all a bit silly in our garden attire, we sat down to a delicious meal, with ice cream cones for dessert.

It was quite overwhelming being the center of attention and my cheek muscles were burning from all the smiling. My parents gave my cheeks some respite when their speech made me cry (13 babies born on Friday the 13th so the hospital ran out of doctors and my Dad had to practically deliver me himself while my Mum had no choice but to endure 16 hours of drug-free labour; she thus felt justified in reading some embarrassing extracts from my adolescent diary). My husband's father put together a rendition of all the inventions during our lifetimes - including powerpoint and pizza deliveries - and presented some salient advice such as: "Do not hand-cuff your partner". My one brother-in-law opportunistically presented himself as single, and both willing and able to marry into a wealthy family, and my other brother-in-law regaled us with details about the night my husband and I got together - while he was in the emergency room at the hospital having his appendix removed.

As there were to be no photos in the garden, we suggested that the guests move on to the second venue where the dancing would be, while my husband and I tried to have a few pictures taken on the balcony in the rain. Although our intrepid photographer clicked away furiously, I think he was secretly wondering how he was going to salvage the gray photos, which may explain why, over a year later, we still haven't received our wedding pictures. Each one must take an hour to photoshop. I was also pleased that my husband's cousin was taking some video footage, although, quick to suffer inebriation, most of the tape featured his shoes. He did get some good shots of the gazebo taking off across the lawn, the ministers notes and our wedding certificate flying into the pool, and me nearly setting my dress on fire during the lighting of the candle. Despite the rain and the wind, everyone was having a smashing time, over-drunk on champagne, wine and limoncello. It was a superb wine selection, if I say so myself. All those wine tours really paid off. And our beautiful tiered wedding cake, made by my husband's aunt, was pure death by chocolate. So by the time everyone hit the road to make their way to the party venue, they were ready to dance the night way. And then Murphy intervened again.

As we pulled out onto the highway, which would have quickly and effortlessly taken us to Fairhill Stud Farm, we hit a wall of cars and were redirected along a lengthy and slow-going detour through suburbia. Some idiot had caused a 10-car pile up on the freeway which was subsequently shut off for the day. Eventually, we all made it to the dirt track leading up to the farm and had to negotiate our city cars through a kilometer of mud before donning umbrellas and clomping across the soggy grass and horse poo into the hall. My husband had passed out in a drunken stupor in the back of the car and had to be gently persuaded into wakefulness. I think he only really woke up when it was time to hunt for the garter up my skirt. After nearly toppling me off the chair, he found his prize and threw it into a skirmish of eager men. His brother emerged victorious but his hope of romance was quickly squashed when his cousin caught the bouquet. By then my husband was feeling uninhibited enough to join us on the dance-floor with his signature move - The Waggle - a hip rotation while you quickly pump your arms up and down and to the side. That encouraged all remaining left-footers onto the dance floor for quite some time.

The following day we awoke to a perfect summers morning. There was not even a hint that it had rained the day before. We quickly phoned our photographer and suggested that we have a few pictures taken at sunset to add some sunny photos to his portfolio. We got all dressed up again and headed off to Table Mountain, where the light would be just right. They had closed off part of the road due to rockfalls so we had to run along the dirt track and straight into a hurricane. My dress turned into a sail, whipped by the gusts of wind, and all we have to show for the trip are some bizarre photos where I look like a miserable Afgan refugee nun with my pashmina wrapped around my head and my dress billowing behind me. My hair, which I had painstakingly re-curled, had blown into a wild bush all over my face, my nose was bright red and streaming, and the video footage sounds like we are running from bombs and gun shots, the wind was so loud. We tried to right the day by taking some cliched pictures on Camps Bay beach, the sun a big red balloon on the horizon behind us, and trashing my dress even further with sand and sea water.

We had a week in Cape Town, before leaving for our fabulous honeymoon in Zanzibar, and while my poor husband had to study for his big exam, I slept. Catatonically. Like someone had hit me over the head with a log and put me into a coma. It was wonderful. I no longer had to worry about rain, or if the bows on the chairs were the right colour, or whether the parents would get along, or if I had successfully gotten rid of my tan lines and sufficiently whitened my teeth and manicured my nails. I was no longer a bride. I no longer had to be perfect. I no longer had to smile for the camera or worry that I was giving each guest enough attention. Every cell in my body could finally relax.

In retrospect, it was a wonderful wedding day and I wouldn't change a thing. It was a crazy, funny, different day that we will remember fondly and celebrate every anniversary - probably in the rain :) Now, if only we could go on honeymoon every year...

Against all odds

2010-03-09T10:03:00.011+02:00

Although gainfully 'employed' as a post-doc scientist for three years now, meaning that, as we are still registered as post-graduate students, we are still paid a measly stipend, usually funded by our own efforts to bring in grant money, and that the University can legally exploit us as slave labour, knowing that, with the high competition, we have preciously few alternatives, I have been keeping my optimism alive by endeavoring to apply, against all odds, for any job that comes my way. Us scientists are nothing if not persistent. Imagine, if you will, the real prospect of spending days, weeks, nay, months, trying to get an experiment to work, only to find out that your calculated guess was waaay off, and you've just wasted a year of your life in a starkly lit laboratory, hunched over a bench, pipetting your thumb into arthritis, when you may as well have been lazying on a beach for all the good it did. As Isaac Asimov so aptly put it: "The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not "Eureka! (I've found it!)", but "That's funny..." Added to that grief is the sneaking suspicion that your funding will be cut and your career is spiraling down into oblivion. You start to imagine what your alternatives are. Selling pharmaceutical products to doctors? Selling stolen sunglasses on the street corner? Selling your body at the harbour?

It is therefore not difficult to understand why a scientist's patience and doggedness far surpasses any other profession in the job hunting arena. When everyone has has given up or moved on or jumped off a cliff, we are still there... waiting, hoping, submitting more applications. Its rather like submitting a grant proposal. Its an enormous effort on your part, and only has a 10% chance of getting funded, and the reviewer will probably read the first page and then casually chuck it in the bin - thats if your application is lucky enough to be close enough to the top of the pile to be given a glance over before being tossed. The knowledge that you must captivate the reviewer within the first paragraph of your cover letter has led to some wild opening statements. There is the over-optimism: "I can cure HIV in a day with this secret recipe."; the intriguing: "I bet you are just dying to know what my secret recipe can do."; the desperate: "Please, please, please give me money!"; the truth: "I would really like a whole of bunch of money, so that I can pretend to work on my secret recipe to cure HIV in a day, but actually so that I can fly around the world attending lavish conferences at ski resorts."; the blackmail: "If you don't give me money I'll tell everyone that you are falsifying your results are no-one will ever publish your work ever again! You'll be ruined! MWAAHAHAHAAA!" and the sexual (hedging your bets that the reviewer is male): "I look great in a tight nurses outfit, which is my preferred work attire."

Should one of your job applications actually make it through a panel of reviewers who think you're one level above vermin then you may be lucky enough to get an interview. Being South African, and a medical scientist, this seldom happens to me. Firstly, there are precious few jobs to apply for in South Africa in the medical science field. There are no big R&D pharm departments here and the academic and clinical trial jobs are highly competitive. So, "try overseas!", you say. Therein lies the catch 22: You need to have a job offer to apply for a work permit in order to get into the country but you need to be in the country before anyone will consider you for a job. Unless you are so super brilliant that the company won't mind packing your bags, sorting out your travel arrangements, and putting you on the first plane over, you are kinda stuck where you are; and since the global recession, gone are the days of the relocation package. Its very inconvenient. However, if you ARE lucky enough to get an interview, you learn not to hold your breath. For this is just the beginning of one long torture session and you are going to need all the oxygen you can get.

You can never wholly prepare for an interview for you never truly know what they want you to say. Sure, you can read the job specifications in detail, drool over the words, memorize them by heart, but you still won't really know because, in the end, its so much more than qualifications and experience. Its a whole bunch of the appropriate personality. The great pain of an institute that is HR will show that psychometric tests prove beyond a shadow of a doubt whether or not you have the right fit for the company. I'd like to think that if you weren't having murderous thoughts before they started psychoanalyzing you, you certainly would be once they'd finished with you. However, seeing as you can't get through to the second interview stage, which would be with the person you'd actually be working for, without getting through HR first, you just have to grin and bear it (although not one of those scary, psychopath grins) and endeavor to convince them that you are both sane and incredibly benevolent. To make sure that you achieve good results on their generic little check-box questionnaire, make sure that you are never sarcastic. For example, after a 10 minute chat with them, they may still ask you (pen poised over clip-board): "So, do you speak English then?" Your reply should be: "Yes, its my mother tongue.."; and you should stop there, and not continue with: "which should have been quite obvious, you stupid cow, seeing as we've had quite a bit of correspondence already. How much dumber can this possibly get??! Can we please get down to talking about my real job, which will involve the fabrication and characterization of relaxor peizoelectric film actuators, waveguides, and photonic crystals? No, silly me, that would be impossible because you don't know bugger all about any of that so why the hell are YOU interviewing me??" And after that sorry half-arsed waste of time, you still have to wait a month for them to get back to you with these kind words: "We regret to inform you that your application has been unsuccessful. We had a high number of applications and there were other candidates who were better qualified than you." And already in the country... and with higher scores on their psycho tests... and with parents who are friends of the CEO... and who look really yummy in nurses outfits.

Now, where did I put my fishnet stockings?

Fire Away

2010-03-05T21:42:00.007+02:00

Fire is a magical thing. Who hasn't been able to while away an evening in front of a roaring fire, settled on the couch with a good bottle of wine, transfixed by the flames. Who would not choose to dine by candlelight instead of by bulb. What woman hasn't run a ginormously decadent bubble-bath and lit a bathroomful of candles. What crowd hasn't been hypnotized by fire-dancers on the beach. The day that man learnt to make fire, he must have leapt for joy - dancing and whooping around a huge bonfire. Although, according to 'Steve' from the TV series, Coupling, man's desire to create fire had nothing to do with wanting the ability to cook food and scare away dangerous animals, but everything to do with the prospect that males would then be able to see women's bottoms in the dark. In fact, according to 'Steve', all of man's progress can be attributed to a rampant desire to see more naked bottoms more often (by raping, pillaging, conquering and the internet).

We do not have the luxury of a fireplace - gas or otherwise - at home, so my husband and I like to maximize the use when we go away. Unfortunately, with neither of us being very practical, it takes a combined effort and a couple of hours to actually get the fire going in the first place - even when we are equipped with matches, firelighters, newspaper and dry wood; and even though our ancestors managed it by rubbing two sticks together. On what was supposed to be a romantic weekend away some years ago, my husband decided that the room needed more ambiance and proceeded to try and get a fire going. After the first few failed attempts, he abandoned the newspaper and dry swigs that had brought him so much disappointment and started lighting candles to position between the logs. Two hours later, his candle fire was burning impressively and candle wax was forming a nice, traveling puddle across the floor, but I had long since fallen asleep with the barn cat curled at my feet.

The fact that veld fires start with barely a spark - just a ray of sunlight on a dry leaf or an abandoned half cigarette - is just proof that it can't possibly be that difficult. Why then do we need candles and firelighters and bits of newspaper to get a fire going - a fire that continuously threatens to burn out of you don't keep blowing on it like a bloody oxygen fan until it feels like you are going to pass out? Mother Nature, You must be mocking us; either that or You have a thing for firemen!

The Cookie Monster

2010-02-28T12:00:00.008+02:00

Having been to University at the notoriously dope-infested Rhodes in Grahamstown, I somehow managed to avoid green stuff for the entire three years I was there. Call it youthful fear. Either that or I didn't want to end up like my French digs-mate who used to roll ice-cream cone-size joints with one hand, chocolate-spread sandwich in the other, and hallucinate his life away on our couch. His mother had been crowned Miss South Africa some years back, gone to France on a modelling shoot, met and married his father, and settled down for a romantic Parisian life. Our Frenchman, intrigued by his African roots, had then decided to spend a few years studying back in his mother's home country. He never quite got round to hitting the books but smoked joints and bedded women with distinction. Once, feeling generous and sober enough to stand, he baked us all a lovely green-tinged batch of cookies that the hungry guard dog gobbled instantly when he spotted them, uncovered, on the coffee table. The poor animal proceeded to have what must have been a very paranoid trip, running up and down the fence and barking wildly at imaginary intruders. Finally his legs gave up on him and he collapsed under a tree with blood shot eyes and passed out for 3 days. Fortunately, our generous Frenchman moved out soon after.

It was therefore with great stupidity that, a few years later, I decided to try one of my friend's dope cookies. The Cookie Master is famous for his happy-cookie technique. First, he boils the seeds in butter for two hours (ensuring that the fat-soluble active ingredient, THC, is well-saturated) and then he bakes the giant cookies using happy-butter. This potency, I was soon to find out, kicks you all the way to China with no way of escape. Ensuring me that he had purchased his stock from a reputable source, I grabbed one of the mammoth cookies and happily munched my way through it, sure that I would soon be feeling ultra relaxed and even happier. I was also secretly hunting for a cure for arthritis, which I knew would soon take over my joints, as it had with my mother. Also, I wasn't likely to get paranoid seeing as I was at the Cookie Master's birthday party at a flat just down the road from mine and surrounded by friends.

Positioning myself on a comfy chair, I waited for relaxation to kick in. Just as I was starting to think that I was immune to the stuff, it felt like a vein burst in my head. I had just experienced a brain dope explosion. In an instant I went from being normal to utterly dysfunctional. My body was no longer my own. When people spoke to me their words morphed through the air in slow motion, arriving in fuzzy waves that my brain could only decipher with much deliberating concentration. I swayed miserably on my chair, unable to get up and praying for death. I kept asking, "how much longer", and though no words could get through, somewhere in the recesses of my normal memory I recalled that the effect lasted about four hours. Four more hours of life slowed down to a terrible speed with a foggy mush of a brain and a tongue that tasted of metal. That sent me into a flat panic.

Realising that I was on a bad trip, a friend dished me up some freshly made fudge that hadn't set yet and was running all over the plate. She was hoping that the sugar would dilute the THC and I was willing to try anything. Armed with a spoon and gripping the plate with as much control as I could muster, I attempted to get the spoon to the plate, then to my mouth. Something I had done countless times since I was a toddler. The spoon looked weird and out of proportion and I had no depth perception. This, I realised, was supposed to send me into a fit of giggles but all I felt was intense frustration at not being able to feed myself. After eventually getting a spoon of fudge all over my cheek, I gave up and resumed my state of terror, to which I now had to add claustrophobia. Thinking that I might actually never get through this if I remained awake, and already half catatonic, I decided to crawl to the bedroom and try to sleep it off. Launching myself gingerly off the chair, I managed to stagger through the swimming room and onto a mattress. Half asleep, half awake, I began to hallucinate that somebody had stripped off all my clothes and stolen my engagement ring, and, worse still, that there were reams of snot pouring out my nose. Cold and shivering, somebody threw a blanket over me, and after what seemed like eternity the horrible nightmare started to fade away.

Cookie Master decided that it was best if he got one of his friends to drive me home, which involved me getting into a car with a strange man. Once packed inside on the passengers seat, clearly still paranoid and throwing him suspicious looks, I squashed myself against the door and got ready to make a leap for it if he tried anything dodgy. Of course he was a perfect gentleman throughout and offloaded me in front of my flat where I threw open the door, lunged inside and locked myself in as fast as my dope-cursed body could function. Cookie Master's friend - I don't know who you are but if you are reading this I want to apologise sincerely! I will never let the cookie monster get me ever again!

Of lions and Americans

2010-02-25T21:43:00.012+02:00

I just received a forwarded email listing the bizarre and wonderful questions that international tourists attending our 2010 soccer world cup posed to the tourism authorities. I would like to believe that questions such as "Will I be able to see elephants in the street" (A: depends how much you have been drinking) and "Are there any cash machines in South Africa" (A: what did your last slave die of?) are completely fabricated, however, the Americans don't seem to realise that the world map extends beyond the USA, and my brother-in-law's Chinese girlfriend informed me that, before coming to South Africa, she was still convinced that all we had were dirt roads and lions running a mock through our villages. She was also very surprised to see white people. And this from an educated, well-traveled person. What must the people in Arizona believe?

My impression is that most non-Africans view the continent as one giant, backward, war-ravaged and desperately poor community with no actual separated countries or visible borders. We are simply one huge morphis of Africa. Never mind that there are vast cultural and ecological differences, with many Europeans and Asians mixed into the native African milieu as a result of colonisation and the slave trade. Ignorance of the inner workings of the African continent has bred immense intimidation, which only adds to the romance permeating every American's holiday of a lifetime - the safari. And the intrepid Africans have taken blatant advantage of their most prized destinations, with economies relying heavily on tourism in many Southern African countries.

Unrivaled by any other place in the world, Africa offers vast game parks, gorilla spotting tours and the majestic Victoria Falls - if you have the dollars to spend. Although the exorbitant prices have ensured that these magnificent areas are not abused by an over-abundance of tourism, it does mean that only the elite can afford such a holiday and, with the exception of the national parks in South Africa, this makes our natural areas completely inaccessible to Africans. It saddens me greatly that, as an African, my dream of seeing the great migration across the Serengeti from the vantage of a hot air balloon may only be a reality for a handful of wealthy Americans.

That is not to say that they don't appreciate the holiday. On the contrary, it is quite often the most exhilarating trip of their lives. They get so into the experience that their preparation for the great event goes way beyond the call of duty. Donning safari suits and large lens cameras, they can be offloaded in the large commercial city of Joburg ready to kill mosquitoes and photograph lions. Dazzled, reeking of citronella oil and battling to get used to the South African (non)accent, they are then whisked away to the Serengeti, practising the saying for "there is a lion in my luxury tent" in Swahili. Their luggage contains all the supplies of a traveling hypochondriac with OCD. Fearing the worst they have spared no preparation. Vaccinated and innoculated against every known African bug, they have also stocked up on anti-malaria tablets and clothing coated in a substance called Permethrin (by Buzz-Off) that repels all flying and crawling insects. As if this, and the citronella oil, weren't repellent enough, they have ensured that all their clothes are in shades of tan, green and brown because blue and black clothing apparently attract insects.

I'm being mean because I am jealous. I too want to gaze across the Okavango delta from the wooden balcony of my luxury lodge, or soar across massive herds of buffalo and zebra from a light aircraft, or follow a wild dog chase, pell-mell through the African bush from the back of a Land Cruiser, heart-racing and picking sticks out my hair, before a more gentle drive back to camp for sundowners. Although I have been known to fly violently at a noisy cicada ridden bush with a broom, and to curse mossies that won't let me get a minutes sleep, I am African and it is only Africa that speaks to my soul. And the more luxurious the better!

A London Barbeque

2010-02-24T22:30:00.009+02:00

The London diaspora includes a significant gathering of South Africans, who, though homesick for their sunny, colourful country, are still willing to suffer the grey skies for a few years in return for some pounds and the close proximity to Europe, and still more than willing to pay ten times the South African price for Mrs Balls chutney, biltong and Ultramel. In addition to these prized items, they have also imported the braai. It was therefore with great expectation that my husband and I attended this quintessentially South African event at a London house (where house is by no means related to the spacious abodes found back home). Although we have never joined the mass immigration, we do like to visit friends and family whenever we pass through the dreaded Heathrow - well that was before South African airways got caught smuggling drugs into the UK, which lead to the necessity for us to get visas as from 2009. Most inconvenient. Especially when getting into South Africa usually requires no visa at all, or just a quick jump over the border fence (which works just as well if there are no lions around - no offense to the Zimbabweans).

After a two hour underground trip from the airport to said cousins house in the north of London, zone 6, and a couple of pounds shorter, we just had time to drop our bags and have a nap on the blow-up mattress (feels like a water bed but more noisy and loses air at an alarming rate until you are prostrate on the floor) we then embarked on another two hour trip to Wimbledon down south, hungry for a braai. Our friend's Polish girlfriend had bought some genuine Polish sausages and these we were going to eat on hot dog rolls. Not quite the boerewors, T-bone and kebab feast I was used to back home but it was meat on a fire, so I wasn't complaining. Our friend, known as the 'braai-master' back home, preceded to haul a rusty-looking Weber and a bag of charcoal out a rotten-looking shed. So, he wasn't even going to use real wood. There were more disappointments to come.

As the charcoal was too damp to light, our braai-master had to go back to his leaking shed and rummage around for paint thinners. This addition resulted in the fire gaining such momentum that the charcoal leapt over the sides and fell through the middle so that there was more braai on the grass than in the Weber. The pumes then set the smoke alarm off next door and, as no one was home, we had to sit through siren noises for the rest of the afternoon. When we eventually got our sausage rolls - just before it started to rain - not only did they taste like paint thinners but the rolls were buttered with some noxious, fluorescent, yellow margarine called "I can't believe this isn't butter".

We decided to right our London trip by hitting Oxford and Regent streets the next day, plus my husband also wanted to see "that place with the electric billboards and the traffic circle". So we had to take his photo in front of Piccadilly Circus (tourists!). I dashed into Lush to buy couzie a thank you gift but had to rush like crazy because my husband was making gagging noises and was already headed for the iSTORE. Then it was time for another quick visit to friends who were planning an amazing cross-Africa trip in Mapenzi the Land Rover (www.mapenzioverland.net/), which i was hoping would be more reliable than their current jelopi, Layla Monolopolis, and to another friend whose mother's side of the family was sounding increasingly more like MY mother's side of the family, and if they all lived in the USA, they would have their own trailer park and be keeping Jerry Springer in business.

All too soon it was back to the hell that is Heathrow. Already in a foul mood because we had a long-haul flight ahead of us in sardine-class, we had to endure three security checks, 'random' screening at passport control, which included a violating body search where I had to partially strip down (thanks SAA), and horrific decor (the theme seemed to be bad smells, collapsing ceilings and fraying carpets). All I can say is, thank goodness I'm not Arab!

Sawasdee. Paradise remembered.

2010-02-21T00:04:00.011+02:00

A long time dream come true, my husband and I jettisoned off to Thailand and its beautiful islands for our engagement in 2007. Originally supposed to be a surprise, the engagement was slightly messed up by the fact that my parents phoned to congratulate me before I had been proposed to, and that my husband didn't actually have the ring yet on the evening of the proposal. When he phoned my father for his blessing before we left, my Dad was in one of Joburg's notorious traffic jams, had answered his cell phone without his hands free kit (illegal in SA) and, just as my husband nervously posed the question, had to hang up on him because he spotted a police car. When my father finally phoned him back, is was from a crowded, noisy restaurant and I think there was more than enough room for miscommunication i.e. I haven't proposed yet. With a lot of backtracking they both finally managed to convince me that it was just one big confusion and that I mustn't expect anything dramatic. It was with this ambiguous message that I boarded a flight bound for the land of the Siamese, my dreaming of paradise only interrupted by the air-hostess who my husband, cramped into his little chair, had been inadvertently paging-on-repeat with his elbow on the control panel. Oh, the torture of economy class.

Upon arrival at Bangkok airport, although exhausted from our sardine flight and drained by the wall of heat that hits you like an explosion as you exit the building, we were still determined not to get ripped off by the infamous Thai taxi drivers. With no meters, the taxi drivers rely on 'bahtering' to settle on a fee, and the more Western you look the steeper the starting price. Plus they never have change. While my husband was doing crazy rand to baht exchanges after each new offer, I was trying to convince them that we were poor South Africans. Finally we paid 400 baht (about 100 rand) for a trip in a clapped out taxi to our hotel not 10 minutes from the airport. Blame it on the addled flying brains. Back again to the airport the next morning to catch our flight to Koi Samui, the start of our island holiday, we made sure to pay half that.

The airport at Koi Samui is all thatched bungaloes and fish ponds. You almost expect island dancers draped in colorful flower necklaces to come dancing out to greet you with coconut drinks. From there we took an hour-long ferry trip (where I turned green and my stomach threatened to regurgitate my pad thai lunch) over the surprisingly gentle bay to what was to be our island paradise for a week - Koi Pha Ngan. Those familiar with the movie "The Beach", or wild full moon parties on Haad Rin, will know the island. Designed for hedonists only, we were definitely in the right place. Although no full moon party was to be had during the time that we were there, we were happy to undergo a hair-raising trip along a very rough and pot-holed dirt road to reach the opposite side of the island and our first beach bungalow on Tong Nai Pan Yai beach - Dreamland Resort. Every bit a cliche as you are probably imagining, our rustic little wooden beach bungalow was tucked into a line of palm trees, and just a few steps from our balcony was a long perfect stretch of soft white sand and turquoise translucent sea on which authentic Thai fishing boats bobbed picturesquely. An impressive gathering of bronzed hippies were already well into their pineapple cocktails and we vowed to be as sun-drenched and dread-locked by the end of our stay.

Thailand is ridiculously cheap, even for South Africans, as long as you don't drink alcohol, so we had our fill of delicious Thai dishes, exotic fruits, fish barbecues and iced lemonade. After a slothful day of tanning, sleeping and lolling on the flat waves, we would wait for the night to lift millions of stars into the sky and then, gathering our sarongs around us, we would stroll down to the Chai Bar to see the fire throwers. Transfixed and hypnotized, we were happy to while away the evenings watching the fire dancers weave bright artwork into the darkness.

After a few days at our idealic backpackers, we had regrets about moving into the more luxurious Panviman hotel on Tong Nai Pan Noi beach. That is, until we got there. Panviman, meaning 'paradise alike', truly lives up to its name. We were welcomed at reception with cooling face towels and a refreshing berry drink before being whisked away to our expansive bungalow in a golf buggy. Built on the side of a mountain and in amongst virgin forest, the bungalows are private, quiet, and offer stupendous views over the bay. The only downside is the walk down to the beach, which, in equatorial temperatures tends to get the heart-rate going dangerously. The bungalow itself was built completely of intricately carved wood and furnished very ornately, replete with spa bath, aromatherapy oil, classical music, a giant-size bed and a book on Anger Management propped next to a vase of purple lotus flowers. After lingering in our gorgeous bungalow for a while, and even watching some international news on satellite TV to make sure the world was still spinning without us, we headed down to the beach.

After getting so attached to Yai, we were not overly fond of Noi - a much smaller beach which was undergoing some construction and was home to a river that didn't look too clean (meaning that mutant E.coli super bugs would eat you if you fell in) and had to be crossed by balancing along a rotten, half-submerged palm tree trunk that served as a make-shift bridge. We therefore mainly hung out at the hotel pool which was totally divine. A series of smaller pools, surrounded by lush oriental gardens and koi fish ponds, cascaded into the main pool which itself over-flowed in a long waterfall into the last pool. Elephant statues spouted water into the main pool and the whole area was surrounded by cushioned lounger chairs so that you could laze in comfort in the dappled sunlight, with indigenous trees for shade. From there you could gaze out across the bay and watch the quaint little fishing boats bringing in fresh seafood for dinner.

Satiated with pool paradise, my husband and I decided to bend to an unusual urge to go for a walk. We headed off down the wooden walkway that lead to the beach and, after a narrow miss with a few dodgy planks that gave way beneath our feet, a family of giant red ants tried to make off with my husband's toe and he suffered a few mammoth bites while beating them off. I am never much help in these situations as I am always bent double with laughter when disaster strikes. Plus I was trying to get some good pictures.

Despite my bad behavior, I was treated to a traditional Thai massage the next day. Although I usually consider spa treatments to be pure decadence, I have to admit that the diminutive lady, who made me feel like the Hulk, managed to pummel my muscles into oblivion with those delicate little fingers of hers. The technique is based on Indian Aryvedic massage and reflexology, which I assume is meant to be more therapeutic than relaxing. Starting at the toes and ending at the forehead, every muscle in your body is pounded into mush.

When I floated back into the bungalow there was a romantic dinner waiting for me on the balcony, and surprise, surprise, we were engaged soon after that:) In true Murphy style it poured with rain and, even though my husband had wanted to order us prawns, not a single boat had caught a single prawn the entire day - almost unheard of! Now, every time we have a special occasion, it rains. Despite that, it was a perfect evening and we were sad that we had only one more night left on the island. Especially as I was trying to work out if we could smuggle our new found friend - a scrawny, ginger, bat-eared kitten, back home with us. He had perfected the unfailing puss-and-boots stare to gain food from us and, once full, he and his tennis-ball tummy would curl up in my lap and go to sleep. It was with a heavy heart that we left Bat Kitten in paradise and boarded our flight back for two more nights in Bangkok.

With the rich and poor juxtaposed upon one another, like Camps Bay upon Khayelitsha, Bangkok is the city of paradox. I realise that, as a South African, this is entirely hypocritical but, due to the evil of apartheid, the rich and poor were forced to live far away from each other in geographical bubbles. Although a lot has changed since 1994, I still doubt that a five-star hotel would allow a shanty town to prosper right outside its front door, as is the case in Bangkok. Moreover, the Siamese survive on food sold by vendors which line the pavements so that you are forced, along with the crowd of pedestrians, to squash between the trolleys of pots and pans and the building front. Too alarmed by the prospect of runny tummies, we avoided everything the vendors sold except for the curried fruit - delicious and ready cut on a stick. We also made mad dashes to try and secure crazy tuk-tuk motorbike taxis, which, although potentially lethal, are cheaper and quicker than normal taxis. Often, though, we just could not overcome the language barrier and ended up scooting half way across the city in the wrong direction. Either that or our impatient driver would chuck us out in disgust, leaving us stranded and utterly lost. I was therefore always very thankful when we managed to find our way back to our hotel which offered life-giving aircon and a pool. However, the curse of the confused shower followed us to every establishment we had stayed at in Thailand. One minute hot, one minute cold, and alternating haphazardly in-between.

Despite the squalor and stench, which is all the more pervasive due to the heat, pollution and humidity, Bangkok is an amazing city to visit and the Thai people are extremely gentle. There is very little violent crime and they prefer to get their moneys worth from tourists by overcharging for taxis and selling them fake gems. Although mostly Buddhists, their King and Queen are the closest thing to demigods since the Victorian days. They also have a strict no-drug policy with frequent police patrols, and if you have ever seen the media coverage on Thai prisons, you too would have been terrified when both your eyes suddenly and inexplicably puffed up like two red dope-infested eyeballs. Apparently wearing contact lenses in Bangkok is a bad idea because all the pollution leads to a lack of oxygen under those little semi-circles you have taped to your eyeballs and this causes quite a bit of inflammation. Needless to say that sunglasses and police avoidance were high on my priority for the rest of the trip.

Our first outing was to the Siam Mall - a colossal multi-story shopping mecca with a different design theme on each level, starting with luxury clothes and cars and ending with the mother of all entertainment venues. After a stomach turning 3D movie we headed off the to food mall and became almost paralyzed with indecision. We're talking fresh seafood dishes, sushi, kebabs, wraps, smoothies, noodles, cakes, and just about any other food type you can imagine. If there was a demigod for me, it would be an Asian chef.

We spent our last day in true tourist style on a hop on, hop off, boat trip down the Chao Praya River - the lifeline of the city - to visit all the historical temples and the Royal Palace. Some Siamese still live in traditional wooden bungalows along the river and the children still swim and catch fish in what looks to be none-too-kosher water. The Thai people are incredibly creative and have the most intricately carved and opulently decorated wats. Amazing as they are, after dragging my sweat-soaked body and blistered feet through the Temple of Dawn, the Reclining Buddha, the Grand Palace, the Emerald Buddha and about half a dozen other wats and, not wanting to get lost on the tuk tuks again, walking all the way in long pants and a long shirt out of respect for the temples (even men have to don ankle length attire before being allowed into a sacred place) I was well and truly buggered. I ended up hobbling meters behind my husband, moaning, cursing, and having pleasant hallucinations that we were back on our beach. That said, aside from being taken out by a tsunami, I have never met anyone who hasn't enjoyed Thailand. It is as affordable as paradise comes. Besides, somebody still needs to rescue Bat Kitten.

The day that pigs flu

2010-02-19T12:03:00.004+02:00

It was the beautiful month of February. Summer had blessed Cape Town with long and perfect days. Even after work, beach-goers could still enjoy a few hours of surfing or strolling along Seapoint promenade, and bars were packed with trendy cocktail drinkers. Capetonians know how to soak up the good life and I was getting my fair share. Already bronzed and sleepy from a day by the pool, I had just finished a refreshing dip when disaster struck. Somebody sneezed.

An ordinary sneeze it was not, for, disguised in the aerosols floating invisibly along the summer breeze were virus particles so sinister that, four days after my first flu symptoms, I am still producing more mucous than a tsumani could off-load and, if I have to blow my nose one more time, I might just lose it completely (the nose and my sanity). Between bouts of fever and chills, I have been overdosing on vit C, garlic, honey, anti-histamines, and anything else, natural, pharmacological, or otherwise, that has been known to kill viruses. But this mutated, death-defying, bastard of a bug is resistant to all that science has ever proven to be effective against the flu. Ergo, my poor, crippled, aching body is still producing record-breaking amounts of mucous in the misguided belief that, once my form has been reduced to dessicated mummy, the virus will finally have been expelled.

Take heed my friends. Close your doors and windows and lock up your children. The bugs shall inherit the earth.

Driving Miss Crazy

2010-02-14T22:56:00.010+02:00

Capetonians have a distinctly rotten reputation for driving hideously all over the road. Thank goodness they have never ventured beyond Matjiesfontein otherwise whole herds of sheep in the Karoo would have become "pad-kos" way before their time. Although Capetonian drivers enjoy a favorite habit of hogging the fast lane at snail-speeds, they can rival any Italian Fiat driver when mastering the CBDs tiny alley-ways and teeny side spots that the Municipality has tried to pass off as roads and parking bays. I assume that, after we stopped riding around in horse-drawn carriages, the roads were never widened because Cape Town is trying to retain that quaint feeling between all the emerging sky scrapers (let's all say a little prayer for the still authentic Bo-Kaap).

Originally a Jozi girl myself, I can afford to be more than a little smug about my driving skills. I know when and how to take a gap in a stream of moving cars, to overtake before the poor sod in front has even realized I am behind him, to parallel park in 2 fluent moves, and to keep myself occupied in the traffic. I am also, and this really does prove that I am not a born-and-bred Capetonian, prepared to drive to a destination more than 30 minutes away. I therefore cannot help but wonder why every time I have a passenger with me, they whip out a brown paper bag and start performing breathing exercises, their white clenched knuckles leaving permanent indents in my seat. I put it down to trust. Capetonian drivers just can't afford to trust each other. Driving badly consistently doesn't make it any less erratic. In Jozi we are like one giant centipede winding down the road. We can sense exactly how to move and when. If we didn't, Jozi would degenerate into one big disorganized traffic jam, and road rage ain't pretty.

There is, however, one big unifying road fiend that all South Africans know very well. Minibus taxis. A law unto to themselves they take to the road like Shumi to a race-track, although much less adequately equipped in skill and vehicle. Defying any form of sense or safety, these death-traps ferry triple the number of people that should humanly be able to fit in a 15-seat combi all over the country. Often duck-taped, with threadbare wheels (and I've even seen a crow-bar in place of a steering wheel), passengers and belongings somehow manage an intricate, and what must be a quadruple jointed, system of embarking, disembarking and payment. Due to our appalling and virtually non-existent public transport system, these luckless travelers have no choice but to get zoomed around, like sardine cans on a roller-coaster, by an intrepid taxi system created out of pure opportunity. But a word of caution for those would-be taxi owners out there, all routes have pretty much been covered from Pofadder to Port Alfred, and are guarded aggressively by drug-loving, trigger-happy taxi mafia. They even have the trip up Sani Pass sorted. Raise the suspension and you can take your 20-year old and dented jalopie combi all the way up one of the worst dirt roads in the country, through potholes and beside a mountain face that is scaling some 200 meters above you into Lesotho. When we booked our day trip up there last time, we were told emphatically that only 4x4s make it on that road, but our hired Landrover was then happily overtaken on a blind corner by a whole train of combi-taxis replete with luggage and chickens on the roof. If cars could get a dented ego, our Landrover would have cried all the way back down the mountain. No offense to the British but there is a reason why the only cars found in Africa are Toyotas.

I don't want to get rid of combi-taxis. Even when they drive me off the road and cut me off, they are still one of the most convenient ways of getting around. Even if it means that you might not make it to your destination alive because the driver is stoned out of his mind, enjoys speeding down the emergency lane and is unphased about the fact that the back wheel is about to come off. You are still going to beat all the other traffic. That's a promise. Although I WOULD like to get rid of the deaf maniac who insists on revving past my flat at 3am, Usher blasting out of his low-riding gangster car with purple under lights. Its not cool and it doesn't make up for what must surely be very tiny genitalia to be making all that noise. I would know just what to do if I owned a paint-ball gun. I'll show you purple. Drives me crazy.

Cape Town - get blown away

2010-02-11T20:59:00.007+02:00

With weather patterns set to become more aberrant and capricious in the future, and the force and breadth of hurricanes and tornadoes predicted to increase dramatically, it is safe to say that I am all set. Having lived in Cape Town for the last eight years, and the last three at Century City, I am well practiced in the ways of the wind. We have to hang our wind-chimes inside the house for fear that, if they were on the balcony, they would surely liberate themselves with sufficient force to shatter into pieces or stab someone in the eye. Granted, our south-easterly "Cape Doctor" ensures that Capetonians breath fresh Atlantic air for most of the year, but, for that we have to contend with car doors that won't budge open (and when they do they slam shut and pin you against the car, or outside with the car keys locked inside), with umbrellas that fold up on themselves like sun starved flowers, and with having a birds nest for a hair style every single day.

My place of work is particularly sadistic in that they have built the parking lot about two kilometers from the entrance to the University. This results in all of us having to jog from the car, lap-top bags and all, because, in summer the wind literally pushes you along with such force that if you didn't break into a run you would fall flat on your face. Winter is worse because the rain, which is coming at you horizontally, is drenching you so thoroughly that you will spend the rest of the day soggy and cold and, to makes things even more peachy, your good-for-nothing umbrella has upended itself because the spokes have shattered. In Cape Town they should have umbrella insurance. Last year I bought a titanium-spoked umbrella with a lifetime warranty from Totes - I've already had to return it 3 times. Tee Hee. Now all I need is see-through titanium windows. Cape Town - I am blown away...

You are number 108 in the queue

2010-02-10T17:20:00.005+02:00

I have great sympathy for people who work in call centers. I really do. These people are truly those types that work because they have to and not because they want to. OK, that is most of us, but, other than sewage pipe cleaners and rubbish recyclers and street sweepers and scientists that have to work with poop, call center employees have it the worst. They work diabolical shifts, with night staff becoming so blinded and burnt by sunlight, they start resembling translucent deep water fish. You can always spot a call center guy - old, baggy jeans, torn but comfy t-shirt, slops and big dark rings under the eyes, despite the overwhelming coffee supply. They have boring, meaningless jobs to do for 40 hours a week. So next time you are ranting and raving at the Hellkom guy for having a jelly tot for a brain and wasting your lunch break, just remember that he doesn't care because you are the 200th person that has shat on him that day already. And the more you shit on him the less he will cooperate. These people only respond to kindness. Or viable threats, like, i know where you live, and I'm a family friend of Helen Zille's, so if you don't help me I'll have you renegaded to sewerage duty.

I despise spam. I am sick of getting bombarded with spam emails, spam smses, spam phone calls, spam junk mail. I do not need my penis enlarged or a six pack stomach in a day (well, if it was truly possible...) or another cell phone contract or another credit card. I do not need to be woken at 3am by an sms professing that all I need to do to win a prize is to phone for an insurance quote. But imagine being the poor sod who has to call all these enraged people? Imagine having to launch into your diatribe, and get enough information across, before you get cut-off. What percentage of people actually respond to spam in the first place? Is it just a ploy for meaningless job creation (seeing as most people calling are from India anyway) or do some numb-nuts actually respond to ads selling 40%-reduced "Viagra"?

To see what I mean, go check out the brilliant Oatmeal: http://theoatmeal.com/comics/customer_service.

I thought, to end, a limerick would do, and I dedicate this to all the call center people out there, right from me to you:

There was a young man named Naresh
Who worked at a call center in Bangladesh
All day he dialed phones
To sell people loans
But no-one could understand his English!

Teddy: I luv u beary much

2010-02-09T21:43:00.000+02:00

Before we boycott Valentine's day for yet another year, I have taken the liberty of compiling a few funnies for all my readers out there (all 4 of you :)). Go Cardies:-

I love you - despite what my mood swings my indicate.

I love being with you. It gives me something to do with my hands.

Even though sometimes you annoy the crap out of me, I still love you - that's what having a brother teaches you.

I don't understand why Cupid was chosen to represent Valentine's Day. When I think about romance, the last thing on my mind is a short, chubby toddler coming at me with a weapon.

If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?

Sales ad at a store: ‘You are my one and only’ Valentine's cards, now on sale: 4 for $5

Love is a grave mental disease.

Love is like the measles; we all have to go through it.

I thought that I could love no other; Until, that is, I met your brother.

Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you.
But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl's empty and so is your head.

Of loving beauty you float with grace; If only you could hide your face.

Kind, intelligent, loving and hot; This describes everything you are not.

I want to feel your sweet embrace; But don't take that paper bag off of your face.

I see your face when I am dreaming; That's why I always wake up screaming.

My love, you take my breath away; What have you stepped in to smell this way?

My feelings for you no words can tell; Except for maybe 'Go To Hell'.

What inspired this amorous rhyme? Two parts vodka, one part lime..

And my own literary contribution (luckily I do have a husband and flea-ridden cat who luv me beary much :)):

On this special day of love,
Where Cupid's arrow shot above,
The arrow sailed beyond the sea,
So very far away from me,
His aim was bad,
My luck was had,
There'd be no date,
With a manly mate,
Now I live with a cat and his flea.
Poor me.

Die Antwoord is Nee

2010-02-09T15:41:00.000+02:00

There is a new and rapidly emerging South African band called "Die Antwoord", whose sky-rocketing international fame has resulted in, and I quote from M&G (http://www.mg.co.za/article/2010-02-08-zef-side-stateside), "a huge number of requests from US viewers to release an album and go on tour in the States". I can only assume that the people clamoring for these Vernon Koekemoer lookalikes are red-necked delinquents from the deep south. Someone has to explain to me why a white-trash rap band has 15 000 fans on Facebook, and counting. Perhaps it is our constant voyeuristic need for morbid fascination. Perhaps its a calculated plot by Britney Spears to ensure that she is usurped out of Heat magazine. They must be big because even artist Leon Botha (he of the rare Progeria disease) made an appearance in their music video. I guess I am more than a little envious that, while I am trying to cure the world of infectious diseases, and getting paid a pittance for my troubles, a "poppie", who looks like she is barely out of puberty, and an emaciated, tattooed rap artist (plus overweight sidekick), who looks like he spent one too many years in Polsmoor Prison, are getting USA on a platter while I can't even get so much as a job offer. I was geographically placed by birth to be famous! Born at the Boksburg-Benoni hospital, I was destined for the limelight - to walk the path of Charlize Theron! Move over Koekemoer! You're not the only one who can do Boksburg style! All I need is a mullet, some chest hair to dangle a chain in, a vest, hiking shoes with knee-high socks and denim "kort-broeke". I'm a natural...

No Flower Power

2010-02-08T10:19:00.000+02:00

In the concrete jungle of flats and offices we live in, it is nice to have some oxygen pumping plant decor around. I dream of rows of geraniums cascading off my balcony, Italian style. Of luscious ferns and spiky yuccas in every corner of the apartment. But, alas, I have been cursed with the black fingers. Beneath my deadly touch, cacti turn to biltong sticks, flowers wilt and leaves shrivel and fall off hollow branches. My balcony is littered with pots containing dry sand and plant corpses.

There are 40 days to go until planting season (www.plantingseason.co.za). The idea is to start your own vegetable garden. You know those funny shaped carrots and pock-marked potatoes and worm infested apples you can buy at Saturday morning markets from happy looking people in caftans? Well they taste great. They are grown in cow poo-infused compost with no pesticides and contain lots of healthy nutrients. You can even throw some herbs into the mix. The ones you cook with. On March 20th, 2010, "Imagine 1,000,000 South Africans uniting on a single day to plant an organic vegetable in their home or office". If I thought anything had a chance of surviving, I would do it.

Its a cat's 9 lives

2010-02-07T00:00:00.002+02:00

At the risk of sounding like a cat-lady, I'll try to keep this brief:) Shortly after moving to my current establishment I acquired a pet, or, to be more exact, the pet acquired me. I found a scrawny, half-dead, 4-week old flea-bag on the side of the road, so who was I to say no. Bergie is now a 3-year old, formidable, 6kg, black shrub warrior, but he is still a flea-bag. With nine lives, and counting, this cat has cheated death so often I'm starting to think he has a suicidal streak, but Murphy is intervening just to have a good chuckle at the ever climbing vet bills. Either that or his original brush with death left him so brain damaged that he has become crazed and senseless. It certainly left him mute. He seems to favour death by street cat as opposed to road kill, so I guess getting him neutered didn't help much.

When he is not trying to get himself killed he enjoys the good life. Sleeping is a passion. People were put on this earth to give him a good scratch and put yummy food in his bowl. To see an animated version of what I mean, check out: www.simonscat.com. Most of the time we indulge him, but every few months we have the dreaded bath. Armed with gloves to our elbows, and a cupboard-load full of towels, my husband and I actually manage to get the cat bathed and dry, even if the kitchen looks like hurricane Katrina took up residence there for a while. Last time we had just finished rinsing him off when he managed to pull an entire pot plant off the kitchen ledge and on top of himself, the kitchen and the only clean towel supply. Although most days he comes home voluntarily, he was in captivity that day.

When we are not torturing the cat with a bath, we torture him with other cats. We tried to offer him companionship in the form of a little ginger kitten with a big personality. For the entire time that we had Otis, Bergie left home as often as possible. Apparently he had moved in with the neighbours for some peace and quiet, because, every time Bergie would settle himself on his favorite chair for a nap, Otis would climb to the highest point above him, launch himself into the air, and drop kick him in the head. Repeatedly. Then Bergie, now fully awake, would get so annoyed that he would chase after the little bugger and give him a good smack. Of course, Otis would start screaming like he was being killed way before Bergie could even get to him, sure that we would intervene before he got a hiding.

Otis also considered himself to be a shrub warrior but his big personality, a trait we loved most about him, eventually resulted in his demise. We have reason to believe that one of the roaming street cats tried to teach him a lesson that went a bit too far. Otis was on this earth for only 7 months, but in that time he managed to master the art of kick-boxing, become addicted to vanilla yoghurt, invent a language, and totally worm his way into our hearts. Bye-bye Oti - I'm sure wherever you are now, you are kicking some ass!

Geography The Conqueror

2010-02-06T22:11:00.000+02:00

Having not yet been brave enough to read Jared Diamond's mammoth book, "Guns, Germs and Steel", I have just finished watching the less intimidating three-part National Geographic series of the same name. Together with geography, these three forces had the strongest effect on human history to date. They allowed a select group of people sufficient advantage to conquer and pillage the rest of the world. Hardly something to be proud of. Technology has always been borne out of man's desire to increase personal wealth. I have watched enough nature programs to realize that this is a primal urge. If our European forefathers hadn't been ambitious enough to want to conquer the world, and lucky enough to have the resources available to do it, I wouldn't be sitting at my beautiful MacBook blogging to you right now from South Africa. However, I would argue that technological development and the industrial revolution have been a double edged sword. Just imagine if, instead of marauding armies, a group of green-loving hippies had tried to take over the world - a complete paradox, but indulge me. There would be no guns, no war, no pollution, no carbon footprint and a lot more whales in the sea. Yes us humans have achieved amazing things. Where would we be without antibiotics, vaccines, literature, travel... I just hope it hasn't come at too high a price. We have immensely advanced civilizations but are we truly civilized? After a shameful COP15 outcome, and ground-breaking media such as "An Inconvenient Truth" and "The Age of Stupid", there is more pressure than ever for humans to undergo a paradigm shift in the way we live. A reason to change the way we use resources. Ironically, only technology can save us now.

Body over Mind

2010-02-06T10:50:00.000+02:00

Those of you who know me will know that I prize myself on taking it easy. I consider it a personal goal to take it as easy as possible. At 31 years of age, with my body and mind competing for the fastest rate of deterioration, I have learnt my lesson. Relax. Take it easy. And your body won't make you regret anything in the morning.

Every time I have pushed my body beyond moderate limits it has lashed back at me in diabolical ways. The Otter Trial deserves an honorable mention. This is one of South Africa's most beautiful hikes along an awesome coastline. In fact, you can even RUN it - apparently in about 5 hours. I am not a rice-pudding or anything but I'm talking 15kg backpacks, sunburn and blisters, and a total distance of 42.5km in 5 days. And this is only to the official end. After walking across mountains and through numerous gorges on blistered swollen toes, you fall on the sign confirming the end of the Trial with reverence. Then you realize that you still have to make it down the mountain and across 2kms of the softest white quicksand beach before reaching what is really the final destination, Nature's Valley. And along this exquisite stretch of beach, where your feet are sinking into this perfect beach sand, you are cursing all the way. But you are urging yourself towards that cheese-burger and milkshake... the first decent meal you will have eaten in 5 days... clearly I have mastered the art of body-over-mind.

That is not to say that I don't admire endurance. I like to watch from a safe distance as other super humans reach the top of mountains, trek for days through the desert, survive months out in the snow. South Africans love their sports and most admiral among these are the endurance events. We all grew up following the achievements of Zola Budd and Bruce Fordyce. Well the off-road athletes have taken things to new heights. I thought the Cape Epic was pretty much the most difficult trail race to wind its muddy way through our interior but then I watched this: http://www.mg.co.za/multimedia/2010-02-04-extreme-endurance-the-freedom-challenge. A couple of intrepid mountain bikers, who may even have found a new religion (Rastafarian Catholic). These people have defined the art of mind-over-body. Tim Noakes, who said, "In that he didn't die at the finish line, he could have run faster", would be proud. I am in especial awe of the older biker, Tim, who, incidentally, was only able to take part in the race because he had survived a crocodile attack. I mean, these are the sorts of people Steve Irwin would be impressed with. But beyond the extreme endurance was a great love for our country and the extreme generosity of its people. Just makes me want to go on a slack-packing, luxury, all-expenses paid, 3 gourmet meals a day, road-trip!