Nairobi’s Cutest Animals

Its official – elephant and giraffe infants are the most adorable of them all, and guess why?  They arrive in the world perfect miniature replicas of their parents.  Lion cubs are sweet, of course, but are by no means lion looking.  Even baby rhinos have to grow horns and grow into their ‘rhino-ness’.  And (perhaps fortunately) wildebeest calves look nothing like their adult selves.

From the minute the new born giraffe calf crashes six foot down onto the savannah, shaking her little head in confusion as she attempts to collect up and compose her legs, scattered all around her, into some semblance of order, she is a ‘mini-me’ giraffe.  Completely precious, her tufty mane, glorious patches and meltingly gorgeous eyes are ready to burst their seams and grow in leaps and bounds into a full size version.

Likewise the little ellie.  Fortunately, she doesn’t have the long drop to freedom; but in the same way women mutter that giving birth is like squeezing a watermelon through their bits, Mrs Jumbo shoots a VW Beetle out of her delicate end.  Small wonder the matriarch and assorted aunties surround the newly delivered cow – to protect the father.  And you thought it was sisterhood sympathy!

For me, Kenya is the wildlife capital of Africa.  The Kenyans have a way of incorporating ‘safari’ into everyday life, gently introducing and immersing the visitor in the wild in such a delightful non-zoo-like way it’s an absolute treat. 

Right next to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, one of the busiest in Africa, lies Kenya’s oldest reserve- Nairobi National Park. 7km’s from the city centre and covering 117km2 of savannah and riverine woodland, it’s quite remarkable how much game is visible to the excited passengers as the long haul flight comes in to land.  Truly, one’s safari begins before touching down.

The option of tourist attraction Dame Daphne Sheldrick’s Elephant Orphanage could appear, to us jaded South African’s, to be a saccharine, Disney Animal Kingdom.  Likewise the AFEW Giraffe Centre at Langata.  But we’d be so wrong to assume this.

The elephant orphanage is at Nairobi National Park’s Mbagathi gate, and the giraffe centre a few kilometres away at Langata, both within 15 minutes of downtown Nairobi.  Well, OK, assuming there’s no traffic, since Nairobi is one enormous carpark from dawn til dusk.  This city could do with a bunch more roads and freeways to ease the LA style congestion.

But on my visit to both facilities today I lost my heart to 21 orphaned elephants aged from 2 months to 3 years, and that was before their keeper told us the stories of poached mothers, mothers who died in childbirth, mothers attacked and killed by villagers and their starving, wounded infants left to die.

These pint sized tuskers played like puppies, the slightly older ones ‘sizing’ each other up and practising a little pushing around, the littlies joyfully romping in red dust the keepers shovelled over them, dropping to their knees and rolling over.

None of them have yet realised the potential for fun those giant ears offer, they just wrapped the offending items closely over the tops of their heads and kept them there.  However, they are well primed for the huge teated bottles of baby formula their keeper pours down their throats and it’s amazing to watch their personalities emerge.  Our first sighting of these adorable infants was their enthusiastic and comical charge down the hill towards the arena, going straight to their own keeper and grabbing the teat.  No ‘hello, nice to see you’ from these greedy pintsized suckers!

One little monster guzzled his lot very fast, then shoved his way between the other babes and their bottles, squealing indignantly when the keepers pushed him away.  He didn’t take no for an answer, trying his luck 20 times before racing over to grab a tasty branch from a smaller sibling.  A slightly older girl insisted on feeding herself, proudly holding her own bottle and draining it dry before receiving the next one.  So gender development differences are not confined to humans, then...

Go online to www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org to have a look for yourself.  USD50 a month gets you adoption papers of your very own baby, and monthly keeper's reports on how she / he is doing.  You can even, by appointment, visit your baby at 17h00 and put her to bed.  I’m not sure about teeth brushing, though.  They warned us not to put our hands into the sweet pink mouths - these babies have chompers and like all teething toddlers like to use them!

On the way out I sneaked into one of the stables to check out their sleeping facilities - each orphan has his/her own keeper who sleeps in the stable with their charge.  Their beds are safely high up on the wall, in case junior gets a bit playful in the middle of the night.

With a silly beam on my face and a very sloppy heart, it was off down the road to AFEW Giraffe Centre.  Like a Quality Street choice, giraffes are my favourite favourites of all the big mammals.  Gracious, elegant and aloof, the giraffe’s incongruous shape is classic Africa.

AFEW Giraffe Centre consists, besides a gift and tea shop, of a circular wooden building which is raised on stilts, enabling eye contact with several Rothschild’s giraffe while you feed them.  A breeding programme centre, they keep the giraffes in their care for three years before releasing them into the wild.  Visitors are given two handfuls of pony nuts which you pinch between 2 fingers and place individually on a verrry long, very black and extraordinarily agile tongue.

Fickle beast – they know who has the nuts, which hand they are kept in and as the last nut drops out of your hand onto their tongue, they're already turning away to find another food supply.  They have the velvet-iest noses and cheeks, eyes deep enough to drown in and eyelashes that shame Maybelline.  But affectionate - no.  They’re just there for the grub, and a warthog family on the ground several feet below are on their knees snarfing up the remnants.  Still, I can proudly say a giraffe drooled on my hand even if she did disdain a hug.

Interesting fact – us bush babies know that giraffe have black tongues, but do you know why?  Built in sun screen SPF!  Yup, their tongues spend so much time in the sun above the canopy that nature painted them black rather than pink to prevent sunburn!

Another day in Africa, another privileged peep into the workings of nature and the amazing work done by groups of dedicated people.

And yet another sign off with a huge grin on my face and watery eyes.  Nkosi si’kelele.

  

My Festival

The National Arts Festival (more commonly referred to as the Grahamstown Festival) celebrated its 40^th birthday this year, its life neatly straddling 20 years under the "apartheid regime”(loathe that regime word) and 20 years in the “new, democratic SA” (don’t like that reference either – a debate for another time).

A wine book club idea to break our virginity and finally visit this, the 3^rd largest festival of its kind in the world, was hatched late last year.

Googling the Festival unveiled a tsunami of 496000 sites.  And who knows how many articles have been published in print?  The Festival is well covered by veteran visitors and creative experts, offering seasoned and informed advice and opinion. 

Excited, we became slightly stressed when faced with the 306 page online festival programme, having been strongly advised to book a few shows before leaving home.

Dutifully starting at page 1 (well, actually page 26, bypassing the blah blah welcome letters which stretched on page after page) and scribbling down interesting sounding titles seemed like a practical idea, but was abandoned when I’d filled two A4 pages in my notebook with “must see’s”, and was only on page 37 of the programme.  So our initial show bookings were more of a stab in the dark, but at least we had 2 shows booked for arrival day and one per day thereafter.

Experienced Festival goers were generous with their advice and the heeding of it all made our Festival experience a richer, more comfortable one.  Thank you Bridget G and everyone else who chipped in with words of wisdom.  In fact, I’d strongly advise anyone visiting for the first time to tell people around you about your plans, you’d be surprised what gems of wisdom drop from complete stranger’s lips for which you are deeply thankful later.

I can’t add anything which hasn't been covered before, but we did learn and discover a few gems which are worth sharing for 2015 first time Festival goers.

1

 .   Common advice is to book accommodation early, and we echo that.  While staying in town has obvious benefits, we stayed at the Mariya uMama weThemba Monastery 3kms away.  Close to the 1820 Monument, it was a 5 min drive to the heart of the Festival, far from the madding crowd and late night noise, absolutely safe and extremely comfortable.  Think cosy rooms, excellent bathroom facilities, snug duvets and hot water bottles and cooked breakfast.  Each wing had a kettle and broad assortment of quality coffee and teas, sugar, milk etc.  There is a large, sunny lounge wrapped around a stone fireplace which we made good use of, enjoying bubbles and vinho tinto late into the night.  Bless Riana for braving the crisp early morning chill to run down, put together a large pot of plunger coffee and race back to our wing with 2 brimming mugs and a supply of fresh, homebaked crunchies.  Marion keeps the lounge coffee / tea station well stocked with biccies and hot drinks.  The only downside for me was my fantasy of grey stone buildings, cellars, monks in rough brown robes, their hair tonsured having a reality check…this monastery is nothing like that!

2.       Pull into the Monument box office on your way into GTown and pick up your pre-booked tickets there.  The queues are much shorter and if you paid by credit card, you can swipe the card and print them out in a jiffy.  Viva technology!

3.       Before you arrive, pick up a telephone directory sized programme from a Standard Bank branch. There’s a drop out planner inside which makes selecting and planning your shows immeasurably easy.  It lists the programme day by day under the starting times - use that in conjunction with the programme and you’ve cracked it.  We only worked this out on night two, when roasting in front of a warm fire, nibbling cheese and avocado, glugging red wine and wished we’d done this much earlier.

4.       Standard Bank customers rejoice – the bank has laid on feisty little tuk-tuks to buzz you around town at no charge.  When the wind is a’howling and you have to get from Victoria Hall to the Monument, you don’t hesitate!  There is also the Hopper service, 3 set routes that cost R5 a trip.  Hop on and off at will.

5.       The Long Table – what a find!  Tucked away down an alley off High Street near the Post Office is St George’s church hall.  Serving lunch and dinner daily and only set up at Festival time, this is an absolute ‘must do’.  Visualise Hogwarts dining hall (OK, the candles aren’t drifting mid-air, but placed on enormously tall heavy candelabra) and are the only light in this jolly, festive and somewhat romantic place.  It’s chaos at night – you queue, choose your meal off the chalkboard menu, pay and then are served delicious, homestyle meals with bread and salad on the side.  Think spinach lasagne, Thai chicken curry, beef stew and malva pudding…  The stage morphs into a bar surrounded by couches and easy chairs.  Once you’re clutching a plate and bottle of wine, find a spot on one of the four long tables, squeeze in and chat volubly to your neighbours.  Theatre folk haunt the place after their shows and you never know who you’ll be sitting next to.  It’s hard to believe that about 400 people laughing, singing, talking, eating and drinking, squeezed in like sardines, could make a church hall on a cold evening be a romantic, warm and the best place to be.  Perhaps it’s the faintly medieval feel to it – I could certainly imagine a knight of yore clanking in, throwing his helmet down with a crash and roaring for a cup of ale and a wench…

6.       Everyone is eager to share their favourite shows and recommend something to see, so lose your inhibitions and chat freely to those around you.  Having a couple of shows pre-booked was great, and we picked up tickets easily for others as we went along.  Even if a show is sold out, it’s worth heading up to the venue 30 mins before kick-off.  They do sell off some extra tickets at the door as they become available.

7.       Clothes – the common refrain before we went – “Oh, it’s so cold, take thermals, you’ll freeze” and so on.  This is the list that worked for me for 6 days – 1 long length coat, hat, gloves, buff, pashmina, 1 polo neck sweater, 1 fleece lined zip through hoody top, 3 pairs jeans, sneakers, heeled boots for travelling (vanity!) hiking boots (for warmth) warm pj’s, warm hiking socks, opaque tights to wear under my jeans, 6 long sleeved brushed interlock T shirts (which I layered).  We were apparently blessed with a very warm Festival (except that razor sharp and glacial wind which kicked up every now and then) so the layers came off as the day heated up.  I was plenty warm enough and the only thing I’d add would be a light raincoat, because if we’d had rain I’d have been miserable.  But we didn't.  And I wasn't.  Everything fitted into a carry on cabin bag.

8.       If this is your first visit to Grahamstown itself, add on another 2 days to do some non-Festival sightseeing. The town and surrounding area is rich in history and no trip would be complete without visiting nearby Bathurst, home to the oldest pub in SA and a darling little church of its own.

9. The Monument Foyer buzzes between 5 and 6pm every afternoon with 'teasers' performed by the artists.  This is an excellent opportunity to get an idea of what the shows are about.

They say everyone remembers their first time, and we will for sure.  My Festival memories are belly laughs and lumpy throats, intriguing plots and heated debates about humanity, polyglot audiences impossible to define or categorise, young performers passionately absorbed in their craft, chilly hands wrapped around hot coffee mugs, friendly chatter and wine, food and warmth, pop up soup and gluhwein stands on street corners and finally the way that everyone, absolutely everyone, was instantly friendly and opened up warmly to their neighbours.  I’m totally besotted with the Festival and its atmosphere, and already planning my next fix of ‘culture’!

Inventing Second Chances - A short story

I watch you.  I see you and you have no idea of my presence.  It’s impossible for you to see or hear me, but I see you with her.  Walking hand in hand, stopping to hold her close and bury your face in her smooth, glossy hair.

“We’re overdue another incarnation,” I pronounce at book club one evening.  Four startled pairs of eyes stare suspiciously back, warily, silently wondering what’s coming next.

 “OK, I’ll bite.  What are you on about now?”  Pam asks, swallowing a large glug of dry white, accompanied by a chorus of chirps from the others.

Placing my beer mug-sized wine glass down carefully, I breathe in deeply and surveying the curious expressions turned towards me, explain.

 “Remember the Get-a- Long Gang?  Newly divorced, young kids, no money and too old to hit the singles scene?” 

Dry chuckles and groans as Pam, Karen, Chris and Laura nod, recalling the name we had for ourselves.  Two Fridays a month we got the night off from full time single parenting and relishing the freedom, we glammed up and hit the town, eager to behave like the single young-ish people we thought we were.

Regretfully, our self images didn’t measure up to our birth certificates nor to the staggering number of wax-mannequin perfect, stiletto wearing clones barely covered by strips of stretch glitter lycra and spray on jeans.  Well, maybe calling them ‘jeans’ is stretching the word a little.  All they had in common with the sensible bootleg pants we wore was the varied shades of blue denim.  There was no disguising the word which described us -mumsy.  So after dancing with each other, buying our own drinks and leaving the pubs like middle aged Cinderella’s at midnight, taunts of “come back sugar mummies” ringing in our ears, we eventually gave up and grew up.

The Get-a-Long Gang turned into a bookclub.  Not a terribly well organised one at that – irregularly held meetings spent drinking and jaws clacking until they ached.  Actually, the book box didn’t even make the last meeting, having been left behind in Chris’s driveway.  Thankfully, it was only the books, not her wine.

“Look at us,” I say.  “We’re a ghost generation.  Our primary function is over; we’ve been discarded by offspring and husbands.  We need to reinvent ourselves and discover a new purpose, solely for ourselves.”

Standing in the doorway, I gaze inside the room, my eyes lingering on the neatly made bed.  My heart squeezes painfully and my eyes fill; the heavy emptiness too much to bear.

Laura, ever the cautious one, clears her throat, nudging her glasses further up her nose.  “We hear you, Caro.  But perhaps it’s time to acknowledge that we are not in our 20’s or 30’s anymore and just gracefully accept the stage we are actually in?”  Softly spoken Laura rarely says anything controversial or disagreeable socially.   Very different from the passionate and vocal eco tiger Laura becomes when organising protest marches and petitions for the Environmental Agency she runs.

The clamorous outcry that follows her statement has us gasping for breath and reaching for the corkscrew.  There’s nothing like indignation to dry throats and empty glasses.

“Nonsense,” roars Karen.  “Graham says younger women can’t hold a candle to us.  He’s never met anyone as on- form and enthusiastic in the sack as I am.  Not bad considering he’s 18 years younger than me.”

Mouths open, Laura, Chris, Pam and I catch each other’s eye, but leave the thoughts unsaid.  Karen, an artist, has never bothered with marriage or children.  Besotted with her Great Dane she spends her life travelling in places where running water and electricity are unheard of.  Jungle trekking in Vietnam – that’s her.  Sleeping rough on a tiny island off the West African coast – her too.  And those are the places she meets the endless string of boys barely old enough to shave that she tucks under her wing and dotes on.  When they move on, she books another plane ticket and heads out, hunting down the next one.

“Well,” Pam says, “we’ve got an unmarked canvas ahead of us.  What we had has gone.  We’re aging faster than we could have believed and my future is bursting with wrinkles, aching joints, hormones and my cats. So I’m up for anything to change that.”

“We’re completely ignored by songwriters and poets,” Chris remarks.  “And have they ever made a movie about menopausal women squelching out of bed in the middle of the night or sitting in meetings radiating heat like a boiling kettle?”

I bite my lip, cursing aloud as the nut on the pool weir refuses to budge. Hammering at it with the pliers, I feel the tears mounting behind my lashes.  This is your job; my hands aren’t strong enough to do this.  The soupy olive water reflects my distress.  I feel so alone.  When did I become so helpless?

The next day, Karen phones.  “I think you’re onto something,” she shrieks.  She’s always so loud and active; it’s exhausting to spend much time with her.

“We have to decide how to fill this canvas.  I think book club has run its course, and it’s time for us to grasp the nettle and go for it.  Time’s a’ticking, if we don’t do it now, then when?”

She’s right, of course, but what is the what?

“I’m emailing everyone today and setting up a meeting at the wine bar for Thursday week.  We all have to come armed with an idea for our personal growth project,” she continues.

It’s easier to agree than to argue so I do, leaving the anxiety for later.  What do I want to achieve?  What do I dream about?  Who am I anyway?  I fear it’s too late to discover myself. The glossies feature ‘inspirational’ stories about on-top-of-their-game women who seemingly without effort reinvent their lives and turn hobbies into successful businesses.   But I feel intimidated, not inspired by these women.  When cooking, gardening and DIY are never ending chores, how can they become a hobby?  Besides, my wonky cakes and tasty casseroles look more at home in the dog’s bowl than the food stylist’s photograph.  Culinary skills are not my path to fame and fortune, and do I really want to melt the rest of my life away cooking to order?

The tizzy spin Karen’s pronouncement puts my head into shows itself later.  A screaming match with my editor over photographs she hadn’t asked for and now insists on getting, followed by not one but three proofreading meltdowns - all for the same client - sends me home with my tail between my legs and eyes spilling over.  I can’t afford to lose this job, but something seems to be happening to my brain.  How could I read something so many times and miss the glaringly obvious typos? 

 “I’m ready to go into the witness protection programme and start a new life!” I sobbed over the phone to Pam.  “It’s all too much, everything is going wrong and I want a new life.  Someone else’s. Anyone else’s”

“Wait for me,” she said, “I’ll join you – I came within inches of slicing my boss’s head off today and it’s impossible to decide if it was due to having a bog standard idiot in charge or a freaking hormonal super storm.”  This is why we are friends – misery shared is misery halved.   Pam thrives in the pressure cooker world of a small advertising agency, where her calm, easy going nature achieves the impossible and keeps everyone on track.  But even she has her limits.

Thursday arrived and with confused head and heart I turned my car towards the wine bar.  Chris, Karen and Laura sit at a table near the door, heads flung back, roaring with laughter, wine level in their glasses already dangerously low.  Well, we may not solve many problems tonight but as usual, when we get together a good time is guaranteed.   

“Just wait til you hear this,” Karen hiccups, her face flushed pomegranate with glee.  “Chris discovered Cam’s stash of dope and has been stealing and smoking it!”

Speechless, I sit down heavily on the trendy and oh-so-uncomfortable seat, blindly reaching for the bottle as I gawk at Chris.

“Well why not?” she asks defensively.  “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about and last week when that deal fell through at work and Jonathan told me that Candi was pregnant the timing seemed perfect.”

“Your ex husband has got Barbie up the spout?  He’s spent the past 15 years dodging maintenance payments and now he starts another family with a teenager?”   For a minute, Chris’s mid life narcotic adventure took a step backwards as the news penetrated my muddled menopausal brain.

Exuding cigarette smoke and in her usual breathless way, Pam dropped into the seat next to me.  “What am I missing?” she asks “If your jaws drop any lower I could have parked my car inside one and saved the past 20 minutes trying to find something legal outside.”

Chris swiftly tells the story her ex-idiot had revealed on the phone.  “You know,” Laura comments, “it’s boastful and lame of him to call just to tell you that”

“Never mind” I interrupt,” let’s get back to the drug story.  What were you thinking, stealing your son’s supply?  You’re 48, not 18.  Is this some sort of midlife rebellion?  And who are you rebelling against?”

Lifting her chin, staring defiantly at us, Chris began to explain.  The words poured like a waterfall, flowing over her lips.  “I’m rebelling against me.  Smoking makes me feel lighter, unburdened, as if all the ropes tying me down have been released and I’m free to float at will.  I didn’t get the chance to do this at 18 – when you girls were clubbing all night, I was awake with a toddler and a new baby.”

We sit briefly in sympathy filled silence.  Then, like a whirlwind, Karen launches herself off her chair and hurtled across the room.  “Richard” she yells, leaping up at a startled man just entering the wine bar, wrapping her long and unfairly gorgeous legs around his waist.

“Sit, Karen,” Laura, veteran dog owner, commands.  “Put him down.”   Her firm voice brooks no argument and Karen reluctantly peels herself off the startled man and walks back to the table, pouting.

“I haven’t seen him in ages,” she whines.  “I’ve missed him and just wanted to say hello.”  Shaken and relieved at his escape, Richard clutches the bar, frantically signalling the barman for a drink. Richard, it turned out, was a client she’d seduced then dumped when she went gorilla trekking in Uganda.

“Right, who’s up first with their ideas for reinventing themselves?” Pam asks, refilling the glasses.

Surprisingly, it’s Laura who puts her drink down first.   “I’ll start,” she says “What I really want to do is to travel.  That costs money which I don’t have.  But I’ve always had a knack for foreign languages - I pick up the basics very quickly.  There’s an elderly Portuguese lady in my complex who’s agreed to teach me Portuguese two evenings a week.  She doesn’t want paying, just some company and I’ll help her with her shopping on Saturdays.  There are plenty of environmental jobs in Africa for someone bilingual.  It’s a long road ahead, but I’ve got time on my hands.”

We clap enthusiastically, and Karen whoops loudly.  “That’s great,” declares Pam.  “I’ve come up with something too.  I loathe cooking for one, so I’ve advertised ready-made home cooked meals on our office notice board.  I had no idea I worked with so many single people – the response has been great so this weekend is my big cook-up, first deliveries on Monday.  You can’t imagine how my heart sings with joy at being able to cook up a storm again.”

Wow, these girls rock, I think, still clueless as to where I’m heading.   “Me next.”  Karen announces.  “I’m helping out at the Hunky Munky backpackers in town.  They need someone to run reception and I can set up my computer in the office and work there when it’s quiet.  The pay isn’t great but the vibe is magic and with all the travelling I’ve done, I can offer experienced advice to the backpackers.”

“And,” mutters Laura sotto voce, “a supply of fresh meat on tap!” causing much snorting of wine up our noses.

Chris jumps in before Karen can summon up a response.  “I’m joining the hiking and birding clubs.  I need to be more active and this way I spend more time outdoors, get fitter, learn something and meet a new group of people.  I’ve bought a new camera and the guy at the shop has offered me some lessons, so I can take some cracking pics on the weekend jaunts.”

A babble of approving voices and smiles greet this news, and four faces turn expectantly to me.  What am I to say? “Err, well, I’ve been giving intense thought to so many ideas, it’s very difficult to select one.”

“Nonsense,” Pam glares fiercely.  “Cough up, this was your idea in the first place.”

My head swivels on my neck as I desperately stare around the wine bar, seeking inspiration.  Mirrors and brushed chrome coldly rebuff my mental plea for help.  As my eyes swing back to the group, they sweep over the chalkboard menu.  ‘Organic ingredients fresh from the earth!’  trumpets the heading.  Earth, I think.  I need grounding.

“Soil” I announce.  “I need to get my hands dirty and earth myself.  I’m turning my little patch of grass into a herb and veggie garden, there’s a nursery down the road that’ll help me get started.  I’ve avoided gardening because it’s so demanding, but it’ll keep me physically busy and occupy my mind.  And you lot can look forward to feasting off the sweat of my brow next spring!” 

As we raise our glasses in celebration, Chris asks “so will we still get together now we’ve fired book club?”

“Of course,” I reply. “We have a new club – Single, Menopausal, Empty-Nesters Union – SMENU.  Getting together to share food, wine, laughs, support and advice – just like book club but no pretending that we actually read anything.”

Clinking glasses, our beaming faces shine happily around our circle.  We’ve stared obsolescence and loneliness down, reached inside ourselves and rediscovered our dreams.  Sure, our children have fledged and moved on, but we are commencing our own voyage of discovery.

I watch you.  I see you and you have no idea of my presence.  It’s impossible for you to feel me tenderly stroke your hair, but I do so one last time.  I glow with pride as my mind watches you thriving at university, striding confidently towards your future.  I let you grow up and leave, my son, and turn to face my own future.   I see the horizon ahead and reach out eagerly.  Hungry for the dreams within me, and celebrating the freedom I have to nurture them.