Denting Perceptions

There I was, head bent and thumbs frantically tapping away at the touch screen, intent on letting a friend know I was parked outside the cinema, waiting for her.

Lola heaved ungraciously, rocking onto her right hand tyres.  Heart and breath held for a nanosecond. Unbelievable - one of those blasted trucks has leapt the traffic circle and ploughed into Casterbridge again.  Correction - into Lola.

Still breathless but with pounding heart, I dared look out of the passenger window and saw a little lady of classic vintage blithely closing her car door.  No truck then, that slam had the weight of a Nissan X Trail door behind it.

I wish I could say I showed grace and charm under pressure.  Instead, I leapt out and stormed across, snarling "What have you done?!"  So, not only an absence of grace, charm and understanding but also a question from one of the upper echelons of stupidity.

"So sorry, I parked on a slope and the door swung open.  Look, there's no damage." was the reply. "There bloody is!" roared the viperous vixen from hell.  "Look at that scrape down the door.  How careless!" Hurriedly, LL of CV rubbed at it, and apologised again.

When she'd disappeared into the cinema I pulled out my torch and reinspected the damage.  Yup, it was really there. Without much hope, I placed a polite note beneath her windscreen wiper, asking her to call.

And she did.  The next day.  And a week later I've met her and her husband (lovely couple), who have organised a panelbeater to assess Lola (very minor damage) which they insist on repairing at their cost.  They are charm personified, I've blushingly apologised for my appalling reaction and we've had a sympathy chat about the car park chips and dents which cover our carefully parked vehicles like a smallpox rash.    

I drove back from the panelbeaters this morning reflecting on the goodness of people who live here. Almost every day, in a Heinz 57 variety of ways, I cross paths with, or hear stories of, human beings. The kind, generous, selfless, ethical residents of White River.  It's more usual to refer to 'people' rather than 'human beings' but I honestly believe my town is full of humans - each holding that extra dimension of humanity.  No wonder so much positive energy and creative talent is centred around here.

Now, if only I could harness some of that grace and patience for myself...

Navigating Country Landmarks

Whilst whizzing along to our adorable airport, Kruger Mpumalanga International, on Sunday my thoughts strayed to our early days in town.

For a few years, I commuted tween White River and Johannesburg for work, a speedy 35 minute flight. With taxi service between home and the airport courtesy of Him Outdoors.

Which was always a relief.  I'm a paid up subscriber to the theory that men navigate via route numbers and street names while women navigate by landmarks. Of course, some street names do stick - Jan Smuts Ave, William Nicol and Sandton Drives, Witkoppen Road, R40, N4, but mostly, it's "turn left at the Shell Garage / big yellow house / paint shop / mall" etc.

The country route is a little different.  There's a complete lack of identifiable structures, nary a building nestling the airport road. Just the odd roadside fruit stall or lodge entrance.  The rest is hectare upon hectare of macadamia or citrus orchards, interspersed with some avocado trees. The beautiful vista spreads right and left of the road, up and over hills which rise like verdant waves as far as the eye can see.



As a passenger, I was bamboozled all the time.  It's a fairly twisty route and how did the chauffeur know where to turn?  My internal Satnav totally defunct, I had no idea where home was or whether we were headed towards the airport. 

And of course, these country roads don't have a sign.  Not a one.  In local parlance, one takes the "Plaston road" to the airport which sounds OK until you realise there isn't any signage indicating the Plaston road.  In fact, there are three different routes, all known as "the Plaston Road." It beggars belief - imagine calling all the possible routes into Johannesburg the "Johannesburg Road!" 

So an icy hand clutched the innards when facing my first "self drive" to KMI. Demanding detailed, written directions listing visible landmarks, the old blood pressure was rising as I climbed into Lola. Fortunately, this was pre-reading glass days, so at least glancing down at the directions en route was possible!

Often a visitors first sight as they exit the terminal

Left at the hardware, meander round the bends for a few kilometres to the T junction, go left and keep going to the 3 way stop. Turn right and a few kilometres further on, the first sign to the airport appears. It sounds simple, but underplays long stretches of empty landscape and the feeling that one is heading into the blue yonder at 100 kms an hour.

Always a joy to arrive and see the resident Impala happily grazing

Nowadays, there is much more signage and I've travelled the route so often I suspect I could put Lola in gear and send her off driverless, but the first couple of times it was really a heart in throat journey.

Motoring along to meet the Sunday morning flight I felt my soul rise up in joy, greeting a sun-sprinkled azure sky - the air so clear it brought out hues and facets of colour beyond count, and my chest physically expanded to embrace the sheer freshness and exhilaration of being far from the madding crowd.  

Far from breeding contempt, familiarity has woven enchantment over the airport run which has now become breathing space rather than chore.  How many people can say that about their airport commute?

Interesting landscaping details in the airport grounds

When the overindulging chickens come home to roost...

Two boiled eggs and unlimited cooked spinach for lunch?  Surely, someone’s idea of a joke.  A humourless troll, perhaps. 

But no, that’s what lies before me, the deep green shreds of spinach counterfoil to the rich yellow and blinding white of the soft boiled free range eggs nestled on top.  Laughing.  At me.  Really, who eats this stuff?

Another life lesson wrapped inside a foolproof, can’t-go-wrong 13 days to lose a minimum of 9kg metabolism diet.  Thirteen days.  I can do that – I survived pregnancy and raising two boys, for heaven’s sake.

Oh, no alcohol.  Minimal coffee and tea. No salt, chilli, gum.  No cheating – as soon as you do, stop immediately as the diet won’t work and you’re wasting your time.  Hmm.  This is a serious commitment.  I’ve ALWAYS cheated and picked up where I left off again. 

Still, a comrade has survived her first week, lost a chunk of weight, is feeling good and the diet reports on social media (always such a reliable source of factual information, don’t you think?) say the weight shed remains shed.  Confuddling the metabolism seems to work.

Today is the day and I leap onto the scale early, smugly confident that whatever the reading, it’s already history.  Gosh, can that be right?  Numbers I’ve never seen before (and not in a good way) stare accusingly from the display.  No matter, the weight loss will be even more spectacular.

 

Breakfast is…a cup of black coffee.  Easy, that’s my favourite morning brew.  But only one?  And it is to be savoured, as lunch is a long way away.  So delay, crawl back into bed (easy, a throbbing head and sore throat announced themselves at dawn) and put off this culinary treat as long as possible.

There’s no avoiding lunch, though.  Somehow, this colourful mess has to be glugged down.  As much cooked spinach as I like?  I don’t.  I’ve worked out why this regime works – unlimited quantities of disliked food = eating as little as possible. Fooling my stomach into pretended satiety rather than receiving more food it can’t bear.

And in a few hours I have dinner to look forward to – as much grilled steak as I like.  My idea of hell only one level above unlimited spinach.

It’s going to be a devilishly long two weeks. 

The Burning Issue

Hot on the heels of the Burning Hat incident, another one took place closer to home. Two fiery events in one week – what are the odds?

Wednesday night, clutching glasses of red wine and a pizza we snuggle up in our adorable Casterbridge Cinema to watch Mr Turner.  A drawn out, beautifully shot, wonderfully acted turgid piece of cinematography that presumes the viewer is intimately familiar with this apparently peculiar, if brilliant, artist’s life.

We weren’t, and by all accounts neither were many patrons but anyhow, that’s neither here nor there.  It merely sets the scene – we were locked into a cinema seat for 2 and a half hours watching a bizarre story unfold before us, understanding little and struggling to make sense of any of it.

A familiar mental playacting scenario began, perfectly synchronized with the opening credits.  Did I turn off the gas hob?  We all know how this goes – just at the point of no return a devilish sprite whispers doubts into our thoughts. Garden hose?  Tap?  Stove?  Lock the front door?  The car?  And of course, we always have completed said task so thoughtlessly, the action doesn’t dent our consciousness.  A lesson in being in the moment, which we rarely are.

Brushing the sprite off with a mental laugh, I remembered clearly lifting the lid on the chicken korma to toss in some vegetables, thinking that they’d meld beautifully as the dish slowly cooled while we were away.  Of course, the hob was turned off.  Just another one of those self-doubt moments.  No way am I clambering out of my chair and driving home to check.

The welcoming stench of burnt curry greeted us as we tumbled through the kitchen door hours later.  Never mind being turned off, the flame was at full throttle!  That was no devilish sprite, it was a guardian angel trying to save me from myself, to no avail.  Yuck, the reek of charred food lingered for days, despite fragrant Yankee candles placed strategically throughout the house. 

Of course, this korma is a Karmic symbol of a meal dispute between Him Outdoors and moi.  He can’t eat spicy food, and I’d endured enough boring cuisine.  So he was free to eat leftover stew, while I was indulging in a tasty dish.  As it turns out, neither of us ate a hot meal that night – he’d donated his meal to the gardener’s lunch, and mine was charcoal.  Cheese and pickles then.

Footnote - Clearly, the lesson hasn’t imprinted sufficiently.  So engrossed in jotting down this tale, I completely forgot the soup left simmering on the stove. To the open-mouthed stupification of Him Outdoors who rescued the blackened mess and is not one to believe in lightning striking twice! Yet another fine mess I’ve made, Stanley!

Burning the Baobab...

We've all got one - a friend who's a constant source of entertainment.  To whom the impossible, improbable and unlikely seem to be irresistibly attracted. And thank heavens for that!

I have a very dear friend - highly intelligent, ever helpful and the kindest heart imaginable but oh, dear, never a dull moment in her life and consequently ours.

A few months ago, she broke several land speed records and pushed up the collective blood pressure of Airlink ground and cockpit crew.  And yes, here's another story from her collection.

Roadtripping through Kenya, Him Outdoors and I stumbled upon the perfect birthday gift for said friend (someone highly knowledgeable and passionate about nature, flora, the environment, trees and insects)  -  a floppy sunhat made from Baobab bark.

A precious Baobab tree in leaf

The hat safely made the long journey back to White River and was received with much appreciation by the birthday girl.

This is as good a time as any to mention that in addition to her stupendous knowledge of nature, Friend also enjoys juices extracted from juniper berries and grapes, particularly the bubbly kind.  And she owns a magnificent silver bowl, ideal for chilling many bottles of fermented juice.

And so it was, our infamous Uplands Festival and an emergency 911 call was made to Friend from our stand - the sweltering winter heat (31 deg C!) was putting our bottles of delicious bubbly under pressure, more ice and the large bowl needed, stat.

Dropping her beautiful rust-hued Baobab hat into the bowl, she placed it carefully into the back of her car, leaving the rear door open.  In scorching sunshine.  And went back to dilly dally inside the house.  


Some time later, while locking the kitchen door, Friend became aware of an odoriferous reminder of winter around here - a forest fire fume curled it's way around her nose and she was saddened that fire season had arrived again.

Imagine her surprise when she turned and saw spirals of smoke emerging from her Prado - a fire in her car?

Ahem, yes.  Silver bowl.  Bright sunlight.  Huge heat. Combustible material - tree bark.  End of hat. Seriously.

Please be advised that no bottles of bubbly were wasted upon fire control during the making of this story.

And please, dear reader, take heed and never, ever, put your bark hat inside a silver champagne cooler and leave it in the sun. Consequences there will be!

That Dammed Zambezi - The Cahora Bassa Story

Two thousand five hundred and seventy four kilometres long; flowing past six countries, through 2 hydroelectric dams, under seven bridges and over the magnificent Victoria Falls, the Zambezi River (’the Great River’ in Tsonga) is the longest river flowing east and the fourth longest  river in Africa, its catchment area (1 390 000km2) is half the size of Europe.

View of the gorge downriver from the dam wall

 
The second hydro-electric dam to be built on the Zambezi is at Mozambique’s Cahora Bassa gorge, 125 kilometres away from Tete, the provincial capital.  Even on the sunniest day, the gorge has an imposing manner; the chasm bursts with menace. Enormous rocks and boulders are chaotically piled and scattered as if some almighty infant deity, tired of his building blocks, swept them aside in a childish tantrum.  Millions of tons of water, forced into the narrow crevice created by the frowning and formidable ravine walls, crash and swirl down the impassable rapids.

Where the Work Ends

The local Tsonga named the rapids ‘Kebrabasa – where the work ends’, a faultless description of the impossibility of passage beyond that point.  And Kebrabasa was responsible for the failure of David Livingstone’s 1858 Zambezi expedition - the obstinate doctor finally conceding defeat when his paddle steamer, MaRobert, simply could not get more than three kilometres beyond the gorge entrance.  “God’s Highway”, as Livingstone had described the Zambezi to his financial backers in England, was not to be.  The river defied all attempts to exploit it as access to the continent’s interior, and Livingston referred to it as “that damned Zambezi”.

Apparently a Mr F Monks successfully navigated down the rapids in the early 1880’s, but as no printed report can be found details of his dugout trip remain a mystery.

Local fishing dugout on the dam

Damming the Impassable

With politics easily matching the turbulent river, fast forward to 1956 when the Portuguese government, determined to build a dam, sent a team of hydrologists to survey the region.  The positive report back by the team encouraged the colonial government to steam ahead with its plans.  Environmental impact studies, such as they were, served only to support the government’s objectives, being the expansion of agricultural production, development of mining, forestry promotion, reducing Mozambican dependency on foreign imports and uplifting the living conditions of the local communities.  

A major underlying motive at the time, however, was to encourage an increased population of European settlers who, alongside the physical geographical obstruction of a lake 240kms long and 31kms wide, would act as a barrier to guerrilla forces entering Mozambique from bases in Zambia and Malawi.

The prospect of a massive hydro-electric scheme attracted the South African government into a joint venture with the Portuguese, and construction began on the dam in 1969. It’s hard to comprehend the foolhardy determination to build the biggest hydro-electric dam in Southern Africa, in an inaccessible site on a river famous for unpredictable and frightening floods.  Politically, an international outcry arose, forcing several global companies and banks to withdraw expertise and funding.  Labour, both skilled and unskilled, was in short supply.  Bizarrely, the tragic deaths of seven workers finally convinced local labour that the project was sufficiently dangerous to match the prestigious peril of working on the South African gold mines, and they began signing on to work at Cahora Bassa.

As if determined to shake off the intrusion by man, the gorge delivered a climate of sweltering heat (at times reaching 60° C) with heavy rains in the wet season; combining that with pestilential tropical diseases such as malaria, bilharzia and yellow fever to create indescribable hardship and difficulties for the workers.

Add to this ongoing sabotage - part of the political upheaval signifying the approaching end of colonial Portuguese rule - and you begin to get a picture of complete misery driven by political pride and posturing.

Size Does Count

Costing US$500 million to build, the contract to construct the dam was awarded to Zambeze Consorcio Hidroelectrica Lda (ZAMCO) and included the installation of the electricity generation system and electricity transmission.  The arch dam is 171m high and 303m wide at the crest, with a volume of 510 000 000m3. 

Transport issues arising from its remote location led to the construction in 1973 of the Caetano Bridge (now called Samora Machel Bridge) in Tete, 440 years after the Portuguese first settled in the town.  Completion of the bridge enabled access for the enormous construction machinery required for the building of Cahora Bassa.

Filling of the dam commenced in December 1974 and by April 1975 the dam was virtually complete.  In June of that year Hidroelectrica de Cahora Bassa (HCB) was formed to operate the dam and power station, which has five hydraulic turbines and a total generating capacity of 2075MW.

A White Elephant?

However, Cahora Bassa hadn’t finished its malevolent challenging of the project.  Two days after HCB’s formation, Mozambican independence was declared and the Portuguese left Mozambique forever.  But while Portugal may have handed over the colony, it was adamant the new government take responsibility for the cost of the dam, and insisted that Portugal would retain ownership of Cahora Bassa until that debt was paid off.

The new regime signed a contract with South African electricity giant Eskom to buy the dam’s output, only to have the Mozambique civil war intervene in 1977, putting Cahora Bassa out of service between 1985 and 1997.  The irony of the once Cahora Bassa saboteurs, now the government, fruitlessly trying to secure the power lines and transmitters against rebel guerrillas will not be lost on the reader.

Endless wrangling and negotiation over decades between Mozambique and Portugal culminated in Mozambique obtaining an 85% stake in the scheme for US$ 700m in 2007.  In April 2012, Portugal finally relinquished its interest in the hydro-electric dam - 7.5% sold for US$ 42m to the Mozambican government, and 7.5% passed to Portuguese company Redes Energéticas Nacionais (REN - which operates the Portuguese electricity grid), as part of a future share swap deal.

The wall from the top of the gorge

‘Kebrabasa’

Will the work ever end?  The mighty river is resistant to taming and continues to flood, with politics playing out across the map - oddly reminiscent of the scenario confronting the early European explorers.  Aging facilities have already caused a costly upgrade, and Cahora Bassa reported its first profit only in 2010. 

Things are slowly looking up, however.  In a press release dated 25^th November 2014, HCB reported that the 2014 annual power output of the dam had reached 15,892 GWh, an increase of 6.35% on the previous year.

For much of its 39 years, Cahora Bassa has not operated at anything close to capacity; however the Mozambique government is proposing to build a new dam, Mphanda Nkuwa, 60kms downstream, while environmentalists are still unravelling the impact of the existing dam and trying to find solutions.

A new dam may prove to be a wall too many.

Sources:

Zambezi – Journey of a River.  Michael Main 1990 Southern Book Publishers (Pty) Ltd

www.internationalrivers.org

www.mozambiquehistory.net

www.hcb.co.mz

www.iol.co.za (15 April 2012)

www.hcb.co.mz

A. Isaacman, C. Sneddon “Portuguese Colonial Intervention, Regional Conflict and Post-Colonial Amnesia: Cahora Bassa Dam, Mozambique 1965–2002” Cornell Institute for African Development (May 2003)

Recycling a dress fit for a Princess

An innovative fundraiser sets the scene for a stylish fairy-tale ending.

As every South African girl knows, the matric dress is second only to her wedding dress as a style milestone in her life, so hunting down and deciding on the dress is an undertaking approached with the same intense determination as the hunt for bin Laden.

Once upon a time, long, long ago (in 1997, actually) Deseree Knowles’ mother splurged out at Saint Laurent boutique in Pretoria to buy a fairy-tale dress for her daughter’s matric farewell.

Deseree and her mother are very close and the selection process was tremendous fun as Deseree tried on dress after dress.

 

The black and burnt orange halter neck dress with layers of chiffon and tulle glowed copper as it came off the rail.   Every pot reputedly has its own lid and seemingly every dress has its unique owner – this dress called out a siren song to Deseree; it was love at first sight.

The second she put it on, Deseree felt like a princess.  Eighteen years later, the dress still evokes powerful recollections of the wonderful day she and her mother had, and reminds her of how magical she felt wearing it to her matric farewell.

Deseree rocking the Princess dress

The years passed and Kiran Coetzee’s CANSA Deb fundraiser in White River, Mpumalanga, was the perfect way to say goodbye to a dress that was so much more than a swirl of fabric to Deseree.   Kiran, an entrepreneurial fifteen year old CANSA Debutante at Uplands College saw an opportunity to recycle the once sparkling evening wear women store in the museum section of their wardrobes and simultaneously raise funds towards his ambitious target.  With great charm, he implored and wheedled 26 dresses and 25 tuxedo’s out of their owner’s cupboards and persuaded an intrigued audience to raise their hands for a good cause (CANSA) while upping their green credentials through buying lightly used eveningwear. 

Deseree thought that by donating her special dress to the auction, she was passing on and sharing the magic, but bidding fever caught hold of her when her dress appeared on stage – the fairy-tale gown remained irresistible and her hand shot up!

All the best enchanted tales include a prince and princess, and this one is no exception.  Prince Manqoba Dlamini of Swaziland lives in White River, and through his environmental leadership training programme, Ecolink, he has become friends with Kiran’s mother Kirsten.  She knew his philanthropic soul was an easy touch to buy a ticket for the fund raising dress auction, although he had no intention of buying a dress.  Much to his own surprise, when Deseree’s dress appeared on stage swishing around the model’s feet, he found his hand in the air.

Prince Manqoba had set his sights on winning this dress as a gift for a princess in Mbabane, his niece Princess Hlengiwe.  But it wasn’t an easy task – watching him bid on her fairytale, Deseree’s heart lurched and she bid energetically, determined to get her dress back.  Alas, the enchanting story ended happily for the Prince while Deseree watched her dress swish away.

Like Cinderella’s slipper, it fitted perfectly and the Princess adored it on sight.  Deseree’s sadness dissolved when she heard of the happily-ever-after ending, acknowledging that it couldn’t have passed on to a more perfect owner. 

Princess Hlengiwe gives a Royal touch to the dress

As for Kiran, his auction raised an impressive R11 430 after expenses, and brought out the best in the community audience.  Several dresses and suits were bought and donated to a rural debutante programme run by local resident Brenda Archdeacon, enabling fairy-tale dances for these matriculants as well. 

Meanwhile, Princess Hlengiwe is seen at functions in Swaziland wearing the dress that began its life off the rack as a garment befitting a princess and many years later was recycled into a gown adorning a real Princess. 

Who would have believed that an innovative fundraiser in a small Lowveld town could act as a match maker for a dress from Pretoria and a Swazi Princess?

A romantic and truly African spin on the classic Cinderella tale.

Eating Indian in Nairobi

Breakfast was hijacked by the grain and sugar corporations ages ago.  Cereal's only advantage over the classic English breaking of the fast - grilled tomato, bacon, sausage, egg and toast (variants thereof the addition of kidneys, kippers, oatmeal porridge or fried bread) is instant readiness and no grease.   

Light and pretty tasteless as it is, cereal also ends with the 11 o'clock blood sugar crash and the resultant over consumption of tea and cappuccino as a desperate measure to stretch out until it can be decently considered "lunch time".

My, how our eating habits are ruled by the clock.  It's acceptable to drink bubbly at breakfast (on weekends and special occasions, spoiled horribly  with orange juice) but not gin.  Why? If I need that one glass of sauvignon blanc at 9h30 on a Monday to focus my brain on a new week, how does that change my abilities and redefine me a socially unacceptable wino?  Any of an enormous range of chemical and sugar laden cancer causing refreshments are fine, but a single glass of an honest to goodness, additive free fermented grape juice is deplorable and may not be mentioned.  

OK, that was a sidebar, on with the reason for this post.  Indian cuisine.  One of my favourite favourites (was I a Maharani in a previous life?) and one rarely enjoyed.  The eating facilities in our town unfortunately don't include Asian and Him Outdoors has a fearful intolerance of spicy food - it slides through his system rapidly, causing much discomfort.

But Nairobi, oh, how I love you!  Indian cuisine, rather than love, is all around us. Hotel buffet breakfasts have a whole section of Indian food - yellow dahl, chapattis, chicken masala, vegetables - now THIS is a breakfast!  Luckily our time here is limited, or my complexion would be ochre tinged!

His beloved's beaming, happy, spice-replete face drew Him Outdoors to suggest we walk down the hill one evening and dine at Anghiti.  Lovely ambiance. Superb, friendly service and a three course menu for 1500 KSH per person - roughly ZAR150.  Excellent!

Taking matters into my own hands "I'll order for us darling, leave it to me", the Maharani trilled.  The poor, trusting lamb did just that.  Samuel the waiter was implored to ensure the chilli / spice level was low.  Very very low.  And, with that proviso, the meal was ordered.  Sheekh Kebab Lamb and Murghlai Chicken to start, Lamb Roganjosh and Palak Panneer following.  See how considerate I was - three meat and only one vegetarian dish.

The fragrant, mouth watering dishes began to arrive.  Him Outdoors plunged into the lamb, then halted, gasping for breath.  "Holy @#$! you've poisoned me!" 

Yes, it was a bit hot.  Actually, move beyond furnace and think centre of the earth hot.  Tears sprang down cheeks as the fork approached our mouths - it was absolutely divine Indian food.  

Give him his due, Him Outdoors tried.  Pushing aside the lamb and chicken, he dived into the Spinach Paneer in a vain effort to soothe his tonsils.  The waiters laughed, I didn't dare, politely waiting until he excused himself to go to the bathroom then putting my head down to weep tears of mirth.  It wasn't funny, but oh, it was!  And the best was yet to come - the long uphill walk back to the Pride Inn.

No sooner had we left the restaurant than he plunged to the kerb and doubled over, belching and groaning.  "I'm in agony" he wailed "the pain, the pain!" 

Unfortunately, he had no choice but to walk 800m to the hotel and it was indeed both the long road to freedom and a walk of shame.  Every few metres he dashed to the kerb, bent down and stuck his fingers down his throat in a desperate bulimic attempt to retrieve and evict the offending food.  "My insides are going to burst - the wind is intense" he howled, step by step.

Pity the poor lady walking home who visibly slowed her steps as she approached him, eventually having no choice but to pass the groaning, retching mzungu as he hung motionless in misery.  "Jambo" he croaked.  Ignoring him, she crossed the road and hastened her steps, no more comfortable with the other mzungu striding ahead in severe hysterics.  These white people are crazy, of that she had no doubt.  

Back at the Pride Inn, the fourth floor had never seemed so far away as it did that night to Him Outdoors, belching like a two stroke .  

And no, we haven't been back to Anghiti.  Which is a shame and if you are ever in Nairobi, please do eat there, the food and service are excellent.

A Tom and Jerry-style Catastrophe

Except in this episode, Tom is in fact a spayed Queen (Speckle) and Jerry a timid cat called Anushka, with the heart and demeanor of a mouse.  

A true story of what happened when, after the tragic death of a beloved pet, a well-meaning owner resolved to comfort the grief stricken companion cat by adopting a new friend for her. Tom and Jerry meets High Noon crossed with Star Wars, Speckle morphed into Darth Vader and timorous Anushka revealed she was a nervous C3PO.  

Speckle's anxiously furrowed brow pulls her pricked ears forward as she stares out of the window, sunlight  glossing her tortoiseshell coat of many colours. She heaves a deep sigh. Where, oh where, is Egg?

She'd noticed her human was deeply distressed some time ago, round about the last time Egg had been seen.  That was, well, six weeks in human time which would make it about...extending her claws to double her body abacus, she calculated 6 x 7 and eventually reached a number. Forty two weeks. Why, that's almost a year in cat terms.

Egg - pudgy and grey  with an attitude overloaded with superciliousity, snub nose pointedly raised high - would never stay away from the food bowl or her comfy Yak hair throw for this long. 

Something wasn't right. Deciding to check the kitchen cupboards for the millionth time, Speckle jumps from the desk in her habitually awkward manner, four paws landing heavily on the floor.

Meanwhile, crouched on the arm of the easy chair in the Pro Life cattery, Anushka looks up warily as the room darkens.  The light behind the human filling the doorway outlining a solid, featureless shape.  What now, she thinks. 

Without warning, she's  trapped in a nightmare. Her world shrinks to a cardboard box, engine noise, strange smells and unfamiliar sounds.  From somewhere, a sing-song voice chatters non-stop until finally the motion and noise cease and for a minute, the world is silent and still. Lurching as the box tilts and bounces abruptly, things change again.

Light, space, food, water.  Then, from behind a door blasts Hoover-like snuffling, which becomes a sinister hiss.  Terrified, Anushka darts beneath the bed and crouches there, trembling.  As the hours pass, her eyes begin to swell and water, her body wracks with sneezes.  She's dying.  No, she's dead and this is cat purgatory.   How did this happen?

"What the devil?" Speckle growls, on the other side of the door. Foreign cat.  On my turf.  No. No no no no no.  

And so begins 3 months of yowling, howling, hissing, spitting, clawing, plaintive cries, tail biting and nose slicing, resulting in  a blood feud and enmity worthy of a Sicilian vendetta.  From two furry licorice allsort cats whose lives began in animal shelters, unwanted.

Just five years ago Speckle was swept up and dropped into a strange home, yet now, Queen of All She Surveys, she viciously defends her home. Could it be true - females who scale the ladder of success stiletto (or claw) the hands on the rungs below?  How disappointing! 

Slight progress has been made however - Anushka emerges from under the bed at meal times and at night, when she knows Speckle is shut out of the bedroom. 

Free of her self imprisonment, she chases insects, disembowels her soft toy ball, hunts down and annihilates the mats. She's even been heard to purr on occasion and has a fine turn of phrase, scolding the human in a high pitched whiney yowl if dinner and breakfast are late.

When the opportunity presents, Speckle slips into the room and lies on her side, paw plaintively stretched under the bed, the odd pathetic "miu" sliding from her lips as she begs the intruder to come closer and feel the fury of her unsheathed talons. 

Earsplitting shrieks, maddened chases through the house and intense loathing is subsiding - malevolence has dialed down a tad.

Speckle is beginning to understand that this chick is not leaving.  Which is not for want of trying by the humans - the cat carrier has come out several times and miraculously, the sight of it produces a happy, loving, purry little furry Anushka, winding herself around a human and showing off how at home she is.

It was difficult to explain to Him Outdoors that the tough Tom cat he'd suggested to replace Egg had been superceded a nerdy, allergy prone reticent little girl who'd even been treated by an animal spiritualist (she found a huge ball of grief in her chest) to little avail, but he soon fell for those enormous eyes too, and bailed on 'return' duty.

With an instinct to be envied by any fortune teller, particularly at those moments it was decided "Ok, this is it, today she goes back", which seemed to bring a different cat out to play - confident, delightful Anushka even before the carrier was hauled down from the shelf.

Irresistible.  Clearly, she's decided that this is her home and she's not to be returned to sender like some wrongly addressed parcel.

So life continues, the cats live past each other with occasional bitter interludes and the humans are yet again slaves to their pets.  

Sigh.

Can a woman be too capable and independent?

And why is that question still being posed in 2015?

Dawn on Saturday should have found me in Nairobi but unfortunately, international travel arrangements were kicked into touch by an "only in Africa" situation, and instead the weekend peeped over the horizon to find a small convoy of two cars, laden with camping gear, five young men aged between 12 and 18 and a pair of women gasping for breathing space offered by the Kruger National Park. 

Parks and open spaces, "green lungs", hoover up CO2 and spill life-giving oxygen into a frenetic city, which cruelly slurps that up and spits out even more toxic emissions (90 million tons a day, Al Gore tells us). Ouch.

But entering the Park immediately synchronises human lungs to the rhythm of the bush.  Our chests expand wide and deep, drawing in soft, pure air, fragranced by dust and Red Bushwillow (Combretum apiculatum) overlaid with eau d'animal. As if we'd walked into a wall, our blood pressure instantaneously drops, breathing slows and muscles relax. Heaven.

Once inside the reserve, my genius friend hands over her vehicle to her cool dude (licensed) guest from Argentina and of course, all the boys want to be together in that car, leaving us women to travel in Lola. Terrific, that works for us too - Kruger's big and striking north for our camp close to the Mozambique border, we have hours to while away, absorbed in bright conversation.

Enneagrams. Buddhism. Books. Further education and studies. EQ and its effects. Travel anecdotes and then, true cavewomen, we fall to analysing relationships.  Boss (hers) husband (mine) males of our experience (past and present, varied roles). Friend's relationships. Single parenting our sons. 

Result?  We concluded that men can be comfortable around smart, strong women providing they aren't too strong or smart, all of the time.  The battle of the sexes is truced and troubled waters oiled when control is occasionally relinquished and handed over to the peacock.  

Which is a bit of a problem if you are a strong, intelligent, opinionated, educated woman perfectly capable of running life, work, home and children exactly the way you want them to be managed.  You're so competently achieving this and fitting in some 'me' time that you don't have space in your úber organised schedule to step back and hand over the reins.  The agenda is jam packed - what if the baton is dropped and your strategic vision not met?  This isn't about sexism or female chauvinism – this issue is one of control and fear of letting go.  Lack of trust.  Perfectionism.

Both genders need to recognise that relationships are a jointly baked pie. One baker's strength is in the pastry, other baker’s in making the filling. Success lies in establishing and acknowledging whose skills lie where and respecting that boundary. And knowing that over a lifetime, different pies with diverse fillings will be baked and roles reassigned. Fluidity rules.

My learned and commandingly corporate friend and I are faintly optimistic that we've raised our boys to be confident men.  Powerful enough to jointly bake a pie and willingly swap pieces and places with the independent, accomplished women with whom they choose to share their lives.

That's our contribution to answering this darned question.

Grand Canyon of Emptiness

Being a wife without her husband and a mother without her children means that a home is just a building, boundaries of clay enveloping empty space. I don't find "alone" scary, and the past 2 years of alone-ness has passed by swiftly , barely punctuated by loneliness.  

Why, then, should this week bring a grand canyon of desolation to break like an enraged tidal wave over my head and sweeping my soul, helplessly caught up in a riptide, out to sea? 

I love my life, dammit, it's busy and interesting and filled with new experiences, travel, stimulating work, remarkable people and some heartwarming community projects.  I wake up happy every day, and am incredibly lucky to do so.

But.

For one month, 30 wonderful days, Junior came home from varsity and as the sun breaks through cloud, releasing rich colour and light in its path, I found a fulfillment I hadn't even known was lacking.  

Eagerly looking forward to early evening, when he returned  from work and we enjoyed a drink on the verandah, sharing tales of our day, I enthusiastically prepared meals, setting the table for two.  Suddenly, life has more meaning. How could that be - there was no lack of purpose to begin with?

Then Him Outdoors arrived home for Christmas and I'm just short of Senior Son to make life paradise.  There's laughter and noise, a pile of dirty dishes and laundry. Walks, eye-rolling and exasperated sighs.  Snoring and having to share "my" bathroom. Morning tea in bed.

If I have to sum it all up in a word, "sharing" will do.  In a good way.

A tsunami of friends and family arrive and the roar of a full house drowns out the sound of a  tide turning as the hours slip past.  The flow ebbs away until the crashing waves are silenced.  A home is transformed back into a brick structure and emptiness echoes the bleakness within me. Now the water is my brimming eyes, staring into empty rooms.  My hands, so busy for a while, hang reproachfully at my side, tingling with unused energy.  Crying out for something to do.  A beloved someone to care for.  My family.  At home.

I thought I had it all sussed out and sorted by now, but I've uncovered a secret place.  I'm a nurturer, needing to be needed by those I love most.  It puffs out my chest and makes my toes dance.  And conflicts with my fierce independence. Am I two people in one body and mind?  

And most importantly, can I be alone in this?  Is there anyone out there who is also contemplating, with bewilderment, a paradigm shift of who they thought they were?  Is medication in order or is this yet another step on the ladder of mid life crisis?

Frankly, my dear, I'd thought we were past this by now.