Cats on Safari – Botswana

I woke up really early on Day 2, just as the sun raised an eyebrow over the horizon. The premature start was initiated primarily by the fluttering cacophony of the high density residential real estate above our heads – weaver birds by the ton twittered, buzzed, flitted and chatted vociferously, getting their avian equivalent of 30 000 words in before breakfast. What a to-do, while Anushka stared lustfully up at the Paperbark Acacia canopy quivering with feathered residents. One day she’ll get her bird, but today is not the day.

Oh, yeah, and the truck stop next to Big Fig Tree Inn belched flatulently as the overnighters gunned their engines and pulled away on the next leg of their journey. A great pity to site such a pretty, tree-strewn campsite alongside.

It is an indisputable fact that neatly packed and stashed luggage will, once raided enroute, refuse to return to its departure state and here we are in that situation. Henry was looking rather shabby as in frustration, items were tossed onto the bed or lashed in the central space when they simply didn’t slot back neatly into their allotted niche. S and A hopped in willingly and snuggled down for stage 2. As usual, the turning of the engine prompted a cat travelling singsong but they soon settled and were perfectly composed (ok, snoozing deeply and absolutely oblivious to the goings on around them) as we navigated the border formalities.

Through Martin’s Drift border post and on we rolled, heading for Francistown. A long drive on a good road, straight as an arrow through countryside populated by goats and donkeys with no sign of human habitation, villages or even a little shop. After a couple of hours we stopped at one of the many roadside picnic spots and laid out the cat’s comfort accessories – food, water and litter tray, which they were ignoring in the car. Clipped on the leashes and persuaded them (with a touch of force!) to exit but try as we might, these hosses were NOT going to eat, drink or use the box.

Our original intention was to bunk up for the night in Francistown but to be frank, after a long drive through a landscape remarkably South African in nature, to be faced by what could be any South African town (every possible SA chain and franchise, bank, petrol station and so on) it lacked appeal so forward to Nata we forged. Proofing and editing Andy Tinker’s Guides to the region came in very handy at this point and his advice invaluable as we knew exactly what to expect both along the way, in Nata and at the dreaded Zambian border post. But I’ve run ahead too far, that’s tomorrow’s chapter.

In the meantime, we turned off the road without bend or end into Pelican Lodge just minutes before the approaching storm we’d been watching hit. Henry’s advantages were immediately apparent as we raced the bulging black clouds – stop, open the side door, roll out the side awning, set up the chairs, open the fridge and enjoy a cold one while spectating the Gautengers a few metres away desperately putting up their tent in the deluge then retreating to their car to sit the storm out.

The Pelican camp site had the cutest stone and thatch personal ablutions for each of the three sites, containing a shower, basin, toilet, mirror, beautiful handwoven grass lampshade all discreetly hidden behind a curtain. At the rear of the building, a kitchen sink and draining board made for convenient washing up. The silence and refreshing coolness after a really hot day and long drive made for a very good night’s sleep.

Cats on Safari – The Beginning

Finally the big day dawned and no, true to form we didn’t leave at sparrow glow. Him Outdoors chose this day to complete many tasks he hadn’t got to during the week, most notably, buying forex. Needless to say, the bank five days before Christmas was exactly as you’d imagine – overflowing with people taking ages to complete their business. Serves him right, but needless to say, we both suffered!

Taking pets across international borders is not for the faint hearted, and if it wasn’t for the impassioned plea of our catsitter, and the indisputable evidence of feline pining and heartbreak, we’d have left them in the loving and capable hands of Joseph and Arlene. Anushka and Speckle had different ideas, though, and we bowed to their anguish and began the arduous process of admin and medical checks and interminable documentation. Headspinning and wallet emptying indeed, although we discovered a vet who home visits rather than have a surgery of his own, and a very friendly State Vet but still, government processes grind painstakingly slowly in a rather convoluted fashion.

Eventually, Henry the Campervan was loaded to the gills with indispensible household, personal items and cat travel accessories. Bags of catnip, homeopathic salmon flavoured calming gloop and pheromone spray were joined by favourite blankies, cat tray, food and water.

On a weight/size body to luggage ratio, they far surpassed us and looking at the pair of them, laden with their personal travel handluggage, it is easy to imagine that if George Orwell had written Animal Farm in the millenium, and included pop fiction in his prescient social imaginings, 50 Shades of Fur would feature similar bondage accoutrements. They each sagged beneath the weight of a bell and microchip medallion bearing collar, a pheromone infused calming collar and shiny, reflective harnesses ready to be attached to long leashes. For public appearances, you understand, although the harnesses were very effective in capturing Speckle to apply calming goo. Simply grab, lift, slap onto paws waving wildly mid-air and release. 

Joseph, their adoptive father, was almost in tears when we loaded the girls up and they immediately set up their standard travel chorus, ranging from a magnificent impersonation of a Basset Hound howl to a, well, frankly quite pathetic mew. Midrand to Grobler’s Bridge was the first leg of the offical Cat Safari.

We stopped at Caltex in Mokepane for a cat and human comfort break, hooking leashes onto the harnesses and encouraging them to leap from Henry for a leg stretch. 

Not a chance, not for love or money would Speckle emerge and when HO insisted, holding fast to the leash, she howled loudly enough to have every forecourt attendant stop what they were doing and come running. Anuschka, braver by far, descended with her usual grace then, appalled by the crowd of attendants that welcomed her emergence, slipped under Henry and up into the engine compartment. Her neon yellow harness and leash emerged covered in engine grime and HO, through gritted teeth after a painful and difficult extraction, suggested that they be tied onto Henry in future.

Onwards we trundled, Anushka comfortably ensconced on HO’s lap, sighing contentedly every now and then. He is officially her hero, having rescued her from Henry’s greasy, red hot entrails. The sun began dipping and the day, loosening it’s grip on the dry heat, relaxed into a pleasant late afternoon as we drew into Big Fig Inn and Campsite just 2kms before the Botswana border. Time to stop travelling for a bit.

Anushka hopped down and retreated under Henry’s belly but it took Speckle almost an hour to venture from the van into the lush greenery. Together, the Safari Cats explored their surroundings, keeping a firm eye on us to make sure we didn’t slip off into the twilight. Bad HO did suggest that if they didn’t come running when we leave tomorrow, we sally forth a Safari Cat or two short. That musing ground to silence when reminded that, being microchipped, we’d be summoned back from Bots to fetch them by some well meaning, kind person. 

Day's End at Big Fig Inn

Born Under A Wandering Star

'Home' is a moving target these days and what possessed us to leave a perfectly good, nay, actually rather fabulous life for a nomadic existence is hard to define. Him Outdoors is pretty used to it and it suits his Sagittarian star perfectly, but I've pushed Cancerian boundaries beyond breaking point. However, I believe that the fault lies in family genes rather than stars.

My parents sold their motorbike and sidecar, packed up house and sprogs and relocated us lock, stock and barrel way across the globe from England to South Africa. Quite a feat in 1969 when maintaining links with family was much more difficult. Wandering the planet does seem to have infected my mother and her brothers, though.  One uncle was in the RAF and spent years stationed in Cyprus while the other, a ships engineer, sailed the 7 seas and 5 oceans. My brave aunt delivered that set of cousins in Guyana and Sierra Leone respectively. By contrast, I've firmly planted my toes deep into the soil, possibly in protest against being forced aboard a BOAC flight and whisked off to Africa against my childish will.

There, I've said it. I really, really, really did NOT want to leave home and hearth and especially my beloved granny to head south on some barmy adventure of my parents. It got worse (so I thought then). They'd decide on Friday afternoon to pop off to Lourenço Marques (now Maputo, Mozambique) which entailed loading up the old Renault 10 (no aircon, plastic seats, feuding siblings and awful carsickness) for the weekend. It also meant sleeping in the car at the border, waiting for it to open on Saturday. Some weekends it was Gaborone, others Swaziland or the then Eastern Transvaal and Kruger National Park. Hour upon interminable hour spent in the car traversing dusty dirt roads.

Thankfully, the sulky brat grew up and dragged her own offspring through similar experiences. With aircon and a heap more travel comforts but to the same unappreciative audience. Talk about payback!

Home is where the heart is, they say (what tosh, my heart never leaves my body) and Paul Young yodeled on about laying his hat but the best bit of advice I've received about setting up a new life in a new country came from a much loved friend who has had her fair share of intercontinental and trans-continental moves - pack 1 piece of home to take with you. No matter how useful / less it is, having an anchor item at hand helps calm the emotional waves. (Thanks Lynda xx)

Airline weight and baggage limits kiboshed that, and HO very selfishly dumped the 3 books I'd sneaked into his hand luggage when he investigated the cause of nearly wrenching his shoulder out of it's socket. Bust, and it wasn't a pretty moment!

Practical items took preference over emotional possessions but it's amusing to investigate our limited cutlery assortment - we forgot to pack a tin-opener. Look at what emerged from my lime green suitcase though - my dawa cocktail stomper and a Swiss Army knife! Got my priorities sorted, then.

Fortunately, we have a second bite at the household moving apple and are flying back to SA next week to pack up Henry the Campervan with more necessities and home comforts. We have rented an adorable little hobbit cottage in Nairobi and it will bring much joy to have a few familiar things around us once more. One item I reluctantly left behind the first time was a favourite embossed, recycled glass wine goblet. That will be the first item lovingly packed so that Kenyan sunsets can be toasted with a memory-filled glass and all will be well in my world. 

Like it or not, we become ever more true to ourselves and our family heritage as we age. The biggest laugh of all - my mother's family name is Moss. It looks like granny and granddad produced a clutch of rolling stones determined to challenge that!

My essential bits of home!

Long Walks to Decadence

If you've spent anytime reading (and hopefully chuckling) your way through Lightly Green, you are sure to have spotted one truth - life with Him Outdoors is anything but mundane.

Please don't let on to him that actually, despite some intense whinging and broomstick waggling at times, I really miss him when he is not around. The initial sigh of relief as the stormy seas calm to a millpond and things run smoothly to plan quickly turns into a longing for a swell or seven. If personalities were continents, he'd be Africa with all it's bumpy, potholed roads, surprises, curiosity and sheer joy of being alive.

One (of many) areas where we differ is calculating distance. There was the time we decided to take our afternoon walk to Randjiesfontein Spar "it's about 2kms away" HO declared. My veteran walking legs declared the 2km mark at one point but a query was answered by "it's just through this boom, out the other side and across the road."

True, it was, after another 2kms. Over an hour later we limped home and Grumpy had to google the distance to prove her point - 8.6kms in total. So much for his calculation.

It got worse before it got better, too. Briskly setting out to explore our new home in Nairobi, two days in a row I faithfully followed him and both times, legs aching and lightheaded in the heat, we ended up hailing a taxi to get us back to base. Exploring country lanes is one thing and the vistas of grazing cattle and horses, fields of wildflowers and lush overhanging trees was delightful but eventually, feet complain and my tummy demands sustenance NOW. The askari manning the gate must have thought we were totally mad, striding out at 7am only to be Uber'd home 2 hours later.

There is always, however, always a shining light in the darkest hour of life with HO and yesterday delivered a beacon of supreme indulgence. Well, actually, it was just a cup of coffee but served in an oasis of unbeatable luxe. 

Our stomping route passes an enormous, pale pistachio wall trimmed with white, the discreet sign simply stating 'Hemingways'. Yesterday, HO suggested we call in for a cuppa as we returned past the imposing entrance. In we went, guilelessly charming gate askaris and the manager who greeted us at the door. "A coffee? Of course, you are welcome. I'll take you to a table, would you like to join us for breakfast as well?"

Yes, we would, but unfortunately we don't have a spare kidney to sell at this point in time.

No, I promise, we didn't say that, but assured the nice man that another day, we'd love to. 

Plantation splendour, serene, immaculate, jaw-dropping and graciously magnificent, Hemingways is where I want to live when I grow up. There we were in our finest walking gear, muddy sneakers, glowing faces and the wonderful staff treated us like royalty.

Oh, my, what a treat. The coffee was superb but, quite honestly, even Ricoffy would have tasted heavenly in that setting.

Someone asked me a while ago whether when my goals have been achieved, I set new ones. Yes, I do and here is my latest one - a weekend in this palace of tranquility.

But this, ladies and gents, is why life with HO is addictive. Who else would dream of popping into a luxury boutique hotel for a coffee as we walked past? This little indulgence satiated the senses as much as a $1 million treat. 

Or am I a cheap date?

Farewell to Felines, Friends and Family

It's not even midway through the day and my emotional climate has bounced about with the speed and dash of an Olympic table tennis final.  Struth, I'm exhausted!

Firstly, the heart cracked like crazy paving to say 'Cheer, darlings' to these woeful little faces. The guilt weighs heavy and the grief...

Then, blooming with the radiance of an award winning sunflower, we were treated to a fast 10 minute cuppa at OR Tambo airport with beloved No 1 Son before we stepped past the point of no return.

Him Outdoors sped us away from the coffee shop, setting records for clearing security and immigration before I could absorb that this was, in fact, yet another farewell.

It's been a long time coming but finally, today IS the day and off we set on a new adventure. 

So why the tears, heartache, fear, anxiety? This is, after all, another step in a plan to break out of the mould and live a little before we lose our teeth and reach for the zimmer frames.

All the farewells and drawing a line beneath our lovely home and life in South Africa would probably not take as high an emotional toll if our future was a little more, well, settled and structured. There are so many 'what if's' and worries, uncertainties and concerns. We've cast off without a safety net, relying on our ability to tread water and keep doggy-paddling to shore. But what if? There are many sharp rocks and hungry sea creatures out there and I do believe we forgot to pack the anti-shark spray!

The positive underlying ray of sunlight is the personal reflection and learning that never ceases, despite the unstoppable advancing years. Today reinforced a lesson learned with the arrival of babies and motherhood, knowledge that faded somewhat over the years but has pushed to the fore again.

The boundless elasticity of the heart, it's really quite remarkable. Cracked, dehydrated and broken one moment, bursting with eternal love and joy the next.

Now if only my saggy skin had the same resilience...

Luggage Allowance for Cool Cats

Houston, we have a problem! In the course of pricing travel arrangements for two cats to fly to Kenya, I've uncovered an airline scam.

The inequality between furry and human passengers didn't strike me when perusing the (eye-watering) quote, terms and conditions of travel to Kenya for Speckle and Anushka. New to the importation of pets, I was well unprepared for the logistical and expensive nightmare of relocating with my fur-babies and several glasses of icy Sav Blanc were required to absorb the exercise.

However, it was only when debating the amount of luggage Him Outdoors and I are allowed to take that the crux of the matter revealed itself. We get 30kgs each, which is not as much as it sounds when you are packing for a long term stay. 

A one way ticket for the cats, exclusive of any type of refreshment or comforts which have to be provided by the owner, is R4900 each. The same flight for us, including copious amounts of Bombay Sapphire & tonic, red wine, snacks and a 3 course meal, a staggering choice of entertainment all enjoyed from the comfort of a seat provided by the airline, is R3786 each. And we get 30kg of luggage allowance as well.

Now, Speckle can't relocate without her catnip infused scratching post - how else will she get her manicures in Nairobi? OK, I can't make too much noise about importing the cat dope but if I get a duty free allowance on Bombay and Bubbly, surely she can have her nip?

Princess Anushka absolutely cannot travel without her Furminator brush. Her life will end if thrice daily brushings come to a halt. 

More to the point, HO and I are interested in merging their luggage allowance with ours, there must be another 59kgs available for us!

While this isn't an issue right up there with global warming and world peace, it certainly deserves contemplation and discussion, surely? Equal rights for all airline passengers, I say.

In the meantime, two bored purries quietly wait. Speck already has her sunglasses to paw, ready to leap into her cat carrier. Well, actually that's a stretch. Knockout drugs are on the 'to do' list as well.

Damage Magnet

Lola, my much adored 9 year old chariot is at it again. First, her windscreen was a drawcard for sticks and stones on almost every road she traveled in her first 4 years. Her new windscreen tally is at 4, with chip repairs running into the high 30's. Only Lola could require a new windscreen after an APPROACHING bus flipped a flint forwards, catching Lola's sunglasses at such a speed and angle that the screen immediately cracked clean across. You may dispute the probability of a stone traveling in this direction but as the bus and Lola were the only vehicles on the road and the crack followed a sharp 'smack' sound as the bus and Lola converged, what other explanation is there? 

Happily, the past 4 years have been pretty quiet on the windscreen front, although she bears an impressive chip too large to repair, which stubbornly refuses to grow into an insurance claimable crack.  Lola's latest favourite habit is picking up assorted nails and screws in her pricey, barely one year old set of rubber shoes. Three punctures in the last 600kms have seen her and I spending many hours in various tyre retailers in Gauteng and Mpumalanga. They have happened in different towns, different provinces and on different road types yet two of the three were caused by these odd screws.  I've heard of 'chick magnet' but am rather glum to discover I'm the proud owner of a 'damage magnet'. Grrrr.

I guess I'm pretty lucky, though, as at least Lola has a spare tyre and all of her tyres are repairable. A dear friend bought a fancy Mercedes a few months ago and within the first 6 months has had to replace two wheels - the hidden cost of 'run flats' which should probably be banned on South African roads. The punishing rate of tyre damage caused by multudinous objects scattered on our roads is horrendous. We used to complain about pothole damage but now screws, nails and other sharp objects are laid out as if by plan to rip and shred tyres. It's a pricey business, and being stranded roadside is neither safe nor pleasant.

On the fun side, last Sunday I got to watch Him Outdoors change a tyre (a first for me, I had no idea he could!) and Lola's spare tyre, covered in those tiny rubber hairs unique to new tyres, got to emerge from it's cosy nest and finally earn it's keep.

Oh, yes, and I learned a new word. Nubbins are the tiny rubber hairs on new tyres. Fancy creating a word for such temporary items. Life is fascinating, and the English language continues to amuse. 

Trend Speak - How do phrases and idioms enter the public domain and stick?

It strikes me as rather peculiar that out of nowhere we all begin saying things like "are we singing from the same hymn sheet" or "I simply don't have the bandwidth to deal with this right now". Colouring up "do you understand what I mean?" and "My mind is too busy with other issues to focus on an extra one at the moment" is all very well, but who invents an idiomatic phrase to replace a mundane comment and who decides it's a hit?

Is there a committee closeted away in the coils of popular, trendy coffee shops, collecting and curating the modish speak they overhear while sipping vast quantities of macchiato? Maybe, armed with their arsenal of interesting phrases, they have a selection process similar to the annual Oxford Dictionary Word of the Year?

Slapped in the face a few times yesterday by the ridiculous use of 'reaching out', I began to wonder about this global crisis that hasn't hit the headlines yet. 

Seriously, of all the possible responses to an application for a project posted on a freelance writing site, which application included: submitting a CV, links to web sites I've written content for, attaching samples of published work and a quotation all covered by a cheery note explaining when I can commence and how long I estimate the job will take, a return message thanking me for 'reaching out' wasn't one I envisaged.

"Thank you for your application, we regret to decline..."
"Thanks, this looks great, can we discuss in more detail.."
"Perfect, where do we sign?"
Even blank silence would have been something I understood, but ' thanks for reaching out to us'? I didn't Reach Out, honey, I applied for work!

Then later, when I was deeply engrossed in 'Blacklist', the dratted words came out again. The glamorous FBI Profiler (yeah, I know!), her softly bewildered gaze intent on something off-screen behind the viewer, used the phrase twice in one sentence as she battled to explain why a global master criminal was offering her helpful information. 'Reach out' sounds somewhat soft and cuddly to me, the sort of phrase I associate with community and aid organisations, gently encouraging shy, battered people and animals to trust them, or a fluffy way to oil their approach into wallets. I think the scriptwriter fell in love with the 'trend speak' and sacrificed plausibility; for goodness sake, the master criminal responsible for killing thousands, dabbling in chemical weapons, stealing government secrets - he 'reaches out'?

I think not. A GMC worth his salt would demand, trade, negotiate. Trend speak works well in many instances but please can it be used judiciously?

I Do Not Like Thee, Dr Fell

The security guard in front of me at the check out queue popped his purchases onto the counter - a loaf of unsliced, brown bread and 2 litres of Coca-Cola. Driving past his guard hut a few minutes later I noticed him hungrily ripping the loaf into bite-sized chunks. Fuel for his lengthy night shift.

The lack of affordable nutrition in this country continues to irk me and, I daresay, is a significant driver behind our appalling school grades and overall lack of significant grassroots growth and progress. How can people give of their best when they are hungry, or feeding their bodies with non-nutritive calories? 

We live in a twilight world where a small tier of middle class and wealthy South Africans spend big money on Omega oils and a cornucopia of ‘nutriceuticals’ to cherish body and brain while rubbing shoulders with the vast layer of people struggling to afford enough calories to satisfy their hunger.

There is plenty of press coverage at the moment regarding the proposed ‘sugar tax’, reportedly driven by the Department of Health’s concern for the skyrocketing rates of diabetes and other, sugar fuelled, diseases. Well and good but I for one have little faith in the reasoning and integrity behind yet another tax on burdened South Africans. Does anyone remember the plastic bag levy introduced in 2003? Reams of newsprint were devoted to how this small tax (originally 3c per bag, now 8c) would fund recycling plants, provide jobs, eradicate our ‘national flower’ (referring to the number of plastic bags littering the land) and save the environment.

The proof of anything is always in the results and at the end of August 2016, R1,1 billion had been scooped up by Treasury and R5 billion pocketed by retailers on the sale of plastic shopping bags.  Buyisa e-Bag, the Section 21 company created by this initiative, whose core business was to develop entrepreneurs and create sustainable opportunities in the recycling and waste management sectors, all funded by the plastic bag tax, was closed in 2011 because it hadn’t achieved much at all. And as Treasury refuses to ‘ring fence’ tax money, the plastic bag tax wasn’t spent exclusively on Buyisa during its existence either; they received some R216 million between 2003 and 2011, a fraction of the income earned under the environmental opportunities banner. Yet consumers, their behaviour unchanged due to their lack of education by the powers that be about the environmental damage caused by these bags, continue to pay up to 75c per bag and the retailers, and fiscus, are laughing all the way to the bank.

How can we have any faith in the integrity and effectiveness of another ‘do-gooder’ tax, this time on sugar? Not for a minute do I dispute the evils of sugar and it’s addiction (hello, my name is Tracy and I’m a chocolate addict) but is a tax on sugar going to stop addicts consuming it?  After all, sin taxes on ciggies and alchohol don’t stop addicts getting their fix. While we are on the addict front, I think it’s rather mean to benefit the fiscus at the expense of an addiction in any case.

No, my concern is that one security guard and the millions of South Africans who consume sugar-laden products because they simply cannot afford healthier options.  A brief search of Shoprite’s (a local chain of low priced supermarkets) prices paints the reality of low cost food: R7.99 for 1,5L of a fizzy, sugar laden soft drink versus R22.99 for 2L of fresh milk. R4.99 for a loaf of instore baked brown bread, versus a prepacked sandwich (processed cheese and ham) R14.99.

Overarcing the entire discussion is also the lack of trust in our government to wisely shepherd and spend this money. A Treasury spokesman assures us that the new tax is not seen as a money spinner for government, as it is likely to ‘only’ raise between R1 billion and R2 billion.

From poor people who can’t afford fresh food, and addicts who can’t help themselves.  Nice one, guys. If the health of the nation was truly their intention, couldn't a better way be found than a tax?

Tom Brown’s 1680 rhyme rings ever true of our politicians.

I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,

The reason why - I cannot tell;

But this I know, and know full well,

I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.

Far Fetched Nonsense

If you've been keeping abreast of recent blogs, you'll be in the picture about my recent experience of living in a communal house with 3 men. (https://lightlygreen.blogspot.co.za/2017/09/urrgh-men-and-commune-housework.html)

A further reminder of our differing planets was their movie collection. With no TV service in the house, we were reliant on the collection for electronic R and R at home and boy, was I in for a rude awakening.

Spoilt as we are with the darling Casterbridge Cinema in White River, and my perchant for heading straight to Cinema Nouveau when in Johannesburg, it's been years since I've watched anything on the main cinema circuit. Being Head of Purchasing for music and dvd's in our household, our collection mirrors my taste for Art house, real-life historical drama and biographies and it's never occurred to me that there is much different out there.

Wrong.

Silly, toilet humour comedies and bish, bosh, bash extraordinarily violent and loud crime dramas ruled the roost at 143 Fenniscowles Street. On the plus side, I had plenty of time to scroll through Twitter and Facebook, make a cup of coffee or replenish the wine glasses while senseless car chases and physical violence overplayed on the screen far longer than necessary.

Who watches this stuff? How many car chases have you witnessed in your life, and if any, did it involve multiple pile-ups and smashed vehicles, exploding into flame, falling off cliffs and multideck freeways? Were the 'perps' (or the goodies, who can tell?) careening in and out of oncoming traffic on the wrong side of the road, or through a series of red traffic lights that results in all other traffic crashing helplessly while the main contenders carry on?  How far fetched can this nonsense get? And it goes on for ages, accounting for a considerable percentage of the movie running time. Enough already, we get the picture!

Even worse are the beat-up scenes. You know, when the baddies have the good guy tied up and are busy torturing and thumping him? The sound effects alone are nauseating and the manner in which the director has the camera lovingly clasp the close up of knife / fist / bullet / rope deeply inserted / impacting bloody flesh indicates some serious sociopathic tendancies. Predictably, our hero always manages to escape, fight back and get to help and safety after spending the better part of 10 minutes screen time being carved and beaten into a red-fleshed mess. 

Is it necessary to linger on these revolting parts of the story and drag them out as long as they do? Show, don't tell, is a writing maxim and most people have heard 'less is more.' Plant the seed into an audience's mind and let them imagine far worse than you can show, at a fraction of the movie budget.

As you can imagine, when inveigled into joining the overgrown boys at a movie showing, those are the scenes which had me zoning out and finding reasons to leave the room. Try as I might, I can't get the attraction of watching them. Tune into the evening news for your portion of senseless violence, at least that is real life and, unbelievable as it sometimes seems, is actually possible.

Come on, fess up. What movie scenes drive you out of the room?

I Married A Cat Whisperer

Is there any truth behind the barrel loads of 'wisdom' that creep into our conversations? You know the ones about not trying to change someone, and the fervent urgings to not change yourself in order to suit a mate? 

Ja, well, no fine. I beg to differ. For instance, the world is pretty much divided into either dog or cat people, and I got hitched to a Dog Man who had a series of rather gorgeous Boerbuls. A chunky breed of dog, strappingly built with melty soft eyes and muzzles and natures to match, unless you got on the wrong side of them, then watch out. A definite match of owner to pet, in this case. We agreed to accommodate our separate choice of pet and in due course the dogs found new homes and cats ruled our roost. It just happened, I promise. No devious machinations behind the scenes. 

One of our rescue cats, Speckle, is a bit short of feline genes and owns precisely two brain cells, which rattle like marbles inside her skull. The first cell controls her body - breathe, eat, clean, walk, sleep and so on. The second is solely focused on needing love. At all times. From whoever. 

Spotting her victim, she moved in on Him Outdoors and within a few years had him fawning over her, in turn adopting him as her own. Sleeping on his lap, sitting on top of his packed suitcases and visiting him to inspect his renovations on Henry the Campervan, even daring to sit inside and keep him company. The funniest was when she plonked herself at his side once, growling fiercely when HO opened the door to an late night visitor.

I've previously mentioned how our cats loathe car trips and my circle of friends have been regaled with re-enactments of taking them to the vet or, once, a 4 hour journey during which they ceaselessly howled. It was dreadful.
https://lightlygreen.blogspot.co.za/2017/02/i-covered-traumatic-cat-trip-to-vetsin.html.

HO, bubbling with that boundless optimism of his, insists that packing them into Henry and embarking on a 6 week trip through 5 African countries is possible, and took their curious exploration of Henry at every opportunity to 'prove' his point - that they'll love the campervan. So, we tested his theory with a 4 hour journey on Sunday.

It's official - I married a Cat Whisperer, much as it pains me to admit he was right. Oh, at first it ran to plan. Sullenly loaded into the carriers, they waited for the magic ignition moment to begin warming up their vocal chords, preparatory to launching into the concerto.

"Let them out of the carriers," HO instructed. "They'll explore then settle down." I warned him but hey, lets prove him wrong. So out they came and voila, the volume increased exponentially and we now had a full-on version of La Boheme, sung by the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Aha, told you so.

Speckle bounced like a rubber ball from side to side, staring out of the rear window and showing off her tonsils to the vehicle behind us. Anushka climbed onto HO's lap for a look through the windscreen then curled up beneath his seat. In due course, Speckle sat on my lap and Anushka spread herself out on the bed and the journey continued peacefully. I would never have believed it and if I wasn't with them at all times, would, quite frankly, have suspected some behind the scenes doping. It simply wasn't possible that his frequent soothing 'chats' to them could have wrought this miracle. But it did.

To add insult to injury, they were rather hesitant about their new digs at first, as you would expect. But it completely took the biscuit when we discovered Speckle hiding in HIS suitcase, where she remained for a day or so.  

As the one who feeds, brushes, cares for their health and wellbeing, I do feel a little underappreciated. The bigger lesson is, however, that people in relationships do change. Whether you call it adjustment or adaptation, a dyed in the wool Dog Man is now putty in a cat's paws, while I was quite sad to see the back of Rufus and Bull, the Boerbul dogs.

Mastering the Mistress

I worked quite intensively yesterday, proofreading and editing a travel guidebook. With the usual pauses to reconsider proper and common nouns – African wild cat or African Wild Cat?  Blue wildebeest or Blue Wildebeest?

This conundrum continued to occupy brain space deep into the early hours of the morning as I sleeplessly tossed and turned. It’s in these moments that my brain transforms into a golden snitch zooming around in a particularly frenetic game of Quidditch.  If the reference escapes you, read anything in the Harry Potter series.

Why are titles proper rather than common nouns?  Why do we persist with three female titles – Miss, Mrs and Ms? What is the preoccupation with marital status or conversely, screening the status with the ubiquitous Miz? Why don’t we use a blanket ‘Mistress’ as the feminine version of ‘Mister’?  Why are young boys titled ‘Master’ yet grown men ‘Mister’?

By now the snitch was in full manic mode and so far out into left field it had exited the room. Thoughts and arguments tumbled and skyrocketed at top speed, kicking slumber into touch. Another note to self to really, really stop having that after dinner coffee; caffeine does gymnastics in my sleep cortex.

Is it fear of a lack of options? The horror of being categorised either married, unmarried or one of the above? Does anyone really care?

Mrs is an abbrieviation of Mistress and I’m happy to be a Mistress in all connotations of the word. Even the less salubrious meaning is rather daring and elicits a frisson of excitement. Let’s lose the overpidgeonholing thing and match Mister with Mistress, Ms for short (no feminist statement here, simply the first and last letters of the word, a la Mr).

Simplify the world for our daughters, with a single title that denotes their gender rather than their marital status and removes the rather meaningless but nonetheless anguished over decision women make at some point to either go with traditional ‘subjugation’ policy and take on a new title and name or to follow the feminist ‘correct’ path.

If a girl is ‘Ms’ from birth to death, the decision about taking her husband’s name becomes one of convenience and choice as she’ll be Ms whether married or not. Ms Smith can elect to become Ms Blenkinsop or remain as she was without the confusion of then putting ‘Married’ under her title Miss.

Let’s face it, ‘Ms’ hasn’t taken off as a mainstream choice, possibly because the issue is overcomplicated and implicitly suggests rebellion or rampant feminist. And can you be a ‘Ms’ with your spouse’s name, or is Ms currently reserved for maiden names, whether the bearer is married or not? 

This is something worth marching about, an issue to be clarified and decided once and for all. At the very least, there will be an ink and space saving on official forms with the removal of two title options!

Rounding Up Errant Thoughts

I was gently nudged by a dear friend and loyal reader regarding the erratic train of thought in my last post.  Truth be told, I'd intended chatting about how our plans were turning out to be more liquid than plan, and as flexible as a meandering stream.

Breaking off midway through my musings for a cuppa, the state of the kitchen brought my temperature to boiling point faster than the kettle rattled steam from it's spout.  Hence the diverse sidetrack, sorry about that.  One of the downsides of not planning my blogs; off the cuff scribing means that I'm not totally in control of where it is headed.

OK, so you've got the gist - our departure date for East Africa has stretched further and further out and even a firm resignation and resolution hasn't actually made it reality.  To add more complication to the mix of installing lightbulbs in hospitals, Kenya's August election result was declared null and void by the High Court and a re-run ordered.

Frankly, I'm delighted by this African first, an election result declared free and fair by outside observers successfully contested in court.  Not that I'm leaning one way or the other regarding the parties but this display of democracy at work is very pleasing.  Except, with the new election date set for 17th October and many expats heading out of the country again until things settle down, Him Outdoors sensibly began to wonder if a further postponement of our trip should be considered. 

A call last week to an expat friend in Nairobi scored a point for my opinion, that this was the time to be bold and be there, people who would usually be too busy to see us will have time on their hands.  1 - 0 for the optimist.

A lengthy Skype chat to our Kenyan business partner on Monday evening levelled the score though.  In fact, it earned double points and weighted the seesaw towards the Realist.  George strongly advised that we delay, saying it would be a waste of our time - Kenyan business owners are simply frozen until after the election. He himself was preparing to take his family out of Kenya for a while and this, coming from a Black Kenyan entrepreneur, carried huge weight with us.

Sadly reporting back to our Jozi pals that the drinks send off on Saturday was to be postponed elicited an interesting and heartwarming perspective - 'yay, now we have you for longer' was the general gist.  Wow, guys, we didn't see that coming and absolutely love our Monty Python-esque pals - 'Always look on the bright side of life' is now ringing in our ears and HO belts out a whistle or two every now and then.  Mostly when my bottom lip quivers and pouts.  

In today's world of instant gratification and push button convenience, it is so easy to lose sight of what life really is about - a straggly, potholed track strewn with fallen trees and the odd puddle.  The only way through is to keep moving forward, slowly navigating all the obstacles and to press ahead. Smooth paths and life on a plate are the exception, not the rule. Hollywood and popular fiction have dulled our realistic expectations and should be seen for what they really are - feel good fantasy.

Life itself is a muddle that keeps us on our toes and constantly stretches and challenges our ability to think on our feet and adapt, and thank heavens for that. Disappointment aside, the kinetic energy of change is exciting.

Urrgh, Men and Commune Housework

Life unfolds at it's own pace, which at times is far too leisurely for me.  I'm the 'make a decision and dash off at 100 miles an hour to get it done' sort of person and yes, that crazy woman in the supermarket, parking her trolley at the end of the aisle 3 then zooming across to aisle 27 to pick up the next item on her list is me.

Him Outdoors refers to my grocery excursions as gym time, he swears I walk at least 4x more than needed.  I think of my shopping trail as a sort of honey bee waggle dance. Just not in a figure 8 or, truth be told, in any sort of coherent manner at all. Perhaps the sort of post-fermented marula fruit waggle dance that a bee would perform if a bee's mind was as absent as mine.  Nonetheless, our pantry is always stocked so does the gathering mileage really matter?

We've been wanting to head back to Kenya for months now but things keep cropping up. HO's contract has been (admittedly thankfully) extended time after time as new projects are thrown at him but eventually, in a spousal headlock, he agreed to draw a line under 31st August and bid Altsa 'adieu'. Which he did. 

Perhaps not as effectively as envisaged, though, as now we are both living in the communal company house in Durban while our fur babies and home are under the care of a dear friend and I have clothes and belongings scattered in 6 places, including the boot of my car parked at Oliver Tambo.  Who knew that Madam Chief Nest-er could live a gypsy lifestyle at all, let alone for 10 months?I've had a crash course of lessons in patience, acceptance and relinquishment of control, not to mention having to let go of a perfectionist's standards of, well, pretty much everything. It's been a tussle, I must admit.

While we wait for the contractors to provide HO with accurate and believable figures of the stock required to finish the installations so that the sites can be delivered and signed off, we are sharing a rather cute Victorian house with two work colleagues of HO. A sparsely furnished, absolutely no frills, under renovation Victorian house, and did I mention that the cottage at the bottom of the garden houses a tenant, as well? 

The housemates are lovely guys and lots of fun but my word, they haven't a clue about making a space the teeniest bit homely and as to how easily the XY chromosome bearers slipped into leaving cooking, tidying and washing up to the woman....grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. They also rate as probably the untidiest people I've ever had the misfortune to share a roof with, including the one I married who has reverted to some kind of bachelor oblivion about cleaning and standards of hygiene.

It took me a few days to down tools and resolutely REFUSE to continue tidying the kitchen because I can't bear the odious mess, but neither am I prepared to be 'house girl'. However, the shambles irks me intensely while they are completely oblivious to the mess. I'm taking so many deep breaths, oxygen overload is my middle name. 

I've had a bit of experience sharing digs with a few men this year. In April I homed with No 2 son and his 3 mates for a few days over graduation.  What a pleasure! No 2 had dictated a huge clean up prior to my arrival, apparently, but over the 3 days I was there the guys cooked and cleaned up after themselves. The bathrooms were always spotless and as for the company, it was a hoot.  4 bright post grad scientists who couldn't do enough or be more polite or considerate of their house guest and numerous debates and discussions about the world at large made for a memorable and very enjoyable stay with them.  

I guess the tidy mentality can be laid neatly at the feet of the mother, in which case I need to have a few words with my darling mother-in-law. Or perhaps it's a generation thing - my sprogs were expected to clean up after themselves and ensure the house was tidy, there was none of that 'girls clean, boys reside on a pedestal' thinking in my house and looking at No 2's digs mates it seems he has found kindred spirits of his age.

As for the old geezers I currently share with, zounds. And because the subbies keep finding random rooms and corridors previously not accounted for on site, we are going to be here far longer than anticipated.  Zen and the art of domestic disorder, I'm breathing.  Deeply. 

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia

Prize of the day goes to readers who can identify this phobia without resorting to a search engine.

Hippo - Horse (Greek)
Potamos - River (Greek)
Monstro - Monstrous being, or something huge and terrifying (Latin)
Sesquippedalio - Adaptation from Latin meaning 'over a foot and a half high'.

I bet you got phobia, well done! (If not, it means morbid fear)

So what is Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia when it's at home?  Fear of a hippopotamus perhaps?  You'd be right to respect them, their reputation as Africa's most dangerous large land animal is well deserved.  Cuddly and pink, in this case, does not mean, well, cuddly and friendly.  At all.

Nah, our word inventors have gone way out there on this one.  Which Mensa candidate designated a phobia about long words with a name 38 letters long?

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is a very real phobia, leaving suffers to sweat and tremble in a full blown anxiety attack when confronting a very long word.  

How to pronounce it:
Hippo
Poto
Monstro
Sesqui
Pedalio
Phobia

If in doubt, resort to Mary Poppins and sing it out - 
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious was a popular song from the musical Mary Poppins and we've all bellowed it out at some time or the other. Um-dittle-ittl-um-dittle-i. Songwriters Richard and Robert Sherman clearly didn't suffer from Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia and it's a good thing neither Dick van Dyck nor Julie Andrews did, as the 4 Oscars swept up by the film enhanced their movie careers no end.

It's downright cruel to give sufferers of this phobia such a mouthful to read and pronounce.  I wonder if they can even bear to take the prescription from the Doctor, let alone hand it over to a Pharmacist and answer his friendly enquiry about how the Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is today?

To tie your tongue in monstrous knots, listen to the 
Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia song on the link below.  It's really chipper and annoyingly, you'll be leaping from humming this to Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious for the next 24 hours.  Sorry!

https://youtu.be/C-V6FHWYtcg

My Mother is an Xperia and Dad a Samsung

My lovely Nikon D5200 gives me, someone not gifted with an artistic hand, the chance to create a beautiful picture. It's the very devil to get it right, and the rare successes are usually unplanned accidents but I feel like van Gogh as I fiddle with settings and seek the best angle to photograph something that caught my eye.  The disappointment when viewing the end results is often very deep but ups the determination to find out why and to get it right next time. Taking pictures with my mobile phone, on the other hand, is convenient (especially for insurance claims) but feels rather lame.

I'm in the minority, I fear, as a picture paints a 1000 words and this cartoon speaks millenniums to me.

That device in your hand which you refer to as a phone is used for almost anything but speaking on.  Sure, it's a reasonable evolutionary leap from phone to messaging to internet access, email and social media (all forms of communication) but our faithful telephone has now crossed a species boundary and become camera of choice to billions.

Nikon, Leica and Olympus must be feeling the pinch, because I'm not sure they can fall back on a broader range of products to make up the lost turnover like some of the competition can.

For on-tap convenience and availability the mobile phone as a camera has absolutely no equal.  Not only is it pretty much always at hand but with a few swipes the image is instantaneously shared widely.  This, of course, is a double edged sword.  Who hasn't pushed 'send' too hastily and winged an inappropriate email or message they'd rather not have sent?  And now we have the added facility of capturing and sending pictures that really shouldn't have been caught at all, and those photographs, once seen, are indelibly etched on spooked minds. 

Would those naughty photographs of various dangly bits have been taken if the erstwhile photographer had to set up a tripod of sorts and set the timer on his Canon Sureshot?  More importantly, wouldn't the world be better off without those photographic gems?  How do you feel about countless photographs on social media of (usually) young women stretching their pouty lips into hideous duck impressions - and what is it about fitting rooms that has women photographing their reflection and sharing it with their world? Again, if they had to haul out their Nikon D3200, would they bother?

Ready availability and ridiculous ease has created a scenario where we've all become photography addicts, with very little interest in learning more about this fascinating and wonderful field.  Point, shoot, load onto Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, WhatsApp and move on.  Composition?  Light? Capturing the everyday in a creative way?  What's that?  My lunch is on Facebook and that's all that counts.  Photography is easy, anyone can do it.

Ja, well, no fine (love that South African expression).  

So if your child draws your likeness as a Sony Xperia, and your furbaby pauses to pose in his version of cute mode when he sees your phone, you should take a moment yourself and step out from behind your teeny camera.  Put it down for a bit and have some real Face Time creating moments that are captured solely in your mind's eye and that of your companion.  

That's a picture uniquely and forever yours and theirs.