The Hotel Princess

I've heard of people resembling their pets, or vice versa, but in our household the cat is less a physical lookalike than a spiritual twin of her human mama. She settled into life on the open road like a trooper but it soon became apparent that while she enjoyed being on safari with us, her tastes ran to the luxury end of the market rather than a rough and ready bush experience. I can absolutely understand that, and took great pleasure in watching the light dawn on Him Outdoors that he was transporting a cat with expensive tastes. He was flabbergasted to say the least.

Seventeen days travelling from Nairobi to Johannesburg went something like this. Night one was spent in a overland campsite near Arusha, Anushka was not impressed and refused to exit the vehicle until a middle of the night call of nature gave her the opportunity to race through the opened tent flap and plop down on my pillow, giving me the haughty look of death when I tried to get back into bed.

Night two was spent in a hotel in Dodoma and we stealthily sneaked her in through the window. Like greased lightning, she was stretched out on the bed within seconds, making it clear that spending eight hours on the road was an exhausting experience and she needed a comfortable rest. It was downhill from there as hotel after hotel through Tanzania, Zambia and Botswana we had to fight her for bed space - she was in like Flynn as soon as we opened the door, making herself completely at home.

Having established that communal hotel space is for guest use, there was no stopping her. In Mpika, we were the only guests in the hotel so allowed her, trailing the long, neon yellow twine we'd attached to her harness (to track her down and find where she was hiding) to wander about at will. After a while we hunted her down in reception, perched on top of the leather couch in full view of the pop-eyed receptionist who had never dealt with a situation like this before. 

In Livingstone, she perambulated the reception gift shop before dropping into the restaurant and finding her way into the kitchen. Following the yellow rope I discovered a bemused chef staring at his furry visitor. Fortunately, the waiters thought it was very funny! The next day we moved to more affordable digs at Maramba River Lodge and set up camp on the riverbank; congratulating ourselves over the window seat we had every evening when the hippos gathered below us before grunting their way up the opposite bank for their night's munching activities.

The Princess wasn't too impressed to be camping after a week of hotel beds and spent the next three days sleeping in the car, emerging only for food or to join us when we mooched up to the pool and lounge to use the wifi, much to the amusement of other guests and the barman. One afternoon, we pulled up in the car for a quick beer after visiting Vic Falls, afterwards HO popped her through the top half of the rear door but didn't bother closing it as we were a scant 500 metres or so from our campsite. As he reversed, a peripheral flash of movement in the wing mirror caught my eye. I thought it was a monkey behind the car but no, madam had exited the vehicle and was padding purposefully up the path towards reception. To all intents and purposes on her way to check-in to a room!

Anushka will pass into family legend as the cat that will go anywhere, so long as the accommodation is at least 3 star!

Travel exhausts

We got back from breakfast and she clearly (correctly!) thought we were checking out. So she hid under the duvet!

Inspecting the gift shop, Victoria Falls Waterfront

HO having fun with the room sign in Nata, Botswana

“She doesn’t do much, does she?”

For reasons too involved to go into here, Anushka, our cat, was re-homed in Nairobi early 2019 with a friend of Him Outdoors. Understandably, there was much heartache about this decision but her New Papa was extremely caring and shared with us frequent photographs and reports. One anxious message concerned how much she slept. He Googled to find out what was normal because he couldn’t believe that a cat could sleep 21 out of 24 hours and was convinced she wasn’t well.

Life jinked through a chicane and we found ourselves back in Nairobi 12 months later, hosted by our friend. HO was very firm before we arrived – absolutely NO gooey, emotional reunions, I am no longer her parent, whatever her routine and however she is being cared for is none of my business and I was to stand firmly back – she is the adored pet of another.

I’d like to tell you that she bounded downstairs in frantic recognition, loudly greeting us with her familiar refrain “Where have you been? I’m hungry. I need a brush.” Actually, she did just that, but it was unquestionably apparent that there wasn’t the faintest hint of recognition. She was looking for her New Papa and when we retired for the evening, she trotted off with him. There’s no denying that it hurt but after all, who could blame her? And New Papa absolutely worshipped her, crooning ‘hello princess, how is my darling’ and regaling us with stories of her super cat powers.

When an opportunity arose for us to drive back to South Africa rather than fly, suddenly there were subtle hints threaded through conversation. Maybe not so subtle because HO noticed and brought to my attention that we were being offered our cat back. New Papa’s life had moved on apace and he no longer needed her cat witchcraft and healing purrs. And as we were driving, surely there was room for a furry?

We put up a token resistance – we aren’t the sort of people to say ‘thanks for having her, we’ll take her back now’ after all his kindness. But the deal was done and dusted after two rodent incidents.

Rats were a bit of a problem in the home and the rat traps kept busy. One evening over dinner the most appalling noise erupted, preceding Anushka entering the lounge at full pelt. Bristled to twice her size and Olympic sprinting around the perimeter she attempted to get rid of the large, sticky mouse pad (nope, not a computer thingy, a rodent trap) firmly attached to her rear foot. Four adults helpless with laughter took longer than necessary to catch her and detach it.

A day or so later I was summoned to a conference. Apparently, a brazen rat had settled itself on top of the fridge. A small, bar fridge not one of those humungous reach-for-the-skies types. Rattigan comfortably looked down his nose at Anushka, neatly sat next to the fridge about 30 centimetres below. Completely and utterly oblivious, she contently watched her humans making breakfast, unaware that her blissful ignorance wasn’t going down well with the landlord.

Over coffee, New Papa cleared his throat and approached the subject. “I’m really happy for you to take her, she doesn’t do much does she? And she is useless with pest control.”

She was fired! Can you believe it? New Papa was happy to buy cat food if she’d hold her end up and get rid of the rodents but no one had ever explained to the princess that she had any function other than looking pretty. A job? Work? Expend energy beyond a luxuriant stretching out to allow tummy brushing? Not on your nellie so Anushka received her marching orders and in disgrace was loaded into the car.

Losing The Numbers Game

The more things change, the more they stay the same. My mathematical (non)ability is legendary, at least with Him Outdoors. Thankfully, calculators on my laptop and smartphone make me appear smarter than I am to the outside world.

When living in a steamy, hot environment where the act of simply breathing causes floods of perspiration to drench every inch of skin, being more active than a lounging lizard was difficult but fortunately, a sparkling swimming pool 5 metres from our front door was the answer.

Not that I'm a strong swimmer, far from it but one baby step (or stroke) at a time with a goal to reach first 10 lengths a day and then who knows, there are no limits!

Now is a good time to mention that our landlady, a grandmother, swims 100 lengths every morning so my target was modest to say the least. I asked her how long the pool is and heard her answer, in her sexy Italian accent - 80 metres. 

How proud I was when eventually (not revealing how long it took!) I managed to swim 10 lengths one morning. Wowzer, that's 800 metres, nearly a kilometre. There is definitely no stopping me now!

Proudly I informed HO of my feat. His face was a picture before he burst into raucous bellows of laughter. "80 metres? 80? That pool is barely 20 metres long!" he exploded. 

He paced it out.

Eighteen metres.

Paola's sexy Italian English had deceived me. Oh, the disappointment! To have swum less than a quarter of the distance I thought I'd achieved was a bitter pill. 

HO's astonishment is that I could look at the pool and think it was anywhere close to 80 metres. My shame is that I can't blame age-related brain cell shrinking. Decades ago my parents shunted me off for career guidance which included some form or other of IQ testing. Even now, I remember my father's fury at the psychologist's report. She couldn't explain my appalling results in the maths section as it was completely incompatible with the rest of my test so I was hauled over the coals for 'pissing about' (he didn't use that phrase, but that was what he meant) during the expensive test.

Even worse is that I fear I may have genetically endowed this number challenge on to No 2 son. He under-achieved spectacularly in a high school entrance exam and only the fact that the school desperately required fee-paying students got him admitted.  

But, herein lays the rub. All he needed was the opportunity and he trundled successfully through those school years, achieving a university entrance matric pass. From there, he zoomed through a BSc, BSc Hons and a MSc without pause, and the buck doesn't stop here. A PHd lies in his immediate future, quite a feat for someone who barely scraped 20% in a maths entrance exam. 

There's one thing to be said about losing the numbers game, it's not the end of life as we know it - technology is there to overcome our disability!

80 or 18?

  

Africa Is Tough

It's often said by gung-ho Saffers, as they nonchalantly pull a 3-inch devil thorn out of their bare foot, or assess the challenge of crossing a bridge consumed by a raging river, that 'Africa is not for sissies'. Accompanied by a proudly puffed out chest and a knowing chuckle. Africa is for 'die manne' (Afrikaans:real men) and in all truth life here is, and always has been, pretty tough in any language. Which probably goes a long way towards explaining it's appeal for some.

A continent of incredible beauty and warmth of both landscape and people, Africa doesn't bend or adapt to the will of humans. It is what it is, take it or leave it but boy, at it's best there are few, if any, comparable places on earth. 

Him Outdoors and I are taking an extended R and R in Diani, a Kenyan coastal gem south of Mombasa. Hardened African travellers as we are, the blistering heat and relentless humidity have worn us out and we have the activity levels of moribund sloths. We share our lovely accommodation with an assortment of European swallows, all but two of whom are regular returnees spending two months every year basking in the moist blast of Diani's summer. Escaping the post-Christmas chill of Germany, Denmark, Norway, Malta and Bulgaria they believe this is paradise and from the comfort of our pool loungers under thatched umbrellas we limply raise our hands in agreement.

As they say, another bloody perfect day in Africa

Mother Africa, however, has a wicked way of reminding us not to get too comfortable in Eden - there are snakes in utopia. Not that we've seen any and other than an impressive collection of insect bites HO and I are coping but our international friends and neighbours are less fortunate.

In the four weeks we've been living here, one young German guest suffered an epileptic fit whilst kite surfing and her poor parents had the anguish of their first trip to Africa to collect her 24 year old body. This is every parent's most unimaginable nightmare and our condolences felt hollow as we mentally hugged and counted our blessings of our own safe and healthy offspring.

Two weeks later, another German contracted Malaria which is a complete mystery as none of us have seen a single mosquito in the compound but there you go. Hans is a Diani regular and travels with his testing kit and malaria meds so it was picked up early and treatment begun but as soon as he was well enough to travel, he changed his flight and skedaddled out of Dodge.

Last week it was the turn of the Norwegians, one of them was laid low by what appears to be a stroke and is comfortably in the care of Diani hospital before they, too, cut their 8 week holiday short and flee north.

The new arrival, a Brit expat now living in Malta, is in a constant state of siege by cockroaches and ants drawn in their droves to torment her. Our suite of rooms is ant and roach free but next door the sound of furniture being moved and shrill shrieks is our nightly entertainment. 

One doesn't want to tempt fate but it seems a bit unfair and harsh of Africa to unleash these plagues upon her visitors from the north; not at all the warm ubuntu (Zulu: humanity) welcome travellers to these lands generally receive. 

They Know Our Every Thought

Whoever ‘they’ are. The use of our personal technology by unnamed spies to silently soak up our needs and interests has moved out of the domain of conspiracy theorists and into the realm of the average Joleen’s every day. Jokes about Alexa and Siri joining the conversation are old hat but perhaps we should be more concerned about how widely our personal lives have been invaded.

Computer whizz Number 1 Son was scanning my new and rather sexy silver slimline laptop with an anti-virus programme a few weeks ago when an alarming message flashed up. “XYZ CORP IS WATCHING YOU THROUGH YOUR WEBCAM”, it warned. This machine had been out of the box and plugged into the internet for less than an hour, and my eyes bulged saucer-like. No 1 didn’t blink, he simply clicked and tapped and did something or other before casually saying that indeed, our phones ARE listening to us, capturing key words and phrases for marketing purposes. And who is policing this? Who decides what is of interest to a retailer and which conversation marks me as a potential master criminal or revolutionary?

Actually, does it matter? It’s a damn violation of personal rights for whatever reason.

Not long after this rude shock, a friend posted on Facebook how weird it was that the day after a conversation, you know, one of those one on one, face to face chats she’d had with a mate about a particular product, her page streamed advert after advert for it. She joked that her phone must have listened in and well, yes, it probably did.

Around the same time, I mooched into the Kameraz store in the Mall of Rosebank and snaffled a fabulous second-hand lens for my beloved camera. Less than 24 hours later my Facebook page was brandishing adverts for Kameraz. Let me make it clear, I haven’t lived in Johannesburg since 2008; in fact, I’ve lived outside of South Africa for over 2 years now. Even when I lived in SA, the Mall wasn’t a regular haunt. I hadn’t done any internet search for this particular lens; it was an opportunistic purchase from a super-helpful salesman. So how did a random shopping purchase end up linking to my social media? Easy, someone explained, they track your location via your phone. This does not make me feel better!

But the royal icing was slapped on the scary cake yesterday. A week or so ago we bought a packet of pasta from a little grocery store in Diani. Diani is a tiny town on the coast south of Mombasa, Kenya, with exquisite beaches and not much else, especially in the way of shopping emporia. Taped to the bag of pasta was a small bottle of coconut oil, some sort of informal shop promo. Now, all I know about coconut oil is that Him Outdoors buys jars of the stuff for his breakfast fry-up from the cooking oils shelf and I pick up the odd bottle from the haircare section but this bottle gave no indication what the oil was to be used for – hair or eggs. The thought of adding coconut oil to cooking pasta curdled my stomach, this surely couldn’t be the intention?

The devil finds work for idle hands so I turned to Google for help, and began typing in the brand name.

Parachute…

And Google answered before I typed another letter -

 

Parachute coconut oil

Now, I don’t know about you but if I was going to rudely finish someone’s sentence, and it started ‘parachute’ I wouldn’t finish it with ‘coconut oil’. Club, training, jumps, accidents, material, supplies..a host of other words and phrases spring to mind. How the devil did Google link a crudely cellotaped bottle of coconut oil, which was not rung up at the till, or discussed within earshot of a computer or phone, to an internet search?

We can’t explain or understand it either, our best guess is that Google used our location to presume that the parachute I was looking for was a never-seen-before brand of coconut oil.

There is no denying it was useful to find out so quickly that I was holding a bottle of hair oil but this ‘smart’ technology has now overstepped my boundaries.

How to reclaim our privacy?