Maasai Mara Road Mechanics

The scene could be anywhere in the African bush.  A group of people leaning back into well-worn canvas chairs, icy beer in hand and booted feet casually resting near the flames of a wood fire.  Overhead, gazillions of stars blink like crystals nestling on a blanket of plush velvet. The deep exhalations of sheer contentment push thoughts of anything outside the circle of presence as far away as can be.

And then it begins.  Landrover vs Landcruiser with everyone firmly in one of the camps, for life. There is absolutely no room for fence sitters in this debate, ever, and there's definitely no option to select Nissan, Mercedes or even Porsche (snigger!)

Toyota have the lead on bumper stickers, memes and spare wheel covers, cheekily nose thumbing Landrover's reputation for breakdowns and yes, we've certainly chortled at our Rover friends many mechanical failure experiences. Although truth be told (shush, don't tell Him Outdoors I've let this out of the bag!) our Cruiser was once pulled out of deep Mozambique sand by a Range Rover...   

East Africa, in finest Colonial tradition, is Landrover country.  Or was.  A veritable Pearl Harbour assault on the motor industry is making inroads for the Japanese Johnny-come-latelies. But the iconic square nose and body of Landrover still covers the plains in droves.

If you follow this blog, you'll know that very few of our travels are breakdown-free and the latest Maasai Mara adventure didn't let us down, although we weren't in our own vehicle or even driving!

Barrelling along in the Landrover towards Sekanani Gate after a long, twelve hour day filled with exciting sights and experiences, our minds were saturated with colour, dust, noise and the overwhelming sensation of watching Mother Nature in high resolution. Conversation ebbed and eyelids struggled to stay at full mast until a weird 'cluck cluck cluck' rattled us out of inertia.

Rumbling to a halt, the XY Chromosomes exited and assumed serious expressions of concern as they clustered around the front end.  Apparently some split pin thingy had broken and fallen off, meaning a crucial nut followed and now the right front wheel was gaily following it's own track, completely oblivious to the demands of either it's partner wheel or the steering apparatus.  Whoopsie!


Safari vehicles rushing past to make the gate deadline were flagged down and asked for parts while some of our lot hiked down the road looking for the nut (yes, I know, it was a long shot!) One helpful passerby produced a hooked bungy cord and, in true African style, within minutes a repair plan was made and we were off.

Africa - this is why we live here. 

Nutters searching for a nut!

It was quite disappointing, really, as an enormous herd was making its way towards us and, with plenty of picnic left and warmly lined ponchos we could have made a night of it in the Mara.  But another rule of Africa is that the adventurous prospect of an unplanned camp-out is only going to happen accompanied by a beer.  And our coolerbox was empty of Tusker!  Soon rectified when we got through the gate, however, with a pitstop at Rex's Bar for everyone to celebrate the latest escapade with a brew.  And to reminisce about the last time we were in that same Landrover, which failed to start just minutes away from a lion sighting.  

Would have been a perfect campsite, those herds were moving...

Times change and this particular Landie is about to be replaced by a Landcruiser, and Japanese efficiency will deplete us of some wonderful tales to tell.  

Neighbourliness

What makes a good neighbour?  Someone who treats your kitchen as hers? Whose kids spend more time in your house than their own?  What about the other extreme - you have no idea what your neighbours look like.  You may have seen them once, pulling out of their driveway and studiously turning their heads to avoid your tentative wave, but that's it.

I have a very good neighbour and our neighbourly relationship is perfect, although some may find it odd.  Both single women living alone, similar ages, we work in the same complex, belong to the same bookclub and usually see each other once a month.  At book club.  

"How is that possible?" you ask.  Surely we are an ideal match to have a kind of revolving door situation, doing many things together almost joined at the  hip?

Well, no.  We get on very well, have children similar ages, love the same books, have the same interests but we are both, individually, busy people.  It's proven quite difficult to fix dates to get together so now we grab the odd moments (loadshedding candle light drinks on my patio and a very relaxed Friday night swinging in her uber comfy 'egg' chairs after a delightful supper.)  Occasional messages checking that one or the other isn't the only person without water or power and a friendly chat when we pass in the street is pretty much it.

But here is why she's the very best of neighbours and we have such an excellent neighbourly marriage.  I'm out of the country for a while and got a message from her to ask about a strange car which has taken up residence in my driveway. Heart pounding, I ask her to give security a call to check it out, which she did immediately and kept me up to date with events as they unfolded. Nothing to worry about, just a cheeky neighbour taking advantage of additional parking but still, my fab neighbour noticed an oddity and went to the trouble to let me know, alerted security and followed through.

Now that's a wonderful human being and a special neighbour.  Close enough to notice and care, reserved enough to respect our mutual privacy.

Viva Sherreen at No 4!

The Orange Cake

Gotta love how easy it is to be connected across the globe today.  I’m old enough to remember airmail letters, those flimsy blue gummed sheets we used to fill with childish letters written to longed for grannies a world away.  The yucky tasting edges were licked and the missives sent on their way and in a few weeks, we’d have a reply.  This is how we kept in touch.  Phones were large,heavy, Bakelite instruments firmly placed on a special telephone table and never used – call rates were pricey and international calls absolutely out of the question!

A shrinking world has resulted in many moves, either ours or friends, to distant places and caused tears a’plenty.  However, digital cameras, wifi, social media, email, Skype, What’s App - all accessible when we are on the move or stuck at our desks keep us in strong contact and it’s a wonderful thing.  We share special moments, bad moments, tears, giggles, drama and the ordinary and when we finally meet up in person it feels as though we just have a week or so to catch up on, not a few years.  It also allows us to ‘introduce’ current friends with faraway ones so everyone is familiar when we’re all together again.

And so to this morning’s tale.  A dear friend moved to the opposite side of the country 5 months ago.  She’s a tad homesick and I miss her dreadfully, so we What’s App every so often to share an electronic hug, as it were.  It was fab to see her message arrive earlier and good to get caught up on the news, even though the distance at the moment is further than usual – she’s in Cape Town where she should be but I’m in Nairobi though of course, you wouldn’t know it from the amazing electronic miracle that we communicate by these days.

Listening with a heavy heart to her struggles in adapting from a very small town to big city, an image came to mind.  Her popular, has-the-neighbourhood-fighting-for-the-last-piece Orange cake.  Its famous in our ‘hood and much missed now she’s no longer here to take orders for it.  A rich, fresh crumbly cake, sunshine hued with strands of orange peeping through, melt in the mouth, leaving the zesty hint of orange and richness of cream to embrace the pleasure centres and dusted with icing sugar, it’s as gorgeous on the eye as it is in the tummy.

But it doesn’t start out that way.

In the beginning, her famous Orange cake is broken eggs, a sticky mess in a bowl which is thoroughly beaten before being poured into the baking pans.  Blasted by fierce heat it firms up and rises to it’s dazzling maturity.  Reaching out to be the best it can be, a shimmer of white sugar completes the perfect picture and perhaps an orange blossom or two is scattered playfully on top (well, we do live in the Lowveld, citrus country!)

Presented on a beautiful plate, it elicits oohs and ahs and is appreciated and savoured slowly and with absolute pleasure. 

Are we not like this striking work of art?  Sometimes we’re bashed and broken and at our lowest, the beating continues.  Then gets worse until we see no end in sight, the intensity of our troubles (emotional or physical) burning deep. 

But lo, something is happening.  Be it an unexpected, tiny something, a flicker of hope and light emerges and slowly, slowly, we emerge from our ‘oven’.  And in time, this ordeal has passed.  Whatever we feel about our troubles, there is no doubt that having survived them we are wiser as to our strength, our friends, our ability to cope. 

And that extra line etched into our foreheads, the lovely fold of flesh that has appeared at our waist, is a beautiful reminder that we are maturing into the best we can be.

Left out of the picture

So here's what keep my brain fizzing in the wee hours of the morning.  Left handed cameras.  

Seriously. Although the chilli-laden late night pizza could possibly have played a role in the nocturnal meanderings.

12% of people are left handed, and as a righty forced to delegate teaching her left handed toddler to use (left handed) scissors to a lefty friend, and who remembers well how excited said friend was when she bought a fridge with a left handed door, I've some awareness of how awkward the most basic of daily functions are for left handers.

Extrapolating the stats, it's possible that 6 of the 52 members of our photographic club are lefties. Are there cameras for left handers?  Do left dominant photographers have to learn deftness on the right to operate their Nikon? A proponent of the viewfinder eyepiece rather than the LCD screen I can't imagine how much getting used to it takes to glue one's eye to the rubber while blindly pushing buttons with the wrong hand.   It's not just the shutter-release button, either, all the button controls, knobs and dials at the back and on top of the camera are on the right hand side as well.

And there's that awfully handy chunky grip on the right end, so useful for grabbing the camera and carrying it along ready to lift it up and grab a quick capture when needed.  A lefty would either have to carry it in her 'wrong' hand, or carry the camera upside down in her left.  Awkward.

"The world," my ambidextrous son's Occupational Therapist once announced, "is made for right handed people.  So we'll make him right handed."  How right she is, because as I sit here staring at my camera bag I note the zip runs left to right. The office printer buttons are on the right. And living in a country that drives on the left, the driver's seat controls are neatly tucked out of sight and almost out of reach on the right hand side.  

Yes, the skinny gene and straight dark hair fairy may have been off duty when I was put together but I'm awfully grateful that the right dominant angel was having a good day and claimed me as one of her own.  One less endless series of daily challenges to conquer.  

Nonetheless, in a world where some pretty unfathomable 'issues' are conceptualized and battled over, surely a protest picket should be set up outside Nikon and Canon et al?  Why should a customer be discriminated against because she is wired differently to the masses?  Paying the same money as a righty for a DSLR which she then has to adapt her brain and dexterity to use. Equal rights for the left, I say.  

And once the Left = Right movement gains momentum, car manufacturers had better watch out.  A left-handed option for driving controls and seat belts should be on their selection board alongside colour.

Fueling vehicles and generators with fish and chips

An abridged version of this article was published in Skyways September 2015.

“People just don’t care”, says Paolo Cavalieri, co-owner of Allwin Biodiesel in White River, his face washed with disillusion.  Nestled in one of South Africa’s largest conservation areas, Allwin Biodiesel is surrounded by game reserves and luxury eco lodges yet Paolo and partner Brian Tilly struggle to find a market for the biofuel they manufacture from used cooking oil.

Predictably, in the battle between fossil and renewable fuel, price raises its hand.  Allwin’s biofuel sells fractionally below the pump price of regular diesel at the filling stations.  But that’s considerably more expensive than the wholesale price and despite the global furore over climate change, fossil fuel and the development of renewable energy, local businesses are voting with their wallets. 

By contrast, Port Elizabeth based Greentech Biofuels has found widespread support from both local business and private individuals across the Eastern Cape for their B100 biodiesel (100% biodiesel) and B50 biodiesel (50% biodiesel/50% standard diesel) products which they began producing in January 2012.  CEO Hayden Hill estimates that, using an average of 10 kilometres per litre consumption, some 2.5 million kilometres have been travelled on his biofuel to date. 

Hill believes that market acceptability and propensity to use biodiesel instead of petrodiesel relies on other factors.  “It’s about finding the right mix between price and quality,” he says.  In his opinion, this is not a challenge faced by biodiesel manufacturers alone, it’s applicable to all businesses. 

He adds, though, that consumers living outside major city centres are positioned further along the innovation adoption curve and resist changing to a new product.  In outlying areas, price sensitivity increases and the value placed on environmental benefits drops.

While struggling to contain his disappointment, Cavalieri becomes more animated as he enthuses over the benefits of manufacturing biodiesel from used cooking oil.  He’s proud that 50 000 litres a month of toxic used cooking oil isn’t poured down the drain or used as additive to animal feed, which we ultimately consume, because his fleet of four biodiesel powered trucks collect it for conversion.  He has small children and it’s important to him that a sulphur free fuel with 75% less exhaust and 80% less CO2 emissions is available.  Cavalieri chuckles as he refers to his vehicles running on “100% Fish and Chips!”

Biodiesel has a much higher flashpoint (120°C) than fossil fuel (70°C) and no engine modifications are necessary to use it, although Cavalieri suggests that vehicles manufactured pre-1995 check that their rubber hoses are made of Viton E rubber before switching to biodiesel, as otherwise the hoses will perish.  He also recommends that motorists changing over to biodiesel in high doses keep a fuel filter close by, especially on long trips in the early stages.  Biodiesel has excellent cleaning properties and will clean out the fuel tank and engine while it runs, resulting in a clogged fuel filter. 

Allwin’s biofuel is manufactured to SABS standard SANS833.  Making it, says Cavalieri, is not rocket science but takes time and patience, adding that it’s “a costly and stinky business”.  Happily, Allwin’s frustrating struggle to gain traction in the market for its pure product could soon be over when the new regulations regarding the Mandatory Blending of Biofuels with Petrol and Diesel come into force on the 1^st October 2015.

Cavalieri sees the future of biodiesel lying in a mixture of 5% biodiesel /95% petrodiesel, and that’s what the government thinks too, hence the mandatory blending of 5% biofuels with all petrol and diesel (part of the Biofuels Industrial Strategy published in 2007) - the final blended diesel product has to comply with SA National Standard SANS 342 (automotive diesel fuel).

Roy de Gouveia, Managing Director of Biogreen in Cape Town, is bullish about the future of biofuel, particularly as a blend – his company sells thousands of litres of biodiesel every month and de Gouveia confidently forecasts that sales will continue to grow with the new regulations.  His aim now is to gather the assortment of biofuel manufacturers, especially the “bakkie brigade” under one umbrella and to work together, sharing the same channel and logistic mechanism, operating in a similar fashion as the fossil fuel industry.  “There’s a rising tide,” de Govuveia comments “and people need to get into the boat now before it’s too late.”

Referring to the Rose Foundation, which set up a few distributors nationwide to collect and recycle used lubrication oil, he says that isn’t possible with biodiesel and cooking oil – the amount of waste oil and the diesel price fluctuate too widely.

“The cost of manufacture and waste oil is too high,” says de Gouveia, “and part of the problem is that the international price is so high, waste oil goes offshore.”  It’s certainly true that the value of waste oil in biofuels is recognised in the United States and the competitive market there scarily cut-throat, resulting in the price of used cooking oil skyrocketing.  Operating for 24 years in the New York / New Jersey area, Grease Lightning is confronting the increasing problem of oil pirates.  Illegally coupling their hoses to the waste tanks in restaurants and hotels, the rustlers blithely make off with their bounty – greasy, smelly gold they turn into black market biodiesel in backyard stills.

South Africa may be a long way from that, however, but selling their used oil, instead of slopping it down the drain, could be a useful income earner for hospitals, schools, military bases, prisons, restaurants and hotels.  And a positive environmental stride forward for us all.

Mucky oil ready for the Cinderella treatment

Turning chip oil into diesel - the Allwin Biodiesel process

-      Used oil is collected and delivered to the plant where it is filtered twice to remove fragments of fried food

-      It is then heated and a sample undergoes a Titration test, to determine the quality of the oil, and the amount of chemical additive required to achieve a reaction.

-      Methanol (alcohol base) and Potassium Hydrochloride (catalyst) are added to the oil

-     - A chemical reaction takes place to realise the three fatty acid molecules of the oil molecule, forming biodiesel (which is light) and glycerol (which is heavy)

-     - Overnight settling allows separation of the two elements

-    -  Glycerol is drained off the next day, and the process repeated and the biodiesel tested

-     - The biodiesel is then washed to remove any soap.  Initially milky, the water clarifies and once clear is left to settle overnight

-     - Next the water is drained off and heated to evaporate any water residue

-     - After undergoing one final test, the biodiesel is pumped into a storage tank  through a 10 micron water-absorbent filter

-     - The waste water is pumped onto the factory grounds for dust suppression

-     - The glycerol is sold to a company producing green bar soap

   

    Why should you consider using biodiesel?

-   Users can switch between biodiesel and regular diesel

Biodiesel ready for pumping into Paolo's trucks

-   Biodiesel can be blended with petrodiesel

-   It has a higher Cetane rating (an indicator of the combustion speed of diesel fuel) than regular fuel, improving the efficiency of compression ignition

-   Extended engine life

-   Degrades about four times faster after spillage than regular fuel

   

National Name-a-days

One Twitter item that stopped my scroll in it's tracks was the announcement that yesterday (19th January) was National Popcorn Day.  

National Popcorn Day.  Who on earth came up with that, and why does popcorn, in itself a tasteless tooth cracker reliant on added extras for some flavour, deserve one?  

OK, I admit, I was at a loose end so had time to spare on some asinine research and Google didn't disappoint - list of national days turned up 1 030 000 000 results.  How to choose?

www.all-funny.info/real-list-of-national-days produced 8 pages of days to celebrate and listed at least one item for every day of the year.  A priceless read, it revealed such gems as Festival of Enormous Changes at the Last Minute, and National Bicarbonate of Soda Day.  Truly.

How does a day become dedicated to some arbitrary theme?  Who decides this? Is there a committee interested parties can petition to declare August 6th Wiggle Your Toes Day?  What are the parameters for successful application? And please, please can I be appointed a (hopefully paid, in USD) position on the panel?

So here, dear Reader, for your edification, are a handful of National Days to entertain you.

Look at the Bright Side Day - I like that, we should have one a week.
Festival for the Souls of Dead Whales - takes Greenpeace to a whole new level
Underdog Day - dare they emerge from cover and enjoy this?
Plan Your Epitaph Day - this has some merit, may as well select what legend you leave behind.
Babbling Day - absolutely not.  Quite enough brainless chatter as it is.
International Moment of Frustration Scream Day - now you're talking my language but, oh, only one day a year?  Can we make this a weekly event please?
Moldy (sic) Cheese Day - Why. Would. You. Celebrate. This?
Virus Appreciation Day - doubtless suggested by AVG, Kaspersky, McAfee, Microsoft and Apple.  Or Roche, Aspen, Bristol-Myers.  Can't imagine anyone else would think this worthy.
Blame Someone Else Day - in South Africa our government celebrates this everyday.
Be Late for Something Day, which according to my source is followed by Fight Procrastination Day - now that's a couple of days which is going to screw with my head.  Along with Defy Superstition Day - try as I might, just can't walk under a ladder or spill salt...
World Gratitude Day - another goodie that should be weekly.
Ask a Stupid Question Day - No. No. No. Happens daily anyway and will immediately lead to International Moment of Frustration Scream moment.
World Sauntering Day - sounds good in theory, we could all do with a slow down, but in reality will drive me up the wall.
Take Your Pants for a Walk Day - on my legs or on a leash?  Stupid.
Festival of Popular Delusions Day - well, listen to our politicians and unions, they live this Festival.
Buy-A-Musical-Instrument Day - no. Bad idea 'cos the cacophony of non-musical owners now playing said instruments will lead to madness.
Don't Go To Work Unless It's Fun Day - well, that sorts out the economy and won't be appreciated by the nerds celebrating Workaholics Day.
National Nude Day - perhaps combined with Take Your Pants for a Walk Day?
Create a Vacuum Day - wish I knew what this actually means.  I know loads of people who live in a vacuum but can't imagine replicating this.
Toothache Day - do you have to have toothache on this day?  Why would you highlight something so miserable?
National Answer Your Cat's Question Day - my furries would be quite put out if I only answered their questions once a year.

In my self appointed voluntary role as a Day Name-er, I declare 29th February to be Toothpick Day.  Every one knows what they are and uses them. Not having one at a pertinent time is annoying and produces a wail in every language, "A toothpick, a toothpick, my kingdom for a toothpick."  How much more motivation do you need to give the humble toothpick it's own day?

Jambo Express - Not!

It's a joyous affair to travel in Africa, the journey pendulum swings a wobbly arc from indulgent luxury to eye popping squalor with an adventure around every corner.  Things quite often don't go to plan but most times travellers return safely home towing a trunk full of stories which are told and retold for years. That's serious holiday add-on value.

Take 25th December 2015, for instance.  We exited our deluxe Nairobi (Kenya) hotel room in search of breakfast and were childishly enthralled by the morning paper in a stylish canvas bag jauntily hanging from the doorknob.  This, we decided, was a special touch of class, and on Christmas Day, too.

Minutes later an email plunged our joyful spirits to basement level.  Rift Valley Railways regrets the cancellation of the 18h30 Jambo Express today. The train will depart at 21h00 on the 26th December instead. Huh?  Christmas night, and we were unexpectedly homeless!

An extra day in Nairobi gave us the opportunity to visit Denys Finch-Hatton's grave and have lunch at the divine Talisman restaurant so all was not lost. As instructed, we arrived at the station at 20h30 and met the the puckish Station Foreman, William, who enthusiastically greeted "my customers" and confided that the train was running late, but we were welcome to wait in the restaurant. 

"What sort of delay?" we enquired.  "It'll arrive from Mombasa at 10pm," he gushed.  "Then I have to clean and disinfect it which will take an hour." Suspicious, we questioned how sure he was of the train arriving at 10. 

William's answer will forever sum up for me what Africa is all about.  "That is my closest guess," he chortled.  Such a jolly chap, he relishes meeting and chatting to travellers and his good cheer was so infectious we headed to the restaurant rather excited about the delay.  We now had an adventure on the go!

Previous "adventures" have taught us to prepare for the unexpected, so we broke into our emergency wine and snacks while playing a few hands of cards. 

Further confuddling any stereotyping, the charming, shabby station offered free (and very fast) wifi.  The cafe served cold Tusker beer and passengers could relax on several comfy couches and armchairs on the platform, which also accommodated handbasins that wouldn't look out of place in suburbia snuggled between baby cots and wooden beds. The Victorian building is delightful - cast iron pillars and beams support a tin roof, the sandstone blocks remain warm with the day's heat, wooden doors are hand carved, the brass light switches glow and cast iron lamp posts are straight from Jack the Ripper's London. 

Ten o'clock came and went. We paced the platform, desperate to photograph the pasted security notices - exhortations to report 'Idlers or people not doing anything. People with their thumbs on buttons. People wearing heavy clothing not suitable for the weather." So much more imaginative than warnings of suspicious packages. 

Finally, Jambo chugged into the station at 10.40 and rail staff came to life. William's estimate of an hour to clean and disinfect, however, was optimistic. And adventurous spirits tend to drop when expectations of boarding by midnight aren't met.  Indeed, we were invited to clamber up at 3am!  

The light at the end of the platform really is a train!

Wilting with fatigue, I was speechless when confronted by the cupboard two of us, with luggage, were to spend 15 hours in. Blithely ticketed as Carriage 2331, Compartment C, the space provided would fit into my car. Worse, due to Him Outdoor's gammy leg, there was no choice but for Vertiginous Moi to climb up a dolls house-sized ladder into the top bunk, where canvas straps are all that prevent sleeping bodies crashing to the floor while the train shunts, shuffles and bumps throughout the night.

The Rotter enjoying my horror

Stunned with fear, I obediently followed the dinner gong and we sat down to a 3 course meal at 3.15 am. Fate rewarded gobsmacked silence, however. On returning, we discovered that Compartment D was empty, so sliding back the interleading door doubled our space and provided 2 lower bunks. Relief!

It has to be said - sleeping on a train is the best night's rest ever.  The swaying motion and monotonous 'clickety clack' did the trick so well, we kept sliding into dreamland throughout the following, protracted day. 

Yes, of course.  The 15 hour scheduled journey expanded like yeasty bread dough into 21 hours, and we finally chugged into Mombasa station at midnight.

It wasn't all Train of Horror, though. We met interesting travellers and shared war stories.  We slept exceptionally well.  We dined off East Africa Rail and Harbour motifed plates which must be 50 years old. We laughed about pretty much everything and ticked another experience box.

And of course, we added one more story to the trunk!