Jumbo Maroela Mambo

This blog doesn’t have a story, in fact, nothing  happened so if you've tuned in for an adventurous tale, it may be time to move on to a more action-filled blog.

No, this is a rumination about what might have happened, and the extraordinary account that might have been if expectations had come to fruition.

I left the check in administration to Him Outdoors when we arrived at the Kruger National Park’s Malelane gate yesterday, thereby missing a kernel of information passed on by the friendly lady at reception.  He charily chose his moment to share it, flicking the top off a chilled cider.

“The camp fence is down,” he tentatively offered, “the elephants are coming in at night.”

I’m not sure what reception he imagined he’d get to that, but “kewl!” was probably not it!  A large tonnage of ellie family perambulating around our 5 sleeper (made in China) tent which barely fits the two of us while we slept – this is going to be a campfire tale that’ll keep audiences entranced for years to come.

Beautiful Maroela tree

Oh the decisions – do I keep the camera at hand to record the moment?  Would the flash enrage a bull inebriated on ripened maroela fruit?

Considerable time was spent carefully selected the perfect tent site  -  flat, under a tree, close to the power point, against the fence and with my contribution – NEXT to one of the two flattened  areas of fence, but NOT on the path between the broken fence and the maroela trees.  I want an adventure but I’m not stupid enough to place our bodies midway between the newly created unofficial entrance for an elephant mob eager to get to the cocktail tree and the bar itself.

Let the record reflect that the camp was empty but for us and another couple – so choosing a site next to a hotspot with at least 15 safer alternatives available - was a considered choice.

Issuing strict instructions that I was to be woken at the slightest noise, we turned in.  This was an important detail -  on a once in a lifetime Serengeti trip I slept oblivious through giraffe browsing next to our tent, hyena’s and jackal and heaven knows what else stomping about the camp, making a racket that woke up all except me.  The next morning I felt as though I was left out of a game drive, the way the others were comparing notes on what they’d heard.

A regular job, apparently - fence repair

Sadly, (and I did warn you) the jumbo’s elected not to drink at Malelane pub last night.  Perhaps the heavy rain put them off or our eager vibes transmitted themselves to the herd.  The section ranger and his crew arriving to repair the fence this morning were quite startled to be greeted by a pyjama clad woman requesting the repairs be delayed a day or two, leaving the fence down to welcome the night visitors.

The yummy ellie treats

He said, though, that this happens every year.  Despite a park filled with maroela trees the elephants trash the fence to get at the 5 or 6 trees inside the camp.  Sounds remarkably like forbidden fruit and defiant children to me.

The Hidden Food Gardens of White River

Tackling a new route on my Sunday morning stomp around the village unveiled a startling and heartwarming food market operating under the radar here.

The wetland filled bird sanctuary has long been home to some local vegetable farming. I've never seen much happen there, but what was revealed behind the untidy dense grass of the open land just outside of the shopping precinct was astonishing.

Our town is home to many unkempt public spaces and 'parks' which council completely ignores and doesn't maintain at all.  Scruffy overgrown grasses, shrubs, weeds and alien plants grow ever higher and present a poor town image to say the least.  

Hurtling past in a car it's impossible to see what lies beyond the bedraggled edges which serve as catcher's mitts for litter tossed by pedestrians and from passing vehicles and give no indication of the brilliant gardening and commerce concealed within.

Would you think a thriving enterprise lies beyond the curb?

To be honest, if I hadn't noticed the passerby call out as I walked by I wouldn't have seen the gogo hidden in the green. Even then, it meant nothing to me.  But returning few minutes later, I noticed the passerby taking a bag of vegetables from gogo and handing over some money.  The penny dropped.

That straggly, overgrown green belt was more than a patch of council neglect - an enterprising old lady had painstakingly cleared some ground and planted mealies, pumpkins and sweet potatoes, which she sells to passers by.  Simply brilliant.

Secret Food Garden

 

I went back that afternoon to photograph this little gem and speak to gogo, eager to find out her story.  Who is she?  How many people does she support? When did she start this venture?  Sadly, though, she'd gone, her day's business finished.

But while I drove around, comparing and photographing patches of open land, I discovered two more hidden food gardens, and couldn't help beaming in delight.  

Deprived and neglected by a previous government, gogo has been failed again by the current one.  Social grants unable to fill the yawning chasm of survival costs, and the possibility that she is raising aids-orphaned grandchildren, gogo has squared her shoulders, picked up her hoe and just got on with looking after her own with her food garden.

Don't pity her - instead feel awe and inspiration at her strength.  Not for her the pathetic sitting back, hand outstretched, waiting for someone else to fill her cup.  And her hard work provides residents with fresh, organic, seasonal and local food in a way that supermarket chains can't.  

It was interesting to note how other residents were dealing with the messy open space across the road.  Indian shot (Canna indica) may look pretty, but is an invasive Category 1 alien from the Caribbean, acknowledged to be a problem in Mpumalanga.  Good choice!

Yes, it looks neat and orderly and rightly the homeowners have taken ownership of the council neglect and are making an effort.  But invasive aliens?  Why not plant a pavement food garden, signposted for people to help themselves, like a Parkmore resident has done?  She got national press coverage for her efforts and has proved it is sustainable.

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  The residents living across from this open land have planted category 1 aliens to 'beautify' the area

  Viva Gogo!

Supermarket Driving Rules

A quick pop into Woolies Sandton on Saturday to pick up a sandwich and a bottle of water turned into 17 minutes of coronary-inducing tensioned despair.

Sure, it’s early November.  Only one more pay cheque before Christmas and the hordes are out in force, eyes wide and glistening, their tails wagging as they fall prey to the Machiavellian marketing ploys of savvy retailers.

With 7 ½ weeks still to go the store is Yule infused floor to ceiling from the door all the way to the food department at the rear, where the Christmas machine rises to dizzy heights.  Subtly placed in front of and surrounding the food hall entrance, racks and shelves sparkle with shapes and textures in hues of silver, red, green and gilt.  Yes, I carefully selected that word, playing on the shiny gold colour which retailers deem essential seasonal decor and mixing it with how we feel pre- and post Christmas.

This descriptive detail is just to set a mind picture for you, reader.  The poor goons who passed the portal into the food hall were psychologically switched onto silly season, and perhaps this blew the circuit breaker on their usual common sense and courtesy motherboards.

Why else would a rather large mother and daughter duo halt midway through the entrance and lean on their trolley to chat inanely about what they were going to do after they’d left the store?  Meanwhile, at least eight people and an assortment of baskets and trolleys were stalled, desperately seeking a small gap to pass through and begin the hell of busy Saturday grocery shopping.

It went downhill from there until I escaped clutching my items, perspiring, heart racing and ready to switch religious faiths to any one which doesn’t celebrate this insanity.  And this is weeks before I think about getting my Christmas act together – usually I’m a good way into seasonal shopping, wrapping and planning before I decide that the whole thing is for nutcases and completely over the top, seeking solace in wine, chocolate and a good dose of Ebenezer Scrooge, sensible man.

However, in my ongoing quest to provide answers alongside my whinges, I’ve devised a solution to the appalling pedestrian trolley antics witnessed on Saturday.  In fact, the solution is so simple it should become common usage in all supermarkets throughout the year.

1.       A small section of the car park is set aside for trolley driving tests.  Shoppers have to demonstrate that they can handle a trolley and earn a trolley license.  This is a one-off test (unless you lose your license due to bad driving at a later stage) and the credit card-like license is swiped to unlock a trolley as you enter the supermarket.  The cards can be used at any chain and any branch.

2.       Trolley /pedestrian traffic moves left to right, so as you enter with your trolley, you turn left and commence a slow, steady perambulation up and down each aisle, picking your items of the shelf as you pass.  A one way system comes into play here.

3.       Shoppers must have a hand on their trolley at all times.  If you need to leave the trolley and reach something, you neatly park it parallel to the left shelf, fetch your item then return swiftly and move on.

4.       Should you decide, due to aisle congestion, that you don’t need to enter an aisle with your trolley, you may park it in one of the designated parking bays at the end of the aisle.  Stay within the lines please.

5.       When you get to the till and realise as your last item is rung up that you have forgotten something or want to change an item, ignore the impulse to dash off back into the fray, telling the cashier that you’ll be back in a second.  You won’t, and the rest of us will be devising hideous torture and disfigurement for you.  No, you hang in there, sweetheart.  Pay for what you’ve got, park your trolley on the other side of the check out and run back into the supermarket to pick up the errant items.  You forgot it, don’t make it my problem and force me to glare at the stalled check out crew while you complete your shopping.

6.       Husbands and children – fabulous that you’ve got someone willing to tackle the grocery shop with you.  Now send him and the brats outside to window shop, spend a fortune at the arcade or read story books at Exclusive.  The supermarket aisle is no place for family meetings and discussions on products.  Be brave, have only one shopping decision maker.  Truly, it’ll save hours and others’ blood pressure.  As for that thing you do, parking the trolley at a 45° angle across the aisle, whilst you and hubby block whatever space is left and chat, leaving the kids to meander around in front of other shoppers – do you do that on the road?  No, didn’t think so. 

7.       In fact, following the rules of the road is pretty good advice for cruising the supermarket aisles as well.  Keep left, indicate when turning or stopping, park your vehicle(and your body)out of the way of other traffic, and be courteous at all times. Simple.

Happy Christmas shopping to one and all.

Globally Warmed in Tete

Blimey, it's blistering hot today.  Well, to be honest, we've sweltered and schweated since Thursday but today I went to the trusty Norwegian weather site to check the temp - 42 deg C.  Dropping to a low of 40 by 23h00 later. Oh joy. 

One really should listen to one's more experienced mates.  The shocked, sympathetic faces in August when I revealed my October return trip. "October?  You're coming in October?  That's the worst time to be here!" before advising that they were making plans to hightail it outta town this month. And they have - Mauritius, Harare, South Africa...anywhere but here.

Fortunately a heavy workload has kept me desk chained in an air conditioned office, and I'm wondering if, having come so far, I can conduct telephonic interviews instead of travelling 10 kilometres into town.  That involves walking 50 metres or so outside, travelling from cool office to refrigerated car and really, that's to be avoided at all costs. 

At times like this I think of my schoolmate Sandy, living in Doha.  She often posts the temperatures she staggers under, and let me tell you, she wins hands down.  But when you choose to live in the desert, you get what's coming.  Everybody knows that deserts are hot, and at least she has wonderful restaurants and a choice of souks to trawl through.  So sorry, Sandy, no sympathy for you today.

The heat here is dry, you can feel your skin shrivelling and shrinking as soon as sunlight strikes it.  Yesterday my eyeballs, behind sunglasses, burned.  Not that scratchy irritation feeling, they burned as in the air was so hot, it punished the vulnerable bits it found.

There's that involuntary gasp from everyone as they enter or exit a building - relief on the in and shock on the out. On Thursday, my neck and shoulders were sunburnt from 4 or 5 trips between unit and office during the day - a distance of about 100 metres a trip.  What SPF factor can counter that few minutes exposure? Should I follow the elephants and have a riverbank wallow, donning a protective mud coat?

The curtains and blinds are now firmly closed during the day meaning that we live indoors and in the dark!  (Is this what they mean by darkest Africa?) because at 10h30 this morning the glass sliding door was hot. Not warm, hot. It faces south and gets no direct sunlight at all, yet it burned to the touch, and was allowing heat in. Don't be fooled, glass is a fabulous conductor of heat!

We persevered with a candlelight dinner outside last night, panting because even at 21h00, there was no relief from the heat - it felt as hot as it had at midday.  Good news is that the swimming pool is finished and filled, but believe it or not, the very last thing one wants to do is jump into it while the sun is shining - staying out of those piercing rays is our daily goal. So a roof over the pool is  planned -  bizarre!

I can quite understand those cave towns in Australia but that wouldn't work here.  We drove off road on Sunday, bundu bashing in search of a waterfall (which eluded us) but did stumble across some local mining activity and were totally enthralled by the seams of coal glistening just a shovel depth below surface. The banks above the road, excavated by the diggers, were layered like a Black Forest gateau cake; dark soil above coal above soil and so on down many metres.  If we created an underground home here, we'd be practising for the shovelling we're bound to be doing in the hereafter, getting hotter the deeper we plunged.

The very thought of planet temperatures raising 2 degrees makes me whimper. Please Sir, instead of global warming in Tete, may I request an ice-age instead? At least then the days of tepid gin & tonics will be over.  I'm rather tired of the ice melting faster than the drink slides down my throat.

Roadtripping Essentials in Mozambique

A weekend at an eco lodge in Caia, Mozambique exploring uncharted territory was irresistible to friend Gigi, husband Alan and me.  Experience taught us to pack extra fuel, water, padkos and pillows for soon-to-be-aching backs… and Gigi’s Garmin, a toy we hadn’t yet played with.

I’m sure our travelling routine is familiar to other couples.   The Y chromosome climbs behind the wheel, double X is in charge of refreshments and music.   The devil, in this instance, lies not in the detail but in the navigation.

In the first third of the journey, double X is asked for directions, which, super organised, she has on hand.  Mid-third, tension arises and smiley happy journey vibes change to vicious death stares, searing accusations and a stony silence as Y snatches the directions from double X.  We finally arrive.

Commencing the journey home, I announced that I’d refrain from proffering directions unless the driver asked.  To pass the hours I morphed into a Generation X-er, exploring the Garmin.  

The arrival time changed abruptly from 19h01 to 22h57.  Unease set in.  Switching on and off, resetting and shaking all produced the same answer.  Plan B - the navigation tool on Y’s smart phone?   No signal in the middle-of-nowhere.   Gigi’s advice “switch the satnav off, it doesn’t know these Mozambique roads” was heeded.

Eventually we entered an attractive little town.  Barbecue fires filled the air with a smoky tang, dogs sprawled in the road and music blasted from every house.  Suddenly, a ‘phwoar’ noise whooshed through the cab.  “Blow out?” Gigi asked.   Indeed.  The right front tyre was neatly sliced and we were officially halted.

Gigi and I were dispatched to hunt down an icy 2M beer for the wheel changer.  Late afternoon light bathing the charming community, we paused to watch the Sunday afternoon soccer match, taken aback by children sidling up to us, snapping photographs on their phones and rushing away, giggling.  Obviously, we were a novelty here.  Something wasn’t gelling, though.  Every commercial building was named Chemba something or other and we surmised (correctly) that was the town’s name– one not on our route.  

It was the sight of the majestic Zambezi, molten bronze under the fast setting sun that finally clanged the penny into our empty brainboxes.  This was definitely new territory – we were lost.

Rushing back to the car, finding first our glasses then the map, it was confirmed.  Hopelessly off track, we’d navigated almost a full circle and after five hours travelling we were closer to Caia than to Tete.

But here’s where the wonder of African travel kicked in.  English was not the lingua franca and our pidgin Portuguese wasn’t getting us anywhere.  An enthusiastic crowd of ‘helpers’ recruited the school teacher to translate and within an hour the flat spare tyre was taken (with Alan) on the back of a bicycle to the repair shop and returned.  With the wheel changed, we drove to the repair shop where the proprietor spent several hours finding and fitting a tyre to replace the slashed one. 

Meanwhile, we inspected the choice of two accommodation establishments and plumped for the one offering an en suite with the double room, agreeing to share the bathroom with Gigi.

After ordering food and wine from the bar across the road, we realised that the ‘en suite’ was a toilet with no cistern, alongside a bucket of water to be used for washing and to pour into the toilet bowl.  Emptying our cases of towels and sarongs, we laid them on top of the sheets and retired to the ledge in front of our rooms, perching on newspaper and dousing ourselves with mosquito repellent. 

Congratulating ourselves on remaining calm and our good fortune in being stranded in such relative comfort, another penny clattered into our boxes – the Reubenesque lady staying in the room next door was receiving a number of gentlemen visitors for short periods of time. 

Before the food - grilled chicken, rice and salad – was served, two waiters arrived with a jug and bowl and juggling soap and towel, they poured warm water over our grubby hands.  The simple dignity and courtesy of the act blew our minds.

Long before daylight we were on our way, desperate for coffee and a shower.  But the fabled African road trip hadn’t finished with us yet.  Within the hour, a pop and a hiss brought us to another halt.  Wearily, we checked the tyres – all good.  Finally, the cause was discovered – a blown turbo charger hose.  Much searching of luggage produced some cord and roadside repairs were made.

It was many hours later before we limped into Tete, thoroughly fed up but at the same time marvelling at how, in Africa, kindness, hospitality and solutions are found in the most unlikely of places.

Living the Vida Louca in Tete

The crazy life – or vida louca in Portuguese, pretty much sums up how we live in this town of opportunity, north (or south, or east) of the borders of where we call home. 

Tell people you are heading off to live in Tete and they’ll gasp in horror, saying you’re crazy.  An interesting observation from people who usually haven’t visited themselves, but perhaps they aren’t too far off the mark – there is plenty here to make you crazy, if you weren’t already so when you arrived. 

Collar a veteran ex-pat, and they’ll regale you with toe-curling stories of no shops, no roads, no restaurants, no supplies, no electricity, no potable water, no English…and then tell you how easy ‘you new un’s’ have it.  Still, here’s the list of crazy-making daily challenges we face.

Dust.  Wafting and curling its way through window cracks and under doors.  Softly layered onto every horizontal surface, clinging to your hair, creeping between your keyboard keys, hazing the screen, sucked up by the fan and forcing your computer to run slower and slower until eventually it spits and splutters out of life.

Reverse hazard beepers – a safety measure the mines insist on: their continual screeching drills inside your brain, making your teeth ache.  Why, oh why, can’t someone invent an on/off switch for them, so that they can be switched off when they leave the mine and use the vehicles in the suburbs and town?  As an early morning wake up call, the neighbour’s rooster can be dealt with (piri piri chicken) but land mining his driveway would be frowned upon.

The leisurely processing at retail pay points, and, if you are unlucky enough to require a factore, waiting for the painstakingly handwritten itemized listing of the entire contents of your grocery trolley.  After you’ve already received a till slip and paid for them.  Sigh.

Ordering food immediately when walking into a restaurant, and arriving well before we plan to eat.  I don’t know what I’ll want to eat in an hour’s time, but I do know that stirring hunger pangs are not the time to call for a menu.

Road traffic and obstacles of all kinds – cars, trucks, bicycles, motorbikes, pedestrians, taxi’s, goats and cows, tractors, potholes, subsided road shoulders - hazards fly at you from 360° and dare I mention the officials stalking the byways...

Just a few of the things testing us as we live the vida louca in Tete.  

WHAT LIES BENEATH

For all the turbulence surrounding the coal mines, international companies, local politics and mining in general here in Tete, until now there has been very little sign of the actual resource that’s caused all the trouble.

Imposing company signage for "Tayanna" overwhelming the smaller sign for "Minas Moatise" stood adjacent to a few small piles of black dust surrounded by some machinery, neatly placed next to the main road between Tete and Moatize.  We passed it several times before I thought to ask that was all about, and was told that I was gazing at a coal mine – I’d thought they were a road construction camp!  So much for visions of headgear and an impressive mine infrastructure.

There are many stories of people struggling to establish gardens, as the coal lies less than a spade depth below the surface.  Its proximity causes tremendous surface heat, killing plants even if you can dig down deep enough to plant them.  This resource, which has global industry sitting up and panting, literally just lies in the streets.  As for large mining houses and set ups of the sort we’re used to on the Witwatersrand, not a bit of it.   Just some signage announcing the mining companies, with a few branded cars and bakkies parked next to small office buildings, very little else to show.

But things are changing.  On the surface, Tete is slowing down.  People are packing up and moving on and there’s a glut of rental houses on the market at prices much lower than they were. The community notice board is filled with posts advertising cars and household contents for sale.

At the same time, the range of general items we take for granted in less out-posted places has exploded and (ignore the cost – rule one of international travel, DO NOT CONVERT TO ZAR!)  – Provita, beauty and hair salons, bath towels and stationery are quite easily come across now.  Don’t shriek with laughter at how excited I was to find sponge scourers for washing up - persuading Elita to keep it intact and not remove the scourer side attached to the sponge is another matter.  Decent coffee, tea light candles, clothes pegs…the list goes on.

 Since my last visit two lovely new restaurants have opened up; we now enjoy superb Indian cuisine from the little place across the bridge in Tete town and the sundowners on the deck at Agua do Coco in Moatize are fabulous.  Pizza from Chingale beats any we’ve eaten in White River hands down.  The wizened Italian proprietor, who doesn’t speak a word of English but always visits our table to ‘chat’ and nod, leaves us a little uneasy – we’ve seen too many godfather / mafia movies, I think, but there is definitely a whiff of the Italian underworld about him.  So life here is getting easier especially as we are still in the cool season and the temperature remains in the low 30 degrees C.

But comfort living and consumer goods are not the only changes in town – the mountain of coal heaped at  Minas Moatize now is staggering.  Huge boulders of the black rock gleam out of the pile which is taller than a double storey house.  The number of processing conveyers has multiplied and the activity level bustles positively.  And this is a minnow compared to the mammoth global mining conglomerates up the road.

Earlier this week I was transfixed by the sight of a passing train.  Freight car after car loaded with coal clattered past for many long minutes. The railway woes keeping the ‘bullion’ hostage in Moatize for the past year appear to be clearing and the business of mining and exporting coal is picking up.

I’m not sure why the sight of that train so stirred me.  Coal is, after all, the underlying reason for the frenetic development of the region and why we are all here.  Why should a noisy steel monster bearing piles of black energy cause any wonder?  After some pensive thought, I realize that the growing mountains of coal and the rattling railway cars herald change.  The town is moving forward, the time of pioneering derring-do has passed and everything is growing up –transforming into and establishing adult status.