Travelling Heavy

Today, Freedom Day, is a most inappropriate occasion for a rant, especially because if I had my way in this matter, people's freedom to drag copious amounts of large sized luggage on board a short flight would be rescinded!

Last week I embarked on a short (90 minute) domestic flight, on a 737-800, packed to capacity with 189 passengers.  Seated in 1C, the first aisle seat on the plane was strategic for a quick disembark later.  Knowing that I didn't have to fight my way along the aisle to my seat, I delayed boarding until the plane was about 50% boarded.

Wow, what a shock to step through the main door and halt for several minutes, unable to reach the very first seat on the plane - a mouse couldn't have squeezed down the overburdened aisle stacked to the gills with passengers trying desperately to stow unwieldy items into the bulging overhead bins.  And another 90 or so pax still to join the fray!

Really guys, it's 90 minutes.  The weather at both ends was fine, so no heavy outer garments were cluttering up the space.  All you need close to hand - a book or whatever your preferred form of onboard entertainment, your wallet for the snack service and a friendly attitude.  Everything else (valuables, laptop and cameras excepted) could be safely checked in and collected less than two hours later.

The large, dreadlocked middle-aged dude in the middle seat next to me, very put out to discover the aisle seat he'd claimed as his own was actually mine, needed FOUR trips up and down that stagnant passage to find niches for his extended hand luggage.  The chaos caused by this repeated traverse was mindboggling, and my eyes, level with the luggage piling on board as the rest of the mutts climbed on, popped open wider and wider.

According to the regulations, hand luggage is limited to one piece each (+ a handbag for ladies, goodie for us) of a restricted size.  I watched HANDBAGS bigger than the regulated carry on bag dimensions lugged past me.  Every single passenger had a minimum of two pieces, and very few of the pieces were less than a roll on bag size.

The overhead bins couldn't cope; the pilot repeatedly requested people find their seats and strap in so that we could leave; the poor cabin crew, squashed between seats, irritated standing people and mountains of baggage, were taking pieces off people and handing them overhead to ground crew to put into the hold.

Yes, we left and arrived late, solely due to the selfish idiocy of the passengers. Besides the 'I couldn't give a damn about what they say, I don't want to check my bag in and have to wait for it on arrival' arrogance, what about the inconvenience to your fellow travellers?  And safety?

Guys, those limits are there for a reason and I object to your endangering my life so you can step off and go hell for leather to the terminal exit rather than hang around the carousel. It would really screw my day up to crash land, so please please please can you act like a responsible, considerate adult and think of the well being of the larger body of passengers rather than solely your own?

The airlines deserve a severe smack on the chops as well.  You make the rules, damn well enforce them.  On the ground.  At check in.  It's unfair and impractical to leave controlling hand luggage to the minimally staffed cabin crew minutes before take off.

We're A Tough Lot in Africa

“Africa is not for sissies”, “ ‘n Boek maak ‘n plan” and my new personal favourite “In America it’s called survivor, in Africa we call it camping.”

Gotta love the gungho arrogance of South Africans but in truth, there is an underlying ring of veracity to these oft quoted axioms and T shirt graffiti.  We love our bakkies (utility vehicles, to foreign readers) tough; no self respecting vehicle brand would dream of marketing their double cab as anything less than a vehicle which can climb mountains and ford the deepest rivers.  I heard of someone who left her double cab somewhat lower on a Mozambican beach than she should have, returning to see her Toyota’s remarkable island impression with the Indian Ocean at full high tide lapping at the windows.  And yes, she drove it home once the tide had turned.

Bolstered by our bravado and indestructible vehicles, Saffers can take on the world but is it all about human steel and grit?  Two recent trips to the Kruger National Park demonstrated how resilient nature in this part of the world is too.  Strangled by the devastating drought, the landscape in the south eastern part of Kruger was nothing less than a wasteland of such bleakness it was the perfect set for a nuclear holocaust movie.  Red earth, the scattered remains of bleached carcasses, blighted and blackened trees reaching towards the white hot sky in supplication with the mighty Crocodile River reduced to a string of puddles in a broad swathe of glinting sand too searing to look at.

Less than four months and buckets of rain later, this area is a different realm.  Every causeway crosses water, the bridges span busy rivers and 50 (or more) shades of green envelope tar and gravel roads.

But it’s the animals that really take the biscuit.  Their absolute delight in having water to spare is enchanting.  Family groups of ellies stand belly deep in the rivers, splashing and squirting with abandon.  A chorus of contented rumbling carries across to the audience, continuing as the herds emerge onto the bank and follow the wash with an intense body dusting of sand.  Such bliss.

And I swear I could hear giggles from three zebra up to their knees in a small pool, gulping greedily then flicking their noses and hooves to share their watery joy in a shower of rainbows.

There’s not much between the tip of Africa and the frozen Antarctic landmass so perhaps Mother Nature works extra hard here to ensure our environment recuperates from severe climate damage but the intensity and speed of this turnaround is staggering.  Nature’s recovery from a seemingly dead and buried landscape to one of abundance and happiness is proof of the astounding toughness of Africa.

No sissies here.   

This was published on the backpage of Skyways magazine, April 2017.

Magic Mirrors

It's always interesting to catch a glimpse of what Him Outdoors thinks makes a woman happy.  Bless him, he's a special soul but sometimes the only thing to do is to shake my head and reach for the wine.

I recently went to visit him at his temporary headquarters, a rather basic little cottage.  He disappeared early on day 1, reappearing bearing a proud grin and a mirror.  "This will make it more homely and comfortable for you" he explained his capture.  Really?  We don't have an abundance of mirrors at home and nothing full length at that but still, his heart was in the right place.

Naturally, the job got as far as hunting down the prize, installation is for another month.  Or year.  So the mirror remains leaning where it was set down two weeks ago.

It took a few days before I took any note of what the mirror was reflecting and needed a double take.  Who did that skinny image belong to?  Most certainly, not me in my anytime body, let alone the post holiday one.

But every glance stubbornly revealed a most attractive slender figure and despite myself, I believed it.  I strode out each morning feeling on top of the world, several inches taller and ready to take on anything the day could throw at me. The change in demeanor and confidence was remarkable - I was Hercules, Claudia Schiffer and Maggie Thatcher all in one. Splendid!

Needless to say, to an inveterate over-analyser, the matter couldn't stay there. An old blog I wrote several years ago, Through the Looking Glass of a Friend's Eyes, https://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1547294594687469261#editor/target=post;postID=4687494867563818917;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=15;src=postname, swooped in for a lengthy internal debate.

It's always puzzled me that our self images and the way we are viewed by our friends are so far apart.  After all, we check ourselves out and have a clear picture in our heads of what we look like, so why my besties (bright, visually unimpaired women) can't see my awful legs and wobbly tum is peculiar. 

Perhaps the answer lies in the mirrors we install.  If one mirror can so obviously reflect a different image to the one I'm used to, who is to say the regular looking glass is right?  What if by some wicked twist of fate, mirror manufacturers have got it wrong?  And millions of women are tormented by a picture of themselves which isn't true?

So much for wishful thinking but lets turn this issue on it's head.  What if every single mirror ever produced had to under-reflect and remove inches, like Him Outdoor's magic one?

Would the diet, fashion, women's mag, cosmetic treatments and surgeries go out of business?  Would the fastest growth industries in the world be those which enable women to be the strongest, fastest, most capable, confident versions of themselves, leading richly fulfilling lives not dependent upon self esteem and feeling good about themselves?  Would world economies be led by women and wars be a thing of the past?

After all, women are more than capable of running the world and if a group of 2X-ers gathered around a table to discuss human rights, trade and industry, the environment, national boundaries, oil and whatever else happens in the global power echelons, I'm confident that time, money, energy and lives wouldn't be squandered in power struggles, egos and the like.

Ask your average working mother how efficiently she manages a workload equaling 48 hours in less than 24, and gets up to do it all again the next day.

The Magic Mirror - never mind removing inches, I've lost a couple of feet from my hips!

Updating Proverbs

An antique uncle gave pause for thought in his response to news of a family disappointment.  “Poor old Rob,” he said. “As one door closes, another slams shut.”

I had to read that twice, then guffawed aloud.  Seriously, who expected a bit of millennium cynicism from an 80 year old?  But what fun to rewrite old saws for modern living and I immediately set to work.

First to go is ‘it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’  What sort of an oxymoron is that?  Duh, of course an ill wind blows misfortune.  How much better is ‘an ill wind blows the stench of uncollected trash your way’?

‘There’s a lid for every pot’ was my well meaning father’s assurance after my divorce.  Frankly, ‘there’s a handyman listed in the Yellow Pages’ is far more useful.

‘Tomorrow’s another day’.  Err, yes.  But how that wipes out today’s crisis / humiliation / disaster I don’t know.  ‘Tomorrow nothing will be different, you’ll continue batting away at the same old drama’ may be less soothing but more realistic.

‘Good things come to those who wait’ must be a South African classic. Because after several hours in the vehicle license renewal queue you reach the desk only to be slapped with a hefty bill for traffic fines you weren’t expecting.  Damn those sneaky cameras. ‘Big surprises come to those who queue’ is much more likely.

‘When the going gets tough, the tough get going’.  This is Africa, what tough going?  We have 4x4’s for that. ‘When the going gets tough, put the Hilux into low range’ or ‘Avoiding potholes is for sissies’ are perfect bumper sticker slogans.

‘Fortune favours the bold’ sounds like a sales pitch motto for the Lotto.  ‘Boldly fling enough money at buying Lotto tickets you’ll increase your chances’ is a life lesson in statistics.  

‘A little learning is a dangerous thing’ – try explaining that to the keyboard warriors on Facebook and Twitter.  They are the lie behind ‘Ignorance is bliss’ – raging anger rather than bliss boosts screeds of ignorance spewed into the ether.  Perhaps a Buddhist author could write a best seller - Zen and the Keyboard Warrior and bring some calm to social media.

You can, apparently, lead a horse to water but forcing him to drink is impossible, proving that it’s all in the offering, darling.  I can lead a posse of girlfriends to water and they’ll immediately add scotch and down it.

Some of these proverbs date back nearly 2000 years, surely it's time to retire them and develop more pertinent maxims?  They've certainly outlived their reference and relevance.

Something Fishy

I covered a traumatic cat trip to the vets in an earlier blog and I regret to say that time hasn’t soothed the feline’s reaction to travel – they loathe it.  Loudly.

Current circumstances dictate weekly short trips by car for them and honestly, you’d think they were being racked or squeezed and spiked in a medieval iron maiden.  Seriously, these cats have taken complaints to a whole new (voiciferous) level.

Him Outdoors, always so cavalier about managing these things ( which could have something to do with the fact that he never has to!) volunteered to take over their temporary homing.  Involving a four hour car journey for them.

Taking pity on him (actually, in a preservation move to save their lives, cos if they start their chorus with him it’s likely they’ll be abandoned on the side of the road) I trundle off to the vet (sans cats) to discuss sedation and best tactics for a less traumatic journey.  The holistic vet suggests a more natural approach to deliver calm and reduce angst – a salmon flavoured gel pumped onto their food or rubbed on the back of their paws.  At a price equal to a long distance bus ticket, of course, but any port in a storm.

You would think that a cuddle, tickle and paw rub, delivering salmon flavoured goop onto their limbs would delight and please them.  Not so.  Speckle learned to disappear the minute the pump appeared while podgy Anushka, less nimble on her feet, developed an amazing knack for drawing her paws into her body with an iron grip.  Still, enough was wiped onto their fur (and my lap) to hopefully make a difference and they did seem to collapse into a lazy heap and doze more deeply afterwards. 

So much for the practice runs, now for the real deal.  Pump, wipe, drop into the cat carriers.  All good so far, they stare dopily through the mesh.  Place in car, close door and start engine.

“Yooooooowwwwwllll” came from the back seat.  “Meeeeeeeeeooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww” yodelled the carrier next to me.  In a series of unearthly howls we travelled two kilometres.  Once released into their new lodgings, they crawled under the bed and snoozed the day away, exhausted.

Result?  Yes, I’d say so.  If I want the cats to sleep deeply on the couch, this is the remedy.  If the goal is transporting them, the only solution appears to be a brick to the back of the head.

   

Statute of Limitations

Faced with a medical history form to complete, inevitably I chew the end of my pen in some state of perplexion. (Yup, another word invented for my personal lexicon).

The questions are directed towards 'yes or no' responses, and many of them seem rather obsolete.  For instance 'Have you ever had any major surgery / operations?' Yes. But a removed gall bladder (33 years ago) and two caesarean sections (26 and 22 years ago respectively) hardly seem critically relevant today. Should the question not read 'Have you ever reacted badly to a general anesthetic?' or 'Have you had an organ removed?' - isn't that the meat of what they really want to know?

Where do long cleared childhood conditions fit in?  My temporal lobe epilepsy was declared treated 40 years ago after a series of normal EEG's.  So how do I answer the question 'Have you ever suffered from Epilepsy or any similar brain disorder?' Couldn't they put a time limit on that, say, 15 years, and rephrase that question 'Have you suffered any incidence of Epilepsy or similar brain disorder in the past 15 years?' 

It's not as though the forms are blessed with oodles of space for awkward handwritten explanations - 'yes I did but it was cured 40 years ago with no further sign of it since.'

Yet, drilled by some Puritanical need to come clean and confess, I religiously scrawl cramped notes with arrows directing the reader from the question to the answer.  Only to have the Dr / Technician glance at the form, ask when the condition ceased, then proceed to ignore the information.

Today, medicated conditions such as ADD and ADHD are all too commonly diagnosed and treated.  With time, many youngsters learn to manage the condition without drugs and continue to lead fully functional lives.  Until one day, needing a medical certificate for the opportunity of a lifetime, they are faced with 'Have you ever been treated for a brain disorder?' and minutes before a blood pressure test they overflow with anxiety and adrenaline.  'Do I answer Yes because I was on Ritalin for a while decades ago?'  A particular conundrum as in this case, Iron Man honesty combined with the reality that a false answer will mean eviction from the project, while admitting to a 'brain disorder' could kibosh taking part at all.

Yup, I realise that a) space is limited and b) the medics need to get the info as fast as possible, there isn't time to read essays, but it seems to me that better phrased questions could elicit monosyllabic answers in a more meaningful, useful way.  

An Unselfish Love

Living life through my kids?  Phah!  They stole my dreams. Long before Number 1 son was wearing long pants, I wanted a spoil vacation at Phinda Private Game Reserve. That's clearly a long term goal, because 20 odd years later I'm still waiting to enter Phinda's portal whereas he's lived there for weeks at a time. 

Being offered his first real flying job was cause for celebration, although his being based at Phinda was kinda freaky. And sending photographs and anecdotes about lionesses and cubs in the hangar and elephants in his garden was downright cruel.

Think about it in terms of someone who wags her tail at the slightest prospect of boarding a plane. That is what he does, EVERY day.  Gaborone, Maun, Victoria Falls, Antananarivo, Pemba, Harare, Windhoek, Vilanculos - Number 1's daily coffee stops.

                          

Number 2 son morphed into a microbiology scientist. Something of a surprise because I had him pegged more hands on with rocks or lizards, even dinosaurs. Yes, he battled to shrug off toddler fascination with feathers, interesting stones, Jurassic Park, reptiles of all shapes and sizes but never in a Mesozoic Era did I visualise him glued to a microscope, pouring over spores, bacteria and horrid little germy things.

How is it possible that he is almost en-route to the Antarctic on a scientific expedition? Well, two expeditions actually.

AND he goes via Chile for the first one so he can add South American stamps to his passport, which is a continent his mater has never stepped foot upon. 

The real miracle is, though, that I'm overwhelmed and completely delighted for both of them. Truth be told, I suspect I'm more excited about their travels and careers than they are. They are both so good at what they do and so totally in their natural space that they don't see how remarkable they and their lives are.  

Every now and then (OK, probably three times a week. At least) I almost pinch myself to make sure this is all real.  There are definitely not 50 shades of envy but I own up to 50 shades of thrill and happiness.  It's so exciting to watch my sons visit the places I've always wanted to but never will.  I lap up the photographs and stories and am on tenterhooks for the Antarctic chapter.

In a dog-eat-dog world where jealousy rules and whatever your colleague and neighbour has or does highlights what you don't, it's rather refreshing to be genuinely excited and delighted for something someone else has and does. 

Especially when it makes the ordinary look extraordinarily mundane, and involves my dreams. 

Parenthood continues to teach important life lessons long after our chicks have fledged.