Taxi, Taxi

Rugby.  The South African male's nirvana which for most of winter keeps them glued to the telly, beer in a vice-like grip while they give the ref, coach and team the benefit of their expert advice naturally (to their great frustration) ignored by the guys playing the game.

Being in the city when the Springboks face France at Ellis Park guaranteed that we'd make a plan to attend the match live, and Him Outdoors decided that the fiendish stadium traffic would best be tackled via the Gautrain.  That was a good call as our memories of post match gridlock are not happy ones.

Clutching Gautrain cards we arrived at Rosebank station and asked to top up the balances to cover the cost from Rosebank to Ellis Park (about 10 kms as the crow flies).  R85 (phew!).  Plus an additional R101 for new cards as ours had expired.  A solid R186 each for a quick train ride - outrageous! Uber here we come.

I'd deleted the Uber app to declog my bulging phone memory so it took a few minutes to reload it.  In which time, Him Outdoors had hailed down a taxi and was beckoning me to hurry up and get in.

Taxi.  Yes, a real live, Oxford Road, 16 seater Toyota Hi Ace special. A battered veteran of the daily crush to move over 1 000 000 South Africans to and from work and shops.  And me dressed like a teddy bear, a bulging Michelin Man figure prepared for freezing stadium conditions.

                                  

In I roll, squeezing into the back seat corner and watching in complete fascination as our R20 is passed forward to the driver and off we stutter.  The taxi was everything you'd expect - the interior light smashed, no panel on the side door, an engine making the choking noise of an overworked espresso machine.  When it was running, of course.  Frequent shudders threw the passengers forward in their seats as stall after stall brought us to a halt.     

                                

The taxi stopped to pick up a glamorous young woman.  Cautiously, she opened the door and stared at the occupants.  "Oh, men only" she said, beginning to step back.  "My wife is with me," piped up HO.  Giving us a level look, she climbed over two empty seats and sat next to us.  As did the lady picked up at the next stop. HO did what he always does and got chatting.  "These guys pay a woman to sit in the taxi, but she works with them," our companion explained."I never get into a taxi full of men, even if there is one woman in the taxi.  It's too dangerous."  A sobering reality check about the dangers on our roads, which don't only come from vehicles. 

"Why is the driver doing that?" I whisper to HO.

"What?"  

"Holding a R100 note at arms length out of the window." 

Within minutes, it became clear.  As we putt-putted up Jan Smuts Avenue, another taxi drew alongside and the passenger handed five R20 notes to our driver in exchange.  Aha, smaller notes required!

This process was repeated as we drove through Hillbrow.  This time we stopped across the road from a fish and chip shop and our driver summoned a passerby to take the R100 note into the shop and get more change.  

"How do we tell the driver where to drop us?" my husband asked his neighbour. 

"You don't," she replied.  "He stops where he wants to."

Indeed.  Within four blocks we were ejected into the middle of a busy intersection.

"Ellis Park is over there, let's walk until we find a metered taxi," suggested HO. Fat chance of that in the lower end of Bree and Smit streets, which were pretty much stationery Hi Ace taxi ranks.

It was quicker and less obstructed to simply walk along on the road because the pavements overflowed with hairdressers, pedestrians, salesmen, on-the-hoof eateries and barbecues, rubbish and displaced cement pavers making the going underfoot tricky.  All we had to negotiate on the tarmac were piles of weird rubbish on the edge of the road - broken chairs, curtains, odd shoes...household type of garbage which we assume came from some of the adjacent abandoned buildings.  

Even at my brisk pace, there was plenty of opportunity to survey the surroundings.  Neatly dressed women lugging shopping bags, one mother impatiently pulling along her little girl, proudly wearing her fairy princess dress over a warm cardigan; an elderly grandfather in his Sunday best jacket and hat, carrying his toddler grandson over a wet morass of garbage and running water. 

All normal, slightly old fashioned Saturday-afternoon-shopping-in-town scenes that large suburban malls have rendered history for most of us.

I loved it.  Every single minute of it.  Decrepit warehouses, showrooms and flats, one dated 1910 and others which looked even older.  In places, renovated buildings stood out proudly, glowing with colourful paint and neat fascias.  The blare of 50 genres of music competing above hooting vehicles and a Babylon of voices.  The whiff of diesel and other less savoury aromas. The people, intent on their business even if it was just relaxing, having a beer or a bite to eat, twitching their hips in tune with the music.  Smiling.  Everyone was smiling. Living in the moment, getting on with Saturday in time honoured tradition.

I'm so glad we didn't take the train.

They Grow So Fast

Living in the sticks does have it's drawbacks but at least we get have the opportunity to get mega excited about teeny little things!

Like, for instance, having a son who, yes, I know I've told you a million times, is a pilot.  Now, our darling little airport only has one commercial airline using it, and yay, No 1 son now flies for that particular lot.  Mostly, he lands, turfs off the pax, loads the next lot on and takes off without getting out of his seat.  But every now and then, he brings the last plane of the day in and flies it out again the next morning, necessitating an overnight stop.

So whoop, whoop, I'm all a'flurry with the prospect of picking him up and going out to dinner.  This is a truly special treat as his birthday is in 3 days time and it's been a while since we've celebrated together.

A series of messages have just floated in from him and I'm howling with laughter.  I spent years telling the boys that my role in their lives was to give them something to whinge about in later years.  Lots and lots of embarrassing moments they will never, never, inflict on their own progeny. (oh yes, they will.  Where's the fun in raising kids if we can't have a laugh at their expense every now and then?)

But this communication takes the cake!

No 1: Last landing at 18h55. If you want to see me looking handsome in uniform.

Me: Hell, yes, before you morph into a pumpkin!

No 1: Flying with the chief today though so will probably say hello but nothing too dramatic.

Me: OK, noted.

No 1: Then I'll see you at the lodge afterwards.  I'll probably get the rental car.

Me: OK

So there you have it, gentle reader.  My son feels the need to warn off his mother - absolutely, definitely NO public displays of affection in front of his Chief Pilot.  In fact, maybe best to adore from afar.

PS, "See me looking handsome in uniform"?!!!!  Did years and hundreds of thousands of ZAR spent on obtaining his pilot's license include ego and arrogance lectures?  There is nothing wrong with his self esteem.  Luckily for him, I know and appreciate his dry sense of humour. He doesn't really believe what he says. Much!

The Value of Research

Who hasn't snorted tea up their nose whilst reading a snippet on what the latest scientific research has uncovered?  Parents of teenagers don't need a laboratory to tell them that teenagers spend more time playing computer games than doing homework.  How many of us are kept awake at night figuring out why a cookie crumbles or how to make the perfect cup of tea?

Karma being what it is, I gave birth to a scientist so have spent many hours listening to his excited chatter about discoveries and expanded knowledge. My cynicism covers a reasonable amount of interest and acknowledgement that all discoveries have a value somewhere along the planetary plane, but I admit to having had a tremble of trepidation at the prospect of sitting through the description of 38 PhD theses at Junior's graduation.

However, I'm delighted to eat my fears and report that these clever scientists rock!  Each and every one has produced a thesis that not only could I understand what they had worked on, I could also see an everyday and immediate use for this valuable research.  Kudos to one and all for tackling solutions to problems such as malaria, cancer, pest control, fish breeding, water pollution, food security, forest governance, water service delivery, rural livelihoods, African horse sickness, computing infrastructure for rural schools, invasive plant control, fish ecology and so on and so forth. 

Returning home, wrapped in a fuzzy warm cloud of feel-good energy, I checked Twitter to catch up with the outside world.  "A 2012 study found that shoppers who use coupons are more relaxed and happier than shoppers who don’t use coupons," screamed an Uber Facts headline, ignoring the fact that we are now in 2017 and this research isn't cutting edge by any means.

Even overlooking the fact that 5 year old research doesn't deserve space on a social media outlet dedicated to breaking news, Uber Facts has ducked my optimistic bubble deep into the witching pond. For the love of all I hold dear, please explain:

1. who on earth thought this was a topic worthy of investigation and how did they get funding?

2. was anyone really surprised by the outcome? After all, it takes time to cut out and present a coupon at check out (tick 'relaxed' for that) and yeah, saving money makes most people happy (second boxed ticked.)

3. as for the non-coupon shoppers, many of whom will be in the queue waiting while a supervisor is called to authorise the coupon, watching their lunch hour minutes tick away, what have they got to be happy about? Firstly, they don't have a coupon and are paying full price. Secondly, for reasons not of their doing, they are condemned to spend an extra few minutes in the supermarket queue.

Having, without expending a fraction of the time, energy or expense no doubt spent on the above study, drawn the identical conclusion, do you think I'm eligible for a subsidy? A generous coupon, perhaps? I'm always happy to put my hand up and help science, particularly if a study grant is in the offing.

After all, I'm the woman who housed glass jars containing dead insects for her offspring's entomology projects in her freezer. Funny how he hasn't remembered this now that he has a bursary. I'm sure I'm due some rent...

96 Billion to 1

This week's blog is neither a rant nor a funny, so if you tuned in to either raise or lower your blood pressure I'm afraid this isn't the space for that today.

Instead of providing a chuckle, I need to unravel a mystery triggered by a skincare advert I saw on the telly last night.

Scientists employed by one of the globe's largest skincare and cosmetic companies (I honestly can't remember which one, it could have been LÓreal but it doesn't matter, the only difference between one brand and the other in terms of advertising is the name and livery) have made another amazing breakthrough and voila, user trials prove that "78% of women saw a difference" after slapping this stuff on their faces.  

Yawn.  "So what?" you ask "Your point is?"

My point is the small print insisted by consumer bodies and advertising standards boards. By law, these multi billion $ giants have to reveal their sample size and there it was, tucked away at the bottom of the screen. In this particular case, 44 women were sampled.

Read that again.  FORTY FOUR, out of a possible 3.5 billion women on the planet.  

Google tells me that the worth of the cosmetics and skincare industry is projected to reach $675 billion in 2017.  My rusty maths turns that into a spend of $96 billion per PERSON on planet Earth.  Phew!

An industry that gigantic uses state of the art laboratories and top scientists and specialists, spending millions of dollars in their research race to produce the holy grail - eternal youth.  Well, at least until you pop your clogs cos immortality hasn't been cracked yet.  But the drive to be the youngest looking corpse is worth $675 billion and the big guns want the lion's share of that boodle.

Yet they have so little faith in their own product that they test on a minuscule sample of potential customers?  We have school classes bigger than that sample!  The average McDonalds, a take away restaurant, can seat more than 44.  A sample of 44 people has less than no value in proving the efficacy of this goop.

Think of the multi millions spent on the research and development, the packaging and marketing - it's eye-watering.  To shout about what 78% of FORTY FOUR women reported?  Pathetic!

If I was marketing director of any of these industry giants, I'd send the product to the furthest flung, most desolate regions in the world.  Women in the Aussie outback, Sahara desert, jungles of South East Asia and South America and yes, even women scientists in Antarctica, would be trying my cream.  I'd pick women who had never had the opportunity to slap lotion on their faces ever, which is guaranteed to show positive results after a few weeks and give me the statistics I want - 100% improvement.

Of course, that's a suspect figure so I'd round up a group of my brand's most loyal, first world customers and let them at the new miracle cream.  Naturally, as they are using my current miracle worker, I don't expect amazing results from this batch (after all, my product is the best on the market and delivers what my substantial marketing budget promises, right?!) But that's perfect.  If I make this sample less than 10% of my group, that gives me a realistic statistic to report - 90% of 6000 women saw an improvement...

Eagle Eyed Birdies

I've never spent much time (any at all, actually) considering the supposed supersonic eyesight of birds.  'Eagle eyed' and 'birds-eye view' roll effortlessly off the tongue without using a single kilojoule of brain energy considering the factual basis of the idioms.

We do enjoy feeding our feathered garden aviators, however, and installed a smart penthouse feeder well out of cat paw reach. The local feed merchant makes a fortune out of the seed I buy from him because one thing is for sure about birds, when they find an easy source of food they call a friend.  Or several dozen.

You can tell when my mind is having an 'off this planet' moment because the things that engage my thoughts at times....  For instance, how do the birds know the pantry is open today?

Picture the scene.  I've been away for several months and the fly-through diner closed.  The diner is a wooden platform with four pillars bearing a roof, so a bird's eye view doesn't come into play here, it's impossible to see from overhead whether the buffet is stocked or not.

Fickle friends as they are, the birds have absconded from our garden during the famine and not a single one is to be seen when I pile a jug of seed onto the table. One thing I did notice is that the price of birdseed has increased by 30% during my absence, so the recipients of this largess had better up their entertainment game accordingly.

Just add oranges then grub's up!

 It took 20 minutes, then first the Bronze Mannikins pulled in en masse,
followed by the African Doves and a Pin Tailed Whydah all in a'flutter.  

How?  How did they know lunch was served?  Do they have a freakish sense of smell to rival a hyena?  Or X-Ray vision like some feathered Superhero?  For months there was nothing on the table and I thought they'd left the 'hood.  Perhaps they left a sentinel to keep a lookout for the feast?

It's a mystery to me and I hope that some knowledgeable twitcher can enlighten me.  

20 minutes later

In a different vein, but reminded by the 'eagle eye' thing, do you remember your child's first 'dirty' joke?  We all recall where we were when Mandela walked free, Princess Diana died and the Twin Towers sank into dust, and most good parents remember the moments of first teeth, first steps and so on.  I have notes in the baby books to tell me those things, the dates and moments escape me.  Big blush, bad mother.

Being a working mum, the first step moments in our house were witnessed by Francina Twala, beloved second mum to both boys and the person who kept it all together in our home.  I was met at the front door by a beaming face and excited chatter about how No 1, and then No 2, had passed the milestone.  Like all mothers do, I burst into tears but unlike good mothers, my tears weren't about missing those first steps but the twang as yet another apron string was cut.

No, in my upside down motherly role, I remember their first naughty jokes. Is that normal?  No 1 confronted me one evening while I wallowed in a hot bubble bath, clutching a book and a glass of wine.  Oh, for those pre-reading glass days when reading in the bath was possible!  A treat lost indeed.

The joke was about a jungle warrior wounded in battle.  He'd lost an eye, his right arm, his left leg and the appendage men are most concerned with.  The witchdoctor replaced his missing bits with the eye of an eagle, the arm of a gorilla, a cheetah's leg and yes, an elephant's trunk.  Checking progress during the follow up consultation, the warrior reported he could see very, very far, throw his spear very, very far, outrun all his enemies but oh, dear, his trunk kept picking grass and stuffing it up his you-know-where.

Caught between wanting to be a correct mum and enjoying the joke as much as for the acting and accents No 1 adopted in the telling, I roared with laughter and sank deep into the bubbles.   

And that, my friends, is what runs through my head when 'eye of an eagle' is mentioned.  Except now, the 'eye of a Bronze Mannikin' is mystifying me!

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.