Ja. Well. No. Fine.

I'm a pretty organised sort of person. OK, truthfully, I'm EXTREMELY organised. Getting everything in order takes up much of my day and you can bet that when I finally slide 6 foot under, I'll have spent months arranging the smoothest, seamless disposal event possible. 

The dark side of this is extreme intolerance of anything less than perfectly organised and run, most particularly when I've done the management thereof. Self-leniency is not in my lexicon.

The universe devilishly decided to challenge my equilibrium on Wednesday and turned a simple, 2 stop train journey to meet up with a friend into frenzied, ulcer-causing chaos.

My day went like this:
- Arrive at Leighton Buzzard station in good time for the 10h24 train to Berkhampsted. Purchase ticket.
- Study the route map and note that the correct train leaves from Platform 4.
- Exit the ticket office onto the platform and see a train pulling in several platforms away.
- Assume this is a train leaving a few minutes earlier which I had thought I may be too late for; thank my stars that I can catch it and leap up the stairs and across the bridge like a lumbering buffalo. Throw myself onto the train as the doors shut.
- Collapse on the seat, steaming gently under 3 layers, woolly hat, scarf and sheepskin gloves.
- Stare idly out of the window as we stop at Bletchley, I know I'm getting off at the second stop.
- Shake my head and slap my cheek in disbelief as we approach the second stop: "We are approaching Milton Keynes Central where this train terminates."
- Heart pounding, I grab my bag and flee from the iron monster, dashing up the steps to the ticket barrier.
- Pausing to find my ticket, neatly tucked into my mobile phone cover. My mobile phone. My mobile... NOOOO!
- Feverish handbag empty returned nil results - no phone.
- Stuttering with shock, I gulp my sorry story to the official at the barrier. My phone. And ticket. "That train is here for another 18 minutes," he said. "Go down and pick up your phone." One piece of good news, anyway.
- Flying back down the steps, I punched the door open button unsuccessfully. Four conductors approached, intent on sorting this wild woman out. Hearing the story, they unlocked the carriage and returned my phone while I babbled away about my awful day - I was meant to be in Berkhampsted, miles away in the opposite direction.
- Roaring back to the ticket barrier, I asked the official about getting back on track. "The train you just came in on is leaving in 9 minutes. Get back on it and it'll take you where you want to go." For heaven's sake!
- Back down on the platform, shakily lowering myself onto a platform bench, panting, I looked up as one of the helpful conductors came over. "Sit tight, love, we're shortening this train then will pull up to the platform. Hop on and you'll be in Berkhampstead in 20 minutes." I could have hugged him!

All that remained was to let my friend know I was running late, and why. 
She understood, claiming to do this all the time. Her kind assurance worked so well that on the journey I gave myself a stern talking to and decided to forgive myself for a bit of silly carelessness with no harm done. Groundbreaking stuff for me, I tell you.

Happily united with my friend, we trotted off to our first stop - Berkhampsted Castle ruins, beautifully covered in snow. I pull out my camera, ready to change the settings to accommodate the pristine whiteness.

Why is the memory card indicator flashing? The memory card. NO! This is not happening to me! Without the memory card, snugly at home in my laptop where I'd left it after downloading photos, my Nikon is useless. Will this chapter of mishaps end?



Fortunately, phones have cameras and we were so happily nattering away that photography took a backseat anyway. 

Kindly and understanding my friend may be, but she insisted on seeing me off on the correct train later, reminding me that it was only two stops and not to fall asleep and miss mine! Her faith in my train catching abilities isn't 100%.



PS: for the record, the platform closest to the ticket office and station building at Leighton Buzzard is platform 4. Platform 1 is the furthest platform away. Which wally arranged that numbering system?!

And thus far (touching all sorts of wood here) I have never, ever lost a phone or left anything on a train, plane or automobile. It was just one of those days.

The Beauty Beneath My Wings

My first daytime flight between Africa and Europe was a revelation. Why oh why have I trudged this route on the horrendous night flights for so long? Never again, say I. 

To be able to see the giant, sinuous rivers snaking away far below, putting life into perspective was breathtaking. The massive emerald stripe off to the right blazing verdantly in the hazy cinnamon earth was the Nile, mother of life to so much on the continent. How thrilling to enjoy this birds-eye view of Africa!

Kilometre after kilometre, the Sahara desert unfolded under my seat. The sheer size of desert and river, seen from 33 000 feet, was a jolting reminder of how small we humans are. How brash and conceited our dreams and plans. There, laid out in easy simplicity by nature, is a construction the size and complexity of which man couldn't hope to replicate. Millions upon millions of creatures, plants and minerals combine to create an environmental metropolis buzzing in synchronicity. 

Over the Mediterranean we flew. Neat cross-stitched quilts of well-watered colour, roads, Monopoly houses, farms and factories. Snow-capped mountains standing guard. How orderly and different from Africa Europe is! That ice-blue ribbon of water must be the Rhine. Or the Rhone. Geography isn't my strong suit. 

Finally the savage ache in my breast, gouged on takeoff as my body ripped away from it's African mooring, eased to a fizzle of nervous excitement. Even at this ripe middle age, I continue to lead life back to front. It's usual to do the au pair in Europe thing as a young adult, post-school or uni. Not at my age! But then, straitjacketed into a responsible, sensible, box which I didn't fight against when I should have, all the adventures and rebellious experiences I've had began in my mid 30's. Sad, little grey person I am. Was.

Better late than never, I say. One life, endpoint unknown, live it with relish and abandon using every sense we have. Except common sense, that's just plain boring!

One clear benefit of enjoying a dissolute middle age is the enjoyment of things which would have been overlooked by youth. 

I can't imagine an 18-year-old gazing out of the window of seat 32J in awe of the mighty rivers and desert. Such wonder is taken for granted if noticed at all, whereas the miracle of every grain of sand and drop of water lands gently on my sun-freckled, mature skin.

How I appreciate the magnificent beauty beneath the wings of the plane even as I flex my own, ready for the next chapter in the rollicking unravelling of my life.

The Last Straw - Or Is It?

A few months ago I was given a real flashback to childhood - a paper straw. Oh, this one bore little resemblance to the pale yellow and white striped paper straws of my youth. This straw was the Kim Kardashian of straws - a piece of sparkly gold bling popped into a fruit crush.

And yet...

What annoying feature of paper straws had I forgotten, only to find that bling or not, millennium paper straws are no different?

The business end of a straw, the bit delivering delicious mango freeze to my tastebuds, became soggy and firmly sealed after a few minutes. I was forced to finish drinking directly out of the glass amid memories of this same battle fought decades ago. No wonder we seized upon plastic straws with relish!

The experience was related later over a lazy glass of wine with a friend in the packaging industry. An interesting source of info about recycled packaging and the environmental hazards of our overpackaged world, she agreed that the paper straw just wasn't cutting it.

Wham, her significant other arrived proudly bearing a white card tube - his company's latest development in the straw industry. Our debate heated up like an Olympic standard table tennis match with only one conclusion - why not accept the end of the straw completely?

Think about it - as fully functional humans from the age of about 4 years onwards do we really need a straw at all? How many millions of dollars in terms of cost and brainpower is being spent to find an environmentally acceptable, practical replacement for the dreadful pollutant plastic straw? Paper and card, I'm afraid, in my opinion just don't cut it. Yes, we could carry our collapsable keyring straws around with us but it won't take long, like the shopping bag, for that to fall away and for us to not have said straw with us when needed.  I guess restaurants, already investing in cutlery and teaspoons, could invest in dishwasher safe metal tubes for customers to use but why can't we just drink directly out of the glass, can or bottle? Why exactly do we need a straw (besides the obvious needs of hospital patients and very young children at times)?

"Milkshakes!" Andrew proclaimed proudly, relieved to find a reason for his hard research into paper straws. "You can't drink milkshakes without a straw." Well, yes you can, Andrew, and it is possible to wipe the frothy moustache off your face too!

The corset, gravy boats, payphones, computer floppy discs, photographic film development, landline phones, dial-up internet are all examples of everyday items that have fallen into obsolescence, why not the straw? It's such an easy thing to do without and surely research and development budgets and time have better things to do?

The Donkey Dash - Everybody's Business in Lamu

It was hard for this sheltered suburbanite to watch the treatment of working animals in Lamu. Life in Africa is harsh, more often than not aimed at little more than survival and animals are functional, not pets. There is no doubt that my pampered cats wouldn't survive the culture shock should their next travel adventures include Lamu!

Having said that, the fishmonger was very kind to the flock of felines always gathered around his door. He and they have reached an agreement - they don't enter the shop until summoned in to accept the piscean scraps he saved for them, and he made sure there was enough for the gang.


So the Lamu cats are on a good wicket and shown kindliness. Donkeys, however, are clearly ranked somewhat lower on the affection scale and are regarded as beasts of burden.

There is something inherently sad about a donkey. AA Milne was spot on with poor, depressed Eeyore. Maybe it has something to do with the donkey design - dainty hooves, oversized ears, liquid eyes and a bony spine emblazoned with that cross...pathos personified.




In Lamu town, unfettered and resting donkeys sought out every available scrap of shade and gently dozed, enjoying a few moments of peace and rest, or nibbled hopefully at bits and pieces of litter. The rest stood patiently while enormous panniers were heavily loaded with many kilogrammes of coral blocks, cement, grain, even people before being slapped into motion under these mighty burdens. 

My frequent donkey photographic stops caused plenty of stares and often a conversation with passers-by. "It's a donkey, she's pregnant," was one memorable remark about a poor jenny whose bulging sides heaved in her efforts to draw breath into lungs obviously squashed beneath a soon-to-arrive foal. Donkeys lining the streets are such an integral part of daily life the locals don't notice them at all and they were pretty gobsmacked that someone would photograph them. A lot.

With this casual disinterest in the beasts so obvious, it was really interesting to watch a donkey break for freedom along the seafront one morning. A mad clatter of 16 hooves rang out on the paving stones, much louder than the yells of the young lad they were escaping from. To my complete astonishment, pedestrians in the path of the donkey dash put down their own parcels and stood in the way, arms outstretched. One man successfully grabbed the rope halter of one and calmly "tshush, tshush-ed" his captive while another pointed out the jetty access ramp that the other donkeys had also noticed and were veering towards. More helpful wranglers on the jetty positioned themselves in the way making frantic grabs for a bit of donkey and within minutes the poor animals were prisoners once more.

A telling incident about community bonding and helpfulness without pause for thought and another lesson from Africa.

Holiday with a conscience - making a difference

Choosing to holiday in Africa is a big decision -
- It generally involves an (expensive) long-haul flight,
- It's more difficult and costlier to get around once you arrive,
- Food and general hygiene and living conditions are often not what you are used to,
- Your senses and emotions will be at times be assaulted by overwhelming exposure to impoverishment,
- It is an expensive holiday compared to other destinations,
- Safety and security - we are all hyper-aware of unknown danger and travelling in strange countries makes us doubly so,
- Travel warnings - anxious to reduce any possible risk to their citizens, governments can overreact to incidents and condemn an entire country.

And herein lies the rub. Over the four years that Him Outdoors and I have been visiting Kenya, we've seen the tourist industry crash and burn after a couple of terror incidents in local taxi ranks and markets in north-east Kenya. Returning to Nairobi after a weekend in Mombasa one time, we were astounded by the jostling, noisy crowd of foreign tourists pushing their way to the check-in counters. There wasn't a seat to be had on any airline and lots of shouting ensued. Everyone wanted to get out of Mombasa NOW.

We immediately knew why the chaotic scene was playing out - the drive-by shooting at a local bar a few days previously, a bar we'd actually parked outside while in the queue for the ferry into Mombasa. A local man enjoying his Tusker was killed and this is very sad indeed but how did it affect hundreds of tourists holed up in their luxury beach hotels miles away?

Ditto the bomb in a mainland Lamu marketplace. Lamu is more than a town, an island and an archipelago, it is also a county, ie state or province, encompassing both islands and mainland. Lamu was splashed on front pages across the world and the tourist cancellations rolled in faster than high tide. The fact that tourists to Lamu were on an island many kilometres and a boat ride away from the mainland market, in absolutely no danger, didn't receive any airtime. 

No matter, Africa is dangerous, right? Let's not go there. And within months, hotels on the Mombasa coast began closing with estimates of 1500 people losing their jobs while the Lamu tourist industry ground to a halt. Understand that in Africa, a breadwinner is a highly valued member not only of his family but of his community. He/she supports up to 3 generations of a large extended family and is critical to the survival and education of his clan. When that income dries up, many suffer and no, social security isn't even a pipe dream in Africa. There is absolutely nothing coming in to the household.

Let's put a personal face on it, shall we? While in Malindi recently I made a quaint little restaurant my daily 'go-to' place where I spent time engaging with Lawrence the waiter. Lawrence has a sharp sense of humour and is filled with stories of days gone by and ideas for resurrecting the dead and buried Malindi tourist scene. Lawrence was once a receptionist at a hotel, considered by the community as a very prestigious job indeed. He was full of helpful suggestions for places to visit and recommended trustworthy guides and drivers if needed. He'd built up his contacts over his years of helping hotel guests make their local travel arrangements.

So what happened when Malindi, almost 300 kilometres away from Lamu and the same from Mombasa, suffered the collapse of foreign tourism? Lawrence's hotel closed and he was out of work. He considers himself blessed to have his restaurant job, spending long days on his feet and suffering rude customers (I watched one lady flatly refuse to stop smoking inside the tiny restaurant and be very rude to him regarding the wine he served), but it's a far cry from being a respected receptionist.

Lawrence waiting for customers

"Marketing!" He exclaims. "No-one is marketing Malindi and we don't have enough big hotels. The tourists don't come here anymore. Once, the high season was July to September and then end October to January. Now, we are lucky if we have a busy December."

Yet daily, Lawrence, the chef and the dishwasher don their crisp uniforms and diligently unlock the restaurant door. Tables are laid and cutlery shined then they sit down to wait for a customer. Usually, that was me, their solitary client for the lunch service, sometimes there would be a party of four for dinner.

There is little industry or agriculture in the area and Africa as a whole is heavily reliant on tourism so when that drains away, impoverishment and desperation rise - the scales are heavily loaded. 

Do your homework well but keep your commonsense wits about you when reading about African destinations. Big cities are big cities the world over, they are no more dangerous in Africa than anywhere else but what you will find throughout the continent are warm people eager to greet and engage with you and willing to help and get involved if needed. And for the love of all that is holy, Africa is a continent of 54 countries and over 1000 languages. It covers an enormous landmass so no, if there is Ebola in the Congo it doesn't affect your holiday in Cape Town! But you might want to watch out for Texas, more people have had Ebola there than in Kenya...

Your visit to Africa, to anywhere in Africa, has immense repercussions far beyond an annual vacation. It's a lifeline providing dignity and self-respect to hundreds of people reliant on the job created by tourism. Consider it a charitable contribution if you will, and smile while paying a premium for your holiday package. I promise you that you will gain so much more than the pain of a holiday that isn't as comfortable, perhaps, as you can get elsewhere. Here, your dollars make a difference to a descending ladder of dependants. Here, you find life that is real, energised and grounded. The breathtaking beauty, warm and friendly people, the timeless quality of cultural heritage will revitalise your soul and you'll take home so much more than memories and photographs.

Beaches with room!

  

Take nothing but photographs...and sometimes not even those

I've just enjoyed the most incredible few days on the island of Lamu, in Kenya. A UNESCO World Heritage town, this ancient Swahili settlement has preserved much of the old ways, skills and culture, a difficult task in our everchanging world.

It is interesting to me to reflect on people's differing responses to Lamu. Comments from 'you absolutely MUST go, the old Arabic influence is so beautiful' to 'Lamu was a big disappointment, just a lot of broken down old buildings' rang in my ears. 

Quite. Horse for courses indeed.

I fall into the 'if it's old it is to be treasured' brigade so Lamu and I got on famously and from my side it was love at first sight. Actually, I had fallen head over heels with the idea of Lamu years ago and a huge lump of emotion caught in my throat before the ferry boat from the airport across the channel to Lamu town had even cast off. It was absolutely, perfectly, exactly as my dreams, but better because it was real.

If you've ever contemplated visiting, do so now. The first boda boda motorbike taxis have arrived on the island and the seawall is no longer sufficient to keep technology and the millennium way of life at bay. A high tide of change is approaching, UNESCO site or not.





Chatting to some Aussies it was fab to find fellow travellers with the same ideals. They'd spent what they considered a wasted day at Shela, the gorgeous and romantic beach resort area just outside the old town. Screwing up their noses they firmly said that there is "nothing like the real grit of Africa, Shela is just too clean and modern." 

Those damn horses again...

Meanwhile, we embraced the Old Town complete with noise, donkey turds, less-than-aromatic aromas and nasty rubbish heaps partially hidden behind tumbledown walls. Oh, and the early morning, lunchtime and Friday chorus megaphoned from several majids! It has to be said, however, that we quickly picked up the different 'sermons' - one chap preached with fervent energy, brooking no argument. Another was poetic; I was entranced by his sing-song storytelling. A third seemed to be on repeat, the same or similar sounding phrases over and over. 






Somehow, the strangely elastic dimension of time over Lamu, which bends and stretches on top of and around rather than linearly, crept into the fibre of my soul. Everything happens slowly, bringing with it an ability to embrace and accept absolutely all as perfect.

Deep, soul sigh of contentment and wellbeing.   



Even my beloved hobby, photography, changed approach. I'm addicted to taking photos in an endeavour to capture and keep every slice of beauty that I see. Conversation over breakfast one morning debated the point of hiding behind a lens. As Oz No.1 said, someone has already taken that photo and he has now decided to be in the moment rather than fuss with snapping away. It's true my external hard drive bulges with thousands of images I don't even look at, typical of most camera happy people. But still...



After that, I consciously put the camera down, a lot, so as to better be right in that place at that time and yes, it was the right thing to do. 

Although hedging my bets, I set aside my last day strictly for photography and ambled up and down the narrow passages for hours, pausing often to photograph.             







Ending up in Mkunguni square in front of the Fort, it was time to spend an hour sitting on a stone bench watching Lamu going about its business before moving to the seafront and absorbing the action along there.


I do believe that I found a balance. Now to hold fast to that in future...

Blinded by the Light

"It requires surgical repair that can't be done in Kenya. You could try the UK or South Africa," the physio suggested. Involuntary tears quivered on my lower lashes. "You can't be serious, it was just a stupid fall. Surely you can physio the kinks out?"

"I'm not touching your shoulder. Osteoarthritis, labral tears in 2 places, the supraspinatus tendon completely off the bone. Surgery, 4 weeks in a sling then we can begin 6 months of rehab. You'll be seeing enough of me in future."

Stunned and shaken, for the next few days I alternated between tearful gulps and bitter anger. My October trip to SA was now in complete disarray and must be pulled forward and a heap of plans and reunions cancelled. Why? How? Not fair! Then I thought about my good friend Di Atherton, a marvel of strength and mindful attitude. Poor Di came off second best in a battle she calls 'Gate vs Di' (www.diatherton.co.za/gate-vs-di-lesson-1-flow/) when a heavy gate landed awkwardly on her leg, doing unspeakable damage to her knee. More than a year, several operations and months on crutches later, the diligent regular recountings of her lessons, pain endured, frustration, small successes, backward steps, responses, emotions, appreciation and gains have inspired all who know her. She's my role model not only for surmounting the difficulties with a positive attitude and a smile but for openly sharing, with painful honesty, the emotional hurricane she was living through. Sometimes, the pain, frustration and anger got too much and she was big enough not to pretend but to be real. We aren't plastic shop dummies with fake smiles, we are humans and our inner child deals with emotions like the child he/she is.

Well, thanks Di, I tried hard but your carefully recorded and shared lessons only got this old bird so far and I continued simmering until I heard a morning news snippet from Afganistan. A school bomb had killed 58 children and without thinking, my emotions faded away completely. My troubles were nothing and I honestly knew that. The emotional fog rolled back, freeing me from the awful weight of anger I'd been lugging around.

Analysing it, I came to the realisation that we can read and hear about all the lessons learned by others and be inspired by them but even if facing the identical situation, those lessons are not ours. In fact, 'lesson' has become my latest irksome word - smugly overused to elevate the 'student' to a higher level so from now on, it's banned from this blog!

We each have to find our own key to acceptance, triggered by something which may be random but is intensely personal and vibrates on a level we are barely aware of until we find it. I don't know why 58 children killed violently in their classroom on the other side of the world was my key but it was and I'm thankful for it.

So after a long 10 days waiting for a medical appointment in SA, things came to a rapid head last night and in a flurry of activity consultation and surgery dates were secured, flights rebooked and my support network for lifts and pre- and post op accommodation activated. But when I spoke to my sons, nerves jangled and tears threatened and they picked that up, unknowingly gifting me with a treasured nugget that I'm going to cling to over the months to come.

Unbidden and individually within the space of 20 minutes the intense, studious post-grad scientist and the swaggering airline captain revealed their interior true selves and took my breath away. As parents, we proudly revel in our offspring's exterior selves - successful, intelligent, witty, kind, good-looking, whatever they show to the world but their deeply caring responses are less often seen. 

I got hold of No 2 son first and updated him not only with new dates but admitted that travelling to visit him post-op was going to be difficult so I wouldn't be able to see him. "No problem, I'll speak to my supervisor tomorrow and ask for special leave. Then I'll speak to No 1 son and find out if he can get me a bargain air ticket and I'll come to you. Relax, No 1 and I will sort it out and let you know." This young man is currently on the clock, the countdown to completing and submitting his Masters' thesis has begun and time is short. Yet without hesitation and on a tight financial budget, he's putting down his work and making time to see me.

No 1 called and within minutes had me laughing as only he can - he has a wickedly sharp sense of humour that is absolutely irresistible."I know you are scared and nervous and emotional," he roared, "not to mention frustrated and fed up, in pain blah blah. That's normal but the real issue with you is the same as I had a few months back. Age. You're getting older and no longer bounce. When I had that fall in June, the hardest thing was realising that I'm old and not made of rubber anymore" Age? He's 28! And absolutely on point as he so often is. But at least his fall had a great story attached, involving a bachelor party, a climbing wall and copious amounts of alcohol, with a bad ending - he suffered some serious and very painful damage to his back and leg. 

"I'll pick you up from the airport tomorrow, you'll spend the night with us then I'll take you back for your flight the following day. I'm flying to Ndola on Wednesday, leaving 3 hours later than you but it's no trouble to go in early. And I'll call No 2 and sort out his flight, you know what he's like, he'll forget to call me until last minute so I'll handle this. Don't worry about a thing, I'll get him to either Joburg or Durban, wherever he wants."

Wow. Just...wow. Unexpectedly bathed in the light of their love, care and compassion, I floated in grateful bliss, all my fears forgotten. To experience all the love that I'd poured into them now sent back to me in spades, unasked and totally unexpected, was blinding. I am so blessed to have the opportunity to see for myself the kindness and care residing within those souls that are so precious to me. 

This beautiful gift glows inside me and when the going gets a little rough will, I am sure, pulse soothing light into the darkness of spirit. Nakupenda 1 & 2.