Smile you're on CCTV

Cornfields

2012-01-05T23:10:00.000-08:00

Summer time in Zimbabwe can be oppressive. The temperatures regularly rise into the high thirties and weeks can go by without a cooling rain shower, so to see two young boys sharing a single bicycle at the hottest part of the day was more than a little suspicious, particularly in our neighbourhood, Arcadia.

Growing up we always took as law that this patch of land in the centre of the big bad city was ours, to be defended with our lives. We also believed that any fruit grown here was ours to eat and enjoy, most local residents were happy to let us raid their trees before they had to clean up the windfall. It was a symbiotic relationship that worked well for everyone, bringing the whole community closer in the process.

The problems came when outsiders tried to grow crops on two lots of open land in the vicinity. We saw this as our homeland, our birthright if you like and therefore we deserved a share of the spoils, often this attitude brought us into direct conflict with these new urban farmers. For us, these open areas were for hunting with catapults and fishing at the nearby lake (well, pond) and the river that runs through the city.

My younger brother, Eugene and I were understandably aggrieved with this state of affairs, but instead of fight these wanabe agriculturists like most youths, we chose plunder their make shift farms at will. We had a system; unlike most, we never got caught.

I rode with my smaller brother perched dangerously on the cross bar, both of us dressed like polar explorers. The raid begins with a thorough recognisances of the mostly corn filled fields, checking for amateur security guards wielding heavy wooden batons known as knobkieries* (one whack of these could change your life) and choosing the best part of the crop to pilfer from.

Satisfied with our findings, we would ride down one of the separating pathways. I would stay with the bike while Eugene harvested the most succulent young maize, never moving too far into the maize filled maze. The first load was mine to carry, stuffing the arms of my heavy coat as best we could and the second load, much larger, packed into every possible space of my siblings’, to maximise the haul. In the event of discovery I acted as getaway driver speeding between the rows and onto the main road with skill that sometimes even surprised me. This was a slick well planed operation. Many other would be raiders were not so lucky or smart, trying to ride or run while weighed down with produce often proved too much for these poor souls and ended at the wrong end of a savage beating.

Back in the safety of 22 St Kitts road, the booty is counted and shared. We would eat well that night. There would of course be the mild finger wagging by our otherwise grateful parental unit which got milder after every successful robbery followed by a feast of steaming corn on the cob occasionally covered in margarine, a well deserved treat, another night we didn’t go to be hungry.

~ I bought an old friend lunch once at a fine restaurant. Astonished to see him shovelling the left over’s into his pockets before the meal had ended, I enquired why. For tomorrow, was his reply. What did you eat yesterday, I furthered my enquiries. Jam, was his startling reply. This blog is dedicated to all those who kept fruit trees in the old neighbourhood.

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knobkierrie

Christmas Trees

2011-12-15T23:28:00.000-08:00

We didn’t believe in Santa, our parents did try their utmost every Christmas, but we always woke up too early and caught them red stockings in hand trying to perpetuate the myth. This is probably the reason why our house hold stayed up late on Christmas Eve to open our presents. We didn’t have a Tree either, not until my youngest brother was old enough to climb a neighbours’ fir in the dead of night, with a hacksaw tucked into his belt.

Growing up in Arcadia Harare Zimbabwe, this time of year is very different to London. We don’t have snow or rain deer, we have rain and dust, a white Christmas is out of the question basically. It is a time for the whole community, to get together and celebrate irrespective of race and creed. I remember the good years, when we gathered around fires catching up with each other, singing songs, while some one strummed the guitar. Huddled close to each other, we knew that these thirty or so people loved and accepted us as we came. The stars, back then, gazed upon us in envy.

Gifts were secondary and rare. Christmas was a time to put our troubles and squabbles behind us and let our hearts rejoice for one another. Ali Jassat would always bring the food and the ladies of his generation would prepare a feast to behold, curries, stews, salads, sometimes turkey and lots of well marinated meats for the braai. Gate crashers were always welcome; no one deserves to be alone over these holidays.

Listening to the young people make plans for the New Years Eve party, between tales of last year’s exploits and resulting hangovers, the twelve year old me aspired to be just as adventurous. The old folk looked on with embarrassed grins at the wastefulness of their own youth reflected, who knew the good times would end.

The Jubilations would last well in to the late, despite the odd disaster, it worked and the unbroken spirit of who we are shone brightest. Well now, those warm days of summer are ended and the old ways are faded as our unhinged generation spreads further across the face of the earth, (and sometimes off its edge) soaking up and adopting new cultures in the process. Perhaps there will be a reunion, a home coming of sorts to look forward to. After all these traditions are such a great part of what we are, that to lose them entirely would be unthinkable.

I’d like to dedicate this blog to Mrs Eziothehamster who loves Christmas trees.

Attendance is mandatory

2011-12-09T00:04:00.000-08:00

Being in a catholic boarding school in Zimbabwe, run by Dominican nuns, has a great deal in common with being in a minimum security facility (even if it is only during the week). As political prisoners Stories and I feel it imperative to do all that is possible to disrupt its mechanics and bring to heel its dictatorial governors and replace them with a rolling elected council of students. Why not? We are socialists after all and besides you can’t say you’ve had some crazy times, if you don’t have some crazy times. Our rebellion was well under way by our fourth year at Saint John’s High School and we’d amassed quite a following, in our own heads that is. The authorities of course, are well aware of our efforts, but so far are unable to hinder our progress of freeing the minds of our fellow pupils, for fear of a mass uprising.

Friday afternoon inspection was just another way the governing body would oppress the down trodden populace. At the end of each week, just before home time, teachers and staff would gather all the pupils outside the hall in cues by form and gender, and intrusively rifle through their belongings, one at a time, in search of articles deemed contraband ranging from drugs to illicit literature. Offenders were dragged away kicking and screaming to detention and the dreaded phone call to the parents. Attendance is mandatory.

On this sunny day, as most of them are in Harare, Stories looks nervous and fidgety as we stand at the back of the ‘form four two’ line.
“Your shiftiness is putting me on edge my friend, what is the matter with you?” I inquire.
“I have some magazines,” his reply.
“So?”Says I.
“Its porn man, I have a F*** load of porn in my bag,” he says in an irritated tone.
“S***. Why? What’s wrong with you? Ditch it!”says I, startled by this revelation, I can’t believe he held out on me.
“Hell no man, this is my personal property.”
“Where did you get it?” I further my inquiries.
“Stole it,” says Stories promptly, “let’s just leave. What could they possibly do to us?”

I consider this for a moment; the way I see it, we were in trouble already, it isn’t like Mr ____our form teacher and head of the science department is going to let us off, not after the recent incident in the laboratory, besides I have an apple knife I hope to keep, so I agree readily.

We move stealthily from the back of one line to the next until we’re close enough to make a break for the relative safety of the library’s exterior corridors. This route takes us passed the Heads office but he is occupied with his first years.
“Walk,” I tell Stories, “and don’t look back no matter what happens.”
He responds with a nod and we peel off the back of ‘form one one’s’ line and stride confidently through the open area unhindered.

To my dismay, a shout, my name, then a second, this time of Story’s. We’d been made; our escape attempt would surely be thwarted and at such an early stage too. My fellow inmate and I continue regardless, purposefully to our goal despite this early setback, ignoring more and more excited calls, past the library on our right, under its cool façade, next the office block on our left and lastly a necessary right turn after the girl’s dormitory.

The main entrance lies dead ahead, but what’s this? Several prefects have been strategically placed at the oversized gates which have been barred with a sturdy lock, no wonder no one had given chase, the authorities had anticipated such a manoeuvre in advance. There is no option, Stories looks at me disappointedly (we could have always tried to bluff our way passed or moved to a quiet part of the school yard and scaled the six foot spiked wall, but both these options are just too dangerous) I shrug, we are going to have to face the music, potentially life in a detention classroom with hard labour and no hope of parole.

Downcast, we turn to leave, but very much to our surprise, our retreat is blocked. The entire student body, for which it must seem our walkout is a statement of protest and defiance, one they all whole heartedly agreed with, has followed us on mass. This is where things get out of hand.

Stories who recovers quickest in general, sticks a fist in the air like a Black Panther, there is an almighty cheer and someone shouts “Charge!” with that, the hormone fuelled pubescent crowd surges forward lifting us off our feet and carrying us forward scattering everything in its path, the prefects are sent sprawling for their lives. The mob rams the gate with such force it is lifted clear from its hinges. Teenagers exploded into the street in all directions, emancipated, what glorious chaos. There would be consequences; a price to pay for our obstinacy, for now our names would be cemented in high school history.

This Blog is dedicated to Mr ____; it was us who started the rumour about you experimenting on your son.

Last calls

2011-12-02T00:04:00.000-08:00

The midnight central line train coasts westward into London’s East end. Our refreshing mixture of cola and Jack is almost gone much to Leg’s dismay. His father’s death has sent him on a wild trip of booze and drug use, (worse than usual that is) as his only friend I am along for the ride.
“I know a place.” I assure him, he is incredulous of this claim.

Liverpool Street station is heaving with energy as it always does on a Friday, for many unwinding Londoners this is the first port of call. Leg takes the opportunity to do some coke in a public convenience, I’m not one for narcotics, let’s just say there have been dissuading incidents in the past, at least his mood improves.

We arrive at the bar (it has no name) with a brand new bottle and some fruit juice as a chaser. ‘Last calls’ have come and gone in this neck of the woods so the barman has no problems with us bringing our own alcohol. The single room establishment is dimly lit, furnished like a 1920’s American diner and definitely one of my favourite places in Shoreditch. The scattered crowd is lively enough without being rowdy; there is no music, a good place to talk.

We sit in a horse shoe shaped booth, the seats are red and padded well, next to a couple who seem more interested in us than each other , and pour them a stiff shot for their inconvenience.
“We should never have come here sir,” says Leg wide eyed and wired. I’m more than a little concerned with my friend’s general attitude. His path of self-destruction is wide as it is direct, almost vertical; the landing is going to be spectacular.
“This is a nice place, sir, it’s like my local,” I reply trying to deflect, I know exactly what he means.
“To England,” he snaps “this place is too foreign. I want to be home, but I’m stuck.”
Leg and I left Zimbabwe within months of each other, his reasons were more political than mine, there is no going back, not even for his father’s funeral, a man he both loved and feared in equal measure.

“Things have to change. Our parents failed us miserably. Six of us in a single bed roomed flat, that was the best they could offer and look at me now, still trapped in that mental poverty, unable to enjoy anything I’ve earned, stuck in this endless cycle of vice and corruption, a snared little orphan,” says Leg . His face is unnaturally bright.
“They did what they could with the little they had sir,” I find myself unable to believe the words coming out of my mouth.
“Not just our parents, sir,” he continues ignoring my weak argument. “Their whole generation, I mean what did the space-race really accomplish? Nothing. Think about it; if just for one day every man, woman and child on the planet had three square meals that would be a greater achievement than any number of astronauts and cosmonauts strolling about on the surface of the moon planting flags and playing golf. What do we have to show for it? Advancements in audio and visual entertainment? The ability to pause and rewind live television while three million people die of starvation on the horn of Africa? Things have to change sir and our generation with its' mp three players and smart phones are just too distracted to care. Thank you father, I bet our lack of interest just fills you with pride. Our own humanity, now that’s the real final frontier.”
“I agree is this not why we have our mission sir?” I smile at him, hoping this would break his funk.
“It’s a fool’s errand, the spirit of freedom is dead, buried in a shallow grave with a spear in his eye and cave man’s finely crafted stone cutting tool up his a***. That poor fellow was doomed from the day the first monkey stood up right and declared his sudden interest in fire, shelter and a decent pair of pants.”
“Sir your being defeatist, this is unbecoming,” Says I.
“Am I? Are you not of the same opinion?” his point is well made and I fall silent.

Leg continues with his speech becoming increasingly obscure, the couple, now willing audience, lap it up. I begin to take my drinking seriously, it’s hard enough to argue with Leg when he’s not jacked up and plugged in like this, so I leave him to it. Our new friends mesmerized by the ranting of this lunatic, now look ready to fight a revolution. Neither he, who is dressed as if he suffered the bazaar punishment of being tarred and dragged through a charity shop, nor her, who is infinitely out of his league, look the ‘lay down our lives’ type; they are now, converted by Leg’s grief and drug induced nonsense.

My companion stands up unexpectedly, hands me a grubby piece of folded yellow paper and lumbers off to the gents; the couple go about discussing their new knowledge with great enthusiasm. I open the note, written inside are four sentences in six lines of poetry. I read each one slowly and deliberately and a hundred times since that day, each more beautiful than the last, a most heart rendering sorrowful plea for penance and redemption, I put my face in my hands and weep with sweet anguish. His words have somehow captured the dark hopelessness we all feel in circumstances that are divinely uncontrollable, opening his very soul for all to see in the process. In this moment I feel love for my friend and I pity him and his awful talent.

Leg staggers his way back to the booth, something is dreadfully wrong. I can just make out a smear of blood across his right cheek in the pale light. A white paste like substance trickles from the corner of his mouth. I watch in stunned horror as his eyes roll into the back of his skull before he collapses face first in an abominable heap at my feet. I turn him over, there is no pulse. “He’s having a fit!” someone shouts as the panicked commotion spreads like electricity; I know what’s happened, it was inevitable, the exile, the anger, the grief, it is all too much for him, the only question is ‘was the overdose accidental or not?’ My friend and compatriot lies face up calmly under me as I pump his chest, screaming for someone to help, with both hands and watery eyes, (the whole world seem to be on pause, why is everyone looking at me? ‘Someone do something,’ screams my mind in exasperation.) trying desperately to get his heart beating again and save him from his serenity.

I'd like to dedicate this blog to an old friend.

The Dentist

2011-11-24T23:43:00.000-08:00

The sunshine is deceptive at this time of year in England. Autumn is fascinating to me, mostly because it’s a season we don’t have in Zimbabwe. The usual pleasant walk was today distorted by the thoughts of terror and pain. You see I have an unnatural fear of needles it’s so bad that, once as a six year old shrimp, four grown men had to hold me down just to take a little blood. Now here I was strolling willingly to be pumped full of drugs and have a hole drilled in my head. Bravely I continued in pursuit of good dental hygiene.

I arrive at the surgery only slightly on time for my appointment. I address the receptionist with all the necessary pleasantries. She smiles kindly and tells me I have the wrong day.
“Oh,” I exclaim and show her my appointment card Wednesday 12:30 it reads.
“Yes,” she says, “Today is Tuesday.”
I stand in joyous silence, a reprieve; a stay of execution, the fear that has lodged itself firmly in the twisted pit of my gut begins to subside with the relief of this temporary emancipation. I have somehow gained a day, but how? Leg may have something to do with this no doubt, anything can be blamed on him.
“Well, see you tomorrow then,” I say cheerfully.
“Hang on, we have a cancellation,” says her.
“S***!” says I and the motley assortment of reception guests gasp. I notice a boy with a dog in a medical collar for the first time, for some reason this gives me hope, perhaps I’m in the wrong place. The receptionist clears that up quickly enough (in a voice that sounds like nails pounding into my coffin I might add) and against my better judgement I agree to take the vacated slot.

The treatment room is well lit and looks and feels sterile, with all its gleaming white objects and stainless steel equipment, there is no comfort in this. There it is, on his tray amongst his instruments of torture, my nemesis. Too late to back out now I sit in the surprisingly plush operating chair and watch as the masked man moves in with the hypodermic needle.

The fear is now limitless and unrelenting. Even with my eyes shut tightly, I know what he’s doing in my mouth. I feel the sharp implement as it pierces my skin and moves deeper into the muscle as close to the nerve as he dares. Alarm bells sound in my mind and the stinging pain shoots through my scull like electricity. The liquid is cool and flows freely into my veins and capillaries as he forces the plunger downwards with great deliberation. My heart pounds rapidly and I become aware of cold sweat dripping down my neck. Will this ever stop? Surely this has gone on too long? The urge to strike out and defend myself is all but over whelming and the effort to keep it in check is monumental, the pain is pale in comparison.

I feel the steel against my remonstrating flesh as he slowly extracts the syringe. Out of breath and trembling like a wet dog, I try to bring myself under control from this moment of horror. The adrenaline still surging, begs me to escape while I still can and sprint for the hills despite my wobbly legs. The nurse helps me into a sitting position (she is purposely attractive) trying her level best to reassure me. Her efforts are unnecessary, the damage is done, extensive and enduring, let the drilling begin, you monster.

I’d like to dedicate this entry to my dentist who I’ve accused of lying on so many occasions.

Bianca

2011-11-17T22:45:00.000-08:00

Heartbreaking whispers amongst the uproar of existence, these are the melancholy tales of those who shone brightest and died young. The sad story of Bianca was one such utterance. When she left, the earth selfishly refused to stop turning and when you’re from a part of the world where life is fleeting, one grieves sparingly.

From the first day I met her, I felt a great affection for the five foot, green eyed bottle of fizz. Much like a little sister, I watched over her as best I could and she responded as she always did with warm tenderness and a bright disposition. It was impossible not to like Bee, this fine young lady, and the thought that she was ill never occurred to me when we were together, she seemed void of self pity.

Moe and I dragged her everywhere; she became our third musketeer and a welcome addition to our Sunday night cinema experience. What manner of friend was I? It seems never good enough, but even when I skipped her twenty first celebrations to go to another party or never actually visited her the many times she was under the weather, Bee accepted my limp commitment as part of the person she cared about as an older brother, now I see that time was too valuable to her to waste on emotions other than pure love and joy.

The courage of a girl who wore make-up to hide the discolourations of her skin and still see the good in everyone and I mean everyone was admirable to say the least. No one knew her fear and discomfort that this young lady must have suffered in her private moments or perhaps we did, but refused to believe that the flower would not last. There were occasional glimpses of sadness in her face; somehow it was for us and not her.

Her kidneys were failing; she spoke candidly of her experience with a dialysis machine and this really brought home to me the depth of her situation. Despite this all she wanted was a baby and if she had a one, he or she would have been the most loved child that ever was, maybe her perceived off spring was her only way to live on, it was not to be.
(... even after I die
My life never stops
I live on forever
In my children’s tear drops.)

There are so many Like Bee every one of them, punching a hole in the fabric of our society never to be filled, Shaffy, Jermaine, Sheky, Deans, Ingrid, the lost children of our unhinged generation. We the living should, dear friends, bleed tears and beat our hearts in sorrow for these foregone souls, lament our losses with unabated screams of agony and wailing songs of our heart ache, but when you’re from a part of the world where life is fleeting, one grieves sparingly.

This blog is dedicated to my dear little friend.

Coffee

2011-11-10T23:22:00.000-08:00

Kurt and I look and feel rough. The spirits of the night before still haunting and threatening to rupture our tiny minds, no excuse to Mrs Eziothehamster; our poor choices would not affect the fact that we were here to enjoy this design exhibition or die trying. Innovative, conceptual furniture and house hold sundries, expertly displayed to catch the eye, are buzzed over by exhibitors and potential clients who jostle each other with misplaced anticipation and wild glee for answers to their various interior decorating conundrums. I was not up for this, every time I found a comfortable spot to ease my troubles, I was moved on; this place was not hangover friendly (so many couches, nowhere to nap). To add to my woes the spouse made me promise not to ask any stupid questions to amuse myself, questions like;
~ “Does this television have any sub aquatic properties?”
~ “Which sofa do you recommend for self denial?”
~ My personal favourite “What colour paint would you recommend for today’s ‘go getting’ pre-op sperm banker, transsexual?”
~ And finally “Will blood wash out of this fabric or do I have to buy a new rug every seventeen days?”

Coffee, I think to myself that makes things better or at least softens the blow (well, until it’s an appropriate hour to start drinking heavily once more, no one counts those much needed breakfast margaritas). I looked over to my youngest brother and saw in his eyes, agreement and not a lot of enthusiasm, this was troubling. The wife seems captivated by an Italian sofa, more in puzzlement by its odd colour and strange appearance than desire. This was my opportunity to point out a nearby merchant stall, claiming to peddle only the best, well roasted, organic, free trade, elixir in the whole world, a suspiciously incredulous claim to say the least. The spouse agrees; her caffeine habit is substantial and requires tending regularly.

The franchise employee manufactures three cups and explains to me the contents of each, two cappuccinos and a flat white. I pay by plastic. To my horror he hands me no less than six receipts. What’s this? My mind inquires. Do I look like I need stuffing for my wallet? Perhaps I’ve been mistaken to be one of those odd citizens, fixated on inanimate objects as a form of sexual gratification? In this case, square bits of paper, shiny on one side and covered in numbers on the other.

I require an explanation from this card machine operating lunatic.
“You there,” I say in an effort to regain his attention. “Is the tree you cut down in order to produce this amount of literature, free trade and organic as well?”
Mrs Eziothehamster is unimpressed with this sudden outburst, Kurt is amused and the employee just looks tired.
“Well is it?” Silence is the reply.
“Can you speak? You certainly had enough voice a minute ago, when you gave me this substantial bit of rainforest with the somewhat useless information on how much tax I just paid for these three beverages. Explain yourself mumbles.” I say this and wave the stack of accounts in his face.

The manager dutifully arrives on the scene and after several minutes of grilling, even she with her extensive training of the franchisers inner workings fails to come up with some sound reasoning. The wife intervenes and brings to a halt my vigorous interrogation and we leave the concession stand, but not before I get a full refund, Kurt is well impressed. Fortunately, in London, insanity is not only tolerated, it’s rewarded, what other explanation could there be for the fact that our mayor resembles Wembley* from Fraggle Rock.

This blog is dedicated Kurt who I’m pretty sure is relieved it’s not about the day I dragged him into a sex shop in Soho.

* http://muppet.wikia.com/wiki/Wembley_Fraggle

Malawi .5

2011-11-04T00:25:00.000-07:00

The colour of the mid day sky descends upon the earth in a blue hue as night gently dissolves away into dawn. As far as I can remember the cusp of night and morning was my favourite time in Africa when the birds start to sing. Awakening to a dream, as dreams fall asleep. It’s too early to dare rouse Mrs Eziothehamster and Ish the third member of our expedition party; instead I ready myself for the approaching day. Ablutions, a change of clothes, boots on, breakfast done; I wait for those that slumber through this most mysterious of hours.

Time walks briskly indeed. Sufficiently awake, the wife and Ishmael set about their morning rituals in haste. After being fed and inspected (they meet with my scrutiny), we bravely set out. My brother in-law (Ish) and sister live half way up the mount Soche* in the south of Malawi*, our goal is the summit a trek of at least five kilometres, through untamed wilderness. This will not be easy, particularly with the wife in tow; even though her inexperience could cost us, a third set of eyes is always good.

The first stretch of our journey takes us through the heart of a large village that sleeps deeply. It ends at a sudden a vertical rise in the earth. We climb rapidly in the knowledge that this will be the most difficult part of our journey; at the top is a wide flat rocky expanse before the serious business of the ascent begins. The wife is exhausted by this early trail, her resolve falters and she tells us to go on without her, both Ish and I have experience in trekking in the wild and instinctively know this is a bad idea. We rest instead. I take the opportunity to survey the mountain ahead for animal paths and clearings in the dense foliage that will aid us on our way. A deep gully looks interesting as it runs from a third of the way up most of the way to the top, I make it our goal. Meanwhile Ish cuts a staff which he will use to check long grass for safe footing.

We are now leaving civilisation and the top of the food chain, here in this place; we tread carefully or suffer grave injury. I explain this to Mrs Eziothehamster who seems to have recovered much of her enthusiasm. To illustrate my point I point out signs of wild pig and several fresh snake skins, one is worryingly large.

We move quickly and efficiently through the long grass which has been flattened by some unknown beast. I take point and the other two follow in single file closely, placing each foot in the exact place that mine was, with great deliberation. Half way up we discover a fresh stream and follow it all the way to the scar. The terrain turns unpredictable and treacherous; aware of loose stones under foot a slip at this point would be unthinkable. The open area ends, we are forced to climb hand over foot out of scar and follow another animal track, choosing our steps carefully as we can no longer see the ground beneath the long bent stems of elephant grass, our progress slows to a crawl.

Finally we dare go no further, four hours have passed and the sun is flying high, the mountainous woodland is no longer at peace. A troop of apes protests our presents with loud grunts and shouts from the tree tops in a not to distance thicket, baboons, I tell my fellows, a fearsome foe and one we’d do well to avoid, particularly this far from any medical facilities. The view is stunning, we can see three towns from up here and the bright blue sky stretches forever, the horizon extends like an ocean in all directions, if there is a spirit of freedom this is where he resides. Spying on our helpless struggles like ants who have learned the benefits of fire. I feel insignificant in the face of such majesty. The fear of the sheer drop only a breath away to certain death melts away.

Time is a fleeting mistress indeed, an hour passes quickly and the sound of the offended primates closing in means it’s time to leave this stunning place. Descending fast, and a little less cautiously, we are breathless and exhausted when we reach the plateau. My partners and I find a flat rock and rest silently each reflecting on our adventure, like love struck children, as the conquered mountain looms, in vanity, no longer beneath our feet.

This blog is dedicated to my little sister Loon.

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Soche

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malawi

Marrakech*

2011-10-28T00:05:00.000-07:00

A tropical rum drink in both hands, lots of sunshine, an ‘infinite edge’ swimming pool with a view of the Atlas Mountains and of course Peter the random Frenchman, life can be so good. We met poolside, his brand of infectious conversation met with my approval instantly. We set about wreaking havoc with our boyish pranks to solve those every day hotel annoyances; hiding one guest’s ___ _____ hard back to teach him a lesson for trying to reserve a deck lounger you know the type. Who buys a ___ _____ book anyway? Why can’t he wait for the knock off DVD of the equally tenuous film adaptation to mysteriously appear in their mail box like everyone else? Move over star crossed lovers, here comes the intrepid librarian and his ‘so hot, I wouldn’t have watched this dribble otherwise,’ female contemporary. Take that you deck chair hogging semi literate.

The five stared hotel boasts a well equipped gymnasium and health spa; I am not interested in that. I don’t like Spas; if I wanted to be manhandled, covered in dirt, beaten with a tree and dunked in boiling water all in the discomfort of what looks like a modern day institute for the criminally insane, I would have simply become an enemy of the state, so much cheaper.

Shopping is next on the agenda; the Marrakesh markets (the Souks*) were throbbing with bargains for the savvy tourist which is exactly what Peter and his wife are, Mrs Eziothehamster and I, not so much. Finely crafted glassware, metal work, joinery and leather goods exquisitely decorated; none of it purchased, we are here for the memories, the photographs and the argan oil*.

A sweet little girl, attempting desperately to sell me some Euros, turns feral when a second child tries to muscle in on her action, it is all getting a bit out of hand.

Forty pence gets you an ice cold glass of the world’s best, freshly squeezed orange juice. The proprietor of the orange juice van has the first genuine smile I’ve seen. This moment of warmth and insight brings to light the true nature of the more than welcoming Moroccan people. His English is good, so I engage him in small talk.

I tell him I’m from Zimbabwe and he gives me some helpful tips on where to eat and how to haggle. He also says I look like an Arab. I take all this on board and use it to my advantage; people become less business like towards us.

A nougat vendor hands me a massive lump of the delicious pink and white confectionery at half the price, coffee shops are suddenly cheaper and we discover a great restaurant far from the tourist rabble. Adversely it seems every police officer we came across is angered by the fact that I’m walking hand in hand with my very English very Caucasian wife and they voice their opinion to us in Arabic and French two languages neither of us speak.

In the evening the Djemaa el Fna* square comes alive, stalls of food and rows of benches are laid out, tourists and locals fill every inch. Stories are told, music is played and snakes are wrapped around peoples shoulders (not mine; I have a healthy fear of the venomous reptiles). It’s a vibrant night in the desert and everyone for miles is in this place of culture and commerce. I am truly dazzled.

For now, the pool is warm, the discussion is frisky and with a steady flow of drinks expertly delivered by our very own waitress, Peter and I are not going anywhere, not until we are removed forcibly or the stunning blonde sun worshipper puts her bikini top back on and not a second sooner.

I’d like to dedicate this blog to the Greatest Samm in the world.

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marrakech

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Souk

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Argan_oil

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Djemaa_el_Fna

Married people

2011-10-20T23:11:00.000-07:00

Every woman becomes a mother on her wedding day and every man a five year old child. This is the only explanation for why as a married man, I have to be instructed, in great detail I might add, how and why to hang up a wet towel and not leaving it on the bed by Mrs Eziothehamster. Thus begs the question; why do people take this most sacred of oaths? Why enter this legally binding contract that entitles your partner to half your worldly possessions? Essentially putting at risk one of each of your shoes.

Well there are some obvious benefits, for one no more internet dating, god knows that can go badly. Then there is; the two incomes one house hold factor, all that disposable income is huge plus, unless you have children draining your resources and that’s what people expect you to do; breed. In the old days men got married in the hope of never having to do the washing up ever again, thankfully we’ve moved on from those dark days we’re more civilised now and we own dishwashers. Looking for a prospective partner is a tricky affair. Often even self deluded sociopaths with psychotic episodes can appear charming and well balanced. A good first impression has been known to hide a tendency to torture small animals.
“Hi, my name is Eziothehamster and so long as you have no violent personality disorders, I’d like to buy you a drink.”
This is why I’m glad I’m not single, the dating game can be fatal.

Married people have the best sex. I know this is hard to believe but it’s true. Now before you go laughing such a bold claim off as non sense, allow me to explain;
You meet a long legged blonde in a bar in Soho, a couple of drinks later and by some stroke of divine luck she comes back to your place. At this point it would be considered somewhat impolite if you suddenly produced your favourite pair of hand cuffs and asked her to tie you up and beat you around the face with a live chicken.
However should said blonde be your wife, one can take time out to discuss your freakish fetishes and deprived desires in a controlled and sensible manner. Don’t get me wrong it’s unlikely that even the most open minded women of our times, will just hand you your most obscure sexual fantasy straight away, but there will come a day when she maxes out the family credit card and in order to break the news to you gently she thinks to herself ‘What can I do to make husband more receptive to bad news?’ then it dawns on her and just like that your most deviant, poultry dreams come true.

I believe firmly that the human heart has an infinite capacity for love, though one woman in your life is more than enough (how does Zuma manage it?). In every marriage there comes a time when one considers murder suicide (a six hour drive to your in-laws will do that to you), I assure you this is not a viable solution. Alcohol, that’s the way to go or heavy sedation; try powerful prescribed medication or horse tranquillisers anything, domestic violence, even as a form of sexual gratification, is just wrong. In the Stone Age you’d kill a mammoth, smack the old lady caveman over the head with the thigh bone and there you have it, a well constructed prehistoric relationship. Unfortunately some people are just resistant to change. Fortunately most of us are progressive or at least afraid of being raped in the shower while doing a five year stretch.

This blog is dedicated to Isham Jassat who wouldn’t have let me use it as a ‘best man speech’ at his wedding.

The Smile

2011-10-14T00:02:00.000-07:00

The first time I saw Mrs. Eziothehamster I fell in love with her. I might not have known it at the time, but I understand this now. I often wonder what my life would have been like had I not stopped to talk to her. Moments like these are defining, she may never have smiled back and thus the greatest love story of my life would have scurried by unnoticed, never to be discovered.

How delicate is destiny. Imagine if you will, the countless decisions that had to be made by not only ourselves, but people we don’t and probably will never know that lead us unwittingly to the exact point in space and time where our futures would cross and in a flirting smile alter their courses forever. From the worst decision ever to the most heralded of successes each one moulding us into people who would fall in love with each other within seconds of meeting.

Unfortunately life is unquantifiable, we will never know how much of a disaster we avoided by making seemingly good choices and yet even these have a way of turning around and biting us in the proverbial a***, and often it’s the choices of others that slice a jagged wound in to the apple pie that is our life. Take for example Kate (not her real name of course), straight “A” student, great friend and all round good girl, falls in love with my best friend, who just happens to be a world class a**** hole. In this man we both see something; something good that he doesn’t see in himself. As expected he takes this faithful, loving and perhaps slightly naive girl young lady and breaks her heart again and again. She goes back to him time and time again. You might say this is stupid, if you look deeper you’ll see that the noble Kate has trust, integrity and faith, positive traits my friend lacks because of his own insecurities and in the long run she will gain the strength to move on from him and use this episode of her life to become a more well rounded individual. The real tragedy is none of us are friends any more. What would have happened if we still were joined at the hip? I might never have come to England, see this is my point,out of this loss came a brand new endeavour.

There is no formula for life, no defined lines of right and wrong, good and bad, only potential. The potential for greatness or great disaster, either way the varied events that get us to the “here and now” are so random, that perhaps we should neither congratulate ourselves too much in times of triumph nor lament when we fail, rather marvel at the sum of its parts. As for me I’m just grateful, in all the madness as the atoms rush by and collide in the colours of the spectrum, I am not alone and I have fantastic memories to keep me going when things change. There may be one last adventure, who knows?

This blog is dedicated to a girl named Mac.

Leg and I

2011-10-06T23:23:00.000-07:00

The huge colonial style house, on the out skirts of Bulawayo*, was heaving with busy energy, quite how Leg found this place is still a mystery. Music pounded and people moved freely from room to room in all directions. We entered through the kitchen, where a make shift bar had been set up.
“Good sir, a bottle of your finest vodka and as many tabs as this can get me,” chirped Leg and handed over a roll of notes of various denominations and currency. The heavy set barman, who turned out to be the proprietor, didn’t seem bothered by this and placed a small packet containing a number of nondescript, white pills on the kitchen table top that served as a counter, Leg made them vanish and I took an even more suspicious bottle of clear liquid off the big guy.

The lounge was a huge space, poorly furnished with several comfortable sofas and various other scattered articles, none of which matched in anyway. Hardly dressed women wandered its vastness, peddling their wares to the two dozen or so men, who were all drinking heavily and graciously pawing at these poor souls. I’d never been to a brothel before (or since for that matter); it was one of the only places in town that would still serve us (thanks to Leg’s shenanigans), plus it was open all night. We didn’t have any intention of buying a women, however the night was young and so were we, young and stupid.

Finding a free couch we set up base camp.
“How many do we take?” I asked, dangerously exposing my inexperience.
Leg shrugged and grinned “One at a time good buddy,” was his reply and with that he casually tossed a pill in his mouth and chased it with a swig of the unknown liquid, I followed suit. The alcohol tasted like it was distilled from the fungus that causes athlete’s foot, I had to pinch my nose to stop from throwing up; this fact didn’t stop us from drink it, straight from the bottle I might add. The party continued around us, the other revellers and customers took little notice of us; for once we were actually keeping a low profile that was until the ecstasy kicked in.

My body temperature started to rise, I needed to dance, lights were bathing me in waves of fire, the music set the rhythm of my heart, and it felt crazy good. Leg was on his feet too, writhing and jerking as if experiencing some sort of episode. I was terrified happy. Others joined in, the room became a frenzy of arms, legs and flickering light, I laughed out loud, leg was laughing too and jumping up and down.
“I love this song!” he shouted at the top of his voice and the now heaving crowd agreed by whooping and whistling their approval.

The merriment would have continued all night long if not for the telephone ringing. Somehow this relatively mundane sound had mutated into a piercing drill pounding at my skull. My companion looked just as disturbed.
“Quiet everyone, simmer down, I will now answer the phone,” announced Leg to no response and picked up the receiver regardless;
“Hello,” short pause, “There’s no Andrew in this place,” and slammed it down again. The jubilations continued unabated.

With an explosion and a shower of plaster, the party came to an abrupt halt (even the music stopped). Revellers cowered and shrieked in fear. There in the door way to the kitchen stood the burly barman, proprietor, pimp and drug dealer with a smoking double barrel shot gun in one hand and an iklwa* in the other. Raising the gun as if it was a pistol, he pointed it at us and fired. Shrapnel and dust flew in all directions and a hole appeared in the wall just above us.
“We’re about to be murdered!” Leg cried fearfully, above the exclamations of sudden terror, “Run for your lives!”

Mad panic broke out, I caught a glimpse of two police officers in full uniform shoving and pushing their way to the only other exit; surely they should be coordinating this emergency egress. Taking advantage of the chaos we made our escape, with the furious barman in pursuit (minus his shot gun which he abandoned now that the ammunition was spent), through an oversize window. Sprinting across the open yard we scrambled over the property’s six foot wall, our pursuer was just as dexterous and was closing in progressively with the spear gleaming like gold in the wet street light.

The deadly race continued a further two blocks before the would be eighteenth century Zulu warrior finally relented, waving his spear at us and shouting obscenities. We hid in the shadows a short distance ahead of him and watched, breathless and shaken.
“I can’t believe you answered that spear wielding drug dealers’ telephone,” said I.
“I can’t believe you left the Vodka,” replied Leg gravely, “we’re still sober.”

This blog is dedicated to Ingrid.

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulawayo

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iklwa

Mark

2011-09-29T23:39:00.000-07:00

His name could have been Mark. His hair was rough and his clothes dishevelled, his boots however were immaculate. I find a state of a man’s footwear speaks volumes of his personality; standard military issue, old worn soles, polished to a high shine, these boots were loved, worn by a man who understood the necessity of care and consideration when it comes to ones feet (marching boots on parade; full of pride of dignity).

This is what drew me too him as he sold “The Big Issue” one frozen December morning at the Top of Carnaby Street. Sad eyes, weathered cheek bones and a light unkempt bearded, he cut a rugged, handsome figure. Young, but no longer youthful. His skin was unblemished, proof that he’d escaped the pitfalls of drugs and alcohol, as far as I knew he didn’t even smoke. On approach he had a mild and warm demeanour that sucked you in to his plight of unexpected poverty.

The conversations were always polite and interesting, interrupted only by his occasional customers, who were mostly female. The details of his life unfolded like a James Bond movie gone wrong. His last job was as a weapons technician for the Ministry Of Defence based in Canada. At the end of his contract he just didn’t leave that country and became an illegal alien by violating the terms of his VISA. As a foreign national myself at the time I understood. As a result of this one poor decision he was deported back to the UK and received a criminal conviction for his troubles, meaning he could no longer work in his field. For five years he’d been homeless, jobless and labelled a criminal, it was a costly mistake.

In the late summer of last year Mark told me he had an interview with a private security firm, he was very excited and frankly so were all who knew him which by was quite a large contingent, but weeks later he was still standing on Carnaby Street. The change in him was evident; I could tell that this latest setback had severely damaged his spirit. He told me how he wakes up every day at five in the morning just to get to this spot before rush hour. What was the point? He could live quite comfortably on social security. Why suffer the indignity of suckling off the virtue and kindness of others?

In this, his moment of weakness I could have reassured him, listed the reasons, but in his eyes I saw the man slowly slipping through the cracks in the gloss, beaten and unable to find purchase to haul himself back into the mainstream of society. This was heartache. He was becoming invisible, one of those people we choose not to notice.

I haven’t seen Mark since that day, it is my hope that he got the job, a small flat in north London and that he has reconciled his differences with the family he never spoke of. Unfortunately the resolved defeat I saw in his face tells of a sadder tail.

This is dedicated to all hard working “Big issue” sellers on Carnaby and Argyle Street.

Watch where I'm going!

2011-09-25T06:06:00.000-07:00

The road to Liverpool Street station from my place of employment is perfect for an early morning run, if you can get past the grumpy pedestrians, the angry motorists and various other aggressive road users. Occasionally when the clouds of doom part and the heaven smiles upon our little island, it becomes a vision of the idyllic sunlit city street much nicer than the stuffy underground. Unfortunately that’s where the sanity ends. Cyclists are the worst; diving and dodging between rows of slow moving traffic with complete disregard for life, limb and a deep animosity of anything on two legs in an orange bib.

As you might have guessed this blog is about one of my favourite things; driving. You may or may not know this; my driving is rudimentary at best in truth I have climbed more curbs than ______ _______ has strangers at a public convenience in Hampstead Heath. Thankfully being a bad driver has not stopped anyone getting their driving licence. On this particular day I set about making my way to my not so local DVLA testing centre to write the required theory examination by train; bus travel is reserved for the expendable. To say I was nervous would be an understatement. What I thought was my station came up and I disembarked, it became rapidly apparent that I was at the wrong station. I consulted my trusty GPS, to my horror the centre was a twenty five minute walk away (my test was in fifteen minutes). This was no time to flounder I would just have to run. Setting off at speed I reached my comfort zone and kept a decent pace, this could be done... no, had to be done, losing my thirty one pound deposit was not an option.

Running in central London can be a dangerous affair; pedestrians walk everywhere safe in the misguided knowledge that each one of them actually owns the very street they tread, oblivious to the requirements of others as they stroll and text on their smart phones. Then there’s the cyclists/amateur stuntmen, who would sooner run you over than stop at a red traffic light, heaven forbid that they should suffer even the most miniscule of delays on the way to shape the universe in their own image the very second they remove their helmets. World hunger, environmental change and the wastefulness of youth are all waiting desperately for just one of these push biking, go getters to finally arrive at work on time and unscathed. Why else would they be frantically pumping at the peddles of their overpriced, foldable contraptions in all manner of weather if not to address these most noble of causes?

Thankfully this is not the case out here in Manor Park, where the rule seems to be; should you see a man of colour galloping along the pavement, dressed in jeans, shirt, hat and sports jacket, stay out of his way and pretend not to see his face.
Making good time I arrived at the official looking building, with three minutes to spare, kicked in the door and announced to everyone “I have arrived for my eleven thirty appointment, where does one sign up?” out of breath and sweating, like a stag* at a Tea Party* meeting, my dramatic entrance caused quite the stir.
“Have you been involved in some sort of criminal activity?” asked the lady at the front desk calmly.
“Yes,” I replied “I’m here to hideout till the heat dies down and to take my required theoretical driving test at the same time, you know, multitasking.” People at the DVLA do not have a sense of humour.

I’d like to dedicate this entry to Ali Jassat who drove to his provisional licence test.

*Stag http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deer#Terminology

*Tea Party http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tea_Party_movement

Technology

2011-09-08T23:40:00.000-07:00

Technology is making us stupid. Picture this; you’re in Soho on a night out and your bag and all its contents are stolen, keys, oyster card, phone, money the lot. How do you get home? Do you spend the night on the street like some sort of temporary vagrant? Growing up in Zimbabwe during the late eighties and early nineties, I never had a phone, global positioning system, tablet or lap top and when I was in trouble I always had at least a dozen phone numbers committed to memory of my closest friends and family, for just such an unfortunate eventuality (face it young people are crazy). When I wanted to visit someone, I just went to their house. Now I rely on a plastic box filled with silicon, LCD’s and various radioactive materials that will probably give me cancer.

Don’t get me wrong I love my phone and my MP3 player is my constant companion then there’s the Lap top, PC, three games consoles and various electronic devices designed to remove unwanted hair, kill pests and lose weight in four easy fun filled glasses a day and ultimately enrich one’s life style in the process. Why do I need these things? I do miss the days when I could leave my house with nothing but the clothes on my back and not have to worry about someone breaking in and stealing my Blue ray, HD all singing all dancing DVD player; it makes me feel uncomfortable.

Recently, while washing my hands and texting, I dropped my brand new ____ _______ hand set into the toilet bowl, it made me think “Wow! My phone’s water proof,” incredibly I could see it still ‘sending’ underwater. It died seconds later, for a just minute; I completely forgot that the relationship between electronic gadgets and water is not an amicable one.

Nothing important has ever been written by someone’s thumbs, ever. So why do so many people insist on walking and texting, it’s dangerous. This is the reason our streets are blighted by human friendly barriers and reams of yellow tape.
“I would like some kippers for tea ... Oh! I‘ve just been run over by a train LMAO it’s on the other platform with my legs LOL.”
Another senseless loss due to gadget based stupidity.

While on the subject of phones, why do people shout when using them in public? I like to answer them. Surely if there’s only one reason why cellular phones and modern day telecommunications were invented, it is so we no longer have to raise our voices to communicate over long distances. As for taking a call while driving, well that’s just natural selection as far as I’m concerned.
“Dear I’ll be home in fifteen minutes... Oh! May be slightly later; I drove into a lamp post and I’m bleeding from my ears. Be a doll and call the emergency services, tell them to bring the Jaws of Life... I would like some kippers for tea.”

Satellite navigational systems present their own difficulties that can change even the most experienced driver into a raving lunatic, one wrong turn at a time. This is an important piece of advice; if the faceless robotic lady in the box tells you to take the next left and you can see that the next left is a lake; do not take the next left. You will end up as a hilarious human interest story in a free news paper complete with a colour print of the stupid look on your face. The machine is unaware of the off shore capabilities of your vehicle (remember your seat can be used as a floatation device).

In conclusion: Life is a short and violent ride and technology only serves to speed things up. Try this; leave your gadgets at home, listen to the buzz of your community, read a book and ask a stranger for directions. I assure you its liberating.

I would like to dedicate this Blog to a man who has never tasted ice cream.

Mushrooms

2011-09-01T23:23:00.001-07:00

Peter and Simon were engineers on a farm owned by my uncle near a town called Karoi* in Zimbabwe north of Harare. One fine day they made a decision to go mushroom picking in a nearby wooded area. This was an odd choice of pursuits for the pair who spent more time and money in local taverns than anyone else for miles. Perhaps it was the sunshine, the cool breeze and the lightly rippled with cloud, azure sky that encouraged them to take up this strange activity.

The men both in their twenties had been given a short lesson in fungi related gathering by a local woman who explained the best places to find the tasty morsels, how to cook them and most importantly the dangers of eating the wrong ones, so they were not completely without knowledge however they were without experience.

The morning dragged as summer mornings do, when finally the couple came across a shady clearing filled with wild mushrooms of all sizes, more importantly similar shapes and colours.

The young men recognised these immediately as the ones shown to be edible by their esteemed teacher on the only other occasion they had taken up such an enterprise. Their lack of experience meant they could not be one hundred percent sure. Unperturbed by their rudimentary education on the matter, the companions set about plucking a fantastic horde.

Satisfied with the crop our heroes headed back to their work shop to feast in private. Peter took charge of the cooking on an old two plate hob which had been restored for just such a situation. Onions fried and caramelised, in goes the mushrooms, freshly hand-picked sun ripened tomatoes, garlic, cloves, pepper and salt for seasoning. The smells of grease and paint remover gave way to a delicious warm aroma. He served the Mushrooms with boiled new potatoes and chopped spring onions as a garnish (quite the accomplished dish) on two white plates that Simon had procured along with the appropriate cutlery from the farm house a short cycle away.

Sitting at the table, the food remained untouched; the comrades contemplated the consequences resulting from accidentally picking the wrong fungi. Unwilling to take part a peculiar game of Russian roulette, they decided to feed the potentially deadly concoction to the workshops’ resident, a shabby German shepherd named Lucky.

Patiently the hungry pair waited for some sign that the dog was suffering from being poisoned. Thirty minutes passed and the only adverse reaction the dog had was a rapidly wagging and what appeared to be a desire for more.

Confident that the meal was both delicious and non lethal, the two friends ate heartily. Mean while the dog failing in its attempt to gain more of the tasty broth by whimpering and trying to look hungry, set out along the dusty road to the farm house hoping for more success there. At that very moment my uncle, the farmer, was driving on his way home for lunch. The dog stepped out too far too quickly right in front of the oncoming vehicle. Despite my uncle’s best efforts to swerve and avoid the animal, he failed and rammed it clear off the tarmac and into a nearby ditch.

The unlucky Lucky survived the accident and was rushed to the farm’s veterinarian hospital by the offending driver. The animal doctor patched up Lucky and phoned the workshop. Peter answered.
“Hello. I just called to tell you; the boss dropped your dog at the animal hospital...” said the veterinarian, but before he could continue Peter slammed the phone down in a wild panic.
“That was the vet, Lucky is dying and we’re next.”
Fear seized the two men who stood in silence starring at each other in Horror, there was only one solution.

There is a moral to this story, I’m not sure what it is; must be something to do with animal testing. I’d like to dedicate this Blog to the man who told me this story.

No animals were injured during the writing of this blog except for some fried chicken which I murdered.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karoi

Fear and Loathing in Brighton: Part Two

2011-08-25T23:20:00.000-07:00

Back to the hotel room for a much needed shower and change of attire and we were on the street once more seeking satisfaction and the true spirit of freedom. We’d switched to rum, Leg insisted saying we needed something more coastal and I whole heartedly agreed, which we were drinking way too fast, but it was worth the risk.

The waitress all but ran into us as we staggered towards our destination. Leg beamed at her, took her hand and kissed it; I just about managed a friendly wave. Steff was her name and she was a German student (you would never tell by her accent which was flawless). Leg was obviously smitten, I couldn’t help thinking this ‘chance’ meeting had been cunningly prearranged.

Steff and leg fraternized and flirted for the next five minutes giggling like a couple of school kids before we got going again. A few swigs of rum latter and it was if we had know Steff all our lives, her happy go lucky attitude slipped seamlessly in to the fabric of our little group plus she was a stunning blonde which helped matters greatly.

The Karaoke joint was only a block away; we took our time forcing the neat rum down us as efficiently as humanly possible. The mood was defiantly more positive and the boisterous Leg set about charming the already infatuated Steff. Rum gone, time to party. Bouncers at the door of _____ _____ were less than impressed with our drunken antics until Leg explained our position and purpose. “We are in search of something, not that we know what it is, and we intend on finding it at this establishment all night long or until last orders whichever comes first,” explained Leg.

Inside the bar was quite depressing. The Bad lighting and a still atmosphere that lingered like cigarette smoke just didn’t scream fun, fun, fun, we stayed regardless. Leg ordered six cocktails and paid cash; this surprised me greatly as in all my years of knowing him, I had never seen him draw his wallet in anger. I figured he was determined to discover where the night would take us.

The Karaoke machine was in a separate upstairs room, it came with its very own pair of very camp operators, apart from these two men and our selves the place was deserted. Under normal circumstances the combination of lack of friendly vibrations and a pair of over the top homosexuals, would have put a wet blanket on proceedings (especially with Leg's irrational fear of the dark) not tonight. Steff set the bench mark with a spritely rendition of ______’s ‘Vogue’ complete with pout and poses. Leg grabbed the mic and went about reducing _____ _____’s ‘Your Beautiful’ to rubble with his violent screech of a singing voice, which he dedicated to Steff receiving a well earned kiss for his trouble. Peter and Paul, who turned out to be part owners of the bar, applauded my companions, who happily accepted the plaudits. Encouraged by this positive response, they dragged ___ ____s’ ‘It’s Cold Outside’ through the proverbial mud to a long and painful death together. Alcohol helps.

The night picked up quickly as the room filled with people keen to see a cat being skinned alive no doubt and the mic passed from one accidental pop star to the next each, ruining music in their own special way, as the gathering crowd screamed and hollered in frivolous glee, singing along and generally being joyfully intoxicated.

Too loud to converse we danced instead, too dark to see we reached out and touched each other. Surely this was the unbridled pleasure we sought, the mindless freedom of the unhinged generation. If only.

Once more we were unceremoniously flung onto the pavement by large men in overcoats thanks to Leg who, in this small town, was gathering a reputation for being a ruffian. This time he became impatient with slow serving bar staff, so he climbed behind the counter and proceeded to pour himself a stiff gin and tonic. Management were unimpressed. Steff and Leg got into a cab; I left them to it. I refused to be a third wheel despite their insistence that we should stay together.

The sun was bright in the breezy sky when I finally woke on the pebbles of Brighton beach still drunk and alone (except for the occasional homeless person). Somehow I had blacked out and ended up here in this place, a poor substitute for a warm dry hotel room (admittedly in a slightly better location). It was all over, there was no satisfaction and the spirit of freedom remained elusive.

There is only one person this blog can be dedicated to the late Ezio the hamster a truly inspirational human being even for a rodent.

Fear and Loathing in Brighton: Part One

2011-08-19T05:34:00.000-07:00

The restaurant was packed on our arrival.
“Reservation for Jones,” said Leg to the pretty waitress dressed in black and white.
“We don’t take reservation sir,” she said politely.
“In that case, a table for two, something near a window,” he grinned at her foolishly; she smiled back and showed us to a table at the far end of the establishment.
“Thank you young lady and may I say your smile reminds me of a young ___ _______.” She smiled at him for a second time while with great ceremony, handed us each a menu and slipped napkins on our laps for us (Leg whispered something in her ear and she giggled joyfully).

We’d been drinking all afternoon with, as Leg so elegantly put it, 'great vengeance'. It started with two for one cocktails that was hours ago, we were now on our third bottle of Jack, which was stashed in my satchel along with some chaser, two bottles of water based lube and several rolls of mint sweets. Security at a nearby wine bar had ejected us into the street after Leg refused to pay anything over a pound for two glasses of port he had ordered. Despite his lengthy and somewhat compelling reasoning, the proprietor remained unimpressed and finally signalled the men in black.

Leg leaned over and engaged the table next to us in small talk. They were an odd couple, the gentleman was in his fifties and his partner, a stunning oriental girl, was a great deal younger. The pair seemed happy enough to converse with him, answering his questions and even laughing at his silly jokes until I heard him say:
“Well Andrew you seem to be a real stand up guy, tell me... How much will it cost me to get a hot Polynesian wife like yours and will they entertain the idea of a group rate if I get one for my friend here at the same time?”

Andrew rose to his feet in a blind angry rage, dumping his serviette on the table dramatically, he grabbed his wife’s’ hand and stormed out, stopping only to complain to a gathering of concerned staff vigorously. His spouse turned to me with an expression of shame and silent resolution; this was her only choice said that look and I understood her instantly.

Chucked into the street for a second time in thirty minutes we made our way to the stony beach. The sun was setting in a startling array of pinks and reds. We sat and watched a while, sipping on the whiskey. Barbecues had sprouted all alone the edge of the sea, young people gathered in small groups discussing the latest trend no doubt and listening to music played badly on out of tune instruments. It was a good vibe and the Jack popped and crackled in my brain doing its feel good magic dance.

“We need more juice!” declared my companion.”I have decided, my good sir, that when I turn sixty five, I’m going to sell my house and move out here permanently. Maybe get a coke habit and move into a squat with some students. F*** it growing old is hard. Think about it if your life is dull and you’re going to die you might as well get high.” As far as I knew Leg didn’t own a house and he already had a drug habit to be proud of, apart from that this was some sound reasoning once again, besides why kill the buzz with some senseless argument.

The situation deteriorated unexpectedly when my companion reached into my satchel, pulled out one of the bottles of lube, opened it and drank deeply, before I could stop him. He gagged at the taste and spat. His eyes grew and his face filled with horror and disgust as he tried to read the label in the fading light. I was stunned, wanting to laugh and be sick at the same time. Leg beat me to it, he lurched forward, his face twisted as yellow green liquid and unrecognisable chunks of solids spewed from his mouth like a fountain. The smell was pungent and repulsive, I felt my insides flip and tighten, teetering on the verge.
“What in Jericho’s name is this?” screamed Leg holding up the bottle to my face, “I thought it was vodka.”
I couldn’t fight it any longer I turned and fell to my knees just as the first uncontrollable spasm forced the contents of my stomach up and out in an explosion of vomit, again and again in waves of fire burning my throat it poured out and wouldn’t stop. I begged God for help. Finally and just as quickly as it began, with one last powerful clench, it ended.
“We have to get out of this place, or the rats will get us for sure.” Said leg, he dry heaved and covered his mouth. I nodded in agreement.

It suddenly became imperative that we put some distance between us and the vile debris. We took off at break neck speed, the charge quickly turned into a scramble as the stones beneath our feet gave way with each step preventing any decent purchase.
“Damn these confounding pebbles!” shouted Leg angrily. We reached street level breathless and exhausted.

Ordeal behind us we headed for the closest pub. The rabble parted as we walked in and made our way to the bar. I picked up exclamations and whispers as people stepped well clear of us. It all became apparent when I saw what Leg looked like; his face was a pale hue, ghost like, clothing dishevelled and filthy and his hair like wet mop. He resembled more trauma victim (well... walking dead) than reveller out on the town. The mirror behind the well stocked bar revealed my own grotesque image. Needless to say, it was not a good look.

Leg addressed the employee behind the counter.
“We have just suffered a terrifying episode and are in desperate need of your strongest liquor. What can I get for a pound?”

I would like to dedicate this blog to Eugene de Souza the worlds best little brother...we will always have Avondale.

Thomas Jones

2011-08-11T23:39:00.000-07:00

It was a day of bright sunlight and warm coastal winds. The seaside town of Brighton on Hove, in the summer, is one of my favourite places. At seven o’clock in the morning the beach is all but deserted and the sea is welcomingly empty, the best time for a lengthy swim before the arrival of every stag doo and hen night in the country; the calm before the big party.

This is where, on the second day of the riots in London, far from the madness and the anger, we met Thomas Jones, a homeless immigrant from the country of my birth, quite by accident.

Tom staggered about the ridge of the stony beach that marks the top of the tide line muttering to himself and periodically stomping his foot close to my favourite spot. In these types of situations I find its best to speak to the mad man to see just how much of a nutter he really is. Fortunately on a scale of one to ten (one being a person who shouldn’t be permitted to drive and ten being the perfect candidate for a brain transplant), Tom Jones was only a four.

His hair was thin and greying and his face wrinkled and worn by time and the elements. He carried with him a change of clothes in a plastic shopping bag, so he was relatively clean. This showed that he still had pride and dignity in his personal appearance; vanity is enduring. His breath told its own story, one I’ve heard before; once upon a time there was a bottle of vodka ... and no one lived happily ever after the end.

I do like to have conversations with people down on their luck, I know it sounds a bit smug but they do have some interesting thing to say. Take Mark for example, he sold “The big issue” on Argyle street first thing in the morning. Every day he woke at six and made his way from his home in north London as if he had a normal job, he didn’t have to, he chose to. I discovered that he had worked for the ministry of defence as an engineer in Canada, but he over stayed and got deported, which meant he lost his job and ended up with a criminal record. This may or may not be true but our daily conversations became more and more revealing about life on the fringe of reality.

Tom Jones is on a journey to obscurity. Soon he will just be a shadow in the dark corner of society as we walk passed him trying desperately not to make eye contact. He represents the damp wet smelly stuff lying just under the thin glittering skin of our civilisation and proof of how easy it is to slip through the cracks. Already the signs are not good for Tom; he is losing the ability to communicate on a level that can be considered as normal. His mannerisms are no longer recognisable as sane, the muttering and twitching will only get worse. I hoped to get a quote, but his ramblings became dispersed, agitated and of little literal value. Instead I made him stand guard over my belongings as I swam; he was more than happy to do so and when we parted his eyes were filled with gratitude.

This Blog is dedicated to Sunny an old friend, how did it all go so wrong.

Gate Crash

2011-08-09T12:48:00.000-07:00

“This is not a wedding.” I say as we slide into a booth in the darkest part of the hall.
“Calm down man, we’ve been in worse situations with a lot less free booze.” Whispers Leg, under the passionate and tearful sound of the speaker who is standing on a sheet of plywood that served as both a stage and a dance floor (not that anyone is intending to dance tonight) in the middle of the expansive and well decorated room.

We had spotted the event from the highway that is Samora Machel* avenue (Harare, Zimbabwe), bright lights, well dressed folk and free parking; it was too good not to investigate. The two ushers at the door were unusually helpful considering our casual attire. On asking, they were both more than happy to point us in the direction of the bar.
“Greetings to you barkeep, would you be kind enough to supply my friend and I with two glasses of your cheapest wine,” said Leg to the sturdy youngster in the white shirt and black tie. He smiled and informed us that the nights tab had already been covered.
“In that case forget the wine and I’ll have a bottle of tequila, two glasses, a small plate of lime slices and a bottle of Jack for sunshine over here. Perhaps it will improve his driving,” said Leg with a sly wink. The bartender laughed far too hard for my comfort, but he did as he was told.

I was concerned about the silent reverence in which everyone in the immediate vicinity went about their business, there was just something not quite right about it all. Leg assured me that the mood would change once the bride and groom, or whoever else was the guest of honour, arrived. In fact he was so confident; he put his arm around a very attractive, young lady and consoled as she was looking up set and alone just a short distance from where we were standing. Cheered up considerably she gave him her number; which was encouraging.
“See women always cry at weddings,” explained a grinning Leg.
“...And Funerals,” I reminded him, unconvinced. Strangely, this only improved his upbeat mood.

The speeches are ending and it’s become clear, at least to me, that we’ve gate crashed a wake* (The open coffin should have been a dead give away). Leg seems unperturbed. His bottle of tequila is down passed the two thirds point and somehow we’ve acquired three platters of varied finger foods and sandwiches, which Leg is currently devouring at a phenomenal rate.

A man approaches us. Dressed in a white suite with a black shirt and tie, he has an officious look about him; it makes me nervous and panic starts to worm its way into my thoughts, my companion chooses to ignore him for now.
“Good evening my name is Paul” he says with a wide toothy grin and extended hand. I shake it. Leg looks up from his meal, irritated by this interruption, with a sandwich in one hand and a drumstick in the other.
“Hello Paul,” we say in unison.
“How did you gentleman know Linda?” asks Paul.
“Why she was like a mother to us my good sir, for many years,” replies Leg.
“That’s odd as she was about the same age as you,” says Paul suspiciously.
“True but girls mature faster than boys and Lois was very mature for her age,” answers Leg.
“Laura” I correct him.
“Actually it’s Linda” says Paul smugly (we’ve been rumbled). ”We all know your just here for the free food and alcohol shame on you. I think it’s time you gentlemen left.”

Leg stands up suddenly and with great authority apparently not going to take this outrageous insult sitting down. Flicking his sandwich, spreading lettuce and tomato in all directions like some sort of crazed vegetable dispenser, he begins to speak.
“Paul, if that is even your real name, how dare you question our sincerity.”
I kept my mouth shut, as a policy, staying out of his way while he’s on his high horse, is not a bad one.
“You come here with your accusatory tones, just because we don’t wear white shoes or have massive glow-in-the-dark teeth. I have news for you, I am this man’s’ attorney and I’ll be advising him to take this matter up with the highest judicious authorities.”

To my surprise the surrounding tables start to mummer their support.
“Leave those boys alone Paul” someone shouts.
“Why do you have to be such a dick” shouts someone else.

Only in Zimbabwe will people spontaneously voice their opinions based on blind faith alone. Elevated by this unexplainable wave of positive feedback, my friend continues his lecture to a now shrinking Paul.
“What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see we’re grieving? Is it so hard for you to believe that my client and I could be dear and close friends of your sainted Latoya?”
“Laura,” I correct him.
“Linda” says Paul meekly.
There is now wide spread anger, the other guests have gone rouge and Leg is their intoxicated leader, his passion is consuming them at this time when they need to feel emotionally unstable. Just before Paul is dragged away kicking and screaming by the increasingly temperamental mob Leg leans over the table and whispers to him,
“Paul I think it’s time for you to leave.”

I’d like to dedicate this blog to Bianca, we miss you dearly. She always had so much love to give and so much to say. I wish I had a time machine my little friend.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samora_Machel

http://www.lightstalkers.org/images/show/206177

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wake_(ceremony)

A Bad Situation

2011-07-28T23:30:00.000-07:00

The look of complete astonishment was evident on his face. Who was this tadpole that would dare deny him his quarry? Well over six foot and golem like in structure he loomed over me. Out of a mad sense of chivalry, I had grabbed his wrist within a breath of him snatching her off the face of the earth and crushing the offending female in the compactor that was his right hand. We stood locked together at the point where our eyes met, there was going to be a pummelling, right here right now, on the dance floor with a decent chance of hospitalisation.

Revellers moved away from the scene creating a circle of tension, no one wanted any part in this most biblical of battles but they certainly wanted to watch. ‘She’ had fled leaving me to deal with her problem. (We found out later that this beast of a man had just body slammed his girlfriend into the trunk of his sedan before turning his attentions to this unfortunate young lady). His expression changed from wide eyed shock, to that of a predator about to feed.

“Spritely now.” I thought to myself and produce a determined look of my own. Our positions had changed, he stood leaning into me, teeth clenched and ball fisted, I held him off with an elbow buried in his barrel like chest (he weighed a ton); we were face to face. Grunting as he spoke, the Minotaur spilled bile and venom like words from his mouth. My mind raced, panic was at the door and banging hard, my thoughts turned to the afterlife. Why had I abandoned religion? I needed to focus, now was not the time to die, not in front of all these people that would not be a good look.

“Fight! Fight like a cornered mongoose you fool, give him no quarter!” Was my minds response. Resolution set, I prepared to strike first (low and hard). In this moment of empowerment he wavered. Perhaps my unexpected challenge had confused him into submission or he saw the demon in my eyes, whatever the case, the malice drained from his face, he broke our engagement and walked away. Sweat flowed freely down my back and I was shaking all over with the adrenaline produced by the anxiety of the prospect of physical conflict, it made the music delicious and the lighting intense on the faces of the on lookers. It was beautiful. I was relieved; this education could have ended so badly.

The crowd parted as I walked to the bar, needing a drink badly, I ordered a double tequila. The bar keep handed me the bottle and refused payment. Aware of the eyes on my back I chose to sit on a bar stool that became available quickly to hide my jelly legs and drank deeply of the golden fire.

This blog is dedicated to my friend Loysen who is the most fearless man I ever knew.

The Chemistry lesson

2011-07-23T05:15:00.000-07:00

Chemistry can be dull. Stories and I sat at the back of the science lab; we should have been listening to Mr. ____, our forth form science teacher; instead we were looking down with great curiosity at a white cube of tofu like substance in a sealed jar.

The label said “Sodium” but it was the red warning that grabbed our attention. “Caution: Reacts violently with H₂O”. What could that mean? We had to find out. Perhaps we should have asked our instructor? That would have been no fun at all, this was science and science required a more practical approach.

Mr. ____ had only been at John’s High School, Emerald Green in Harare Zimbabwe for a relatively short period of time, which explains why he wasn’t watching us like a hawk. He had however, discovered quite by accident, the depth of our reputation, when during an informal staff lunch, he came close to being lynched by his fellow colleagues for suggesting that we would make good prefects. In fact legend has it there was a minor riot and at least two people were hospitalised.

Unseen by the rest of the class, we made our way to a nearby sink which had a cold water tap with a short hose attachment to do our little experiment. Things went wrong really quickly, Stories in a moment of madness opened the faucet too much and all we succeeded in doing was soaking the entire class. There was a roar of protest by our fellow students and Mr ____ who usually was a man of impeccable patients and restraint, shouted a string of obscenities, mostly questioning our parents sexual morality and finally instructing us to leave his classroom (and not in those words), so we did, quickly.

Hurt and confused we wandered the empty school corridors and verandas consoling each other and complaining (as all teens do) about how everyone was against us and no one understood. The sanitation block, known to us simply as “The Bog”, was secluded and perfect for our experiment. The stench was pungent and rancid, the whole place was as friendly as a mortuary but, it was always empty. Stories produced the jar from his blazer pocket, we had crossed a line here, we were no longer just naughty we were now criminal, however we were in the pursuit of knowledge, ‘Caution: Reacts violently with H₂O’, we had to know.

I stood over the toilet, using the half open water closet door as a shield; I tipped the jar until the white lump was tinkering precariously on the edge of the rim “Ready?” I asked Stories, who was watching intently from above peering over the top of the next cubical. He nodded then said “Yes” tentatively, which was not in any way confidence inspiring, when he realised I wasn’t looking at him. I shook the jar and made a hasty retreat before the “tofu” plopped into the toilet bowl. Nothing happened; Story’s looked down at me and shrugged.

I opened the door and peered into the toilet, I could see movement something was happening. The explosion surprised us both; for a split second all the water in the bowl was propelled upwards like a fountain jet before crashing down in an unnatural cascade. I was thrown to the ground and half the toilet bowl landed in my lap, there was water and shrapnel everywhere and my ears were ringing from the bang.

Stories, in one of his many acts of valour, had made a mad dash for the exit (he later said he thought I was dead and panicked). I gathered my wits and staggered into the sunshine. A small crowd of students from a nearby class room had gathered to see what all the commotion was about and were looking at me with a mixture of shock and awe. I had to say something “Don’t go in there” I mustered breathlessly “not if you value your sanity.”

Inexplicably we escaped punishment for this and our names became legend.

I would like to dedicate this blog to Shannon, without whom I would never have gotten out of high school, you and those damn math charts you kept making.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLJ4FH7q0EQ&feature=related

Leg vs the Bus

2011-07-15T00:09:00.000-07:00

“I detest bus travel.” Said Leg as we sat on the H20 to Hounslow central, “We should have walked.”
“Calm yourself, we’re nearing our destination. Let’s not risk another incident.” Said I.
“Do you know who catches buses? Expendable people, that’s who, why do you think there are no seat belts in these death traps? We are now expendable.” He had a point, but his agitated tone was something of a concern.
“It’s just a means to an end Leg, that’s all, no need for the cereal box philosophies, besides this is bat country.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

I have to admit, this was not the smoothest ride in the world; it was as if the helmsman was being paid by the pot hole. The bus braked violently and the passengers jerked forward in their seats once again, sparking mummers of protest.
“Driver! Spare us the Lewis Hamilton act.” shouted Leg above the grumblings. We were sitting three rows from the back of the half empty vehicle, but I’m sure he heard.
“Just settle down, you’re making everyone uncomfortable.” I said; he just glared back at me and showed his teeth, which was unexpected and frightening to say the least.

Things deteriorated quickly when one of the three giggly and particularly scrawny teenagers behind us, chose this the most unfortunate of times to goad my already irate pal, by throwing a tomato sauce covered, hot chip into his neatly combed and styled hair.

“You intolerable little dingoes!” bellowed Leg. Funny as this was, (more so to the adolescents who were clutching themselves with laughter) it would not end well. Leg rose from his seat, charged at the shocked youngsters and was on top of them before they could react. He grabbed the boy in the centre by the lapels of his school blazer and lifted him clear off his perch so they were face to face, a terrifying prospect for anyone as Leg is more wild bear than man particularly when prodded.

“Ruffian!” he addressed the now dangling lad “I’m going to give you the beating your inbred parents were always too high to administer.” The school boy’s face was ash grey, eyes like saucers and he trembled with fear as if he’d seen an apparition.
“Apologise now! Or so help me; by all that is religious, I will smack you till your profile picture swells.” The teen, who’s lifelong and trusted allies used his predicament to make a hasty escape through the rear emergency door and were running down the street in a blind panic, bleated a fearful plea for mercy.

Leg remained unsatisfied at this pathetic attempt of appeasement so he dragged the youth to the front of the bus.
“Open the door.” He said to the driver, who complied immediately with Leg’s uncompromising tone, then hurled his protesting charge unceremoniously to the pavement. The lad bounced to his feet and was fleeing for his life before Leg could pounce.

To my surprise (and Legs) the remaining passengers erupted into jubilation, applauding, cheering and whistling their approval of the hero of the H20 to Hounslow central. Leg raised his fists triumphantly as I tried unsuccessfully to melt into my seat with embarrassment.

I dedicate this blog to Eugene my little brother; we should have done this together.

Road Trip: Malawi

2011-07-08T05:29:00.000-07:00

The bus was not ideal for long distance travel; it was uncomfortable to say the least, but when in Africa one makes do. We certainly couldn’t afford to be lower middle class at this point, even with the bottle of Red and the smoked salmon sandwiches neatly stashed away in out portable cooler.

The trip was frightful, even for me, But Mrs Eziothehamster held herself together best she could as the vehicle shuddered and shook with every gear change and even the death rattle that was the engine failed to shake her resolve. The neatly wrapped parcel on the passengers lap beside her turned out to be a live chicken and a large brown goat made a meal of her hat, but still she remained remarkably composed. I’m not surprised as Malawi is a wild and stunning country.

The wife broke out the sandwiches and I went all ‘African Hunter’ on mine, stalking it, killing it (with a cocktail stick), then eating it raw with both hands, quickly like a leopard, so as not to be over powered by other predators (the goat mostly) before I had my fill. Which turned out to be pointless because she gave him some of hers and what do you know, goats like smoked salmon and cream cheese on a slice of whole wheat bread (triangle cut with the crust removed, anything else would be uncivilised).

We arrived at our bus stop, there were no signs or markings, our driver, who had been very helpful , up till then, stopped in the middle of nowhere, told us to get out and pointed in the general direction of our lodge; a dirt track through a dense wooded area great. Immediately we are set upon by a band of self proclaimed porters offering to carry our luggage down to the lodge for a price. It was hot and we were exhausted so we handed over our suitcases and a small amount of cash, to the only young man who spoke English, who set off at beak neck speed with them attached precariously to the back of his bicycle. We left swiftly, partially in pursuit of our clothing and other effects and partially because a fight had broken out amongst the remaining, it wasn’t a particularly good one, more of a shoving match, we thought it best to vacate pronto like none the less.

We followed our supersonic baggage till it was lost from sight, things were not going well. Why had we trusted a complete stranger with all our belongings? What were we thinking? Fortunately the soft sand made it easy for us to follow his tracks, not an activity we had anticipated while booking this crazy holiday from the comfort of our London flat.

We emerge from the forest to the most satisfying of sights... now you may think it was the manicured lawns of Palm Beach Resort or the splendour of Lake Malawi and you’d be right but not on this occasion, for there he was the land speed breaking bicycle porter and our precious cargo. Fantastic we had not paid this Chris Hoy* wanabe to rob us after all. Within the hour, we were laying on the beach, cocktails in hand, watching the African sunset in glorious Technicolor, as a tiny Kingfisher hunted its dinner.

I would like to dedicate this blog to Rita Britz the youngest person I know, people like her do more good for Africa than a thousand pop stars ever could.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malawi

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chris_Hoy

http://www.palmbeach-mw.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Malawi

Summer time

2011-06-30T23:16:00.000-07:00

From the beginning of time humans have had a special relationship with fire. Despite advances in food preparation techniques and cooking technology, we still insist on standing over an open flame in the searing summer heat, poking and prodding vast amounts of animal flesh on a metal grate.

Steeped in tradition the world of the Barbecue and Braai* is dominated by men. There is usually one chef; every male is required to walk up to the grill and show him reverence by giving just one piece of advice. So ancient and deep is this practice that I am of the belief that all spoken language was derived from the phrase “Ugg, you should keep turning the chicken so it doesn’t burn on the outside”. The correct response any such advice should always be a slight nod and a temporary relinquishment of the holy turning tongs. Any deviation is a threat to the very essence of the Braai and is punishable by death.

The women folk are required to create a vast array of salads and side dishes of which at least one should be unique to that house hold and of course if you're Zimbabwean, Sadza*. Spinach and peanut butter, creamed cabbage, coal cooked salmon and baked bananas are just a few I’ve come across. These dishes go a long way in bringing the personal touch to the occasion, in fact it is the side dishes that people mention most often afterwards while making the inevitable unnecessary conversation. “Your wife makes a fantastic seaweed and hummus salad; she must be great in bed.”
“This is true, I’m a lucky man.”

Equally important is the alcohol. I say this as if working with sharp instruments and all consuming fire while intoxicated to a point mental retardation is not a bad thing. The truth is getting stupid drunk in the afternoon sunshine is fantastic, especially if your wife’s invited the annoying best friend and her cloth weaving, hemp wearing, hippie partner who insists on throwing a lump of tofu on the sacred grill because eating anything else would be “Murder”. Two double shots of rum slightly contaminated with ice and cola and hey presto, you no longer feel obliged to grab him by the pony tail and bury his idiot face into the hot coals, much to the delight of the other guests (cue joyful celebrations).

Coals smouldering, the smell of cooking meat, a table full of exciting side dishes, music, alcohol and close friends and family that’s the perfect summer’s day for me, even with the odd hippie, as for the neighbours well, they’ll be praying for rain.

I’d like to dedicate this blog to the older generation of men from the neighbourhood who passed these traditions on to us.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Braai

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sadza