Barefoot White African

Happy Halloween!

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Thu, 31 Oct 2013 10:29:00 +0000

Halloween is here and it is the first time I get to celebrate the Samhain knowing I am now a full time resident in the United Kingdom, after leaving the beautiful Cape of South Africa for good in mid-July, 2013.

The origins of this fete lies in the ancient Celtic festival of the end of harvest in the Gaelic culture where they took stock of supplies and prepare for winter. The Gaels believed that on October 31, the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead overlapped and the deceased would come back to life and cause havoc such as sickness or damaged crops. The festival would frequently involve bonfires. It is believed that the fires attracted insects to the area which attracted bats to the area. These are additional attributes of the history of Halloween. Masks and costumes were worn in an attempt to mimic the evil spirits or appease them.

From: http://www.holybible.com/resources/halloween.htm

Where and when did Halloween customs originate? The many customs we have today in relation to Halloween have their origins in the religious practices of the Romans and the Druids, therefore dating back many centuries. The Romans worshiped various gods and on October 31, a special feast was held in honour of Pomona, goddess of the fruit trees. Later, the Druids, an ancient order of Celtic priests in Britain, made this feast an even more extensive celebration by also honoring Samhain, lord of the dead. This was normally done on November 1 and it was therefore decided to conveniently honor both Pomona and Samhain on October 31 and November 1.

These Druids believed that on the night before November 1 (October 31) Samhain called together wicked souls or spirits which had been condemned to live in the bodies of animals during the year which had just transpired. Since they were afraid of these spirits, they chose October 31 as a day to sacrifice to their gods, hoping they would protect them. They really believed that on this day they were surrounded by strange spirits, ghosts, witches, fairies, and elves, who came out to hurt them. In addition to this, they also believed that cats were holy animals, as they considered them to represent people who lived formerly, and as punishment for evil deeds were reincarnated as a cat. All this explains why witches, ghosts, and cats are a part of Halloween today.

The custom of trick-or-treating and the use of "jack-o'-lanterns" comes from Ireland. Hundreds of years ago, Irish farmers went from house to house, begging for food, in the name of their ancient gods, to be used at the village Halloween celebration. They would promise good luck to those who gave them good, and made threats to those who refused to give. They simply told the people, "You treat me, or else I will trick you!"

The apparently harmless lightened pumpkin face or "jack-o'-lantern" actually is an old Irish symbol of damned soul. A man named Jack was supposed to be able unable to enter heaven due to his miserliness, and unable to enter hell because he had played practice jokes on the devil. As a result, he was condemned to wander over the earth with his lantern until judgment day (i.e., the end of the world). The Irish were so afraid that they would receive an identical plight, that they began to hollow out pumpkins and place lighted candles inside to scare away evil spirits from their home.

When did the modern Halloween celebration begin?

During the Middle Ages (about 600 years ago), the Roman Catholic Church at that time, decided to make the change-over from pagan religion to Christianity a bit easier, and therefore allowed the new converts to maintain some of their pagan feasts. It was agreed, however, that from now on they would be celebrated as "Christian" feats. So instead of praying to thwir heathen gods, they would now pray to, and remember the deaths of saints. For this reason the church decided to call November 1 the "Day of All Saints," and the mass to be celebrated on that day "Alhallowmass." In consequence of this, the evening prior to this day was named, "All Hallowed Evening" which subsequently was abbreviated as "Halloween." In spite of this effort to make October 31 a "holy evening," all the old customs continued to be practiced, and made this evening anything BUT a holy evening!

Bucket List Transport to Kruger National Park

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Wed, 15 May 2013 18:38:00 +0000

You are looking at your “Bucket List” of things to do before you die and one sentence in particular is highlighted in fluorescent yellow: “Travel to South Africa to take a safari in the Kruger National Park.”

Actually, your dreams are only a flight away to South Africa on a reliable airline to Johannesburg’s Oliver Tambo International Airport and if you are a wily traveller, booking a sturdy 4x4 vehicle in advance off the Internet will give you the advantage of getting great savings on cheap car hire, where you can find the perfect vehicle to safely get you to and around the Kruger Park.

Once through airport customs and immigration, a friendly Rental Agent will be there to meet and greet you, making your arrival to South Africa a welcome one.

After sleeping over in Johannesburg you will set off on the first stage of your safari to Kruger, world-famous for its abundantly diverse wildlife. The Park’s magnificent scenery and unique wilderness with the “Big Five”; Elephant, Buffalo, Lion, Leopard and Rhino and array of other animals, makes it one of the few remaining areas where one feels as if they are in the true Africa of old, away from the noise of smoggy cities and the endless hum of traffic. Instead there is the peace of the bush, the sound of the African fish-eagle’s lament echoing out across the Olifants River and the rat-tap-tap of the tok-tok beetle as it trundles through the fallen leaves of the mopane trees.

There are so many places where you can stay in the Kruger Park and surrounding areas, with a range of accommodation from low budget to luxury game lodges. These can be booked through the South African Department of Tourism at the same time that you book your cheap car hire.

It is said that the Kruger National Park was the prototype of wildlife sanctuaries in Africa, offering a wildlife experience that ranks as one of the best in the entire continent. Established in 1898 to protect the animals in the Lowveld of South Africa, the park comprises nearly two million hectares and is unrivalled in its vast diversity of flora and fauna, with an estimate of some 336 trees, 114 reptiles, 49 fish, 34 amphibians, 507 birds and 147 mammals.

It is also interesting to note that man has been part of the environment for centuries, from the bushman’s paintings that are still visible in rocky outcrops and caves to the fascinating archaeological sites of Masorini and Thulamela. Giving evidence of cultures before ours that lived and hunted in the vast tracts of land, and part of the proud conservation of the Kruger National Park.

Africa’s mysterious magic has always been its unique wildlife and the habitats in which they can be found. For you as the visitor, the African bush provides remarkably stirring experiences with only a few other African Game Parks as diverse as that of the Kruger National Park.

Reluctantly you will leave the Park on your homeward journey, dropping your 4x4 vehicle back at the airport where you will promise yourself a return to Africa where the old saying goes “the dust of Africa never leaves the soles of your feet.”

Susan Cook-Jahme©

For Mothers on Mother’s Day

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Sun, 12 May 2013 10:21:00 +0000

Upon waking this morning my friend Doug sent me a text message on his cell phone:

“Good Morning Sue – and what you think about joining us, - Me ‘n Shaz at Seagulls restaurant for a Mother’s Day lunch? Cath is treating Shaz, so I’ll treat you, seeing as your children aren’t here?”

To fill you in, Cath is Doug and Shaz’ daughter, and Seagulls is a restaurant situated in the tiny holiday village, L’Agulhas which is the last inhabited place at the southernmost tip of Africa.

I do not think my friends know how much it means to me to have received that message today - it brought a lump to my throat and made me feel terribly emotional. You see, I am here on my own trying to wrap up the sale of our home in Cape Agulhas, Graham, (my hubby) is working under gruelling conditions in Uganda on an agricultural project and my daughters, son-in-law and grandsons are all in England. My Mom is eight hours drive from me up the east coast of South Africa. As I’ve visited her recently, I cannot afford to visit her again until our house transaction is through.

With my friend’s kind gesture, it brought me to think of the many mother’s, (including my beloved mother) step-mothers and adoptive mothers who are spending this day on their own.

It’s for them that I write this Blog today:

We, as mothers, have all had mothers and grandmothers, an aunt or god-mother who has been an important part of our life. Someone who kissed a grazed knee or stroked a fevered brow, made us packed lunches and drove us back-wards and forwards on school runs.

A woman who cheered us on at school sport’s day and ran in the mother’s race, and even if she came in last, she was our heroine.

A woman who told us it didn’t matter that our report card was not brilliant, Einstein was dyslexic and look how he turned out!

A woman who kept all our drawings and little notes from when we first knew how to put pencil to paper.

A woman who taught us that fairies and angels really did exist and that the world was full of beautiful things.

A woman who cried with us over our first heartbreak and wrapped us in her arms and made everything feel OK.

A woman who saw us out into the big wide world and kept a lighted candle burning in the window if we ever needed to return.

A woman who saw the wonderment when we ourselves became a mother and we could only understand the burning protectiveness and unconditional love a mother has over her own child.

I think of all the mothers who have to face the death of their own mothers, or the loss of a beloved child. The empty feeling they must have to face each year when Mother’s Day is celebrated. They cannot make a phone call to say “I love you dearly”, but what I do know is Mother’s Day is for remembering our mothers because their spirit remains within us and our children and our children’s children.

The whole world’s most celebrated day of the year is Mother’s Day as everyone has a mother. It does not matter what religion, creed or colour you are, Mother’s Day is important to all of us.

Happy Mother’s Day, - especially to Mothers who are on their own and feel sadness at loved ones who are not with them.

Love and Light to: My Mom, Debi, Kerry, Taryn, Johnno, Lochlan & Mason.

©Susan Cook-Jahme, Freelance Writer

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The Beautiful Island of Mauritius, Part 5

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Tue, 07 May 2013 08:04:00 +0000

The food of Mauritius is varied, as there are so many different people of ethnic decadency from varied places around the world, with several distinctive styles of cooking. Most typically Mauritian is Creole cuisine. Boiled rice forms the basis of most Creole dishes, to this is added curry; meat or fish cooked with turmeric, aniseed, hot spices, onions and oil, and served with finely chopped tomatoes, hot chillies, and green mango. Another traditional savoury dish is a tasty green vegetable soup called bredes. Vegetables that are usually served with savoury dishes are patisson, or squash, boiled watercress and chou-chou, (a type of marrow.) Several restaurants on the island serve Creole food on their menu, so do give it a try.

Naturally, seafood is the speciality of Mauritian dishes; lobsters and shrimps top most of the menus, but also delicious is the local freshwater prawn, the camaron. I enjoy it in “sauce rouge”, which I recommend every person dining out when on the island, should eat at least once. Then there is a variety of Indian Ocean fish which are served, capitaine, gueule pave, damenerry, sacre chien, squid, urchins and tasty little oysters. From June to September venison are a speciality and some restaurants offer hare and wild boar. A delicious salad is Coeur de palmiste, (the heart of a seven-year old palm tree.) Try the beef that is brought into the island from the large island of Madagascar, the fillet in particular is tender and full of flavour. There is an abundant supply of exotic fruit, small, sweet pineapples, lychees, paw-paws, Chinese guavas, wild raspberries, mangoes, water-melons, custard-apples, bananas, and coconuts are some of the fresh fruit on offer. The bakeries sell French baguettes and brightly iced patisseries for the person with a sweet tooth. Wine from France, South Africa and many other countries can be found in a corner store, as well as the local rum. Of course there is always on offer the good old British cup of tea and delicious local coffee that is roasted in the way of the French.

The main recreational sport on the island is deep-sea fishing, with the main season falling in from October to March, but there is no closed season and a good catch can be had throughout the year. Fish caught are marlin, barracuda, tuna, wahoo, yellow fin and jack fish. Big game-fishing can be organised on line or at any large hotel group on the island. Full fishing gear is provided, along with an experienced crew. You can also find fishermen who helm their own pirogues, (the local fishing boats) who will take you out fishing for the day, which is what I prefer to do when visiting. For those of you who prefer not to fish, there are other things to do such as, golf, sailing, bowling, surfing, water skiing, swimming and sunbathing, and one of the island’s other most important sports, skin diving. Skin diving was first started by the Sino-Mauritians in the 1940’s and now there is a very popular scuba-club which was founded by Australian, English and Mauritian divers. Some of the best underwater areas are Morne Brabant Reef, Black River, Whale Rock and Horseshoe Spit. As there are dozens of known wrecks around the coast dating back to 1615, it is a “must do” for anyone who enjoys this sport.

Don’t miss out on horse-racing at the Champ de Mars. The season is from May to October with the main meets being held at the end of May and August. Mauritius “Derby Day” is the Maiden Plate which is run in late August. Other popular sports are soccer, lawn tennis, sailing with regattas from July through to October, basketball, volleyball and athletics.

Nightclubs are situated all over the island, but the best are in the big-resort hotels, with cabaret, local d-j’s, dinner dancing and so forth. Unique to the Indian Ocean Island, is the sega, a dance accompanied by calypso-style singing, the musicians using drums, maracas and triangles, to accompany the dance. The sega first evolved by African slaves and is now part of Creole folk law. Performances are often organised and held at the big hotels, as is gambling which is also a huge attraction on the island. Casinos are situated in most of the large hotel groups.

For the shop-a-holics, the best places for souvenirs are the handicraft shops in Port Louis, but you can find them in the hotel shops at higher prices, which I try to avoid. Hire a small car or a taxi for the day and visit Rose Hill, Curepipe and the covered market in Port Louis. For a true Mauritian souvenir, consider a beautifully woven basket, applique pictures made from sugar cane leaves, woodcarvings of the do-do, finely embroidered tablecloths and napkins and an assortment of wall hangings and tapestries. Chinese tailors can be found in Port Louis and they run up beautiful shirts and suits in no time at all. Clothing shops stock a range of beach wear and chic French fashions which are reasonable in price.

The currency unit used on the island is the Mauritian Rupee, divided into 100 cents and most international banks can be found on the island.

Plaisance Airport is 27 miles from Port Louis. If staying at a hotel, they provide shuttles.

Hiring of vehicles can be done online or through various touring companies who have representatives on call at the airport and resorts. The roads are tarmac and good. Signs are in English.

Entry requirements are the usual passport and visas, (check if you need a visa online.) Visitors travelling through or from a yellow fever/cholera infected area must produce a yellow fever inoculation certificate.

©Susan Cook-Jahme, Freelance Writer

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Beautiful Island of Mauritius, Part 4

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Sun, 05 May 2013 07:28:00 +0000

Accommodation in Mauritius ranges from large resort hotels, small family hotels, guest houses, holiday rental apartments, bungalows and backpackers. With some exceptions, most of them have beautiful white coral sand beaches at their front doorsteps, making it easy for you to get out there and “catch the sun”, or enjoy the many water-sporting activities available. It all really comes down to your preference and what you have budgeted. The larger hotels offer all the modern amenities such as dining, dancing, and gambling and so on, whereas there are others that are less formal and laid back.

The larger resort hotels, Le Morne Brabant and Le Meridien are situated next door to each other on a peninsula which juts out into the sea at the foot of the breath taking Morne Mountain. They are located on one of the island’s most beautiful beaches and share various amenities: golf, horse-riding, sailing, aqua-diving, etc.

La Pirogue is found further up the beach at Flic en Flac, and is one of my preferred places to stay because of its charm. The chalets are thatched and shaped to resemble the sails of the local fishing boats, (pirogues) and set around a three story building comprising a large sun lounge, barbecue and dance terrace, restaurant and bar facilities. All the chalets are a short walk from the beach.

Troux aux Biches has a hotel bearing the same name, set in amidst a coconut grove by a lovely lagoon, and has beach bungalows, each of which has 3 to 4 bedrooms. (Very popular with visitors.) The amenities include hairdressing salons, shops, a bank, post office, casino, golf, tennis, sailing, water-skiing and many other sporting facilities.

In Grand Baie is the Merville, a complex of a large 4 storey hotel and delightful stone cottages set in a plantation of casuarina trees by a lovely stretch of beach. Amenities on offer are: a beautiful swimming pool and sauna. Another hotel in the area is Club Mediterranee, situated in a superb position at Grand Baie and provides all the usual CM amenities.

Along the coast, just above Belle Mare is St. Geran, its cool sun-lit central building leading out to a series of terraced rooms that are laid out in an ox-bow shape around lush tropical gardens rolling down to the beach. Amenities here: a fabulous swimming pool, huge dance-floor, barbecue area and casino.

Another favourite of mine is the Touessrok Hotel on the east coast, built on an islet in the middle of a crystal clear lagoon and reached by a wooden bridge. The bungalows are set upon tiers. The Ille au Cerfs can be reached by pirogue and has a beach with dazzling white sands. Set amongst casuarina trees is a boat house and snack bar for the hotel’s guests. Amenities are: golf and various water sports.

Further south, near the Plaisance Airport is Le Chaland with terraced bungalows and apartment blocks around a thatched central building. Sugar plantations hug the one side of the hotel and a long curved beach stretches out in the front of the hotel. Amenities here: horse-riding, tennis, sailing etc.

More intimate and small are:

Hotel Constance Belle Mare situated at the Belle Mare Plage with comfy bungalows nestles on the beach, close to the sea. Amenities are: a swimming pool, tennis and boating etc.

Auberge Miko at Grand Baie. Amenities there: swimming pool and a good beach.

On the shores of Tamarin Bay is the Tamarin, set in amongst lush forest, with terraced rooms and bungalows. Amenities are: a pool and tennis court.

At Black River is the La Mivoie which has chalets by the sea and specialises in deep sea fishing.

Etoile de Mer is found at Trou aux Biches and between here and Grand Baie is Casuarina Village which has Arabian-style cottages and is a short walk from the sea.

Flic en Flac you can stay at Villas Caroline.

Informal Small family Hotels:

At Cap Malhereux on the northern tip of the island you will find Kuxville, which offers 6 bungalows, each with 4 to 8 beds, 3 apartments, each with 2 or 3 beds. There you prepare your own food and groceries are brought to your door every morning by a vendor on a motor bike. Amenities: dive-school and kite centre.

For Bungalow and Apartments one of the best Internet Booking platforms I have discovered is “Home and Away”.

©Susan Cook-Jahme, Freelance Writer

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Beautiful Mauritius, Part 3

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Sat, 04 May 2013 08:36:00 +0000

For such a small island Mauritius has many places of interest to visit. The capital, Port Louis was founded by Mahe de Labourdonnais in 1736. It has great character and in some parts has a battered elegance. Off the main square the, “Place d’Armes” is set amidst giant palms trees. For people who are interested in the architecture of the past, there are fine French colonial buildings like Government House built in the 18^th century and the Municipal Theatre built around the same time. There are two cathedrals, a Supreme Court, 18^th century barracks, a Historical and Natural History museum all watched over by numerous statues of various people of importance from the past. On the fringe of the town, nestling at the foot of the mountains is the Champ de Mars which was originally laid out by the French for military parades and now serves as a race course. A must when in Port Louis is the vibrant covered market where you can see the amazing crafts, tropical fruit and veggies and many other wares sold by the vendors dressed in colourful attire. Before leaving the town, make sure you visit the Port which is the main reason for the creation of Port Louis and lies quietly in the shelter of a semi-circle of mountains, holding its secrets of the past of the Spice Traders, battles and sunken ships.

Leaving the town, you pass through its suburbs, Beau Bassin, Rose Hill, Quatres Bornes and Vacoas where you must make a stop and view the extinct crater, Trou aux Cerfs some 280ft deep and more than 200 yards wide. You can stand on the rim and look out over one of the most spectacular views of the island, (a great place to take photos).

Then drive on to Curepipe which is the island’s main urban shopping centre. Here you will find retail outlets and good restaurants where you can have a meal before heading on to Mahebourg, one of the main fishing centres, situated in the bay of Grand Port and has a historical museum which is housed in the French Colonial Mansion where, apparently, in 1810 English and French naval commanders were both wounded in the same battle, and brought to the mansion and given medical attention at the same time, (I wonder what they had to say to each other? Perhaps they were too wounded to care.) Apart from naval relics, the museum has copies of the priceless Mauritius “Post Office stamps, such as the “Blue Mauritius.”

Travel back, towards the village of Souillac and a little farther along the south coast you can see where the island’s distinguished poet, Robert-Edward Hart de Keating lived in a delightful little house called “Le Nef” which is built of coral and volcanic rock. It now serves as a museum standing on the cliffs, looking out over the sea; - no wonder Hart was such a great poet! -

In the south west of the island, close to Le Morne, are the “Coloured Earths”, an amazing geological phenomenon which is believed to have been caused by weathering of the layers of rock. Try and see this sight on a bright, sunny day as this is when the colours are seen at their best.

Do not miss out on seeing the Black River Gorges where you shall discover great picnic spots and spectacular scenery as well as heavy forests bejewelled with rain drops, where there is an abundance of birdlife.

Passing the Moka Range of mountains, Le Pouce, 2661ft, which can be climbed and is categorised as “easy”, Pieter Both, 2700ft, categorised for experienced climbers and rock-climbers. Then head back south of Port Louis and stop at Le Reduit, the French colonial residence of the Governors’ of Mauritius and walk in magnificent 325 acre gardens that roll out in front of the residence majestically.

To the north of Port Louis you will find my favourite place on the island, the Royal Botanical Gardens, Pampelmousses, an absolute haven of peace and tranquillity. Founded in 1770 as a nursery for tropical crops, it was from here that cloves were first introduced to Zanzibar. Famous for its pond where you will see the huge floating Victoria Regia lily-pads that look like large round trays proudly displaying their exquisite purple flowers that reflect into the pond’s liquid surface.

The tear-jerking French classic, “Paul et Virginie” the novel by author Bernardin de St. Pierre was written by him after his stay on the island of Mauritius and the Pampelmousses are wrapped into the saga. This is a must-read book to pack in your travel bag when you plan to visit this tropical paradise.

©Susan Cook-Jahme, Freelance Writer

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The Beautiful Island of Mauritius, (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Fri, 03 May 2013 08:12:00 +0000

Mauritius is the result of a powerful volcanic eruption; flowing masses of basalt solidified and formed three chains of mountains running from northeast to southwest. Other masses of lava were flung farther afield to form solitary peaks, which are now beautiful mountains dominating the landscape of the island and are thickly forested with tropical green jungles. They rise up from the surrounding flat lands planted with fields of yellow-green sugar cane, their jagged indigo peaks touching the powder blue dome of the skies.

What I enjoy the most about these peaks that guard the island silently are their descriptive names, - Les Trois Mamelles, (the three breasts) Le Pouce, (the thumb) Le Morne (the mournful) and Lion Mountain. Nestled comfortably amidst these mountains rises a central plateau to some 1900ft. lying in the west and southeast are a series of gorges that divide the plateau. The main ones comprising fast flowing rivers and spectacular waterfalls are Grand River in the northwest and the Black River in the southwest.

The coastal areas of the island reveal rocky coves and bays, some fringed with white talcum-like sandy beaches, protected by a coral reef that wraps itself protectively around the entire island and in some places rising to 40ft above sea level. Languishing between the shore and the reef is the ocean that plays colours of turquoise, indigo and royal blue, dappled by silver sun stars playing on its tranquil surface.

Some two hundred years ago, Mauritius was home to a massive variety of birds, some of which, like the dodo had lost the power of flight and were easily shot for “the pot” by early sea-farers and eventually became extinct. A small number of the surviving species live in the indigenous forests, now National Reserves.

Animals that were imported in the years of the East India Spice Traders are the Indian hare and Mina bird, the Macaque Monkey from Malaysia and the Javanese deer. There are also 4 different kinds of snake that are harmless, and fifteen different types of lizards.

Sadly in the early years of discovery the island’s natural primeval forests were plundered for their natural hardwoods, but it is still cloaked in lush vegetation that is kept green all year round with rain showers. Tall palms and casuarinas, (locally called filaos) that cling to the sea’s edge and in the hills are eucalyptus and conifers. Villages are shaded by badamier, banyan, camphor and baobab trees with roads lined with avenues of flame trees, (originally from Madagascar.) All year round one is delighted by the flowering blooms of jacaranda, cassia, oleander, bougainvillea, hibiscus and a variety of other trees and shrubs.

Sugar cane covers two-fifths of the land, earning 93% of the revenue on the island, whilst the other crops, coffee, tea, tobacco and rice provide a living for a majority of the Mauritians.

There is an estimated population of 1,286 million living on the island, of which the majority are Indians of the Hindu faith, Creoles, (people of mixed European and African blood), Chinese traders, and the minority who are Franco and Anglo Mauritian who descend from families who have lived on the island for over 200 years. The official business language is English, but the native language of Europeans and Creoles id French, or lingua franca, a Creole patois. Educated Indians and those in the tourism business are bi-lingual in French and English, as well as their native Hindi or Urdu.

Mauritius has a maritime climate which is cooled by the southeast Trade Winds from April to October. Between December to May, (the summer) temperatures reach the upper 80’s and the humidity is high with the hottest months being December to February. In the months of July to August, (winter) temperatures reach the upper 70’s.

It rains throughout the year, the wettest months being January to March and this is known as the Season of Cyclones and one visit I made to the island was in February where I sat out a cyclone in the Touessrok Hotel close to the Ille aux Cerfs which was an awesome and frightening experience, to put it mildly! Ever since then I have been prone to visit Mauritius in the months of April to May.

©Susan Cook-Jahme, Freelance Writer

If you enjoy my writing, purchase my books and EBooks:

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The Beautiful Island of Mauritius

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Thu, 02 May 2013 19:49:00 +0000

In 1973, when I first visited the beautiful Indian Ocean Island of Mauritius it was relatively untouched by tourism and yet to be discovered by tourists in their masses. In those days, its main claims to fame were the extinct bird, the Dodo, and the postage stamp known as the “Blue Mountain.”

Now the island is a prime destination for seekers of white coral sands, blue skies, tranquillity and fantastic hospitality from the hosts and staff in the many hotels set in tropical gardens that are shaded by coconut palms, bending in the balmy tropical breeze that softly sighs in from its surrounding turquoise seas.

Mauritius lies 1200 off the coast of East Africa and the people of the island do not consider themselves “African”. Populated mostly with people of Indian origin, it bears no resemblance to India. The main language is French and civilised in the way of the French, it owes no allegiance to France. Also with 150 years of British administration and influence, its association with the United Kingdom is not massive. However, with all the different backgrounds and cultural influences, there has merged a culture that has created a unique and vibrant people, who, without a doubt, make them the greatest tourism attraction to the island. They are happy, colourful, friendly and make every person visiting feel very special.

Add the squeaky, soft, sandy beaches lapped by aquamarine coral lagoon waters, the Black Mountains, tropical tangled forests casting their shade over timber walled cottages, bubbling mountain streams and rolling fields of sugar cane, it is a place of 700 square miles of Eden.

It is thought that in the first 1000 years AD, the Arab and Malay peoples were the first to visit the island, which was uninhabited until the 16^th century. The first European to moor off the island and visit was the Portuguese Captain Pedro Mascarenhas and named the group of islands, Reunion, Rodrigues and Mauritius the “Mascareignes.” Then in 1598 a party of Dutchmen landed on the island and named it after their ruler at the time, Prince Maurice of Nassau. For forty years it became the port of call for the Dutch, English and French trading ships, until the Dutch took formal possession in 1638. Four years later the Dutch navigator, Tasman, set sail on his most important voyage that led to the discovery of Australia.

The Dutch introduced sugar cane to the island and the sambar deer from Java in the East Indies. They also hunted out and exterminated the dodo and other indigenous birds and animals unique to the island. Their settlement lasted until 1715 and was then claimed by the French who renamed it Ile de France. In the early years of administration by the French East India Company, several fortifications were built, (one of which can be seen at the entrance of Grand Port.) They also shipped in African slaves. In 1735 a great governor was appointed, Mahe de Labourdonnais, who, during 11 years of office transformed the colony. The planting of sugar cane was encouraged; the first sugar factory was opened in Pamplemousses in 1743 and cotton, indigo, cloves, nutmeg and spices were grown. He had the “marrons” (escaped African slaves) rounded up and captured as they had been terrorising the French settlers, creating peace on the plantations. In Port Louis he established a naval base that conducted forays that harassed the English merchant ships sailing on their way to India on the Spice Route, confiscating their precious cargos of spice. But, the rise of the French East India Company was short lived, - ruined by financial setbacks and a succession of wars, they were forced to hand the island over to the rule of France and under the rule of the French crown, it flourished as a naval station, figuring prominently in sea strategy during the War of American Independence, the War of the Austrian Succession and the Seven Years’ War. In the Napoleonic Wars it became “Le Nid de Corsairs” which was a base for privateers who preyed on the East English Indiamen.

In 1810, the British Royal Navy were fed up with this stone in their shoe and decided to retaliate by sending off four frigates. They were thoroughly defeated in Grand Port, off Mahebourg. The wrecks of two frigates, the Magicienne and the Sirius are known to be lying 60 to 90 feet down and can be reached by scuba diving. The Battle of Grand Port was the only notable French naval victory against the English and is proudly inscribed on the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.

A few months after this embarrassment to the English, an invasion was launched by them from the island of Rodrigues, 250 miles away. The island’s defences collapsed and the French capitulated and four years later Ille de France was ceded to Britain. It is interesting to note that under the terms of surrender to the English under the treaty of Paris, the French way of life, religion, language, laws and customs were safeguarded. This settlement is still recognised with gratitude by the French descendants of Mauritius.

The economy thrived under British administration and the island prospered. The first major social change came with the abolition of slavery in 1833. Freed, the African and Creole workers refused to labour in the sugar plantations and indentured labour was recruited from India. Once strengthened, the labour force helped towards the expansion of the sugar industry and helped speed sugar consignments to Port Louis by building roads and bridges to the port.

Life continued peacefully for more than 100 years and Mauritius was known as the “Star and Key of the Indian Ocean”. During the Age of Steam the island became an important coaling station on the passage to India. When the Suez Canal was opened, the island’s strategic commercial importance was lost until the closure of the Suez during WW2 when it had a brief revival. Prosperity continued through the first half of the 20^th century, interrupted by the two Great Wars in which many Mauritians served with the British army.

In 1968, after 154 years of British rule Mauritius gained Independence.

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Have Camper Van, must Travel, Portobello to Akorora, Banks Peninsula

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 08:15:00 +0000

The next morning we took time to explore the Otago Peninsula, driving to Taiaroa Head to see the Albatross Colony fortifications at the extreme tip of the peninsula.

The road ended at Penguin Beach on farmland owned by the Reid family who manage and run a conservation effort called Nature's Wonders. Here, the world's rarest penguins, yellow-eyed or Hoiho penguins, (Maori for “Noise-Shouter”) and little blue penguins live in harmony with New Zealand fur seals, sea lions and a vast variety of birds.

“Fur seals look like old Russian men in big hats” I said to Graham.

“Well,” Graham replied, “better not mess with these old Russian men, take a look at their rows of sharp teeth!”

I laughed, “Better not try drinking their vodka, or eating their smoked fish, I guess.”

On our return to the main land, we stopped at one of the many artist's craft studios, “Happy Hens” to see Yvonne Sutherland's ceramic hens. Absolutely delightful, they are based on traditional poultry breeds once kept by the pioneering women on the island. They are a well established part of New Zealand folk art and are exported all over the world.

I wanted to buy one so badly, but was reminded by Graham that I would have to carry it all the way back to South Africa, so I left with a brochure and a promise to myself that one day I'd return, live in South Island and have a house full of the bright chooks!

On the side of the road we saw “Fletcher House”, a restored Victorian villa from around 1909. As we are fortunate to have a number of similar houses in Cape Town, we did not bother to stop, but turned down Castelwood Road to take a look at Lanarch Castle.

This is New Zealand's only castle, built in 1871, standing regally in its well manicured gardens. It's walls holding the secrets of tragic and scandalous tales from long ago.

As we discovered there was an entrance fee into the Castle and the grounds, we moved on towards Port Chalmers on Route 1, heading up the east coast.

The views over Otago's harbour and the landscape were amazing and Port Chalmer's appeared to boast many artist's studios, boutiques and galleries. Many of them housed in the port's original buildings.

“We'll earmark this place, and come back sometime,” Graham promised.

He knew I was longing to stop and mooch around, but was also aware if I had my way, we would never reach our evening destination, Akorora.

“Did you know that this was the birthplace of New Zealand's modern export trade?” I asked, “In 1882, the Island's first cargo of frozen meat left and arrived 98 days later in Great Britain, still frozen. Since then the Kiwi's have been known as very good frozen meat exporters.”

Graham looked across at me, “Good old New Zealand lamb!”

We travelled through Palmerston, Hampden, Herbert, and Maheno, before reaching Oamaru where we parked and had a cup of coffee before setting off to walk on the beach and have a look at the unusual round rocks on the shore.

Known as the Moeraki Boulders, they look as if giants have been playing a game of bowls on the smooth white sands of the beach. A few of them are shattered and the molten centres are exposed.

“Perhaps aliens arrived here, laid eggs and their offspring hatched?” I suggested to Graham.

“Actually...they are a collection of fifty round concretions scattered along Koekohe Beach and are among the world's largest concretions at a whopping 7 tons and 8 feet in diameter.”

He explained as he stroked the surface of one of them.

“These lumps of sediment took 4 million years to grow and are bound together by a mineral cement. They started forming in a mud stone about 60 million years ago and were later lifted out of the sea and became part of the cliff line. Centuries of coastline erosion released them from the cliffs and then they rolled down to the beach.”

“Smarty-pants,” I said, thinking my version was far more romantic...

As we had spent more time than we had planned on the beach, we decided to drive through Timaru, Ashburton and on to Rolleston where we tuned off on to Route 75, past Lake Ellesmere and over the steep, windy roads of Banks Peninsular, arriving late evening to the sun setting over Akaroa Harbour where we found Duvauchelle Holiday park which is beautifully situated on the water's edge on Seafield Road at the head of the harbour.

Much to our surprise the camp manager and his wife were originally from South Africa, so we spent extra time chatting to him about the surrounds and what to see.

We learnt that Captain Cook arrived in Akaroa Harbour in the 1770's, but before him, the Ngai Tahu tribe well before he and his crew ever set site on the place and that it was one of the only places colonised by French speaking natives.

“More time to look around tomorrow,” Graham said, “right now, lets start the fire and have a barb-q, I'm starving!”

“Don't forget the wine,” I suggested as I took the New Zealand lamb chops out of the marinade they had been soaking in.

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Have Camper Van, must Travel, Queenstown to Dunedin, (House of Pain)

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 10:24:00 +0000

“Let's go see Milford Sound”, I said to Graham as I fried eggs and bacon,

“OK” He agreed, “And then we will back-track down to the southern most tip of the island, Bluff, before heading our way up to Dunedin on the Otago Peninsula for the night.”

Full tummies, and happy that we had chosen the camper-van alternative to travel, we packed up and headed down Route 6 over the Mataura River, which runs through Gore, (known as the “Brown Trout Capital of the World.”) After a coffee and stretching our legs, we drove on to Lumsden, turning right onto Route 94, through Mossburn arriving at the town of Te Anau on the shores of Lake Te Anau over the Downs, to Cascade Creek, through the Homer Tunnel in the Southern Alps and bursting out the exit to the sight of Milford Sound.

Buses from Queenstown and Te Anau were disgorging tourists, some fortunate enough to be including a Red Boat Cruise around the Sound, and after that a scenic plane flight back to Queenstown.

We were perfectly happy to sit in the front of our home on wheels and share a bag of crisps, watching all the busy people brandishing their cameras, and take in what is described as the “Eighth Natural Wonder of the World,” one of the most incredible views we had ever seen in our lives. Water from the Mitre Peak tumbled and crashed down, disrupting the slumbering blue waters below.

“Wow!” We both exclaimed, crunching our salt and vinegar crisps. Unable to verbalise how we felt about the place.

We would have liked to stay the night there, but as we still had so much of the island to see, and limited time in which to do it, we returned the way we had travelled. Driving past Te Anau onto Manapouri, then a connecting road (53) to Clifden, where we viewed the historic suspension bridge, spanning the Waiaiu River which was built in 1899.

Soon we arrived in Tuatapere and connected onto Route 1 which leads through Invercargill and down to Bluff overlooking the Foveaux Strait onto the distant view of the port village of Halfmoon Bay on Stewart Island.

“Time for lunch!”, Graham announced as we pulled up at the southern most point of New Zealand.

I clambered into the back and started preparing tuna sandwiches, while Graham took a stroll.

Taking our sarnies to a nearby rock that looked as if it had two bottom sized dents conveniently carved in its surface, we sat and looked out at the sea.

A dwarf sea-gull ambled up to us and told us off for not sharing our tuna with him, “Cheeky! Go catch your own fish!” I shooed him away.

“Didn't work Babe,” Graham laughed, “he's summoned his mates...”

Obviously well meaning people who travel to that part of the island throw scraps for the persistent little birds, and as we were not sharing ours, they were fed up.

“Ewww, makes me think of Alfred Hitchcock's film “The Birds”, let's leave before we are devoured!”

Graham raised an eyebrow, “No, let's leave before your imagination overtakes both of us...”

Tracking around the outskirts of Invercargill, we travelled on the unsealed connecting road (46) to Fortrose, connecting to road (28) to Tokanui, Papatowai, on through the beautiful Catlins Forest Park to Kaka Point.

“Mmmm, wonder who named this place?” I mused.

“Maybe someone who needed to kaka?” Graham suggested. I gave him a friendly punch on his arm.

Balculutha was our next port of call, where we turned right onto Route1, through the towns of Clarksville, Milton and Waihola, over the Taeri River to the University city of Dunedin on the central-eastern coast of Otago. This is the second largest city in South Island after Christchurch.

It is also called “The House of Pain,” due to Carisbrook Stadium, where rugby, New Zealand's most popular sport is played.

As it was growing dark, we made our way through the city along the twisty road clinging to the Otago Peninsula overlooking Macandrew, Company and Broad Bays, to our over night camp Portobello Village Tourist Park in Herewek Street, Portobello.

The park was close to a spit that had the Dunedin Aquarium perched at the end, so we walked there to have a look around, but as it was late, the place was closed.

Not phased, we turned around and returned to our camper, ready to settle down for the night.

“Beer?”

I heard the clink of bottles and fizz of the cap as Graham opened our evening sun-downer.

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Have Camper Van, must Travel, Mount Cook to Queenstown

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:13:00 +0000

Waking up in a camper-van was a new experience. My bed was comfortable and warm. I untangled myself from the duvet and rolled over to look out of the window at the trees shadowing Lake Tekapo.

“How different this lush, green Eden of a country is in comparison to the tawny golds and yellows of the African bush that I have grown up with.” I thought.

“Morning,” said Graham as he brought me a steaming cup of coffee, “beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, not like England, or Europe,” I mused, “The air is so pristine and everything seems to breath easy, you get what I am trying to say?”

Graham nodded, “One could easily live here.”

I nodded, “Now I know fairyland does exist.” The light twinkled, skipping on the ripples over the Lake's clear, blue glacial waters.

After breakfast, we looked at our map, “Mount Cook looks good, what do you think?”

I nodded in agreement. No one visits South Island, New Zealand without paying homage to that famous land mark, sacred to the Maori's, their name for their ancestral mountain, “Aoraki.”

Driving along Route 8, we stopped to take photo's at the foot of Lake Pukaki, then on Route 80 to Mount Cook, where we called in at the visitor centre located on the High Dam.

The well informed guide at the centre came across to chat, and told us that the view of Mt. Cook was known as “The Million Dollar View.”

“It's beautiful,” I said as I looked at the massive mountain reaching up to the sky.

Graham put his hand on my shoulder, “3, 753 meters high”

“How do you know that?” I asked him, impressed, “Learnt it in geography at school, years ago,” was his reply.

I shook my head, amazed, as always at the amount of general knowledge my husband stores in his head.

The guide went on to tell us that the Lake is a major water source for the upper and lower hydro systems, having been raised in 1950 by 9 meters and again in 1980 by 37 meters to create massive water storage.

We still had a way to go, and turned our backs to the mass of water, “Let's go catch that mountain up ahead,”

I nodded in response to what Graham had said, “A photo opportunity at every turn in this country!”

The “Lord of the Rings trilogy” came to my mind as we drove towards Mount Cook and its soaring peaks and glaciers. I thought of the film crews who filmed the entire film on different locations in New Zealand.

Here, the ancestors of Aoraki watched as the crew re-enacted the Misty Mountains of Tolkien's epic tale.

We passed the Glentanner Station, a fully working high country sheep station and then fifteen minutes later arrived at the Mount Cook village, where we went and mulled over a menu at the Hermitage Hotel.

“Um, let's give this place a miss,” we both said at the same time and laughed.

Things on that menu were a trifle expensive and we knew we had enough for a hearty meal and hot cup of tea in our trustworthy camper-van!

In the warmth of our refuge, we took in the vast blanket of snow cloaked over Mount Cook, its peak wearing a flossy hat of cloud.

“Kia tuohu koutou, Me he maunga teitei, Ko Aoraki anake.” I read from my travel guide.

“Translate,” asked Graham

“If you must bow your head, then let it be to the lofty mountain Aoraki,”

A prayer or blessing.

I bowed my head in the direction of the mountain.

“I think to to the Maori's, the mountain represents the elements that bind the spiritual and physical elements of all things together. It is the source of creation and life.”

There was no doubt that there was a powerful sacredness that had enveloped us as we sipped steaming mugs of tea.

We back tracked along Route 80 which winds adjacent to the Ben Ohau Mountain Range and stopped at Twizel, the town of trees.

“I could settle here Babe,”

“Why?” Graham asked.

“Because it's a great name, - imagine telling people you live in a place called Twizzle!”

I visualised us living in one of the Scandinavian style houses, set in amongst the 250,000 trees that had been planted by the local residents.

A new town, constructed in 1968 in the Mackenzie Basin on land formerly part of the Ruataniwha Station, Twizel takes its name from the River Twizel.

The town survived being bulldozed to ground level once the Upper Waitaki power Scheme was completed, but the residents fought the Government.

They won and in 1983 the town, its shops, houses and facilities were handed over to the County.

It is now known as the “Heart of the high Country” and survives on tourism. In the summer water-sports and golfing and in the winter ski season.

“Twizel,” it rolled off my tongue, “Bet the witch's house in Hansel and Gretel was called Twizel...sounds like a kind of sugar stick or cup-cake.”

“Come on Babe,” Graham hauled me out of my day dream, “there's a grocery shop, let's get practical and stock up for tonight.”

Travelling south, we arrived at a small town called Omarama situated on the junctions of routes 8 and 83 and as we wanted to reach our camp in Queenstown, we did not stop, but carried on through the Lindis Pass, which links the Mackenzie Basin to Central Otago, saddling the Ahuriri and Lindis Rivers, 971 meters above sea level.

Snow teased the edges of the road and I was once again glad that Graham was driving. The view of the valley way, way below as we drove along had me closing my eyes on occasion!

Arriving at Comwell a small town set on the shores of Lake Dunstan, I said to Graham as I looked at the map, “left or right? Both roads are Route 6!”

He leant over from the drivers seat and looked at the map, “Queenstown to the left and Wanaka to the right. Still plenty of time, let's go right.” he said as he turned right.

Lake Wanaka was nestled in the base of towering mountains and was picture book perfect.

We pulled over onto the side of the road and got outside to stretch our legs.

“Coffee?” I asked Graham, “Why not?” He agreed as we moved into the back of the van, out of the cold.

“Time to find a place for the night,”

“Yes,” I agreed, as we both moved back into the front of our flash camper.

We back tracked down the way we had come, travelling through Cromwell once again and passed through Arrow Junction and on to Queenstown, snuggling the shores of Lake Wakatipu.

We stopped for a while to take a look at Nevis Bungy, on the corner of Camp and Shotover Streets. This is New Zealand's highest bungy jump and has a 134 meter drop.

“Not going on that!” I moved away from the edge.

“Me neither,” Graham said.

We got back into the van and drove through the ski town to Frankton Motor Camp on the lake edge.

After a lovely hot showers in the camp-site bathroom facilities, we took a walk into the town where we found a cosy little restaurant.

The side walks outside were full of happy holiday makers all out for a good evening on the town.

The waitress looking after our table informed us that Queenstown was known as the “Adventure Capital of the World,” and that it has half the population in New Zealand in Tourists every year.

“Wow,” I took a sip of my wine and winked at Graham, “and we are two of them!”

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Have Camper Van, must Travel

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Sat, 24 Nov 2012 13:41:00 +0000

The bed and breakfast facilities in New Zealand are all well appointed, with friendly owner/managers. The people we stayed with happily shared their knowledge of South Island with us, the best places to visit and how to go about booking a camper van for less than what was advertised by the rental companies.

What we found valuable information was that we should ask the company to show us their vehicles that were more than four years old. The reason for this is that the insurance premium on them is as not as high as the new vehicles they tout, and if you are not in the know, the rental agent will get you to sign up and you pay almost a third more for a newer model!

As we wanted to visit my uncle who was in hospital, (one of the main reasons for our trip to New Zealand) we decided that we would visit him first, then spend the day looking around the city, spend another night with our lovely B and B hosts, then go and find the camper van of our choice the next day.

Christchurch is a beautiful garden city, nestled on the coast with the Southern Alps creating a breath-taking backdrop. It is the gateway to the Canterbury Plains which spread westwards towards the mountains.

South-East of the city leads on to Banks Peninsula, which is formed by two huge volcanic craters and extends into the Pacific Ocean, like an old gnarled sharks-tooth.

After looking around a very modern shopping mall and having a bite to eat, we took the historic inner city Christchurch Tramway.

Although the tickets are valid for two days, we knew that this was the best way to see all of the city in one day, as it took us past Cathedral Square, Arts Centre, Canterbury Museum and the Botanic Gardens.

In the evening we had a slap up meal at a local Indian restaurant within walking distance of our B and B.

Upon our return our hosts had waited up for us and had coffee and biscuits laid out on the kitchen table. We felt that we were visiting good friends.

At breakfast the next day we mentioned that we were going to book our camper van and asked where the rental agencies were located.

“Oh, close to the airport,” said our host, “No worries, I'll drive you there,” he said.

So off we set, Graham sitting “shot-gun” in the front passenger seat and me squashed into the back seat with all of our suitcases and travel bags.

“It's OK Babe, not too far to go...besides, you are little, so you fit in there with the luggage perfectly.”

“Yeah, that's me, economy sized!” I though to myself.

Our Holiday Home on Wheels

After going to a couple of places, we ended up with a six berth camper from Maui Rentals. It had all living, cooking and sleeping equipment included, air-conditioning and bathroom facilities, 24 hour road service and a handy road map and travel guide.

(Oh, and if you are wondering why we went for a six berth, we did not feel like making up beds, then folding them away to have a sitting area. Too much trouble, and we were on holiday!)

Glad that Graham was at the helm and I was the navigator, we drove to a large shopping area where we stocked up on groceries and supplies before setting off in our up-market Mercedes-Benz camper.

“Where are we going?” I asked Graham,

“Dunno, let's have a coffee and look at our map,” he said as he parked outside a coffee shop.

We found a table close to a window, ordered coffee, cheese and ham pies, then spread the map out over the table.

“Here” Graham said, pinpointing a place with his finger on the map, “ Lake Tekapo”

“OK Babe, let's go” I agreed in a flash, “looks a really good place to spend our first night!”

Taking the road along the east coast, then onto Route 79 we drove through stunning scenery and pulled off at a lay-by to have a snack. This was the first time we had ever had such a luxury as a camper van, we were used to camping in the African bush in our tent, so had not experienced the leisure of a mobile home where you could simply stop, open up the kitchen, prepare something to eat and sit in a comfy seat at your dining room table and look out the window at the view. We both decided it was a good way to holiday and see the country at the same time.

The roads in New Zealand are of high standard, maps and places are well marked. It appeared, much to our amusement, that the locals steered clear of tourists driving camper vans. We were fine as we were used to driving on the left hand side of the road, but noticed some vans swerved onto the wrong side of the road on occasion. So, like the locals, we were cautious of fellow camper van sight-seers from our first day on the road.

My first sight of Lake Tekapo

Upon our arrival at Lake Tekapo in the late afternoon, the sun was setting behind the mountains of the vast Mackenzie Basin, their faces reflecting in the clear turquoise waters.

We booked into Lake Tekapo Motels and Motor Camp, set in amongst massive, shady trees.

Our camping pitch over looked the lake and as we parked we both looked out the front windscreen. Neither of us spoke, we were too busy absorbing the peaceful beauty of the place, there was no need to say anything.

The camp is run as a quiet family camp, with security and cleanliness a top priority. There is a laundry with four commercial washers, for commercial dryers and they also have a TV lounge, should you wish to watch the goggle-box instead of taking in the lake and all its beauty. For people who choose not to eat “in”, the place has easy access to a variety of restaurants, bars, a service station with LPG facilities, garage and grocery store.

Autumn Colours at Lake Tekapo

We went for a walk, taking a bottle of beer each and sat on the shore sipping the golden local beer. A couple walked by and stopped to chat. They informed us that Tekapo was the departure point for the world renowned Air Safaris Grand Traverse flight around Mount Cook and were going on it the next day.

As they walked away, their parting shot was, “By the way, make sure you don't leave the empties behind...we Kiwis make sure the environment is kept clean!”

Graham and I looked at each other, “As if we would,”

I nodded in agreement with his comment, “Yes, we get deposit on the bottles. Can buy more.”

In that year the Springbok Rugby Team played like Trojans, so we both decided that because they “hammered” the All-blacks 15-12 in the Final game played on South African soil at Ellis Park, Johannesburg, we had been told off on Kiwi soil.

Chuckling to ourselves, we returned to our four wheel home, discussing how we remembered Nelson Mandella wearing the Sprinkbok Rugby shirt and cap when he presented the Ellis Cup to the Captain, Francois Pienaar.

That was a great game and brought all the people in South Africa closer than ever before.

Of course we admitted to each other, that makes the New Zealanders the second best in the world.

Giving them credit where credit was due, we started a good old South African braai, and cooked our supper before turning in for the night.

Early Morning at Lake Tekapo

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New Zealand, Paradise on Earth

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 11:49:00 +0000

I always thought that South Africa was a country with the most beautiful places to visit on earth, until Graham and I went to New Zealand’s South Island during the months of July and August of 2005. We hired a six berth camper van and toured the island extensively. Stopping off at camp-sites as the whim took us, where we would find a pitch and then go and explore the area.

As my brother, Eric and his wife Sue, are about to embark upon a new adventure and move to New Zealand where he has a job waiting for him as Chief Engineer in an aviation company, I thought I’d write about our holiday, giving them, and any of my blog readers some pointers and helpful travel trips when visiting a place that is absolute paradise on earth.

We decided to travel from Cape Town via Singapore to Christchurch, New Zealand on Singapore Airlines which was a fantastic choice, as we were treated like royalty, (even in cattle class) by the galley crew. The air hostesses were dressed in traditional oriental attire and seemed to never tire, always smiling and available on the long leg to Singapore.

Part of the package was that we had an overnight in Singapore at the Copthorne Orchid Hotel, which is situated right next door to the world famous Raffles Hotel.

As tired as we felt upon arrival, nothing could stop us from making plans to go to Raffles soon after we had checked in to our hotel and freshened up!

Once at Raffles, a waiter in heavily starched whites, seated us in the hotel’s large rattan chairs, surrounded by potted palms and exotic orchids. The slow moving ceiling fans slowly clack-clacked over our heads while the balmy late afternoon sun dipped into the horizon.

“Cheers!” We toasted each other with a Singapore Sling, (I felt very “Colonial” sipping over that special drink in such a historic hotel, where guests like Elizabeth Taylor, Somerset Maugham and Noel Coward had sat and sipped in an era bygone.)

After that we took a taxi into Singapore’s Chinatown where we mainly window shopped as we were on a tight budget and wanted to save pennies to spend once we reached New Zealand. Returning to our hotel exhausted, we collapsed into bed, needing no rocking to get to sleep.

Bzzzz…bzzzz… the phone beside the bed woke us the next day. “Good Morning!” The friendly receptionist chirped pleasantly.

Bustling around, throwing the odd sock into our suitcases, we had breakfast and then caught the hotel’s courtesy transport back to Changi International Airport. There we had enough time to look around the massive duty free which was impressive, but what intrigued me the most, were the massage facilities with wary travellers getting all the kinks worked out of their backs and necks by the gentle administrations of attractive ladies and men.

“Gosh, these Orientals sure know how to make people happy,” I whispered to Graham.

Once again seated in the spacious economy seats on Singapore Airlines, we ate a tasty oriental meal before settling in for the night’s flight to our final destination, Christchurch International Airport.

Before the plane landed, forms were handed out to all the passengers informing us that were not to take any leather, perishable food-stuff, seeds etc. The people of New Zealand are very strict about this, as they preserve and care for their environment as fiercely as the Australians.

Once safely on terra-firma we queued into immigration and customs and were amused to see a young trainee sniffer-dog with his handler following a more senior dog who obviously knew the ropes, as he made a direct foray at an Indian woman who was carrying a large hand-bag.

She was made to empty out the contents. Out rolled two large plump apples, which, much to her surprise were confiscated immediately. With loud protestations, she was marched off to a private area for further dog sniffing and investigating.

I later learned that most sniffer dogs at the time were of the beagle breed and supplied from the Beagle Club.

We had been told by a friend who had visited New Zealand before us that once out in the main airport, there were facilities to book camper vans. So we made our way to the information desk and were most impressed with the fact that there was even a desk that supplied clean bath towels and soap, as there were hot showers for people who chose to do so before leaving the airport.

(I thought to myself if there were showers in one of the African airports that I had passed through, all the locals would be very pleased as there would be running water and a place to get clean.)

After getting various brochures on all the different companies who supplied camper vans, we took a taxi to the Bed and Breakfast in Christchurch that we had organised on line before leaving South Africa.

Travelling from the airport to our first “pit-stop” in New Zealand was a real eye-opener. None of the houses had burglar-bars; there were no high walls or fences with razor-wire lacing the tops to keep the bad guys out.

Young children were walking along the roads unaccompanied by adults…

It made us think that we were in a time-warp back into our childhood days when growing up in Africa, where crime was minimal, and one could walk around safely, without any fear of being attacked or run over.

I fell in love with New Zealand then and there and our journey had just begun.

(Next Blog: “Have Camper Van, must travel”

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Looking "Inward"

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Sun, 22 Jul 2012 07:58:00 +0000

Sometimes a Gal just has to do what a Gal has to do!

When I need to get “my head around things”, put life into order and talk to my inner-self, I sweep.

Yes, I grab the broom and start on the farthest room, slowly making my way through the house to the front door.

I move furniture so I can gather all the dust-bunnies who are hiding from sight and manoeuvre them into a neat little pile. All the time making big sweeping statements with the broom, swish, tension and bad thoughts are released from my body.

Getting into a rhythm, my thoughts turn passive and I am able to negate the broom deftly like an abstract artist brandishing my brush onto a large, blank canvas.

Swish, the dust-bunnies are relegated to the dust-pan and I throw them into the bin. I am now calm.

In the routine of this domestic chore, I find I have re-connected with a fundamental simplicity.

Having done homage to people who have“passed-over” and smiled at the good things I remember about them, - my Father’s shy smile that reached his twinkling blue eyes.

Come to terms with the recent death of my favourite uncle who was one of the most eccentric and funny men I have ever had the privilege to know.

Smoothed over old conflicts and seen the reality of where things went wrong and how they were put right, or should be.

Thought of my three daughters with love and affection and turned them all into successful millionaires and bottled my grandson’s contagious laughter, giving it away to sad people to make them happy.

Remembered times when as a child, my brother, sister and I went on long, rambling walks with our Mother through the African bush, the smell of the tall yellow grass sweet after the first rain.

Our dogs rushing and sniffing out small animals and shadows in the late afternoon sunshine.

It doesn’t have to be a new broom to sweep clean, just a broom that helps me face another day.

"Resting where no shadows fall
In peaceful sleep he awaits us all
God will link the broken chain
When one by one we meet again."
(Love you, Uncle Ian oxo)

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From June into July in Uganda

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Tue, 10 Jul 2012 11:11:00 +0000

I think Graham wanted to lull me into a zone where I was to be spoilt with hotel accommodation before settling me in to the place his recent employers had supplied for our immediate home in the North of Uganda, Palaro.

My first two nights were spent in the Protea Hotel, Kololo, Kampala.

After 35km hell ride from Entebbe Airport it was a relief to see that I was to be lodged in the luxury of a 4-star hotel. Entering one of the 11 suites, I welcomed the cool air from the air-conditioner and placed my suitcase down, taking my shoes off and enjoying the feel of the cool marble floor beneath my feet. Walking out to the balcony I found it overlooked one of the restaurants where a few people were seated below at tables enjoying midmorning tea and cakes. “Ever so British,” I thought to myself.

Graham had to go into the city, as he had to meet his boss in the Simba head offices and suggested I settle in and relax, promising to take me into Kampala to see some of the sights the following day.

I was tired from my trip from London, via Nairobi, so had a shower in the suite’s well-proportioned shower and then lay on the bed and fell into a deep sleep, only to awake when I heard the key turning in the door. Graham had returned from his meeting. We sat out on the balcony and ate lunch which we had ordered through room-service. Catching up on what had been happening since he had arrived in the country two months prior to my arrival. It sounded as if all the promises of his contract had not yet been forthcoming. Unperturbed, I listened quietly. This was not the first agricultural assignment he had undertaken in our lives when this had happened. Time eventually ironed things out and the situation either worked out, or we moved on, - Graham is highly experienced in his field and does not have difficulty in finding employment.

Push coming to shove, we always have our back-up option and that is our property at the foot of South Africa in Cape Agulhas that we have run as a bijou Bed and Breakfast operation, and can easily do so again at the drop of a hat.

However, the spirit of adventure is in both of us and we enjoy the challenge of a new project and place to live. The love of land entices us into making the quick decision to sign up, pack up and pick up on a new place, discovering the flora, fauna and people of the country we find ourselves living in.

Ugandans, I have discovered are extremely friendly and always happy to stop and while away the time asking you where you come from and why you are in their country. The majority speak fluent English and often favour communicating with each other in this language over their home tongue. As the country has had massive amounts of Western Aid poured into it, it hosts huge numbers of Non-Governmental Organizations (NGO’s) and even in Gulu, Uganda’s second largest town, one finds established ex-patriot hang-outs in the city-centres.

Early the next day we were collected by a company driver and ferried to the Simba office where I met Graham’s immediate boss, a diminutive young Irish American lady who looked as if she was younger than our daughters, but she obviously had earned her place in the company as I realised she was well informed and capable. After being politely dismissed from her office, I retreated to the grounds surrounding the offices, leaving Graham there to talk business.

I walked around the grounds and enjoyed looking at the tropical palms and plants in the gardens. The peace did not last long, a man staggered through the security gates with a bleeding head, making his way into the offices. Curious, I took a seat in the shade of a large gazebo, waiting for Graham to tell me about the injured man. It did not take long, as he soon joined me. Apparently the man had been sent into Kampala on the back of a boda-taxi to collect cash which was to be given to Graham to pay the driver of the pick-up that had been hired for our use. Unfortunately thieves had been alerted about this from an “inside informer” from the office and attacked him on the moving boda-boda. In order to escape he jumped off, landing on his head and hurting himself whilst hanging onto the money.

“Odd,” I remarked to Graham, “Why on earth send a target like that on the back of a motor-bike, surely he should be in a closed company vehicle for such a job?”
Graham nodded, “I agree, but now we still have to wait for money to pay for the pick-up rental.”

I was once again left on my own whilst Graham went to see what could be done, so ambled over to where the driver had parked the beat up old vehicle that was our mode of transport. He had his wife with him in the four-door cab and invited me to meet her, suggesting I sit in the comfort of the vehicle. Next thing I found he had locked the doors. As there were kiddie-locks on the back doors, I could not get out, short of clambering out the window, which I was not going to do, - well not immediately anyway!

With a jovial laugh, he happily told me that he and his wife were holding me hostage until they had their payment. By this time, I had a slight sense of humour failure and did not join in with what I hoped was their joke. My day out looking around Kampala did not appear that it was going to take place and had gone somewhat awry.

In the end Graham arrived and paid the driver in full, he was happy, we were happy and all I wanted to do was return to my nice, clean, cool hotel room and put my feet up. When I suggested this, my husband looked very relieved, “Good idea Babe,” I thought so too and waited until we were well rested. Over a glass of wine at dinner, I mentioned how I had been kidnapped by a friendly Ugandan and his wife earlier on in the day. We both laughed at my first day in Uganda and initiation of Kampala.

With a bit of luck, I shall be able to visit the craft markets and places of interest during my next trip to the capital city.

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From London to Gulu, Uganda

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 12:50:00 +0000

I am heading into being resident in Gulu, Uganda for four weeks and feel like I have signed on to some sort of reality show where the bush survival guru Ray Mears suddenly arrives on my doorstep to tell me that I have qualified as a fully-fledged Girl Scout and to add to that, the winner of the £ Million and a relaxing trip to a fancy spa for a well-earned massage and foot rub!

Boarding Kenya Airways from London Heathrow on 6^th June, I flew via Nairobi, Kenya, transferring flights to get to Entebbe. The plane descended and flew low over Lake Victoria which brought thoughts of British Imperial Airways, and the days of the grand voyagers, (the S23-Empire Class Airplanes, giant Sunderland’s) carrying the post and passengers from the United Kingdom to South Africa.

Flying Boats that my grandfather had told me flew on a main route from Southampton in England on to Augusta Italy, stopping and progressing on to Cairo Egypt, then Khartoum, Port Bell Uganda, Victoria falls Rhodesia and then Vaal Dam in South Africa.

Grandpa also told me about other routes via Africa’s Great Rift Valley where the majestic old converted WW2 planes landed on the waters of the Nile, progressing to the massive lakes; Victoria Uganda, Naivasha Kenya, Tanganyika Tanzania, Nyasa Nyasaland, Victoria Falls Rhodesia and on to the Harbour in Durban, where my grandfather was employed as Imperial’s Port Harbour Master.

As I descended the stairs from my ‘plane to the apron at Entebbe, more memories of the “Entebbe Raid” that took place 4^th July, 1976, - a counter terrorist raid carried out by the Israeli commandos came rushing in to my head, here I was standing where an Air France plane with 246 passengers was hijacked by members of the Popular Front for Liberation of Palestine and the German Revolutionary Cells and flown to Entebbe.

Clearing customs and immigration took a long time, as twenty Iranian businessmen were in the queue before me and they were obviously important, so had to be hustled through whilst the rest of the passengers waited their turn.

Graham was there to meet me and it was so good to see him after being apart for four months. He had a chauffeur with him, which surprised me as he is a good driver. I sat in the back seat and off we went along the road to Kampala, Uganda’s capital where we were to spend three days in the Protea Hotel before heading to the north and the Gulu Provence.

Oh my word, I have driven in many African countries before, but never experienced such scary driving! There are simply no road rules, everyone to their own! I shut my eyes and opened them and caught Graham looking at me from the front passenger seat with amusement, “You OK Babe?” He asked, “Now you see why I have a Ugandan to drive me in Kampala!”

“That’s for bloody sure!” I retorted, shutting my eyes again whilst I reminisced:
Many years ago, as a teenager living in Malawi, I found myself listening with morbid interest to the tales told to my parents by people who had previously worked in the British Foreign Office in Uganda. These were ex-patriots who had fled the wrath of Idi Amin and the atrocities committed against foreigners living and working in that country. My mother would look my way and see that I was avidly taking in the horror stories of abuse, rape and even murder and slip into murmuring whispers so that I could no longer hear.

I remember a portrait artist telling a florid story about how in the early days of Idi Amin’s rule, she was summoned into his state office and commissioned to do his portrait. At first she said, she thought of him as this delightful “teddy-bear” of a man. But as the weeks went by and time progressed, she saw that he was unpredictable and cruel. She and her husband, (who was a high court judge) had to escape the country or risk death. How they ended up living and working in Malawi did not interest me, but I did wonder if she ever completed the portrait before the teddy-bear turned into a grizzly-bear!
From all the stories I stored in the back-burners of my memory, Uganda always seemed to be a place of tropical jungle, gorillas, heavy thunder-storms, the vast Rift Valley Lake Victoria, unpredictable tribes and the Entebbe Raid. It has always been a place I thought of as “far away and inaccessible “, and likely one of the last places I would ever visit.

Yet, here I am in Gulu, Northern Uganda, about two hundred miles north of the capital, Kampala. In the old days as a British Protectorate, there was a metre gauge railway between the nearby villages of Tororo and Pakwach, but sadly it no longer operates and the only way to get here is by road or by air into the local airport.

There are two main tribes in the area, the Acholi, (who make up about eighty percent of the population) and the Luo. Since the rule of Idi Amin, through to Yoweri Museveni’s National Resistance Army, these tribes have been targeted and attacked.

Later entered Alice Lakwena, heading yet another rebel group, which became the notorious Lord’s Resistance Army, - who, along with the government’s army, Uganda’s People’s Defence Force, carried out brutal genocide against these poor people. In the late 1990’s, government forced them into “Internally Displaced Person” camps. Thinly veiled, they were nothing other than concentration camps, where it was reported held in the region of two million people.

International campaigns known as “Stop the Genocide in Northern Uganda,” became prominent and in 2007 these camps were shut down and the survivors released. International pressure on the Ugandan government induced closure of these awful places, and there has been relative peace between the government and the rebel leader of the Lord’s Resistance Army, Joseph Kony.

The other day I spoke to a man who had been working with the International Red Cross at that time. He told me how approximately 15,000 orphan children, known as “Night Commuters” fled into Gulu’s town vicinities for safety under the cover of darkness every night, fearing abduction and conscription as child soldiers.

Since the peace talks between the government and the rebel LRA, the violence has greatly reduced and seen to economic revitalisation in the district of Gulu. There is a university, district administration centre, a stadium, three hospitals, a management institute, teachers training and agriculture colleges, the airport is second largest in the country, (after Entebbe) thirteen banks, several radio stations, three main hotels, an army base, churches, eating and coffee houses, Rotary Round Table and many, many Voluntary Overseas Organisations from around the world. In fact, I believe at one time there were more than 180 Aid Donor Organisations, some of which had operations closed by government, due to the fact that the young volunteers sent to work here were having too good a time relaxing near the hotel swimming pools, soaking up the Ugandan sunshine and not doing much in the field!

Regardless, there are always foreigners to be seen in the Internet cafés, shopping in Gulu’s markets and driving along in vehicles with various logos emblazoned on the doors advertising a vast variety of Aid Donor organisations. The most interesting of these, in my opinion, is “Invisible Children.” A film has been made on what they are doing to help the crisis in Uganda and it can be watched on the Internet.

After living in the OLAM compound in Morrembala, Mozambique, I find this new place (where Graham is contracted by Patrick Bitature, Simba Group to develop 3000 hectares of virgin land in an area called Palaro into farmland for maize production) more agreeable. At least here I can safely go for a walk, the locals friendly and the village a hive of activity, colour and interest.

It is a far cry from London, but it appears to me that the people here are the same as anywhere, - all working, running errands, shopping and doing what they can to improve their lives.

If you enjoy my writing, purchase my books and EBooks:

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Don't Pay the Ferry Man...

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 14:08:00 +0000

For the best part of the last six weeks Internet here in Morrumbala has been intermittent.

I have realized just how frustrating it is without this luxury when living in the back of beyond in a third world country.

Without Internet, there is no knowledge of what is happening in the lives of beloved family and friends. One cannot catch up and read current affairs, world events and news. There is no ability to carry out scheduled work loads, uploads, downloads or phone conferences via applications such as Skype, Google or other IM's.

Checking on bank balances, making transfers, booking tickets for bus, rail or air does not happen.

Without modern technology, upon which we are fully dependent, we have allowed ourselves to become totally castrated when it fails.

There is no longer a post office in most villages.

Even if there was, they are not able to function without Internet.

No more is there the luxury of purchasing a stamp, licking it and placing it on the top right hand corner, (as straight as you can) of an envelope that has your hand written letter specially scribed and securely sealed inside, the address of the intended destination written in the middle with at least a one inch surrounding border.

On the back of the envelope, your return address, in case of no delivery.

Or if you needed a message to get somewhere in a hurry, the logical thing to do was to send a telegram.

It had to be carefully written as you had to pay for each word:

“Arriving Wednesday Stop Please meet me airport Stop 18.30 Stop Susan”

A specially trained telegraph operator would decipher your words into code and send it off with a series of dots and dashes.

Miraculously your message would arrive at its destination within 24 to 48 hours!

Two cyclones have been whizzing around the Mozambique Channel.

Buffeting the Island of Madagascar and the coastal towns of Mozambique. Bringing with it torrential rain storms that have besieged Morrumbala on and off since early December last year.

This interferes with cell phone connections and often we have been without the ability to make calls or send text messages.

Again, isolating us from the outside world.

There are not many land lines here in Mozambique. The twenty year civil war put paid to any developments like that. So the country relies on cell phone companies to put in place huge masts along the main roads that link major towns and cities. But, they are not immune to extreme weather or vandalism.

It is so exciting when you hear the “beep” of your mobile coming to life again when connections recommence.

When that happens, you immediately send off quick text messages to people as soon as possible in case everything shuts down again, letting them know you are thinking of them and still alive!

I could go on about the lack of electricity and television, but then I'd never get this Blog out to you.

(I have to transfer it to a memory stick and take it down to Graham's office where they are lucky enough to have a weak Internet link. The inclination to do this is not huge, as it's raining cats and dogs today.)

A few weeks ago Graham and I took the two hour trip to the ShireRiver as he had to talk to the ferry man about his ferry which was stuck in huge banks of floating reeds and was not working. OLAM needed to get a truck load of supplies to one of the farmers on the other side of the river and the truck had been stuck for a couple of days on the river bank.

When we got there, we realized that the ferry man was not going to do anything about clearing the reeds unless he was bribed into doing so.

I watched Graham approach the operator and then settle down on a bench outside a hut under the shade of a large old mango tree.

It looked as if he would be there a long time negotiating and cajoling, so I threw the strap of my camera over my shoulder and went in search of photo opportunities.

Soon a group of children swarmed around me and followed me, stopping every time I stopped and keeping a respectful distance as I snapped away.

After a while I tired of taking pictures of people being shipped across the river in huge dug-out canoes with their goods that ranged from chickens, luggage bundles, bicycles and even motor-bikes.

Focusing on a child wearing flip-flops many sizes too big, I felt a tug on my skirt.

Looking down I saw a smiling little girl who had been encouraged to approach me by her friends. They signalled me to follow them, which I did. They stopped on the river-bank and pointed towards a group of happy youngsters splashing in the water, their swimming companion an albino hippo.

“Delightful” I thought.

They all shouted her name, but to this day, I am not sure what it was.

Secretly I wondered if they were teasing me and saying that I had the same colour skin as their animal friend.

Hopefully that was all, and not saying I was the same size as the creature.

The elders from the village decided to join us and much to my amazement, some of the men shared their beers with her.

Goodness, a friendly white hippo that was a beer guzzler!

I am not sure if it was from drinking beer in the full sun, but she eventually tired of swimming and beached herself on the bank, dropping into a deep sleep.

Graham had come to the end of his indaba (meeting) under the mango tree.

I made my way back to the pick-up truck feeling like the Pied Piper of Hamlin with all the village children in tow.

Stopping on my way, I decided to show my group of followers video footage I had taken of them with my camera.

They were soon intrigued and fighting over prime viewing positions, laughing and pointing at themselves on the screen.

It dawned on me that they had never seen television, let alone play-back images of themselves.

Who am I to complain about lack of modern technology like Internet, cell/mobile phones and the like?

My three months stay ends on Wednesday morning at 4.30 am when we have to make the drive from Morrumbala to Quelimane. I dread the first two hours of back breaking bush track to the main road to Quelimane which is a further 3-4 hours, (all depending on what happens on the road with it's bicycles, people, goats, long haul trucks and other vehicles.)

Although my first leg of air travel to Maputo only starts at 14.30, I have been warned to get to the airport by midday. Even although I am booked on the flight, it is a case of first come, first served on LAM – the Mozambique Airline.

I shall be biting my nails that we take off in time as I only have an hour in Maputo to check in to my International flight to Johannesburg and I now have the knowledge and experience of how long the customs and immigration can be in Mozambique.

So fingers crossed for me everyone!

Once in Johannesburg I look forward to spending a couple of nights with my cousin before leaving Africa for England on Friday evening.

Saturday will see me rejoining my daughters, son-in-law and grandson for a week before I start work again for a few months.

I am so excited to see them and already wondering if my grandson will remember me after a five month break.

The sad part is I leave Graham to return to work at OLAM in Morrumbala on his own.

I often found the place lonely and remote, even with his company after work. How will he feel when I am gone with no one to come home to in the evenings?

A few years ago when Graham and I were working on cruise liners together as art auctioneers, I mentioned to him that I felt so sorry for couples who had to live apart for months on end like many of the crew had to.

Little did I know that the world recession would affect tourism to South Africa and thus leave our little bed and breakfast empty more often than not.

Africa is a place of contrasts, and with the way things have been in South Africa, we have been forced to take jobs where we can find them.

The distance between Mozambique and England will not be so huge, just so long as the Internet works!

If you enjoy my writing, purchase my books and EBooks:

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Chicken in Paradise

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 15:58:00 +0000

Last Sunday we decided to go to the local restaurant here in Morrumbala called “Paradisio Resturante”.

The proprietor is a rather paunchy Old Portuguese fellow, married to a local lady who does all the work whilst he looks on and shouts instructions every now and again.

Usually he can be found slouched in his chair at the entrance to the restaurant’s pub, with one of his pet poodles lurking between his ankles.

As you pass by, the poodle makes a rush at you, growling and gnashing his pointy little teeth until his master swats at his backside, shouting “comportar-se voce merda, se comportam!” (“behave you little shyte, behave!”)

Tail between his legs, he slinks back under his boss’ chair and waits for his next victim.

It is not the cleanest of places and definitely not the best I have ever been to. They serve char-grilled peri-peri chicken and chips and the beer s are ice cold. So, if you ignore the state of the kitchen and make darn sure you do not use their bathroom, eating there can be a reasonably good experience.

Also, if you close your eyes to the t-shirts that the waiters are wearing, and do not allow your imagination to run riot as to whether they really do have AIDS, as broadcast in the slogan stamped in large letters on the front, you can get on with the business of ordering your meal.

It is also a pleasant change to being confined within the OLAM cotton complex compound and Graham was concerned that I was going a little stir-crazy after three weeks lack of Internet and unable to communicate with people on the “out-side world”!

We got there and said hello to the landlord, avoided his poodle and made our way to our usual table in the corner.

Then the noise started.

A high pitched yowl permeated the four corners of the place.

“Wow Babe,” I said to Graham, whilst looking in the direction of the kitchen, “someone must have ordered goat for lunch.”

I visualised a goat being slaughtered outside the kitchen door.

“Nope,” Graham pointed at three men sitting around a table some distance away, “there’s your goat.”

It did not take long for us to realize that one of the men was a very drunk deaf mute.

He was interesting to watch as he acted out what he wanted to do with one of his companions. It was not very friendly. He mimed that he’d slit his throat, stab him in the chest and then every now and then forgot about that and indicated that he was hungry and wanted to eat.

Or perhaps I was being naïve and he wanted to eat his friend after cutting his throat.

Our chicken had arrived and we tucked in, trying to ignore the blood curdling yelps from across the room.

Above us was a pergola with a tangle of creepers covering it, I looked up, there looking back at me was a large black rat, his beady eyes darting backwards and forwards, looking at our food.

Then the poodle arrived at our table and sidled up to my chair.

“Shoo!” I shouted at him when I saw what he was about to do. He hopped off on three legs, the fourth leg waiving half-cocked in the air.

The cacophony of yelps continued from the drunken man.

“Sounds like a yeti. Well what I think a yeti should sound like,” I mumbled as I tucked into my peri-peri chicken.

“Time to get out of here,” Graham growled, standing up and pushing out his chair.

We returned to our house in the OLAM complex.

The three shebeens (moon-shine bars) in the shanty town were competing with one another for customers and blasting out their loud local music.

“Even they are quieter than that noisy guy in Paradisio,” I remarked.

“Yes,” agreed Graham, “but at least here we can close the doors, shut the windows and turn on the air-conditioner to drown out the noise!”

I am not sure that we will return to Paradise in a hurry.

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Tropical Storms in Mozambique

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 12:59:00 +0000

For the past three weeks there has been no Internet due to tropical storms in the region.

As there are no land-line telecoms here, everyone relies on cell/mobile phones.

Again, with the adverse weather, they do not work well all the time.

To top all of this, power cuts are frequent and we often find ourselves sitting in the dark.

On the positive side of this state of affairs, the incessant music that plays without respite from the shanty-town that pushes itself up against the OLAM cotton complex’s security fencing stops with lack of electricity feeding the huge speakers and there is a welcome silence for a while.

However, living in such a remote part of Mozambique Internet is paramount to keeping sane. The lack of it for a writer such as me brings on withdrawal symptoms similar to when I try to cut down on my coffee intake!

No complaints though, the three weeks gave me time to update my work resume’s, rewrite articles I had been procrastinating about sorting out, and time to catalogue photographs that had been backed up on my external hard-drive for months.

Further to this, my knowledge of garden landscaping and design had been offered by Graham to the OLAM senior management prior to my arrival in Morrembala. This has kept me busy during the days when Graham is at work.

His immediate boss had mentioned to Graham that the cotton complex needed what he called “beautifying” and when my husband heard that, he said I was the person to fit the job description. When I asked Graham if this would be a paid job, and if OLAM would supply a budget for me to get a plant nursery going, to purchase plants and so forth, all I got was a huge belly laugh from him, “Babe,” he said, shaking his head, “I have been fighting with them to honour my salary payments for the past three months, which have not been forthcoming. I doubt you would get paid or any financial support. If you take the job on, you will have to improvise.”

Astounded at the news that Graham was fighting to get paid monthly by what is one of the world’s largest commodity broker companies, I was more interested in why he was prepared to continue working for them. From what I was told then made me shake my head in astonishment.

Apparently the last email sent by Graham to his immediate boss asking for what is legally his had a return response to the effect that OLAM Mozambique were trying to make a plan to pay him, but they could not make any promises.

“Goodness Babe” I exploded, “Why on earth are we still here? It’s not as if this is the best place in the world to live with amazing attractions,” with that, the high shrieking of a pig that was having his throat slit in the village that surrounds the OLAM complex covered an un-lady like expletive I had made after my question.

That was just before the Christmas holiday, the particular boss who promised to “sort something” eventually organised to pay Graham what he was owed, but only after he had handed in his resignation.

When the boss phoned Graham and asked him to withdraw his resignation, he refused as there has been no solution made as to where the money from January 2012 and onwards was going to come from. Considering OLAM is a huge International company with their main offices bases in Singapore, I find all of this amazing. Only in an African country does this sort of abuse of work ethic seem to take place.

The end of this month is coming up and I am sitting on the side-lines watching the whole issue play out with interest.

My flight out of Mozambique to Johannesburg is in seventeen days, where I look forward to spending a couple of days with my Uncle and cousins before flying to UK to work for a couple of months.

Fingers crossed something really positive happens for Graham before then…

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"Very nice, I think you should give her to me."

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 14:16:00 +0000

I soon found the days merging into the first fortnight of my three months stay in Morrumbala, Mozambique, before returning to work in England in the New Year.

My Portuguese was slowly improving, as much to my delight; I discovered some really good web-sites that offered free lessons. Logging on to them has become part of my daily routine, - if the Internet is working, - before settling down to writing my 1000 words a day. (This has not been very difficult to carry out. There are not many distractions here.)

The Shanty-Town at the foot of my garden.

My lap-top was set up the next day of my arrival on the table in the lounge/dining room which is the coolest place in the house where there is an air-conditioner and a ceiling fan. Both of them work 24/7, pushing the heavy air around.

My new Home

Pedro had cleaned the dust and grease off all the surfaces in the house and kitchen, laundered the shower curtain that surprisingly turned out to be white and not brown in colour, and had got used to the idea that sheets on our bed had to be washed and changed once a week.

The gardens in the OLAM complex had been sorely neglected for two years since the present management take-over and to alleviate total boredom, I happily became involved with revamping them. After all, there is a gardener allocated to each of the five staff houses, and two at the company office block. The only gardens that looked as if they had been cared for when I first arrived appeared to be the one surrounding the offices. The rest were swept yards with a vegetable garden in ours that Graham had started in anticipation of my arrival, (he knows I love eating salads, and leafy green stuff!)

On occasion, when Graham does not have to take one of his cotton supervisors with him on his trips to the peasant farmer cotton out-growers in the Zambezia Province areas, he phones me and asks “Fancy a road tip today?”

Always happy at a foray out of the confines of the OLAM complex, and excited about seeing a new area which may reveal good photo opportunities, I never turn the offer down. So, I quickly put a bag together with my cameras, a couple of bottles of water and make up filled rolls for a picnic lunch.

An OLAM Bush Station

Some of the places Graham has to visit are as much as two hours’ drive away from Morrumbala, making the round trip a good four hours. This excludes the stops at the OLAM cotton stations and the peasant farm smallholdings. It is a long day in the hot sun and the bush roads are like rusty old roller-coasters that rattle one’s bones and teeth!

On our first trip together, we went to an area called Lipembe.

En route we were stuck behind a funeral procession. It was interesting to see that all the mourners on the road and surrounding our pick-up were men. The vehicle carrying the coffin had women sitting around it, keening and howling. They sounded like very sad banshees.

Women Mourners

One of the men stopped us and warned us to go very slowly. So Graham slowed right down, (when in Mozambique, or any African country for that matter, listen to the man on the street, it can save you a great deal of mis-understandng and trouble!) The men swarmed around our truck and we kept a respectable speed.

Rolling down his window, Graham asked the man who was walking next to us in his local African language, who the person in the coffin in front of us had been, “Businessman, big businessman. Many wives, many goats, many children” was the answer.

The Funeral Procession

Eventually the procession pulled off into the entrance of the local school and we were able to proceed. It was good to get away from such a woeful crowd.

Soon after leaving the funeral, we saw a truck bumping along the track towards us. It had a load of people sitting in the back, clinging on for their dear lives. “Ah, that’s one of my more wealthy farmers” said Graham, slowing down.

“Hello Patrick” Graham greeted the man driving the overloaded vehicle. Patrick stopped his transport, jumped out the door and rushed over to greet Graham enthusiastically.

I was duly introduced, “Patrick, this is my wife.”

Patrick's Passengers

He looked me over, “Very nice, I think you should give her to me. She can come and live in my house and stay with me.”

He and my husband continued to discuss this idea for a while. From what I understood, Graham thought it better that I came home with him as I was far too cheeky for Patrick.

Graham winked at me and we drove off.

I think Graham knew that I’d be very cheeky towards him if I’d been handed over to Patrick. I am used to “living it rough” in the bush, but I have no intention of going to live in some mud hut and have the lesser status of a minor tenth wife!

Graham with his Station Managers

What impressed me on that road trip and with other trips that have followed is the affection all the OLAM station managers and the farmers appear to have for Graham. He has a way of encouraging the African people to be more productive. Also the fact that he speaks three of their languages goes a long way to good communication and understanding. Since he has been working for OLAM the ammount of

cotton planted by the outgrowers have increased from 600 hectares to an expected 6000 hectares in six months, something the company has
never seen before.

Late that afternoon, upon return to Morrembala, Graham stopped off at a house in the town. Asking him where were, he told me he wanted me to see some of the staff houses that had been built for “upper” Mozambican staff working for OLAM. There was a street of small brick homes with corrugated roofing, each with about a ¼ acre of garden and fenced.

“Very nice”, I remarked, “the people must be thrilled to have homes like this.”

“Yes and no.” Was Graham’s answer, “The houses have been here for a couple of years, equipped for running water, but never had it connected. The workers have to come into the OLAM complex every day and collect water in drums from our borehole there.”

Shocked, I said to him, “But what about sanitation?”

I was well aware that the huge mud hut village that has evolved on the outskirts of Morrembala and stops at the borders of the OLAM security fencing is pretty “rough and ready”. They have to go to the toilet in the bush on the outskirts of the village, but the basic infrastructure of the actual town of Morrumbala was created in the Portuguese era, with proper buildings, houses and sanitation.

These houses were built in this part of the town and should have all the luxuries of the senior management houses and offices have within the complex.

Shanty-Town Children and Guinea Fowl.

With a huge sigh, Graham said to me “My immediate boss seems unwilling to fork out and get a decent borehole dug to service the houses. But I am working on it even although housing is not my department.” He went on to say, “There is an Indian company here with borehole rigs and I aim to get one sunk as soon as I can convince the OLAM powers that be in Beira to part with some funds.”

This was two months ago and I’m proud to say that the bore-hole is now sunk and as of a fortnight ago, the houses have running water. Graham tells me he was very touched when he walked into the OLAM offices and received a standing ovation from the staff. They were very grateful that someone had cared enough about their personal welfare.

I have started to see a pattern here with OLAM. It appears to me, (and this is a personal observation) that they think that if you are working for them and they supply a house to live in, you should be overwhelmed with having a roof over your head. No matter what the condition. Also, if terms are not met in a workers contract, such as a company vehicle that is meant to be supplied and does not materialize, the worker/s should still carry on, making no complaints because they have a house, with or without lights and running water!

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The Long and Winding Road from Quelimane to Morrumbala

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 15:23:00 +0000

The turn off from the main road to Morrumbala is at a village named Cero.

It is a conglomeration of thatched huts and market stalls under huge mango trees. The branches of the trees are used to display an assortment of brightly coloured second hand clothes, sarongs and shoes, their laces looped together and hanging from branches in chains of assorted sizes.

Suddenly the tar ended, and we were now bouncing and banging about on a bush road full of corrugations, ruts and pot-holes in the truck that OLAM has supplied to Graham as his company vehicle.

I thought gratefully about the sports bra I was wearing. Any woman with breasts larger than walnuts would not be a happy person without the support of a good binding around that area of their anatomy!

The truck is a working vehicle. Certainly not a luxury one and the ridged shock-absorbers are not kind on one’s back or boobs!

It was now twilight and we still had an hour’s driving to complete before reaching the OLAM cotton complex where the staff houses were safely surrounded by security fencing.

OLAM Offices, Morrumbala

Native houses nestled in the midst of their small patches of maize and manioc, lining the sides of the bush track in an endless seam of humanity. Mozambique boasts a huge population of approximately 24 million people. I remarked to Graham that I noticed mainly young adults that appeared to be in their twenties, teenagers and infants, only occasionally did I see an old person. (Perhaps they were all sleeping.)

At last we pulled in to the grounds and arrived at the Manager’s house and I was pleasantly surprised. It was one of five well built houses which had been constructed by the company that owned the cotton company before OLAM bought them out two years ago.

Our House

“Welcome home Babe,” Graham said to me as I eased my aching bones out of the truck. It had been a long journey; I was tired, dusty and interested to see the inside of my new abode.

“Not bad”, I thought. Lounge/dining room, kitchen, three bedrooms, bathroom and 2 WC’s. Each house has a house-keeper and a gardener to look after the “Boss” as the managers are called here by the people who work for them. However, the house-keepers, (they are generally men and apparently know basic cooking) are used to working for bachelors and have no idea of cleanliness.

A thick film of grease covered every surface in the kitchen and the furniture was covered in red dust. The gardener’s idea of gardening is to sweep the grounds around the houses with home-made brooms that look as if they escaped a Harry Potter novel, and lay huge importance on vegetable gardens which are well stocked and could supply an army. (Well, actually they do as they gather the veggies in bags before they leave work in the evening. I presume they either take them to sell in the Morrumbala market, or home to their families.)

Shanty-Town Surrounding OLAM Complex

The entire complex is surrounded by a massive shanty-town that has attached itself to the borders of the Morrumbala village, evolving and stretching to the boundaries of security fencing that protects the OLAM cotton gin, ware-houses, offices and staff houses.

There is a constant buzz of people’s voices, loud music, the base on full blast, bellows from huge speakers strategically placed in the door ways of numerous moon-shine bars where people can be seen outside whistling, dancing and gyrating, their bare feet pounding a rhythm on the bare ground, sweeping up swirls of dust whilst slapping clouds of flies off their ebony skins.

Everyone appeared oblivious to the mingled smells of cooking, refuse dumps and night soil. Occasionally the cry of a slaughtered animal entwined itself in the continuous buzz of the human vocal hum.

Graham saw me looking at the state of the kitchen, chuckling to himself more than at me, I heard him say “I warned Pedro to clean the place before you arrived, seems he did not listen.” He then went on to tell me, “These people allocated to the houses do not like to work very much. They always think they can do a chore on another day or at another time.”

Even although it was late evening it was humid and the temperature was 40°Centigrade.

It was far too late to worry about Pedro and the thought of taking a shower to slake off the dust from our trip, and then imbibing in a nice ice-cold drink and eating a sandwich was more appealing.

Pedro and Illoma

Tomorrow was another day and would be a new challenge. I had never spoken Portuguese in my life and I was going to have to somehow communicate with not only Pedro the house-man and Illoma the gardener, but with people in general. I would be living in an ex-Portuguese Colony for the next three months.

The Eagle had landed.

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The Sunny Sky is Aqua Blue

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 15:02:00 +0000

Nagar’s in Quelimane is supposedly a four star bed and breakfast establishment.

Perhaps I am prejudiced because Graham and I ran our home, Beachcombers, in Cape Agulhas as a very successful bed and breakfast for a couple of years. It was awarded three stars by the South African Tourism Bureau of Standards and their criteria for star status was very strict.

At times the last people one wishes to have staying in your hotel establishment are other people who understand and have worked in hospitality. But in all fairness to Graham and me, we make a point of not making an issue of any accommodation unless it is justified.

Nagar’s was rough, ready and very expensive. One thing positive I’ll say for the place is the bedding was clean and the buffet style breakfast was edible, except for some very strange cocoon-like items that lay in wait for unsuspecting gourmets next to the bread rolls. I took a bite of one of those and had to discreetly deposit the contents of my mouthful into the paper serviette provided. It was old, rancid rice that had been moulded into glutinous ovals and left a bitter taste in my mouth. There were other items there of unrecognisable substance that I steered clear of after my adventurous attempt at the “cocoon thingies.” The cold pizza take-away from the night before became a more attractive alternative!

As Graham had purchases he needed to make for before leaving Quelimane, we left my luggage at the local offices. The O.L.A.M company vehicle he drives is an open pick-up truck, and anything in the back that is not tied down is quickly stolen. People literally clamber in and make off with things as big as generators, fridges and motor-bikes. So a couple of suit-cases would be an easy target and I could not see myself dressed in Graham’s clothes for the three months I planned on staying with him in Mozambique before returning to England for another stint of Care Giving.

My first impression of Quelimane was the smell of sewage. Open drains were piled high with discarded refuse, where scrawny dogs and cats rummaged for a possible tasty morsel. Children splashed and played in stagnant pools of murky water on the sides of the roads.

Driving from place to place in the sprawling town, I was so glad that I had my camera handy. Quelimane’s main mode of transport is the bicycle, there are thousands of them everywhere and they do not follow any form of traffic rules. They stop, turn and go where ever and whenever they wish. I saw one with a family of four people concertinaed between the handlebars and the carrier, shopping balanced on their heads and a baby one their backs, another transporting three fat goats, all winding and wheeling between huge pot-holes in the roads. Hooting vehicles travelled at high speed, miraculously avoiding the bicycles. All the time there was a loud beat of music blasting from loud speakers strategically placed outside shop doorways, enticing passers-by in to buy.

Once magnificent buildings erected by the Portuguese settlers crumbled with neglect along avenues of ancient flame trees that seemed to be trying to cheer the old dwellings up with their bright flowers that had dropped on the pavements, creating red carpets of swirling colour.

Women wore scarves magnificently knotted in fancy styles on their heads, or had their hair braided with a rainbow array of plastic beads. Sashaying in their bright congas, with baskets of goods balanced on their heads as they went about their business.

Men sat in groups on corners going nowhere slowly. Shouting out greetings to people they knew or saying something suggestive to the passing women.

At lunch we drove to the Quelimane delta and ate Portuguese piri-piri chicken at a restaurant situated on the river banks. Many early missionaries’ journeys and great white game hunters are associated starting or ending at this port. One of them David Livingston with his quest to spread the word of God to African tribes inland along the river, ended his famous west-to-east crossing of south-central Africa in 1856.

At last my piri-piri chicken arrived and I watched the fishermen in their dugouts and reflected on the story I have heard about how Quelimane was named.

Apparently when the great explorer Vasco da Gama, arrived on these shores in 1498, he asked some natives who were digging in the fields outside their village what the place was called. They thought he was asking what they were doing, so they said “kuliamani” which meant in their language, “we are cultivating”. And so that was the name recorded in his ships log. Quelimane was originally a Swahili trade centre, and then later grew as a slave market. It was founded by the Muslim Kiwa Sultante and was one of the oldest towns in the region.

In the 16th century, the Portuguese founded a trading station at Quelimane. Sisal plantations were organized by German planters in the beginning of the 20th century. The town started to grow and attracted several communities from different backgrounds, including Muslims and Indians, and new infrastructure was built by the Portuguese authorities. The busy port handled tea as its major export grown and processed in the district of Zambézia then coconut plantations were also grown, transforming the town into an important bustling city.

The chicken was polished off my plate and Graham informed me it was time to leave, so we set off on our journey back to Morrumbala. I was grateful there was air-conditioning in the truck as it was 40° and I was used to a more temperate Cape Agulhas climate.

We stopped at a fuel station on our way out of town and stocked up with cool drinks, water and biscuits. I made sure the pizza was easily accessible too!

Huge areas that used to be rice paddies edged the main road for miles, the soil rich and black. Neglected palm plantations stretched to far horizons. Thatched huts nestled in groups under the trees and along the edge of the road.

Peasant farmers cultivated their small vegetable gardens of manioc and maize.

Groups of children clutched chickens for sale by their feet and waved them at us as we passed by, in the hope that we would stop and buy.

Every half mile or so I saw sacks of charcoal under make-shift shelters, the owners hoping someone would stop and make a purchase of a bag to cook a daily meal.

Everyone in Mozambique appeared to spend their time looking to make a living. Most of the people are poor, but they seem to always be smiling, bustling about like ants, greeting each other, selling, buying, talking and networking.

As we drove along, I said to Graham, “It’s one great big endless market; the sides of the road are one endless place of small innovative businesses. These people amaze me!”

He did not answer me as he was avoiding pot-holes in the road and keeping an eye on a man riding a bicycle in front of us transporting a goat, a chair and a woman.

I Like to Spend some Time in Mozambique

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 17:29:00 +0000

This time last year I would never have imagined I’d find myself sitting in a remote village in Mozambique called Morrumbala.

With my husband Graham, working as an agriculture consultant dealing with peasant farmers growing cotton for an International company called O.L.A.M.

We are into the first week of 2012.

It’s Friday, there is a tropical downpour, and the sweet smell of rain mingling with the hot, baked earth is permeating the air. It wraps itself around me with a sticky humidity.

Fat rain-drops crash down on the roof, its corrugated iron sheets sounding a drum beat which is competing with the heavy base blast of the surrounding African village’s sound system in the nearby moonshine bar.

Outside my window is a flock of little sparrows, their wings a fast beating flurry, as they duck and dive after a myriad of flying ants that emerge from giant termite mounds when the rains start in this part of Africa.

Two weeks ago every surface was covered in a film of fine red dust.

Now the rains have come it seems as if nature has taken a giant paint brush and splashed green hues of colour on the once parched foliage and splodged a bright primary pallet of red, orange, yellow and blue on a variety of tropical flowers and shrubs in the garden surrounding our house here in the O.L.A.M complex.

Just over a month ago, I flew from Cape Town, via Johannesburg where I changed planes to Maputo, (the capital city of Mozambique.)

There I had to wait three hours for a plane to Quelimane, where Graham had travelled five and a half hours from Morrumbala to collect me.

On the day of my departure, I booked a taxi for 5 am to pick me up from our home in Cape Agulhas, the very last little village in the south of Africa.

We drove for two and a half hours to Cape Town International airport.

I took an internal flight to Oliver Tambo Airport in Johannesburg and transferred to the International flight on the Mozambique airline that my travel agency had recommended to Maputo.

However, nobody from the agency remembered to tell me that after I’d made the booking, the airline had put on an extra plane that they hired from South African Airways because the Mozambique offices had overbooked the plane by 90%!

Eventually I discovered what was going on, went to book my luggage on the plane I thought I had a seat on, (I even had the seat number) and the lady behind the desk told me I was on stand-by, “first come, first served” she informed me

“But I have a firm booking!” I insisted,

“Never mind,” she shrugged, “that’s the way it works on this airline” and promptly turned her back on me and some other passengers who were furious.

About twenty minutes before the flight was due to take off, she beckoned to us and said, “Go, now, you are OK to go!”

We all rushed through customs, then made our way to the plane, running all the time as we were told that we only had five minutes before the gates closed.

As I got to the top of the stairs into the plane everything went black. I had fainted in the first class galley. When I came round, I was sitting in a first class passenger seat and the senior steward was fanning me with what looked like a fancy menu, “No, I said, I am in the wrong seat, I did not have enough money to pay for this seat.”

“It is fine,” the steward told me as he handed me a coke-a-cola, “the GM of radio and television, Mozambique has given you his seat. He is sitting in yours. Now drink this for the sugar”

With shaking hands, I gratefully took the coke and gulped it down. I still felt disoriented and embarrassed that I had made my entry onto the plane in such a dramatic manner, “thank goodness I’m wearing jeans.” I thought to myself, “If I was wearing a skirt, I’d have had it up around my ears with my nickers on display, when I did my duck-dive onto the floor!”

The gentleman sitting next to me tapped my arm and introduced himself, “Hi, you feel better now?”

“I think so.” I replied, feeling foolish.

“Oliver, head of Mozambique security,” he informed me with a smile.

“Oh heck,” I thought, “did I look like I was so bad that I now had a watch-dog to keep an eye on me?”

Oliver then went on to tell me that the man who gave up my seat was very important and a good friend of his.

“Yes, I hear from the cabin crew he is in charge of broadcasting in Mozambique.” With a chuckle I said “don’t think my taking his seat will make front headlines though.”

The plane started to speed up along the runway for take-off…

The next thing we knew the senior steward started screaming at the top of his voice, “Emergency! Emergency, heads down between your legs, heads down! ” and with that the plane rocked violently from side to side as the Captain slammed on brakes, dumping gallons of fuel at the same time.

The plane screeched round in a semi-circle before coming to a grinding halt.

I thought I was going to faint again, this was truly frightening, the plane I am sitting in has nearly crashed and I wonder why my left hand feels so sore.

I look down and Oliver is holding it in a vice grip.

“Um, Oliver, I need my hand back please,” I say to him.

“Sorry, thought that was lights out,” his face as white as a sheet.

The Captain’s voice came over the speakers, “Sorry folks, looks like one of the emergency doors is open. We have to go back to our parking bay to get the engineers to look at the problem. Also have to re-fuel which will take a while.”

Dumping fuel is a necessary precaution in case the plane catches alight. It is also an extremely expensive exercise.

We taxi back to the parking bay. Two engineers traipse into the plane and find the problem.

We wait for the refuelling and a time slot for the plane to take off again.

I am relieved to say that the forty minute flight to Maputo went smoothly and Oliver gave me his business card, saying that if I have any problems whilst in transit in Maputo, to call him, he’d sort things out for me.

My suitcase had been booked through from Johannesburg to Quelimane, but I thought that with the bad luck I’d had so far, I’d find it on the luggage carrousel. And so it was.

Happily going around and around with all of its baggage friends that it had made in the hold.

Fortunately I had a three hour wait for my plane to Quelimane, so after clearing customs I made my way to enquiries to ask where I could book in for my flight. It was difficult, as the staff only spoke Portuguese, and the only foreign language I spoke at the time was French.

Eventually, with much hand waving and jumping about, I found the right area and got my boarding ticket.

I headed towards the domestic lounge, found a corner by an open door where the breeze flowed over me as I settled down with what turned out to be a long wait, the plane had been delayed.

We took off an hour later.

The plane was full and the fellow sitting next to me was as drunk as a lord! (Payback time to me for sitting in someone’s first class seat on the last flight, I thought to myself.)

The passengers sitting close to me all looked on in sympathy as the idiot drunk tried to rest his head on my shoulder. I pushed it off and turned my back on him, his breath was foetid.

For an hour and forty minutes, I pretended to be asleep.

He continuously tapped me on my back, trying to chat me up until I’d had enough and hailed the air-hostess who said something to him in the local lingo and he stopped bothering me.

What a relief it was when we finally landed.

As I arrived late evening, Graham had booked us into a local Bed and Breakfast called Nagars.

He had business to conduct in Quelimane the next day before returning to Morrumbala.

I was pleased as the trip from South Africa to Mozambique had been a long and eventful one and I did not think I could cope with a further five and a half hours of travel that night.

It was good to see him again. We had been apart from each other for a few months while I was working as a Care Giver to the elderly in England, and then returned to our home in L’Agulhas, South Africa for six weeks to get the place ready for holiday rental before travelling to Mozambique to spend the Festive Season together.

We dropped my luggage off at Nagars and then went to a restaurant run by a Lebanese family.

I ordered pizza, but was too exhausted to eat, so asked for a doggy bag, thinking it would be a good thing to nibble on our long journey back to Morrumbala the next day.

Much to both of our surprise we had to pay for the take-away! Yes, we paid for the pizza, and then paid more to take it away with us. When Graham asked the waiter why we had to do this, he looked at us as if we were being very silly and slowly said “take away, you pay more you see?”

We paid more, and left clutching the pizza.

“Welcome to Mozambique,” Graham said to me with a twinkle in his eye, “they do things differently here.”

“So I see.”
PS: Bob Dylan wrote:
I like to spend some time in Mozambique
The sunny sky is aqua blue
And all the couples dancing cheek to cheek
It's very nice to stay a week or two
And maybe fall in love just me and you.

There's a lot of pretty girls in Mozambique
And plenty time for good romance
And everybody likes to stop and speak
To give the special one you seek a chance
Or maybe say hello with just a glance.

Lying next to her by the ocean
Reaching out and touching her hand
Whispering your secret emotion
Magic in a magical land.

And when it's time for leaving Mozambique
To say goodbye to sand and sea
You turn around to take a final peek
And you see why it's so unique to be
Among the lovely people living free
Upon the beach of sunny Mozambique.

Dear Diary - a Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 08:02:00 +0000

July 15th, 2011

Yes, I know, you have been sending me text messages, emails and leaving messages on my Blog for the next episode of my Caring adventures!
It has been a while since I last wrote to update you on my whereabouts and what I am doing, - and, of course, what the outcome with Molly was…ahhhh…Ms Molly!
From being a docile Carer I finally blew my stack and told her to behave in no uncertain terms.
She did for half a day and night, but, paid me back by producing a poop the size of a large Christmas pudding in her potty that lurks perched on stilts beside her bed.
I wished I had a gas mask to shift the stuff, but alas, that was just a pipe-dream.
The main insult was when I got reprimanded for the “thin” toilet paper that allowed her fingers to slip through and get covered with “you-know-what”…
I had to endure a tongue-lashing and stand there trying to keep a straight face, when all the time I was bursting at the seams, my laughter bubbling and brewing, threatening to explode in hysteria!
What with having to call in a plumber to sort out her broken toilet, which infuriated her, as I had “no right” to make such phone calls, (I was instructed to do so by her daughter) deal with broken toilet bits that had fallen off the porcelain, and suffer verbal effluent. Besides, what was I meant to do, leave a heaving murky mass to ferment for the weekend?
In fact, I was so pleased to see the plumber arrive I could have kissed him, but refrained as he was very good-looking in a Latin kind of way and I had to let him get on with the job and get it sorted out without any distractions.
The staff that had worked on the estate saw what was going on and early one morning, when I had been sent off to pick raspberries the long-standing gardener approached me and said:
“Susan, just a word, we have all seen what is happening with you and feel we have to let you know, you are not the only Carer this happens to and the thing is…erm…you need to tell the daughter what’s potting.”
I thanked him profusely for his concern and that afternoon, did just what he had suggested.
To my relief, she was aware of Molly’s ability to make a Carer’s life somewhat uncomfortable and told me that this occurs every six weeks or so, she then steps in, sorts Molly out and calm reigns for an uncertain period.
When I handed over to the incoming Carer, Sue, I warned her things could get stormy.
A week later, Sue wrote to me via email and asked me
“Are we looking after the same person?
Molly cannot do enough to make me feel comfortable.”
I shook my head and smiled to myself thinking,
“Oh yeah Suzy-Q, we sure are talking about the same person.”
Sue has just completed her assignment with Molly yesterday.
I wonder how her replacement shall fare.
Six weeks are on the horizon.

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Dear Diary - A Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Happy Scribbler) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 20:57:00 +0000

23rd June, 2011.

I am not sure what happened when I uploaded my last Blog, but the first sentence got garbled…something like my brain feels at the moment, totally scrambled, because I am feeling like the walking dead today.
I went back to edit it and it was fine; perhaps I am at my wits end.
At two am I bolted out of my bed as I thought I heard Molly shrieking and visualised her tumbled out of her bed, bare butt in the air lying prone in her blue nightie on the plush Persian bedside rug that languishes lavishly in her large boudoir.
No, there she was snuggled under the duvet where I had kindly tucked her in at midnight.
Mystery, had she been sleep talking and yelling “Susan come here right now!”
I stumbled back to my room and was just dozing off.
The shriek sounded again right outside my bedroom window.
It was a pheasant…can you believe it?
I opened my window and hissed at him, “Go away you fool, I’ve just got Molly to sleep, - just bloody go away!”
The handsome fellow shook his tail feathers and strode off into the night, leaving me to toss and turn until I finally got back to sleep.
It’s soon to be shooting-season in the countryside and the gamekeepers are fattening the pheasant up in cages.
Before the shoot, they shall be released. As tame as tame could be.
Then a group of men called beaters round them up and steer them into the field where all the gentry are sitting on numbered seats with their rifles, - waiting.
The beaters flap their arms and brandish sticks frightening the pheasant up into the air. Then the gents shoot the birds as they take off.
Wow, that’s brave hunting…
The beaters rush around and bag the creatures, but only a few are turned into a meal for the table.
Most of them are buried in a large hole that is previously dug by the gamekeepers and gardeners.
In the fabulous Estate homes the cooks have sumptuous meals prepared for the brave shottits.
After the “Shoot” they grandly gather over their good sherry, eating whatever the hosts have provided, they discuss and boast of their exploits of the day.
Hanging on the surrounding walls the forbears in ancestral portraits look benignly down upon the gathering in silence, reflecting on their long ago days of yore.
Jolly-ho!
(You can tell I’m from Africa, there you generally eat what you have shot for the pot. Unless it’s a snake…I don’t eat snake.)
If anyone ever says in my presence that Care Givers earn too much and hardly have any work one more time I’ll pop.
Molly told me yet again today I was lucky to have such an easy job where I have so much time off.
I thought, “Yeah Moll, I wish!”
My sister-in-law Elsie has been Caring for a year and is a wise woman.
She advised me before I left South Africa for England that I should only accept 2 week Assignments with a Client, or face total burn-out.
I thought one extra week won’t hurt, surely?
Now I understand and humbly bow to her experienced knowledge as I shall have been here two weeks tomorrow and it’s time to leave.
Actually, it was time to leave the day after I arrived!
I believe there have been six Carer’s here before me and not one of them have lasted ten days, I still have a week to go and I’ll boast a survival rate of three weeks, so watch this space…

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