Barefoot White African

The Long and Winding Road from Quelimane to Morrumbala

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — 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 (Susan Cook-Jahme) — 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 (Susan Cook-Jahme) — 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 (Susan Cook-Jahme) — 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 (Susan Cook-Jahme) — 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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Dear Diary - A Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 17:58:00 +0000

22nd June, 2011.

For two days last week Molly was in extremely good humor.

At first I had to tip-toe around her, just in case I caught the sharp edge of her tongue.

Then I realised that she was not going to be waspish because her daughter who lives in the main house on the farm was back home for the weekend from business in London.
Conclusion made…Molly did not like to be apart from her lovely daughter.
So, when feeling lonesome, Molly makes game of the latest Carer!
In fact she reminds me of a wiry Siamese cat, highly pedigreed and spoilt, but happy to purr if everything is comfortable and running her way.
For someone who is about to turn 90 years old, Molly is as bright as a button, sharp as a blade, and has a tongue that is razor sharp when she feels the “help” must be brought down a peg or two!
I have resorted to visualising myself walking along a long stretch of beach with the waves crashing down on it when I am getting a tongue-lashing.
It’s calming…
Thank goodness Wimbledon tennis is on telly this week.
I have a slight respite from her badgering. She loves tennis and understands the game well.
There is a fantastic all weather tennis court in the gardens here and it is often used by the family and their friends.
By yesterday evening Molly was becoming a shrew, - her daughter is away again, but thankfully her son is coming to visit her for tea this afternoon, so all is not lost and I am able to skulk in the background getting on with my various chores.
Believe me, Caring is not a breeze, I am up and dressed every day by 7am and if I am fortunate, get to bed at midnight.
Apparently I am meant to have a breather from 2 to 4 pm, but it hardly pans out that way and I find an hour, stretched out on my back and looking at the back of my eyelids is as lucky as I’ll get in an afternoon.
(And I thought being an Associate Auctioneer working on Cruise Liners was relentless work, at least it was more glamorous and I got to sail the high seas seeing exotic places around the world!)
No use reflecting, I am presently in the here and now and certainly not sipping good Dutch East Indian coffee at a side-walk bistro in Amsterdam, or some such location.
In retrospect, I guess a Care Giver must consider that they are coming into a person’s home and usually that person is close to a century old.
They have been around a while and seen a thing or two along the way.
I maintain the most important thing is to treat a Client with as much dignity as possible, understand the environment and surrounds in which you find them is their domain, and that often, (that’s if they are lucid, of course) they somehow resent having some stranger doing things for them that they can no longer do for themselves.
However, I draw the line when I have just scrubbed someone’s old bottom, cleaned poop up off the floor or fixed a blocked toilet and am later spoken to like a peasant over something absolutely absurd.
It simply does not work for me.
So I have learned very quickly to hold my council for a few days, and once I have understood just where the person I am looking after is coming from shall firmly draw the line.
This I did with Molly yesterday.
I was in the middle of ironing a pile of sheets and she and her walker trundled into the kitchen.
Head moving from side to side, eyes darting around like ferrets, Molly was looking for trouble.
“Oh-oh,” I thought to myself, “something’s about to go down and it’s now,”
Grandly she addressed me in her beautifully modulated English:
“Well you don’t look as if you are busy, go and dead head the roses,” with a belated afterthought, she added, “Please.”
I was tired. I had had enough of being the unpaid gardener for the past eleven days and besides, I was ironing and I intensely dislike ironing.
“No” was my monocyclic retort.
The Gates of Wrath opened before me.
Molly was not being obeyed…
Switching the iron off at the wall, I took a deep breath and turned around to face Molly.
Very calmly in a low voice I said, “Molly, I have had enough of your bullying.
From now on, every time you are unreasonable, I am going to go for a walk so you can reflect on how nasty and unkind you are.”
With that said, I left the room and the house at a fast pace, partly out of relief that I had finally said what was on my mind, - but also thinking,
“I’d better get out of here before she tries to have the last word whilst scuttling after me like a water-beetle on her walker!”
When I got back she had decided to change tact and went for me about the iron,
“Iron’s should always be flat when you are ironing, not made to stand on their end!”
Looking at the iron I queried, “How so Molly?”
“It’s bad to leave them like that and also I watched you, you put too much water in it. This should only be done about once a month!”
Clearly dear Molly hasn’t a clue about steam irons.
In fact I should think has not done much ironing in her privileged life.
I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing and I just could not stop.
“Enough Susan, this is serious!”
I laughed even more and I simply could not stop.
The more she bellowed about the iron the more I giggled until the tears were streaming down my face…
I couldn’t look at the iron any longer and put it away.
By then Molly had high tailed it out of the kitchen and back into her favourite sitting-room chair.
I heard the telly being switched on and Nadal grunting on Wimbledon centre court.
Peace, well for a short while anyway…

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Dear Diary - A Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 21:19:00 +0000

18th June, 2011
One thing that has been a God-send to me is modern day communication.
What with mobile/cell phones, iPhones, the Blackberry, PC’s and so on, there is such a choice of ways to communicate with loved ones back home.
Without this life-line, I do not think I would be able to get though a three week Care Giving assignment with a designated Client, (even if the Client was the sweetest and easiest going little Golden-Oldie on the planet) one needs to touch base and sometimes have reassurance from afar.
Last night I was feeling terribly low and thought I may end up high tailing it down the lengthy drive away from this large, rambling home and Molly, but I was able to chat to Graham half a world away in Mozambique where he has just started his farming stint for a large International Agricultural company.
Life there is infested with malaria mosquitoes, basic living quarters and a daily 200 kilometre drive on a road that has deteriorated into a pot-holed bush-track to and from the derelict rice plantation he has been employed to resuscitate.
To top it all, the locals all speak Portuguese and he does not, which is a challenge in itself.
By the time we had both offloaded our woes on each others shoulders, we both saw the amusing side of our present situations and ended up inventing unspeakable scenarios to keep Molly quiet and out of my hair.
Also how he could tell the cook where he is staying that he required him to cook a meal without thinking the food he had given to the cook was for him to take home to his family to eat, leaving my poor husband starving after a day out in the field.
As so many people I know are travelling and working abroad, I’d like to share a tip on a very good company I found on the Internet when calling Africa and other places that you may use called Rebtel , which is a VOIP company, providing cheap international calling from mobile and landline phones. Rebtel's customers can use any phone in more than 50 countries to call anywhere in the world for just pennies per minute.
You can make direct phone calls; collect calls, PC to Phone calls, international SMS.
There are no monthly fees, or hidden costs to use Rebel, which is great as I have been caught out by some services and found myself paying hidden costs.
Here is the link to their website http://www.rebtel.com/ where you can learn how to dial Africa internationally and how easy and cheap it is to call to Africa from the US or UK.
Talking about communications, I forgot to write about how terribly lost I got the day I arrived here.
Brenda, (the Carer before me) met me at Basingstoke railway station and drove me back to the farm, where I was duly introduced to Molly and shown to the room where I’d be spending the next 21 days. We then had lunch and I drove Brenda back to catch her train.
She was full of the joys of spring and I was feeling somewhat envious knowing she was about to have a break and I was just starting out on my shift with Molly.
I was also slightly suspicious of Brenda’s extremely good mood and incessant chatting as I knew I was like that when I left my last post.
Although Brenda assured me Molly was OK, she sure was in a hurry to escape.
In fact, whilst I drove back on the highway and through a string of round-a-bouts I found myself wishing she’d stop waffling for a while so that I could concentrate on where I was going.
Getting to the station, Brenda already had her luggage ready and fast footed it out of the car, leaving me to find my way home.
Wishing I had remembered to bring the Sat-Nav that I had borrowed from my daughter, I drove out of the station and pointed myself in the vague direction of the route I had gone along before.
Heck, I found myself driving around a round-a-bout four times before I thought to look at the sign post which clearly indicated the A339 to Newbury. I did very well for about 15 miles, and then took an off-ramp that looked familiar and ended up in a quaint little village with Tudor buildings and narrow roads.
I felt as if I was in a time warp or deja-vue until I realised I had been in this village six years ago when Graham and I lived in the same area on a lovely country Estate belonging to a delightful South African family where Graham was employed as a manager.
Absolutely relieved, I headed home only to be reprimanded by Molly for being late for her tea and biscuit.
Now I understood why Brenda was in such a happy mood when I dropped her off!

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Dear Diary - A Care Giver in England.

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 21:35:00 +0000

17th June, 2011.
Every morning at 6.40am my alarm goes off and I feel like a mole. I batter around blindly as I clamber out of bed, pulling on clothes willy-nilly then making my way to the kitchen to get Molly’s tray ready for her 8am tea in bed.
I’m tired, very tired. There is no sleep for the wicked in this house.
That done, there is a reprieve until the 10am tray with breakfast, the cutlery and starched napkin arranged “just so” is to be delivered with a sunny smile and the newspaper.
I go and scratch a comb through my hair, wash my face with cold water to wake up and avoid looking at myself in the mirror for fear the image looking back at me is the fiend I was branded yesterday when Molly accused me of re-arranging her crystal and cut glass collection on the kitchen dresser.
I assured her that I hadn’t touched it, (I knew not to touch or move anything in the house from reading previous Carer’s notes, or risk facing the dark side of Molly’s wrath!)
“The cleaner was here yesterday Molly, maybe she moved things when dusting?”
“Don’t be stupid, I’ve known her for years, she is a good Christian woman and she would not move anything,” Barked Molly irritably.
I said nothing, but thought to myself, “She may be a good Christian, but even bloody Christian’s have to move stuff to dust, - unless they were fortunate enough to be Jesus and could perform a miracle!”
Molly continued; “Now how am I to believe anything you say from now on? When I know it was you. Put everything back where you found it!”
Confused, I ask her to tell me where she would like each piece of glass placed.
She tells me and I do as I’m bid, all the time bristling and visualising the glass in shards, (it made me feel better.)
She had it in for me, for the rest of the day, she found fault with what ever I did or said, making insinuating caustic remarks at my expense continuously.
I eventually did a “Carer’s disappearing act” and fled to my bolt-hole, the designated Carer’s car that I had been entrusted to drive Molly to and from her various appointments.
This is one place she cannot get to easily as it’s parked outside and she has to be assisted to her walker to get to it.
Without me there to do that, she is obliged to stay indoors with her inside Zimmer-frame.
Ah, 10 minutes, that’s all I need, 10 minutes to “gird my loins” and return to the fracas!
I’ll have been here a week tomorrow and I have to say that Molly is generally in good spirits and really quite a nice Golden-Oldie, but every now and again her doppelganger takes over and she becomes and entirely different person, someone you do not want to meet when walking out on the dark side of the street.
That night as I helped Molly get ready for bed, her head popped out of her night-dress and she said,
“Susan, before I forget, you are not to move anything on my table”
“Which table?” I ask, mystified
“You jolly well know the one you took my plasters from. The plasters you threw away!”
“Pardon? Why would I do that?”
“I have no idea, you tell me,” growled Molly now sweetly tucked up in bed by me.
“OK Molly, I guess I will,” I said calmly as I strode from the bed to her dressing table where she had placed the plasters the day before, picked them up and brandished them in the air triumphantly,
“I presume I am a crack hoop-thrower and I must have thrown them right here”
No answer…
Good!
Turning on her night-light, I bade her good-night; it was 1am and time for me to fall into bed.

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Dear Diary - A Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 23:14:00 +0000

June 16th, 2011.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, the last time I had time to write I was looking after Joan in a place called Mole Hill.
That post ended on the 7th June at 1pm when Angie took over from me and I high tailed it out of the front door and was whisked by taxi to the closest railway station, bought a ticket and soon was on my way back to London, my daughter’s, my grandson and son-in-law, - and sanity.
I felt like I had just left boarding school for a half term break and was almost wriggling in my seat with excitement!
The first thing I did when I got to Gipsy Hill station was go into the nearest corner shop and buy ingredients to make a large chicken curry and a bottle of white wine to celebrate my liberation.
By the time Kerry, Johnno and my grandson got home, the curry was bubbling on the stove top, and the wine was well chilled and ready to quaff. Absolute bliss.
But euphoria was only to last three days and then I found myself standing at Waterloo station waiting for the next train to Basingstoke and the murky unknown of who I was to Care for next.
Would she be docile, would she be nice, would she nasty and break out in hives?
No one understands the trepidation a Carer has before a new assignment; it’s like jumping into Dante’s Abyss. You never know what challenges lurk ahead.

Oh heck, more tomorrow, Molly’s calling and it’s 11.45 pm….
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Dear Diary - Week Two as a Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Tue, 31 May 2011 20:44:00 +0000

May 31st, 2011.

Ok, so I’m singing for Joan at the top of my voice and dancing around the lounge like a swirling Dervish.
Joan is entertained and there is nobody else in the room to insist on shooting me:
“You’re my lady; you’re my lady whooo,”
“I’m your lady, the lady who-oo, -
I’m your Cinderella,”
“I’m your Rockefeller,”
Woohoohoo…
And the doctor arrives at the door.
She’s large and looks like she may have been bred along with the cows on Jersey, but she does not have gentle soulful eyes like a cow’s, rather a pit-bull appearance about her.
I immediately notice the size of her hands and that she has no wedding ring on.
Gathering my composure from a somewhat undignified frozen statue stance I greet her and show her into the room.
Joan has been apathetic and not herself for a few days.
A barking cough has plagued her to the extent that her bowels cannot cope and the downstairs loo carpet is looking like a wet dog after all the extra hours of scrubbing I have been giving it.
To put it mildly it is less crappy than it was, has been and I pray on bended knee shall be for the rest of my stay!
The doctor challenges Joan, “Give me a urine sample…”
“Now? In what?” Asks Joan
The doctor looks askance at me, and I have the audacity to suggest she may have a sterile container,
She glowers and I scuttle off to the kitchen to find something for Joan to pee into.
Aha! A cheap pink plastic bowl, - I can toss that in the bin afterwards, I think to myself.
I produce the bowl and Joan starts to howl, then cough and just about wet herself…the doc backs down and tells Joan it’s OK, she can hear from her cough what is needed and rapidly writes out a prescription.
“Get off to Boots Pharmacy now before it closes”, she commands,
I grab the slip of paper and as I make a hasty retreat I hear Joan telling the doctor that I am one of the most helpful “slaves” she’s employed so far.
NICE…
Then I hear the doctor giving her a lecture about not saying such diabolical things about Care-givers.
Bloody Hell with brass bells on, now I’m a slave.
“Sorry about that,” the doctor says as she follows me out of the house.
I turn around and look at her,” For what?”
“Oh, you know, the slave thing,”
“No problem,” I reply, “I feel like one!”
Dammit, I have been shit-shovelling for four days, what does it matter that I’m referred to as a helpful slave?
So now, baptized by fire on my first assignment, my office has happily told me after a distressed phone call I made to their “Help Line” I can go into any job and face just about anything.
I am absolutely consoled and feel stronger for the imparted words of wisdom.
(Oh boy, watch this space!)
Yesterday I was rolling pastry for a steak and kidney pie and in walked Joan with the shoes she had been wearing.
They smelt a little horrid due to being the main receptacles of gravity fall-out when she was having her little “oopsie-daisies”.
She placed them on the counter right next to where I was working and demanded I clean them up as they where nasty and odorous.
Needless to say I was horrified, my beautiful, light, fluffy pastry was never to be baked, let alone eaten and I had to clean poop off Joan’s shoes.
Oh dear, what did I do in my past life to deserve this? I wondered to myself.
Then to top everything, I had done a pile of ironing for Joan and myself and left my favourite bra on top of the pile.
When I went back to put everything away, the bra had disappeared.
Joan had procured it and is now wearing it.
Most distressing as I really liked that bra, it was new and terribly comfy, - felt like I wasn’t wearing one at all.
Guess Joan is thinking the same thing at the moment!
On Sunday I opened the kitchen window and left a coffee cake to cool off on the counter before icing it for Joan’s afternoon tea.
I then went upstairs to make beds and vacuum the carpets.
When I came back I saw the fluffy tail belonging to a squirrel bobbing off out the window along with half the cake. It appears I am doomed to not be a creative cook in Joan’s home.
This morning I looked out the kitchen window and sitting on the lawn was a large marmalade cat, a black and white cat and a white and black cat, (he was more white than black) all staring up at me.
I have a sneaky suspicion the trio of felines were told by the squirrel where to get a free meal.

Dear Dairy - Day Eight as a Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Wed, 25 May 2011 20:24:00 +0000

May 25th, 2011.

3002…I ask you? Numeral dyslexia, I admit to being afflicted by it!
The date on the tin of anchovies was 31st May, 2003…
Just shows that when I edit what I have written at 11pm, it is not a good idea.
But to those of you who are reading my updates on a regular basis, apologies for throwing you into the future in yesterday’s diary entry.
I felt like a Time Traveller today during my lunch break when I was walking over a zebra-crossing on a busy road.
All of a sudden I had a cold shiver of déjà vu and heard the screaming of car breaks.
It was weird, as looking around me there was not a car to be seen, only a woman pushing her baby in his buggy.
About an hour later I was in the local bakery and I heard two ladies chatting about an accident that had just happened exactly where I’d heard the howl of breaks.
Apparently it was a terrible accident in which four people had died.
Brrr…I went absolutely cold!
I hardly slept at all last night because of the Grandfather clock’s intrusive hourly chiming outside my bedroom door.
I ask you, why put a clock that must be the baby brother of Big Ben in such a place?
Even ear-plugs are no help at all…
Then just when I thought I’d get off relatively early this evening Joan went to sleep in her chair holding a glass of red wine and dropped it all over her cream carpet, so there was I on bended knee, not saying my evening prayers, but scrubbing the carpet around Joan’s feet.
Every now and again she would raise a leather clad foot and grandly tell me to wash her shoes.
Each time she lifted her leg, she would gracefully let of wind….
Charming!

Dear Diary - Day Five, Six & Seven as a Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Wed, 25 May 2011 20:22:00 +0000

22nd, 23rd and 24th May 2011

Like all good intentions, I have come to the conclusion that updating this diary on a daily basis shall be impossible as I find myself collapsing into bed between 10 and 11pm after updating my daily Carer report, (this is all written in a book that is handed over to the next person coming in to care for Joan.)
So, I shall write when I can in an erratic flurry when I find the time…
Carers are given “pin money” for groceries.
It sometimes is supplied by the person you are caring for, but more often than not by a family member.
Joan’s sister gave me £100 last week and I thought that would be more than enough for the three weeks that I am here.
But with Joan’s expensive taste in gourmet coffee, exotic cheeses, chocolates, and wine, I am trying to figure out how to approach her sister when she comes for her weekly visit on Friday, -
I feel like Oliver, “Please Sir, may I have some more”, whilst I lick the last smidgen of gruel from the bottom of my soup bowl…
Oh, and since she went next door on Saturday, I also had to buy a bottle of Pimms and have become a dab hand at rustling up the preferred evening refreshment for Joan.
Gosh, I nearly fell on my back when I had to fork out £15.65 for a bottle, - booze is expensive in England, so how come this is a nation of binge-drinkers? –
I’m getting into the swing of things here and have a routine going now that a week has passed.
At 6.30am I start the day with a strong cup of black coffee and fire up my little note-book.
The Vodaphone dongle works well in the kitchen, so I am able to have a brief chat with Graham on Skype.
What did we do without this form of communication in the past?
When I was a little girl there was a cartoon program on T.V. called “The Jestsons” who were a space age family.
They zoomed around in little flying saucers and could communicate with each other at a distance and chat whilst looking at each other on a monitor that looked something like a flat screen T.V…now here we are, able to do exactly that.
If you can imagine something, it is possible to create it!
Yesterday I got to chat to my 80 year old mother over Skype.
Loudly she asked, “So, has the old Girl you are looking after done any poo’s in her pants?”
“Shhh Mom, you must whisper, this is not a thing to talk about!”
“Well…I just wanted to know,” said my mother…
Needless to say I now use the ear-phone and microphone attachment when making my early morning chats!
A couple of days ago I found a tin of anchovies in the pantry, the expiry date on the tin was 31st March, 2003.
I took it to show Joan and she insisted she wanted to eat them on toast for lunch. Horrified I told her that I did not think it was a good idea as the tin had an ominous bloated look about it.
“No, you must do it now” Joan persisted stubbornly.
So I did as I was told…I pulled the tab and the tin exploded!
There was anchovy oil on the ceiling, on the floor and worst of all dripping off my chin and the end of my nose.
Joan was amused, and I was not as I stank like a pole-cat, I still had to get her lunch ready and I had made the vital mistake of humouring her, even although I had no intention of her eating mummified fish from eight years ago.
Who keeps a tin anchovies for that length of time anyway?
Talking about meals, Joan likes to eat her meals off a tray on her lap.
I sit in the kitchen on a chair and eat there…she is totally anti-social and does not like it if
I stop and look at the T.V. if it is switched on.
As I like to keep up with the news, I read her day old newspapers, this I have discovered is taboo!
On two occasions she has shuffled into the kitchen and removed the papers and placed them in the recycle bin while I am upstairs making her bed. Perhaps she figures I did not pay for them, so I should not read them, whatever the reason, I can still read the news on the internet…
Late evening I draw her curtains and turn down her bed. For a joke I placed her teddy, (well actually, it’s not a teddy, it’s a friendly looking mouse) on her pillow last night.
When she came down for breakfast this morning I asked her how she slept and she looked at me seriously,
“Not well at all because I got such a fright,”
“I’m sorry to hear that Joan, why?”
With a straight face she replied, “There was a man in my bed and he made a lump in my back all night!”
Amused, I advised her that she was lucky he was mute as he may have asked her to move over…
I have to say Joan has a very dry sense of humour which emerges every now an then.
I like her.

Dear Diary - Day Four as a Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Sun, 22 May 2011 20:10:00 +0000

21st May, 2011

It’s Saturday and some people think the world may end today. Volcanic activity in Norway…everyone hit the deck!
And what am I doing so far away from my husband at the Southern most tip of Africa and my daughters who are only down the drag from me in London if the world ends?
Stripping Joan’s bed, putting fresh sheets, duvet and pillow cases on it, - heck, I may as well be doing the same thing back home at my Bed and Breakfast!
Mind you, if I was there, I would not be writing this Diary and I also would not have discovered where Joan secrets some of her dirty knickers…you guessed it, in the bottom her of her duvet cover, (you know, the opening side with the buttons.)
I knew there was another place other than the airing cupboard, but for the past few days could not figure out where…now I have found #2 hidey-hole!)
The washing machine has been working hard today, I can tell you…
I managed to get out and do a bit of shopping for Joan’s pantry, and rummage through the charity shops on Bookham’s High Street.
Imagine my delight when I copped a bargain in the charity shop, - little 1940’s silver Liberty Style silver necklace with a tear-drop Burmese aquamarine daintily dangling off it for 50 pence.
It was all black, but once I brought my treasure back to Joan’s and cleaned it up with a good scrub of toothpaste, the silver shone and the gemstone sparked.
I feel like Gollum from the Lord of the Rings, as I keep on looking at my pretty little find…next thing you will see me stroking it and calling it “my Precious.”
Something I have noticed in many of the charity shops I have browsed through since arriving in England is all the beautiful cut glass and crystal that is on the shelves.
There are decanters, fruit bowls, sherry glasses, you name it, and it’s all discarded and looking for a home.
Do younger people have no need for beautiful glassware?
Gosh past generations were left this sort of stuff by our ancestors in their wills to be cherished and passed down…
If I had a home here, I’d buy the lot and have my friends and family grandly sipping or eating from the lovely sparkly receptacles.
Well, enough shop talk!
I then went back to the local church and spent time taking photo’s in the grave yard.
There was a wedding taking place and I leant up against an ancient grave stone, (no, I do not think the fellow it belonged to minded me sharing his headrest at all.
In fact, I had the feeling he enjoyed the brief encounter of my company.
He was the silent type and did not like talking.)
The bride was dressed in a very similar gown to the one that Princess Kate wore and her little flower girls looked like two little dolls in candy floss organza the same champagne colour as her gown.
Her bridesmaids were in elegant sheaths. There were three of them, one in maroon, the other in purple and the third in emerald green.
However, the mother of the bride’s hat gave me the giggles…it had a plume of feathers sprouting out the top of it and I was sure the milliner must have killed a cockerel, cut off his tail and attached the entire thing, without any artistic though to the crown of the hat…
Every time there was a breeze, the feathers floated around and tickled her and who ever happened to be standing behind her on their noses!
I soon got tired of watching the endless posing for photo-shoots by the wedding party for the photographer who was wearing odd trousers with loud stripes and red suspenders.
So I thanked Albert for sharing his resting place and got up to mosey around the grave yard and read the dedications on the tomb stones.
I spied a red poppy that was growing next to a WW2 grave and thought it would make an appropriate photo composition.
I lay down on my tummy to take the shot…the grave keeper was walking by and stopped to watch me.
“Sorry”, I said, jumping up as agilely as my wonky knee would allow me to,
“Just taking a photo, that’s all!”
He smiled, “It’s OK Luv, can see you know a little bit about the Great War…nice poppy, makes a good one for ‘Poppy day’, - hey?”
Good, he did not think I was a grave robber…talk about day light robbery – LOL!
Well, my off-break was over and I rushed back to Joan’s place only to find her loudly snoring in her chair with the TV blaring…some cookery program waffling on.
Coffee time for Joan comprised coffee and coffee cake that I had baked that morning.
Then the cheeky little woman from next door arrived at the front door to grandly invite Joan for a “tipple of Pimms” in the garden at 5.30 pm.
Goody, I thought, a little extra time to myself…
Joan arrived back in time for dinner and finally it was time for me to get to bed…
“Good night Joan, see you tomorrow”,
Joan’s retort, “Maybe, but then maybe not”
The thought hit me that at her age it could be a maybe not!

Dear Diary - Day Three as a Care Giver in England

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Sat, 21 May 2011 20:30:00 +0000

May 19th, 2011
This time round I approached the stair lift chair with a mission early this morning. Operation how to take the break off”…Aha! I found it and now I can swivel the chair around with just enough room to squeeze by and ascend the stairs. Phew, what a relief as I did not want to face that form of early morning stretching at the beginning of my day for three weeks.
But I have to admit I was somewhat perturbed that I could not figure how to put the break back on once I’d returned the chair back to its original position.
I had visions of Joan spinning around and howling like the girl in scenes from “The Exorcist” and then falling head first down the stairs.
Fortunately that did not happen and she presented herself promptly at 8 am, looked to see that her newspaper was where it should be, (neatly folded without any creases of course) and waited for me to appear with her breakfast tray, which I duly did with military precision.
“Morning Joan, beautiful day today”
“If you say so”, responded my Lady and with a professional flick of her wrist, she flicked her serviette out onto her lap and tucked into her brekkie…
I guess I had been duly dismissed to go upstairs and make her bed military style, - proper hospital corners and everything at right angles. Window open to get rid of the night must.
Tickety-boo, wot?
Gosh, I hadn’t realised that I’d make such a great Batman!
Then I encountered a smell, a dreadful smell…
Like a bloodhound, I followed my nose and I found the culprit in the airing cupboard. Surgical gloves out, I nabbed and bagged the stinky offender and removed it, and dealt with it professionally.
Human waste removed from knickers, popped 90º full wash on full auto on the washing machine and the offending ponk had all but gone.
Care Givers of the world, Nurses, Companions…I bow to you and offer humble salaams…WE are the champions of the World!
The shower was not working and it appears that it has not for a long time.
So the local plumber was called in and cleaned so much lime scale build up that the shower head had more than a cup full removed from it.
Perhaps this will encourage my employer to give herself a bit of a daily scrub!
Mind you, if I had to slide myself onto the chair contraption that is perched over the bath, I may be reluctant to bath…it has a plastic chair that can be levered up and down and swung side to side.
In fact I think it would do pretty well in an amusement park.
Isn’t it ironic, we are born into the world and have to be pushed around in things with wheels, shoved into bouncy chairs that swing around and immersed into special baths.
Then when we are in the golden years of our lives, we go out of this world doing the same thing.
I think the “Big Dude” has a strange sense of humour…

Dear Diary - Day Two as a Care Giver in England...

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Thu, 19 May 2011 22:14:00 +0000

Dear Diary - 18th May, 2011

Duck down duvet, soft pillows…what was I thinking? I nearly overslept, and for a self confessed insomniac, the sleep last night was bliss. (Well almost, apart from the very grand, Grandfather clock that chimes every hour, on the hour and rattles the rafters! In retrospect, perhaps that’s why I did not wake before the alarm on my mobile this morning…the darn thing kept on waking me up!)
Joan has one of those stair-lift chairs that zooms her upstairs and downstairs…unfortunately the stairs are very narrow, so when the chair is up at the top of the stairs there is a really narrow gap between the banisters. I had to squeeze one buttock and then the second buttock cheek between it, her walking stick which is carefully hung in a certain position for her convenience and the banister without falling down the stairs like Humpty Dumpty.
How the last Carer managed this feat I have no idea as she is somewhat “well cushioned” but then she did tell me she was not an early riser. Mind you, she had much longer legs than me, so perhaps on the odd occasion she had to get down stairs in a hurry; she did not have the same problem.
Anyway, I chuckled when I had to do this, as in my mind I visualised myself as a cartoon character and added a popping sound effect to the squeezing of my butt!
A great bonus caring for Joan is that she loves well percolated coffee and so do I.
This meant that after the trauma of my having to get downstairs the effort was well worth it, just for my first coffee fix of the day…
As Joan has had a life time serving in the military, I discovered she was very prompt, - when the noisy Grandfather clock banged out eight rowdy chimes she boarded her stair lift and appeared in the lounge.
The newspaper is delivered at 7.30 in the mornings, and I was instructed to fold it in a certain way, (absolutely NO creases) and place it at a certain angle on the table beside her chair in the lounge.
At exactly fifteen minutes past eight her breakfast tray was placed on her lap and I waited half an hour whilst she swallowed, coughed and sometimes let’s off wind…
Then I took in her tablets and a glass of water.
I was warned by the last Carer that this is when she makes a fuss, and she did, - until I hit on the idea of rewarding her with chocolates, which she has a weakness for.
She was as good as gold and happily downed the lot, then gobbled the chocolates happily!
Gold star to me for my inventiveness…
After a refreshing snooze in her chair, Joan retired upstairs and I got stuck into the task of cleaning the downstairs loo.
I have to admit to never having to clean the odd contraption that has been invented to help disabled people get on and off a toilet.
It’s like a large white plastic potty perched upon raised legs with handles fixed to it.
In fact it looks like an insect waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting person and devour the victim through the hole in its centre. Most unattractive, but it serves it purpose very satisfactorily…
Joan came downstairs on her faithful chair lift, - “hi-ho Silver!”
She had her lunch and promptly popped off to la-la land once again, so I let myself out of the house and took the ten minute walk to the village to buy some strawberries, (as that is what Joan wanted to eat for dinner) and browse in the shops.
Bookham village is delightfully quaint…like so many English villages. The buildings are all old and crooked and the shop keepers all jolly and friendly.
There is a very old church with a fascinating graveyard that I plan to go and look around the next time I have time off.
The tomb stones look very old and many are covered in moss and lichen…each one of them tell of some person, which I always like to muse over.
I also noticed that there is a local library which may reveal more of the history of Bookham…so watch this spot; you may even get a history lesson!

Dear Diary - Day One as a Care Giver in England...

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Tue, 17 May 2011 21:54:00 +0000

Dear Diary - 17th May, 2011

Today started off at 5.30 am at Kerry and her husband Johnno’s Crystal Palace apartment. I was up before my little grandson made his hello call to be taken out of his cot and given his morning bottle. I opened the curtains and looked down upon the leafy green canopy of trees outside my bedroom window…at last the time had come to get moving and finally start my new job as a care giver to the elderly.
Once everyone in the household were ready to leave for work, (including little Lochlan who is dropped off at nursery school by Kerry on her way to her office in London) we set off to the nearest bus stop to catch the bus.
When Lochlan was safely deposited in the care of the jolly nursery assistants, Kerry guided me to Waterloo Station where I boarded the train at 9.45 for Leatherhead. Clambering on the train with my little suitcase in tow following me like a faithful puppy on wheels, I mused at how funny it is when the role of parent and child is reversed and suddenly you find your children guiding and looking after you, as they think you are unable to do things on your own…not that I am complaining, coming from a little backwater in the South African Cape, - London and it’s transport system are still totally daunting as far as I am concerned!
After and hour of travel through the countryside into Surrey, I arrived in Leatherhead and caught a taxi to Great Bookham where my 90 year old client lives.
Pleased that I got to the place before the stipulated 12 noon to meet Veronica, (the Carer in place) for the handover, I duly introduced myself to both her and the Lady I shall be working for the next three weeks.
Veronica was good enough to take me into the little village and show me the various shops, and then it was time for her to leave and for me to take hold of the reigns.
As it was lunch time, I rustled up a meal for Joan and the she promptly nodded off for a snooze in her chair, so I had time to get acquainted with my surrounds and read up on the pages of notes about her that have been recorded by numerous previous Care Givers.
5.30 arrived and it was time for Joan’s glass of wine which she likes decanted into a crystal glass along with a savoury snack. I was offered a glass as well, but had the impression I should drink it in the kitchen whilst preparing her evening meal.
She has a grandfather clock that chimes every hour, on the hour, so when the doorbell rang soon after I had poured her wine, I thought it was the clock…eventually I realised it was someone wanting to visit Joan and I went to answer it.
Gosh, when I opened the door I was given a real tongue lashing by this little woman with a French accent! Taken aback, I saw her into the lounge and was amused to see that Joan was put out at being interrupted by her neighbour.
The little woman waffled on at Joan about her gutters and some faulty plumbing for half an hour, then made her farewells and I saw her to the door. As she walked out, she turned around and spoke to me like a servant, telling me to see to it that next time she visited I was to be at the door immediately.
I could not help responding in fluent French that I would happily let her in if Joan wanted to see her and as a parting shot mentioned that it was so wonderful to be working for Joan and not her.
The little woman was rather taken aback at the fact that I was speaking to her in French and not allowing her the liberty of speaking to me in such a manner.
When I returned to the lounge, Joan looked at me with a twinkle in her eye, I had amused her! (Unbeknown to her, many of the Carers had written warning notes about the little woman who lived next door, so I was well prepared.)
After cooking dinner, I saw that Joan took her evening medicine, and launched her on her stair lift upstairs to her bedroom, then happily closed myself away in the refuge of my bedroom to write about my day…
It’s 10.30 pm now, and I have an early 6.45 am start tomorrow, so I’ll end here and fill you in on tomorrow’s events at the end of the day…

Willie's Bush Pub

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 15:34:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago we went with English friends to see what “Willie’s Bush Pub” was like.
It is situated about half an hour’s drive from where we live and is on a farm. Arriving there we looked around and then thought it looked pretty derelict, but what the Hell, in for a penny in for a pound.
Entering the converted old homestead, (which I think must have first been erected in early 1800’s), we walked through a darkened hallway, out into a courtyard with plastic chairs and tables that appeared to be the roosting place for bantam chickens with outrageously ruffled feathers and baggy pantaloons.
Opening onto the courtyard was the entrance to an old barn that had been turned into Willie’s pub.
Good old Afrikaans “sakkie-draai” music came filtering out into the crisp evening air. We all looked forward to our first drink of the day as we entered the darkened pub with anticipation.
A raven waddled in to the pub with us and hopped up onto the pub counter, then promptly regaled us with abusive squawks. He certainly did not like men and pecked at Graham who happened to be sitting with his elbow propped on the bar-counter. Next thing the raven was trying to walk off with an ashtray which was too heavy for his beak. In frustration he flew at our friend Billy who had put money down on the counter, wishing to pay for a round of drinks. Billy stepped back in shock and the raven took the money and gave it to the barmaid, (clever bird.)
Then Willie arrived with his battle scarred old dog that looked something like Jock of the Bushveld. Our host was larger than life and a real character. His dog was prone to flatulence and tainted the air green.
We politely overcame the smell of second hand offal and listened avidly to stories he told us. Apparently Willie had been a rugby coach for the Northern Province.
I got the impression he was a rogue and this led to him paying out a huge divorce settlement that left him so broke, that he went over to England to work for a couple of years.
There, in London, he made enough money as a rickshaw driver to come back to South Africa and open his pub. During this period of story telling we all ordered from a well appointed menu and were led into the dining room by his attractive girlfriend when our starters were ready.
Sitting down to starched white linen table cloths and napkins as large as headscarves, we looked about the ethnically decorated room. There were paintings of the Limpopo River, baobabs and elephant on the walls reminding Graham and I of the bush we love with a passion.
As we were being served our second course our friends noticed a large tabby cat clambering onto the chair next to our table. Next thing a Jack Russell terrier jumped up onto the chair with the cat and started humping it.
“Oi,” said Josie, our female companion, “Where I come from in U.K., dogs and cats don’t do that sort of thing!”
Our eyes were popping out of our heads, this was just too much to take in and much to our utter amazement, the cat was purring and enjoying its little romp with the nice doggy!
Billy quipped, his eyes riveted on the engaged cat and dog,
“Next thing a sheep will come in here and start nobbling one of us!”
I looked up and in walked a full grown sheep through the restaurant door. Shutting my eyes tight and then opening them, just to make sure I was not hallucinating, I saw the sheep still standing at Billy’s elbow.
“Bill, there’s a sheep at your elbow and it’s trying to eat off your plate.”
“Aw, get off it….waahhh!”
Was Billy’s response as he finally saw the sheep and realised that I was not teasing him. Edging over to the side of his chair farthest away from the sheep, (and closer to the still amorous canine and feline interracial counter play), Graham, Josie and I just collapsed in a helpless heap of suppressed hysteria,
“Get awaayyy!”
shouted Billy at the sheep.
“Can’t you see I’m eating?”
Of course the sheep could see he was eating, it wanted to share his meal! Now, English people are not used to the happenings and ways of the African bush, (certainly not the way of its animals, both wild and domestic.)
Anyway, his yelling at the sheep put a stop to the dog and cat’s antics and they jumped off their communal chair and ran out the door. The sheep stood its ground and started to urinate on the fitted carpet, splashing little droplets up onto Bill’s new sneakers.
“Waitressss!” yelled Billy,
“I can’t eat here, your sheep has just pee’d on the carpet and your dog is shagging your cat!”
By now I could not keep the food in my mouth and it burst out onto my plate. Laughter erupted from all four of us, and we all had tears running down our cheeks.
The waitress arrived and shooed the disgruntled sheep from the room, then returned to our table.
“Don’t you like your food Madam?”
she politely asked me,
“No, sorry, its great, but I spat in it,” I answered.
She removed it from my place, looking at me as if I had just grown a series of lumpy tufted warts on my forehead.
“What about your animals?” demanded Billy.
“Oh don’t mind them;” said the waitress,
“they are all individuals with character.”
We all looked at each other and started to laugh once again.
As we left the dining table we asked one another what more could happen. The night was still young and we were not yet ready to head home, so we returned to the pub.
Graham needed a fresh packet of cigarettes and went to the vending machine in the corner of the room where an angry cockerel started to crow and show him his spurs.
Unperturbed, Graham got his fix and muttered,
“Some way to try and stop people from smoking…”
The raven reappeared from behind a row of bottles, hopped onto the counter once again, turned tail towards Bill and let rip with a bright yellow shade of guano, narrowly missing him and landing in a pile on the cement floor.
Cawing at our men with a vengeance, he flew onto a stuffed buffalo head hanging on the wall, where he kept a baleful eye on the unwanted men in his life. At this stage I decided that it was time to take myself off to the bathroom. Innocently I perched on the loo, only to get a shock when an ostrich popped her head in through the small window above my head and made aggressive dives at the back of my head.
I was out of there in no time, only to nearly trip over the amorous cat and dog who had taken their love-making to the “Welcome” mat at the entrance of the pub.
Much to our amusement, the hungry sheep appeared once again and made a b-line for Billy.
That was enough.
We thanked Willie for a most entertaining evening in his Bush-pub, promised to visit again soon and beat a hasty retreat for our vehicle, where we were seen off by a miniature pony.
There are some really strange people and places around here, that’s for sure!

Susan Cook-Jahme© From my recently published book of short stories "African Patchwork"
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/african-patchwork/13219550

Have Fun Travelling the South African Cape in a Car!

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 16:14:00 +0000

Visitors travelling by air to

South Africa

often find that one of the best ways to travel around

South
Africa

is by cheap car hire.
You can pre-plan your trip from the luxury of your own home before you start your holiday; booking in advance for a hire car from the company of your choice to be waiting for you upon arrival. The friendly agent is there to meet you and hand over the keys, - making the start of your trip hassle-free and immediatelty establishing a reliable first contact at the beginning of your trip.
Cape Town is one of the leading travel destinations in the world . In order to sight-see, a vehicle is a must. Distances between venues are often surprisingly large, thus making the money spent on a rental car more cost effestive than using taxi, or a travel guide’s services.

Make sure to earmark visiting Cape Agulhas, the southern most tip of Africa in your travel itenarary. This can be done as a day trip from Cape Town, or if you have the time make it a more lesurely trip over three or four days along the Atlantic scenic costal route.
From Cape Town travel through Somerset West along route N2, turning off at R44 via Gordon’s Bay following the twisting and turning Clarence Drive overlooking False Bay.

Passing through the sea-side villages set in the rugged coves of Pringle Bay, Betty’s Bay and Kleinmond which were once hide outs for smugglers in the 1800’s, then later in the 1900’s Cook’s Whaling Company at Stony Point, where whaling ships coveted the oil of Southern Right whales and now all that’s left is a colony of African Jack-Ass Penguins, the large whaling factory and ships ghosts of the past.

Drive on to the popular holiday town Hermanus, world reknown for whale sighting and its annual September Whale Festival.

Make this an overnight stop off point, as the choice of accommodation covers budget to luxury and the places to eat range from side walk café’s to five star restaurants. For the golf enthusiast, Hermanus boasts a 27-hole golf course, so don’t forget your golf clubs!

From Hermanus, take the R43 to Stanford which is well worth a stop off, as it boasts art galleries, antique shops, coffe shops and restaurants. From Stanford take the R326 and travel inland along Akkedisberg Pass to Van Brakel Junction, turning right onto the R316 through vast farming fields of oats, canola and barley to Napier and then on to the agricultural town Bredasdorp, established in 1838 and named after a wealthy land-owner, Michael van Breda, who was the first Mayor of Cape Town and a member of the Cape Legislative Assembly.

Visit the Shipwreck Museum which features some of the numerous old ships wrecked along the Cape Agulhas coast.

Drive through Bredasdorp and turn right onto R319, which will take you to the villages of Struisbaai and L’Agulhas, the last village surrounded by beautiful Nature reserves, leading you to the Southern Most Tip of Africa, which was first called “Cabo das Agulhas”, – Cape of Needles - in 1502 by Portuguese sailors, previously named “Ponta de Sint Brandao” by the Portuguese Explorer Bartholomeu Dias, after the patron saint, when he first rounded the Tip of Africa in January 1488.

Cape Agulhas was also known by seafarers as the “Graveyard of Ships” due to the vicious winds and stormy seas that claimed many an ancient ship and drowned sailors, whose ghosts are said to still walk the rocky coastal shores.

Take time to visit the historic L’Agulhas lighthouse, (4500-candlepower light from a four-wick Argand burner), which is built in the fashion of the lighthouse that stood on the island of Pharos in Alexandria, Egypt for 1500 years until the 15^th Century was put into full operation in 1848.

Overnight at one of the well appointed bed and breakfast’s in L’Agulhas or Struisbaai, and make sure you photograph yourself standing at the cairn marking the Southern Most Tip of Africa, which is the official meeting point of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans.

No matter where you decide to travel to next, make sure you go by car, which can be collected and dropped off at CapeTown International Airport, making your holiday unique, as you can stop off where ever and when ever you
choose!

Things to do in Agulhas National Park:

· Visit the Lighthouse, with its unique lighthouse museum.

· Visit the Southern Most Tip of Africa, the official position being 34-49-58 south and 20-00-12 east, where the Indian and Atlantic Ocaeans oficially meet!

· View the Shipwereck and San Fish traps – se the Meisho Maru 38 and visit the Shipwreck Museum in
Bredasdorp. Enquire about the fish traps at raperspunt.

· Explore the Fynbos; - Hike the Agulhas Plain with its great diversity of indigenous
flora and unique vegitation of lymestone fynbos.

· Bird Watching, - the Nature Reserve has exceptional bird life.

· Follow trails; - experience beautiful views, intereesting bird life and flora unique
to the area.

Visit Cape Town, South Africa’s Mother City

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 11:03:00 +0000

Cape Town, - the “Mother City” of

South Africa

is a mismatch of Colonial history and a cosmopolitan vibe that can be felt as soon as you arrive.

The famous international landmark, Table Mountain stands protective sentinel over the city’s panoramic skyline, which is built on a lush peninsula that undulates like a slow walking, seductress dipping her toes into the Atlantic Ocean.
Without a doubt, CapeTown is one of the world’s most beautiful cities and is also said to be the first founded in

South Africa

in 1652 by the early seafaring Dutch explorers.
Centuries of diverse cultures settling in the city have imbued the place with a fascinating legacy which can be seen in its historical sites, districts, food, religious and cultural events

Breathtaking vistas leave a person spoilt with endless choices of things to see and do from exploring the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, eating at one of the huge variety of well appointed restaurants in and around the city, or simply lazing in the sun on one of the numerous beaches.

Don’t miss the cable car ride up Table Mountain. Or for the adventure traveller, a hike up the steep walk to the top, whichever you decide to do, once there you will be amazed at the views.
For the nature lover, the diverse flora and fauna that are unique to the area
and in fact, the world is filled with fascinating discoveries.
Once you have taken in all the delights of the city and its immediate surrounds, you should try to explore one of the outlying historical towns in the wine growing regions of Constantia, Franschoek, Paarl or Stellenbosch. Tour operators run well
organised packages to and from the wine lands where you can have fun visiting the many cellars, wine tasting and eating at gourmet restaurants.
South Africa’s Western Cape Province with its temperate climate, and ideal soils, is one of the finest viticulture areas in the country and has become world renowned for its gold medal winning wines.

Check List for “things to do and places to go”:
Table Mountain cable car ride
Hiking and rock climbing up Table Mountain
Chapmans Peak Drive
Parasailing over Camps Bay Cape Point
Twelve Apostles, Camps Bay
Victoria and Albert Waterfront
Two oceans Aquarium
Helicopter ride over Cape Town
Sunset cruise around Cape Town Harbour
Robben Island
Shopping at Cavendish Square
The Castle
Cape Town fun bus
Train trip to the naval port, Simons Town
Natural rock arch, False Bay
Deep sea fishing from Hout Bay
Cape Town Carnival
Wine tasting in the Viticulture regions.

Good Travel Quote:
March to Your Own Drummer
“March to your own drummer and listen to the rhythm of your own inner music. Remember, you are the
one who needs to be happy with your life and your chosen lifestyles…travel without a care…”

Photos Courtesy Cape Town Travel

Haunted Places in Cape Agulhas

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 09:14:00 +0000

Where else would you find one of the most haunted places in the world?

L’Agulhas, the last little village situated at the southern most tip of the African continent boasts sightings of the phantom ship “The Flying Dutchman” that has inspired poets, novelists and dramatists, including Wagner’s opera “Der fliengende Hollander” and most recently the Hollywood block-buster “Pirates of the Caribbean”. All based on stories retold by fearful seafarers as far back as the first half of the seventeenth century, who have had the misfortune to encounter her blood red sails and ghostly rigging, captained by the Devil’s advocate Van der Decken, who lashed himself to the ship’s wheel during a howling gale, ignoring his petrified crew’s please to ride out the storm and give up his obsession to round the Cape of Storms. Rigging was stripped from the ship’s masts, sails lost and the decks became slippery with the incessant crashing of the angry waves purging and dispersing with incessant mountainous swells that dwarfed the floundering craft. The manic Captain is said to have raised his fist heavenward, cursing the Creator out loud, saying that even God would not force him to change his mind as he’d made a pact with the Devil and that he was on his side. Suddenly a shaft of holy light was seen streaking from the rolling, black clouds, lighting up the deck before Van der Decken. The terrified crew trembled, as there before their Captain was the incredible sight of the Holy Ghost stepping onto the deck out of the shaft of light. At the sight of the holy apparition, Van der Decken drew his pistol from his belt and fired. Instantly his arm withered and the Holy Ghost pointed his glowing finger at the incensed captain saying, “ Van der Decken, you have defied God’s wrath and now you and your crew shall sail the seas of the Benguela and Agulhas currents forever! You will never sail on calm waters, only waters swollen with the rage of gale force winds. Your thirst and hunger will be that of a castaway trapped in the Sahara desert. From now and for eternity, you and your ship shall bring misfortune on all who sight you. The Flying Dutchman shall be a pariah and all living men shall turn sail and flee at the sight of you!”

There are two hundred and fifty known shipwrecks off the coastline of L’Agulhas, - some dating back to the times of the early Portuguese exploring seafarers. To the locals, it is known as “The Graveyard of Ships” and understandably a traveller’s ultimate destination for ghostly encounters of drowned sailors or unfortunate castaways who survived the sinking of their ship, only to crawl onto the desolate shores of the Cape Agulhas region and die a lonely death. Local fishermen are renowned for their ghostly tales which are retold to their wide-eyed children around smoky fires on cold and blustery nights where the calls of the sirens can be heard singing the crews and their ships towards the jaws of the sharp rocks jutting angrily from the frothing waves.

Originally L’Agulhas was named “Cabo das Agulhas”. Translated, this means “Cape of Needles” and refers to the compass needle on ships and other seafaring craft. Here, at the southern most tip of Africa, no compass needle shows any significant difference between true north and magnetic north. This is the point on the African continent where the Atlantic and Indian oceans hurl themselves at one another like furious maelstroms. No wonder this is named the “Cape of Storms” and has struck fear into ancient mariners for centuries. The cold Benguela current that flows in from Atlantic and the warm Agulhas current carried from the Indian Ocean mingle at the southern most tip of Africa, L’Agulhas. Sometimes these currents reach as far as Cape Point. There is a cairn marking the southernmost point of the African continent where people from all over the world can be seen having their photographs taken to take home as a memento of their visit to the quaint little fishing village of L’Agulhas and the southern most tip of Africa.

For visitors to L’Agulhas who enjoy the challenge of a two hour hiking trail and want to take the chance of perhaps encountering one or two of the more friendly local ghosts, they can walk the “Spook Draai”, (Ghosts Corner) trail. Of course, the origin of Spook Draai is as illusive as the surety of any ghost sightings. One of the phantoms of the area is a beautiful young woman who is said to have the voice of an Angel and the most exquisite slender hands. She was the survivor of a shipwreck and was washed up on shore. Later she moved into one of the many limestone caves that can be found along the Spook Draai trail where sadly she died a lonely death. However, she is not yet at rest and being of a gregarious nature, often visits the Agulhas Country Lodge and surrounding residencies with the wish for human contact. There have also been recent sightings of a headless man who walks the road at the entrance to L’Agulhas on mist shrouded nights, scaring the life out of people driving home from local restaurants and pubs.

Spook Draai is a well demarcated circular route, intended to be walked in only one direction as indicated by the markers. You can start the trail by walking in the direction of L’Agulhas village. In all, there are twenty eight markers and for the benefit oft the hiker, these points of interest are marked along the route. Before taking the hike, it is advised to collect a Spook Draai booklet from the tourism bureau which is situated at the L’Agulhas lighthouse. This booklet contains brief descriptions of each vantage point. Be sure to wear sensible hiking shoes and watch out for snakes, especially spring and summer…or you may become one of the Spook Draai ghostly statistics!

Susan Cook-Jahme©

PUPPETS ON A PLANE 'CAN ROOSTERS FLY'

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 07:16:00 +0000

Robert Mugabe, - "Jongwe" The play is in the Shona title he bestowed upon himself when he first came into power, - "Jongwe" - cockerel.
: a young male of the domestic chicken (Gallus gallus)
Origin of COCKEREL

Middle English cokerelle, from Anglo-French cokerel, diminutive of coc
First Known Use: 15th century

Good-bye Lulu, Good-bye

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 19:47:00 +0000

Early January 2011 saw the euphoria of the Festive Season fade, and the sense and sensibility of the new year ahead had set in. Graham said Lulu had to be put into retirement. The image of Beachcombers Bed and Breakfast as an upmarket place to stay was important.
A giant scare-crow dressed in hessian, greeting our Guests outside our front door was no longer an option.

Thursday's here in L'Agulhas are re-cycle refuse collection days.
Lulu was dismantled from her place of honour on Wednesday evening and Graham and I respectfully propped her up against the neighbour's wall, ready to be placed with all the plastic we had put aside for municipal collection the following morning. (If I had bag-pipes I think I would have piped her out with the “Last Post”)

We went about our daily routine during the course of Wednesday, with Lulu sitting indomitably by the wall.
I noticed our neighbour who had returned the day before from spending time away with his family had parked his car out in his front garden and was giving it a good wash.
Then I heard a yell and his Boston Terrier's barking madly.
I went out to see what the commotion was all about. There was old Oom Pieter peering over the garden wall at Lulu, while his dogs were yapping and biting poor Lulu's ankles.

Pieter looked up at me as I approached and said, “Wow, wat is hierdie lelike skepsel doen hier sit?” (Wow, what is this ugly creature doing sitting here?”)
“That's Lulu,” I answered
“Man, Sue...ek het gedink dit was 'n gedrink wat deursoek onder die bos, en was aan die slaap die drink af!”
(Man Sue, I thought it was some drunk who had crawled under the bush and was sleeping off the booze!)
“Dit is 'n lelike ou!” (That's some ugly ou!)

I was highly amused at the thought of our somewhat inquisitive neighbour peeping over our wall and coming face to face with Lulu, thinking she was a vagrant lurking in the bushes and couldn't help laughing.
Graham arrived to see what the commotion was about, and to our delight, old Pieter re-enacted his discovery of Lulu, which had all three of us doubled over.
Lulu was still working her amazing capacity to making everyone light hearted...

Thursday arrived and so did the refuse trucks.
Normally only one stops outside our house, but this time there was a drag race of two vehicles with competition to claim the right to take Lulu away.
The collectors jumped off the back of the trucks and there was a mad race of men rushing towards our pile of rubbish where Lulu perched.
The first two men who could run the fastest grabbed her and carried her off, while the losers shouted abuse at them, “Ahh, jou MAARSE!” (Ahh, your Mother!”)
Gently they hoisted Lulu into the back of their refuse truck and then clambered up to sit next to her.

I rushed outside to ask them why they were all fighting over Lulu.
They told me that they had all enjoyed seeing her wave during the course of the Festive Period, and that she had made their children very happy, so they had no intention of relegating her to the rubbish heap, she was going to live with them outside their house where everyone could still enjoy her.

The truck pulled back onto the road with Lulu gazing at me, while four men clung to her affectionately. I waved, and one of the men helped her wave back at me.
“Moenie bekommerd wees nie tannie, sy is in veilige hande is, sal ons kyk na haar!”

(Don't worry auntie, she is in safe hands, we will look after her!)

“Good bye Lulu, good bye!” I called as I waved sadly...
Graham came and gave my shoulders an affectionate squeeze
“She's just a puppet Babe”
“I don't think so...” I mused,
They say that Angels come in many guises, Lulu was one of them.

Freshlyground & ZA NEWS - Chicken to Change (OFFICIAL RELEASE)

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 07:15:00 +0000

This is just wonderful...the music is great and makes you want to "shake-shake" your boodie!AND of course, the subject is too, too funny...

Lulu Came to Town (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 21:16:00 +0000

Early the following morning I walked into our Art Gallery and nearly jumped out of my shoes with fright, as I had forgotten that Lulu was sitting looking out the door.

I thought some huge person had somehow gained access to Beachcombers and sat herself down in our chair...I shrieked!

Graham came rushing downstairs to see what all the commotion was about and doubled up with laughter as I pointed at Lulu, explaining that I'd forgotten she was now in our lives.
My shriek had proved him right as far as he was concerned, “You see, I told you that lady was scary!”
Lulu just sat there gazing out the door, ignoring his rude jibbing indignantly .
As we were standing there, a car pulled up outside the Gallery. There was a man and woman sitting in the front, pointing at Lulu, laughing.
“He who laughs last laughs loudest,” was my quip at Graham as I walked off, feeling very pleased with myself.

Later on in the day I nipped into the local Greek Grocer to pick up supplies.
The lady behind the counter called out, “ Hey Sue, what's that giant doing sitting in your place?”
“Oh, that's Lulu, you like her?” I asked
“Wow, we were driving home last night and I couldn't believe what I saw. Thought is was you sitting at the door and realized that thing was huge and you are half the size!”
With that, other people in the store said they had also seen Lulu.
I overheard a couple talking, “Mad artists,” said the one to the other, thinking they were out of ear shot.
Oh joy, I thought, everyone in this small village has got something new to talk about, and it's my Lulu.
Lulu's come to town!

Two days before Christmas, Graham, and I moved Lulu out side, where she sat majestically staring at every vehicle, cyclist and jogger trekking up or down the very last road leading to the foot of Africa.
Already she was a crowd stopper. To our amusement she became a photo-shoot opportunity to many a passer by.
One lady even had her poodle sit on Lulu's lap for a pose. Before she could take a picture, the nasty little critter jumped off Lulu's lap, barking it's head off at her, cocked his leg and pee'd on Lulu's leg.
With the dignity of a well bred dame, Lulu chose to show no reaction and stared out at the ocean, whilst the lady hastily hustled her pooch away.

On the afternoon of the 24th December, 2010 Lulu arose out of her chair and we fixed her to one of Beachcombers deck supports. Sadly her hip broke as we moved her, so her legs went into paralysis. As it was now Christmas Eve, there was no time for me to perform a hip-replacement.
Lulu's legs had to be secured to the upright, avoiding unnecessary knee-bends.
Then we attached fishing line to her wrists, which led up to our sitting area on the deck, which became the “Lulu wave-at-holiday-maker command centre.”

As you may have surmised, Graham had by now taken rather an affectionate bent towards Lulu and was the first to pull her strings!
Our first victims were a group of ladies out on their evening stroll.
Graham had Lulu wave at them as they happened past...
Only one woman saw, looked away and back again.
Lulu waved.
The woman squealed and pointed.
Her friends jumped, Graham and I laughed until we nearly cried.
That was just the reaction I had wished for the public.
Lulu waved,
The ladies all waved back.
Then they all looked at each other, felt embarrassed because they were waving at a large puppet and they laughed.

Cars were stopping to have a look. Children in back seats were waving.
Joggers did not escape Lulu's sense of humour, with both her hands she imitated how they were running, when they saw this, they laughed.
Cyclists had the same thing happen, Lulu copied them, they laughed.

During the course of the Festive period right until the day after New Year, Lulu came alive in the late afternoons until late evening and waved away merrily.
She was constantly photographed.
Some people got a fright, some ran away, some nearly drove their cars off the road.
She occasionally caused traffic jams, but she always brought a reaction to people that left them feeling good.

Children came to see her, as word had spread that Lulu spoke to them.
She refused to speak to grown ups, only children.
They also found out that Lulu liked lolly-pops, because Lulu told them that she did.
So they brought her lolly-pops and Lulu always thanked them in her squeaky voice.
To Graham's and my delight, many of these children told Lulu secrets.
We became part of the innocent world of children's fresh ideas and wonderment.

What a Christmas gift Lulu had brought to us here at Beachcombers.
Lulu was magical.

Final part of story tomorrow.

Lulu Came to Town (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cook-Jahme) — Sat, 22 Jan 2011 15:59:00 +0000

December 2010 found me scratching around the back yard of our house here in L'Agulhas like a demented chicken looking for worms.
To my delight, I discovered a pile of brandering off-cuts which we had discarded in a corner after putting up the ceiling in the newly renovated lounge, dining-room section of our bed and breakfast, Beachcombers.
Wood, I love wood! The feel, smell and texture of it makes me happy. If there is a possibility to create something out of it, I will. This time, Lulu was the result, - a giant 10' puppet who had articulated limbs and could wave, do high leg raises, sit, stand...you name it, she could do it. (And she only cost me Rand 100 to make!)
So, I sawed, drilled, screwed and hammered her skeleton together and had Graham, (that's my hubby emerging from his studio on the hour, every hour to demand what I was up to.
“It's a secret, and it's for the Festive Season,” was all I'd say.

When the frame was complete, I dashed off to Struisbaai to seek padding for Lulu's body and hessian to sew her some respectable attire. The wind was blowing like mad, (which is not unusual for the Southern most tip of Africa, where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans clash heads.)
Having purchased the hessian for Rand 100, I then went to various shops to scavenge plastic which had been discarded from packaging and boxes. The best place was out the back of OK Bazaars where they have a locker filled with all the recyclable stuff that I required.
There I was, in amongst rolls of plastic and cardboard, having a field day collecting wonderful things for Lulu's body, when our friend Johnnie from a near-by art gallery came strolling by, stopped and asked in amazement, “Sue, Wat doen jy?” (Sue, what are you doing?)
I turned around to answer him and all the plastic I was clutching was suddenly whisked out of my arms by the wind and blown over his head towards the very last little church in Africa.
“Ek is op soek na plastic vir Lulu” (I am looking for plastic for Lulu)
Johnnie asked me if Lulu was my puppy and did I need the plastic to keep the floors clean.
Whilst I continued to act like a “bag-lady” and collect my treasures from the pile, I told him Lulu was a giant puppet and he could meet her out side Beachcombers later on in the month.
Shaking his head, he quickly continued with his walk. Perhaps he thought I had either gone loco, or secretly sipped one too many at a near-by local pub, TMC!

Once my car was filled to the brim with glorious rubbish, I returned home. Before Graham could see what was up to, I duct taped my finds to the skeleton I had built. Now Lulu looked more human...especially once I had given her a huge ball of a head.
Then I uncovered my twenty year old sewing machine and made her clothes and a hat. As I proceeded in dressing her, Graham arrived:
“What the heck, Babe?” He said, “That's some scary momma!”
My feelings were hurt, Lulu was not scary, “You'll see, she's going to make all the people driving by Beachcombers laugh and wave.”
Graham looked at me dubiously, and as it was the end of the day poured himself a vodka, saying he needed it after meeting scary Lulu.

Undaunted by the verbal slander about Lulu by my husband, I sat her in a chair looking out the sliding door of our Art Gallery. Turning on the light for passers by to become acquainted with her, I ascended the stairs to join Graham and have a glass of good Quoin Rock wine on our deck, which has a beautiful view of the sea.

Story Continued Tomorrow...