Category Archives: Aitch

Brasil in 1988

Aitch took me to Brasil. She had done well as usual in her sales for Scherag and so off we went. First a flight to Manaus in Amazonas province, then a long drive eastward along the Amazon River towards a lake just off the river, then by ferry to a pousada on Silves Island.

Brasil is an immensely big country! To give it scale, here’s a map showing where Amazonas province is and the tiny little portion we drove, which took four hours.

Amazonas province in Brasil

We weren’t married, but I was on my best behaviour and just watched as the bachelors (actual and temporary) in the party would trumpet every night ‘TooDooDoot TooDoo! We’re going fox-hunting!’ they would announce with glee at dinner and troop out with huge grins on their dials.

I stuck to feathered birds like oropendolas, huge toads, caymans and a fresh, beautiful, very sad ocelot skin the lodge staff had proudly recently shot! Aaargh!

oropendola call

– Yacht at Angra dos Reis, Brasil – Ron almost wearing a cozzie – Aitch unmarried –

Then we headed way south to the coast, to Angra dos Reis – the Cove of Kings. A booze yacht trip to the islands and beaches and swimming. One night Aitch felt ill and announced she’d go to bed early, I must go to supper alone. Yes!? I said. Sure, she said. Enjoy yourself. Ha HAAA! I was off – after dressing in my warrior fox-hunting regalia. At supper I tooted the fox-hunting horn with the best of them and announced my newfound freedom. We were off.

We found a bar with a wonderful barman. He gave you anything you wanted and all you had to do was scribble your name! It was first-class. Another round! I’d yell and we’d throw down another marvelous caipirinha and fling the glass over our shoulder. No! No! said the barman, grabbing his broom, rushing out from behind the bar and sweeping up the pieces. MORE BEER! I’d yell, getting into my stride now.

Of course, I can handle my liquor, but some of the guys were less capable. In fact, they dropped me twice on the way back to my chalet. And once there they just propped me up against the door, knocked and ran away. So Aitch found me closely inspecting the door mat and mumbling how I’d have to have a word with them about their service.

She says she dragged me into the shower and ran the cold water full blast and threw me into bed, but of course that could all be rumours – I don’t know – I wasn’t there.

I got up early and made it to breakfast, feeling sprightly. And where were all the culprits? Nowhere to be seen. All indisposed, it was said. Hung Over. That’s what drinking too much will get you. We checked out that day and I was made to pay a bill a metre long with some complete stranger’s signature on all the slips. A signature that got less and less of something until it was just a short downward line with what looked like drool on it. I just paid. Rumours were going around and I didn’t want to cause a scene. I was there as merely a spouse-of, so I had to behave.

Copacabana Beach from our hotel roof

On to Rio! To the Copacabana! I was sure there’d be some licenced premises there too. There were! Aitch turned thirty high up on the roof of our hotel, with her colleagues giving her a huge festive bash. We had a banner made to string above the bar ‘THIRTY! AND UNMARRIED!’ it said.

– the cantagalo favela seen from our hotel roof (wikipedia pic) –

We had a roaring party that had the hotel guests below us wanting us to hush and the favela okes on the hills above us wanting to join in!

~~~oo0oo~~~

pousada – Lodge or Inn

Angra dos Reis – cove – or inlet or creek – of kings

caipirinha – wonderful cold drink; all alcohol with a splash of limes and lemoas; refreshing; then tiptoes around behind you and taps you on the shoulder

favela – informal housing; closely-packed houses and shacks on the steep hill slopes

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Another pic of an oropendola, this one by blogger Eduardo Libby.

– chestnut-headed oropendola –

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Here’s our great big fat 32-page Brasil photo album (paper version recycled):

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Labour of Love – Aitch

My bird list book made by Aitch back in 1985, soon after we met.

Aitch birdlist book

Every bird from Roberts handwritten – and done on the quiet so I only got to see the end result for my first xmas present from her!

After that we birded in other countries in Africa. Also in the USA, Brasil, UK, Europe, Malaysia and Indonesia. These lists I just hand-wrote in.

Here she is round about then . .

Aitch ca.1986 in Brasil

~~~oo0oo~~~

Dear Old Sambucca

Lemme confess that the first emotion when Sambucca the black labrador finally breathed her last was relief. The sadness and the memories came later. See, she grew a brain tumour and it grew and grew until it was about as big as her head.

When the bump first started we knew it was the end and I told the kids I would just support the old dear and only consider ending things if she was no longer comfortable, not eating, not happy and not interested in a ear rub or tummy tickle. I said I don’t want you shooting me just cos I’m inconvenient and so I’m not shooting Sambucca for our convenience. And anyway, she’s only 87yrs-old in human terms. Born in August 2006.

Well, she hung in and kept eating while getting thinner – which is a terminal sign in a labrador. I was vrot with worry and angst as she started getting smelly and the parasites attacked her – fleas, flies and ticks. A daily bath and shampoo helped but she’d disappear for hours and come back covered again, her hidden spots in our jungly garden obviously infested with the lil bastids. Yet she still kept getting up and walking towards me tail wagging as I got home each day, asking for a scratch. Then Friday she got weaker and Saturday and Sunday she didn’t eat. I added gravy and fat and she refused it. Refused a meal! I knew it was soon. Sunday night she suddenly yowled a bit and then went quiet, considerately choosing Aitch’s birthday as her last day so we can remember it more easily.

Sambucca – Tom’s picture 2018

It’s a bit worrying that she may have gone to the happy hunting grounds, as there’s no way she can hunt! She needs her food prepared and put in a stainless steel dish preferably covered in gravy. So we can only hope there’s an ala carte section in those hunting grounds.

I started digging her grave early Monday morning and three inches down I came to an astonishing and unexpected realisation: I am not cut out for physical labour! Can you believe it!? I sub-contracted the task and Tom and his mate Jose dug a goodly hole – after negotiating a financial reward – and Sambucca now joins her predecessor Bella, a hamster and a gerbil under the soil in our garden. Also Aitch and her Mom and Dad’s ashes.

Rest in peace ole Sambucca, you made twelve years and five months and were the best watchdog ever: you watched the monkeys stroll across the yard, you watched the hadedas glean the lawn, you watched our neighbourhood kids stream in and out of the gates whenever. You only barked when I got home to say Hey Welcome Back! About Time! Look What A Good Watchdog I Am! and by the way, When’s Supper?!

And that’s when you showed you had 12% greyhound blood, as you tore off round the trailer, gleefully thinking “He’s Home! He’s Home!”. Two laps when you were younger, one lap the last couple years.

Jess was going to call you Sweetie when you arrived, so we hastily canvassed friends for a less saccharine moniker. Terry Brauer from the Gramadoelas of Pretoria came up with Black Sambucca. Just right.

~~oo0oo~~

vrot – full of; actually fraught

Found our Sambucca (‘Jena out of Yellow Daisy by Kilgobbin Zinzan’) ‘s pedigree certificate here. I think Aitch had hidden it from me, Sam being our first expensive dog.

Executive Summary

Tom and I were off to the Palmiet. Mom and Jess were out, so I asked Tom to leave them a note so they’d know wassup when they got back. Sure thing Dad!

I see it on my way out. It says “we have gone.”

I say, Tom, tell them a bit more than that, my fella. Sure thing, Dad! And we trundle off to go fossicking:

When we get back, there it is on the kitchen table, complete with the seven year old’s additional information:

Tom’s note to Mom for our trip to the Palmiet:
We have gone and we well come back – Tom Tom

Stripey Overboard!

When you’re twenty two months old you can venture off north into neighbouring African countries in a kombi as long as you’re prepared and have the right companions. Like Stripey. He’s unflappable and always smiling.

And your Mom. She’s the best for food, clothes, warmth, love, hugs. That sort of stuff.

and your sis and your Dad can come along too . . He’s quite handy as transport and a vantage point.

Just watch out if you go to Lake Malawi . .

and catch the ferry to Mombo Island . .

. . that you don’t drop your companion Stripey overboard! ‘Cos then the ferry driver will have to slow down, turn around and go back so that your Dad can hang over the side and rescue Stripey. To avert a disaster!

– he’s there somewhere, Dad! – he is! –
– please can you turn back, Mr Ferryman!? –

THANK YOU Mr Friendly Ferryman! signed: TomTom and Stripey

– Stripey wearing his industrial chain –

~~~oo0oo~~~

A Dog’s Life

When we bought a house, but were still living in our flat in Durban, Dave and Goldie Hill presented us with a magic little feisty puppy, half Staffie half Jack Russell, delivered in a shoebox. We called her TC.

TC arrives in a shoebox

She was joined soon after we moved in to our home in Westville by my big rival for Aitch’s affections: Matt the man, named Matt cos he certainly wasn’t glossy at first.

Aitch picks out Matt from the litter.
Her first real Own Dog – and the love of her life for about two short years. 

Matt died on the M13 on the hunt for an intriguing smell which he knew was important and exciting, he just didn’t know why! He was only two-plus years old, so I’d guess he probably died a virgin. Our property was fenced but obviously not escape-proof.

After much mourning and a burial in the garden, Matt’s replacement was chosen, also in a backyard, also of interesting parentage. Trish Humphrey always thought she’d call a dog “Bogart” one day, and so Bogart got his name. To TC’s disgust a second small male dog was introduced and – again – he soon outgrew her. She always remained boss-dog though!

– With big shoes to fill, Bogey starts his melting of Aitch’s heart –

About two years later Bogart also went missing. I searched again and found him on a highway. This time the N3. Another burial in the garden followed.

Poor TC now had another black dog join her, a third!! Also small, also soon to grow big. This time a lady, Bella, who was destined to become a huge part of our,  and especially Trish’s life for the next seventeen years. She, too, was of interesting parentage.

– Oy! Dogs aren’t allowed on the bed at 7 River Drive! –

TC ran out of steam after thirteen years and is the third and last of our dogs buried at 7 River Drive Westville, near the banks of the Mkombaan under a paper-bark Commiphora harveyi tree. A ‘kanniedood’ tree! Bella was then joined by Honey, ‘rescued from euthanasia’ at the vet. He’d apparently been sentenced to death for excessive wandering! Aitch said ‘can’t be!’ and took him home. Well, little did she know just how determined a wanderer was old Honey. Jess christened him Honey, and he was mostly called that, but once his habits became evident I called him Houdini. No matter how we tried to keep him in, he got out and wandered the streets, meeting new friends.

– Jessie and her Honey-Houdini –

Houdini disappeared, maybe ‘rescued’ again by someone who finally managed to coop him up permanently? I hope not. I hope he wanders still. Now Bella was alone and Aitch decided she was lonely. No, no, I said, she’s enjoying the peace and quiet! So I put my foot down and issued a decree as titular Man of the House: We Cannot Get Another Puppy.

So Aitch got two: Shadow and Sambucca.

– Sam the black lab bitch and Shadow the Alsation-ish hound –

Shadow was a lovely dog but became our first dog to be euthanased. She bit a neighbour kid and then did it again. Sam is still around, twelve-plus years old and when cleaning out the garage recently I found a very novel item: A pedigree certificate! Aitch had hidden from me that Sam was our first dog without character and lacking in hybrid vigour! 
(Read about Sambucca’s parents here).

Jessie named the black lab ‘Sweetie’ – horrors! So we scrambled to find a better name: Terry Brauer suggested Black Sambucca and that stuck, thank goodness. She and Bella became good friends – Aitch was right again!  Bella finally breathed her last in Aitch’s arms at seventeen – she had been a champ!

– Bella’s last days – lots of luxury & comfort, thanks Aitch! and Sambucca –

Poor ole Sambucca is ageing rapidly now. Eighty five in human years, she has a tumour growing apace on the side of her face. So far she’s still comfortable, eating – though losing weight – and tail-waggingly keen for a tummy rub. Her vet says keep her comfy and keep watch, but an op would likely be too drastic and risky for her.

~~~oo0oo~~~

update on Sambucca: died 6 Jan 2019 – on Aitch’s birthday.

~~~oo0oo~~~

kanniedood – cannot die; immortal

A Muddy Slog

– all clean beforehand –

Dad, says seven-yr-old Tom, I’m tired of the 5km and 10km races with Mom. I wanna go on a longer race with you, please.

So we enter the 18km race starting at the Eston country club and meandering thru Tala game reserve. Days before, it starts raining; and it rains; and there’s mud – A LOT of mud. And mud puddles and pools of water and muddy lakes to cross at every dip in the road.

I pushed, I shoved, I carried, I dragged. I went ahead, dropped my bike, went back and scraped mud off their bikes, then pushed them; When I couldn’t free the brakes from the balls of sticky mud, I carried them.

We watched people bail left and right. Tractors and trailers were available en-route to offer rescue, and the trailers got piled high with bikes abandoning the slog. But we pushed on, stopping every few metres to scrape sticky mud out of the brake calipers.

And they made it! Not many did. On the way home they recuperated like this:

– komfy kombi kipping –

Not one pic of the mudslog! Aitch had the camera; Anyway, my hands would have been way too muddy!

~~~oo0oo~~~

Looking at the pictures I thought, ‘Am I imagining how tough that day was?’ So I went looking and found an actual report on the race – still no pics! It was too wet and muddy to carry cameras, I guess.

August 2009 – Eston Illovo mud bath

Rode the Eston Illovo MTB Challenge last Sunday. A race from hell. 30mm of rain the night before and wet, misty conditions on the day. Temp about 12degC. The mud was so thick it took us 45minutes to ride / push / scrape the first 3 kms. So you imagine.

Seemed to improve a bit after that, but that was just a wish. Slippery and muddy all the way. I fell going into a drop down to some single track. Bit dazed, but OK. Actually, I seemed to have put my bad shoulder back into place. Made our way to the first water table. Many people opting to get a lift home from there. I decided to push on and it took 2 hrs to complete the last 15 kms. I must have pushed about 15 kms overall in the race.

Bikes breaking all around. derailleurs, chains most common. Guys where pushing home with 20 kms to go with no chain. Took me 2 days to clean my bike. Had to renew my disc pads @ R400. Like servicing a car.

Completed in 5hr40 minutes. Only 1000 completed of the 3000 starters. – The Dodge

The same guy did a 20km ride at nearby Hammarsdale, and finished in 1hr 31mins!

So no, I wasn’t imagining it was a tough day out there!

~~~oo0oo~~~


He ain’t Heavy . .

 

 

He aint heavy in a hammock chair for two !

 

Rita delivers them home safely from Cape Town (thoroughly spoilt)

 

 

Was this at Stevens’ restaurant, Lake Malawi? 2003

. . . he’s our brother . . .

. . and look at him now!

Jess Tom

Forbidden Ink

Dad I want to get a tattoo.

Aaaargh! I shrieked in my head but “O-ka-ay” I said out loud, all calm-like, “Have you thought about it?”

Oh yes, lots.

“OK. What’s a tattoo? Is it safe? How much does it cost? Does it hurt? Who would do it? Have you got enough money? etc”

Oh, she hadn’t thought of any of that.

“OK. Do your homework and get back to me with the answers please.”

She did. Now that she knows more, she’s more nervous. But still determined. After all, Sindi has a lovely outline of Africa tattoo’d above her ankle.

The very next day she arranges a visit to the tattoo parlour with Sindi, where they are going to find out more and then come back for a final decision. They take themselves there by taxify.

The main thing I’m interested in is: Who’s the artist? Is he/she good? Does he/she do a skilful, safe job? Ask to see their work. Show me their work. This is for evah, don’t skimp.

So I’m furiously kicking for touch and I think I’m delaying things nicely. I went through enough trauma with the piercings, I hope to dodge this mutilation. I feel like I’m ‘handling things well’ as The Dad. I’m ‘in charge.’

So I get a message: Hey Dad please can I have mom’s birth date and her death date.

The message is sent from here:

Jess_tattoo[1]

** sigh **

20181107_2106551.jpg

 ~~oo0oo~~

Luke Flew out the Train Window

There were two birthdays on the steam train and the pictures are from Tom’s. He turned four. 2005. Aitch arranged a magic day after much preparation, cake-construction and Mom-liaison. Here she orchestrates:

Inchanga Steam Train - Tom 4th Birthday-003.jpg

I was on the train and we had a lovely day. Later Luke, Tom’s big china, turned four and had the same birthday. On Luke’s birthday I was a designated driver, taking a car to the end-point to take stuff and ferry passengers.

So I wasn’t on the train on Luke’s birthday trip when he flew out of the window.

But first: These pictures are of Tom’s birthday:

DSCN0149

That cake:

Tom 4th bday Inchanga Steam Train collage 1Tom 4th bday Inchanga Steam Train collage 2Inchanga Steam Train tracks

Here’s our Luke-fella with Mom Terry. Both on the train and at the stop for Tom’s party (you can see TomTom’s cake). On his way up he was without make-up, and on his way back he was all face-painted:

Luke flew out of the window! Inchamga Steam Train collage
Luke flew out of the window! Inchanga Steam Train

On his big day the same train journey was arranged; Up, then a party in Inchanga and then down: the return journey. Afterwards, I got back to Hillcrest; To Stokers where the journey starts and ends; When the train puffed in I heard a strange tale: Tom huffed and puffed, “Dad, Dad! Luke flew out the window!” The adults said Luke had fallen out of the train and been taken to hospital. I was aghast! What!?

Later the tale unfolded. Luke had fallen out while the train was choofing along. His Dad Steve had leapt up and wanted to jump out after him, but the train was going too fast so he hared through the carriages, rushing through the gaps till he got to the front and could attract the attention of the driver who stopped the train. Steve ran back and found Luke with some railroad trackside dwellers, who had found Lukie-boy –  maybe even seen him fall.

The hospital checked our Lukie-boy over bone-by-bone and organ-by-organ and pronounced him all intact. Massive sighs of relief!

Amazingly, Luke later also said he’d “flown out the window” so who knows what actually happened? Weird!

Our First Soccer Tournament

At five years old Tom was mad keen on soccer. His first tournament in Westville North was cause for great excitement. His team wore orange bibs and tackies and he played everywhere on the field and in the goals. Which he didn’t like. Boring, Dad.

Tom Soccer 008.jpg

He preferred the role of full-field chaser:

Tom on the ball, with Soccer Ma coaching

Champion Soccer Mom was there in full force and voice. That’s her on the right, Mom of triplets Yaya, Yasir and __. She was great, shouting encouragement and advice to all, especially her kids, TomTom and the star player for the orange bibs, Ntutuka. Here are her triplets in orange, on the left, 3rd from left and on the ball:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Supporters traveled from afar to support their favourite team. God-parents Dizzi and Jon live a few hundred metres up the road so made the trek to cheer on their hero:

Tom first soccer tournament collage 1

Essential support came from the team manager Sir Aitch Ferguson:

Mom fusses over Tom

and the expert coach and tactician Me Mourinho – wearing a Galatasaray S.K cap (that’s Turkey’s best soccer club, turkey!):

Tomaldinho gets invaluable advice from his coach

After the game that all-important thank you team handshake. Tom not exactly the tallest team member:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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Later tournaments required more kit. We HAVE to have these latest and greatest boots, Dad! We simply CAN’T play without them! Us superstars need our bling!

Tom soccer tournament 7yrs old
Tom soccer tournament 7yrs old

Tom kneels getting instructions from coach
Real boots and a real coach!

Tomaldinho! I was seeing dollars sign$ I was going to sign him up with Amazulu – No Dad!! PSG in Paris!! Oh. My bad.

But then suddenly it was rugby. RUGBY Dad! I need new boots. You can’t play rugby in soccer boots, Dad! I’m a rugger player now!

 

 

Sole Searching Wild Coast Walk

Driving south to the Wild Coast I glanced down at my feet. Right foot on the accelerator, left foot chilling next to the clutch. No shoes. Barefoot.

OK, I’d forgotten to take shoes on our six-day beach walk. Too late to turn back.

It was fine. I’d make do. I said nothing. Didn’t want Aitch cackling about my dodgy 49-yr-old memory glands. I’m not known for being a meticulous packer or planner, so what the hell . . I’m used to making do.

Reflections on the Wild Coast
Reflections on the Wild Coast

It was April 2004 and our hiking route was southward. From Kobb Inn about 60km to Morgan Bay. Another group would head north at the same time and the organisers saw to it we met up and swopped vehicles so ours would be waiting for us in Morgans Bay at the end of the hike. Slick planning. Good friend and colleague Allan Marais happened to be in the other party so he drove my diesel VW kombi and I drove his petrol 4X4 Mitsubishi. He messaged me that evening: “All’s well. Your kombi is parked outside the hotel. I filled it up to the brim with petrol.”

Luckily I know Allan Marais, so I simply replied, “Great. I filled your Mitsi up with diesel. Also to the brim.”

We’d be staying in hotels and cottages on the way. Slackpacking! What a pleasure! Good weather, lonely beaches, light daypacks with only water and lunch in them. Friendly local people acted as porters on each leg and carried our real packs ahead of us. Cold beers, good meals and comfortable beds awaited us each night.

I felt positively Victorian as I surveyed the number of people it takes to make pale city slickers feel like we’re roughing it!

Wild Coast walk_2004 Candys Beach Hse (4)
– Tom and daughters, Taylors, Swanies, Gayle & Janice and our porters six –

A good reminder that few of the famous bold and dashing explorers would have made it out of their ships if it hadn’t been for local guides who showed them the way, found food and water for them, and negotiated safe passage through occupied territory. And who cooked and cleaned for them – sometimes even carried them!

Wild Coast walk_2004 Kobb Inn (18)

Past the Jacaranda thirty three years after its 1971 stranding:

One day was really windy. All the rest were clear and calm. We kept Africa on our right and the Indian Ocean on our left and sauntered along blissfully.

Wild Coast walk_2004 Wild Coast (23)

There’s nothing to eat here, there’s nothing to drink here, so what’s up, bovine beauties? Beach comfortable to lie on? Looking for a furry tan? Wanting to be seen to be seen?

Wild Coast walk_2004 Wild Coast (9)

River crossings – by boats and wading

Wild Coast walk_2004 Wild Coast (31)

Janice had to fly home a day early from a little airstrip near the beach. Work! It’s the curse of the drinking class. There she goes; Look, she’s waving:

Wild Coast walk_2004 Janice flies early

Morgan Bay with its spectacular cliffs

Wild Coast walk_2004 Morgan Bay (2)

~~oo0oo~~

And shoes? Didn’t need ’em. I walked barefoot most of the way, slipping on my yellow flip-flops only when the rocks got pointy. Mostly it was beach sand or smooth foot paths, really easy on our feet.

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See the purple arrows for the section we walked? Friends walked from Port Edward to East London in 2016. Way further, and carrying all their kit! Allie Peter and Mike Frizelle wrote about it. A lovely and highly entertaining read of ancient old goats staggering from shebeen to shebeen fuelled on Transkei dumpies, Zamalek quarts, Wild Coast weed and cataflam. Especially cataflam anti-inflammatory pills!

Allie Mike Wild Coast Hairy Hikers
– Drop Outs at the Drop Off? Mike, friend and Allie –

Years later, another beach walk.

The Old Pont

There’s a lovely spot on the Mtumvuna that divides old Natal from old Transkei. We went with Sue and Mike Barnes in 2009. They own one of the unique semi-permanent ‘cottages’ or fixed tents there and arranged another for us to hire.

Old Pont collage 1The Old Pont collage 2

Before there was a bridge downstream, there was an old pont here. Nowadays there’s an informal do-it-yourself ferry.

The ferry - The Old Pont collage

Mike builds beautiful boats and had one of Mallards best there:

The Old Pont collage 3

Good people, lots of kids, lots of action.

The Old Pont collage 4

We did some mountain biking in the gorge overlooking the river upstream and visited Beaver Creek coffee farm.

The Old Pont collage 5

Mike taught Tom to wakeboard and he loved it. Took to it like a grebe to water. I set him off and Trish photographed him from the boat.

Tom's First Wakeboarding collage
Tom’s first shot at wakeboarding – chuffed!

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History:

heritage Old Pontheritage Old Pont_2

On our bikes we came across the sewage treatment plant. Acres of dried kak in interesting patterns. Sorta like chocolate. That’s what the kids have remembered longest about The Old Pont.

old pont sewage sludge.jpg

 

Milibangalala

We joined the Hills on their annual pilgrimage to Ponta Milibangala in the Maputo Elephant Park in that part of Maputaland that lies in Southern Mocambique. I think ca.1999 – must check.

– Tatum, Gary & Stuart with Mouse (our TC’s Mum!) –
– mili is in the maputo elephant reserve –
– the view from our kombi-bedroom –
Milibangalala Beach.jpg
– me and the Padre d’água slowly sinking into the incoming tide –

We needed 4X4 to get there, so swapped our smart, sleek up-to-date VW kombi for Bruce’s old rusty battered VW kombi 4X4 Syncro. OK, so that description wasn’t strictly true, but you’ll see why I needed to make it soon – upfront – for strategic reasons.

It was hot on the way. Between Xmas and New Year. Windows down wasn’t enough so we opened the front doors and a breeze wafted around our legs. That was better. Up and down we see-sawed in the sandy dunes. It had rained and water pooled in the bottoms of all the dips between dunes.

Then we hit one of those puddles a bit too fast. I was amazed at how big the bow wave was! We really weren’t going fast, but it still WAS too fast. Muddy water flooded the cab. I stopped to clean. It cleaned easily except: There was muddy water in the headlights outside and in the speedo gauge inside. I thought I saw tadpoles swimming at the 40km/h mark. Later they emptied, but a high-water mark remained! At the camp I gave the kombi a big cleanup again, but the mudstains inside the headlights and speedometer were out of reach. There was no dodging this: I would have to confess to Howick’s Mayor-in-Exile, Broose Soutar.

Map

Theo shot a 50kg Giant Kingfish or Trevally – Caranx ignobilis

We snorkel’d with a whale shark – briefly. Then with no seeming effort he just swam away, too fast to keep up with.

~~oo0oo~~

Update 2020: The Hills went to Mili again – its about 22 years now that they have made their annual pilgrimage. The family has grown in all directions. Here they are, minus Tatum, but two girlfriends added:

– Goldie, GF, Gary, David, Stu, GF –
– yes, mili is changing – like every beautiful spot, we tend to move in and multiply –

~~oo0oo~~

Phelophepa! – Good Health!

A combination Sesotho / Setswana word, ‘phelophepa’ means ‘good clean health.’

I had volunteered on the train before, in Bergville; Now Trish and I joined it in Underberg. At the time it was a pet project of Jannie Ferreira, optometry professor at RAU (now the University of Johannesburg). So it was full of RAU students. We had a kombi and on the way up from Durban to act as volunteer supervisor, we repaired to the bottle store and bought champagne, thinking we’d load everyone up and drive off to where we could watch the sun set behind the Drakensberg and its foothills and quaff champers.

Well, we did the quaffing, but well after sunset, as we couldn’t stop till we’d seen the last patient. No way we were going to say, ‘Sorry, come back tomorrow’ to poor people who had come from afar.

Phelopepha (1)
Phelophepa Train Eye Clinic coach
Phelopepha (2)
Phelophepa train eye clinic

After that we went to a farmhouse (the local vet, I believe) where we were treated to a lovely braai.

~~oo0oo~~

There are now two Phelophepa trains and the services it provides have increased. Long may it thrive and arrive at remote stations to provide needs and care and happiness – both to the people waiting at the sidings and to the students onboard.

~~oo0oo~~

Wilderness Walk Mfolosi: The Gentle Art of Lurking

Our two walks in the wilderness with the Taylors, Foggs, Janice Hallot and Gayle Adlam blur into one and I have got the photos all mixed up, so here are some more memories from 1999 and 2005.

On the drier of our two walks there was very little surface water about, so around the campfire one night . .

Supper, great food, great wine, comfy chairs. Story (and snory) time now

. . when my companions were suitably lubricated, I put one of my (many) pet theories to them: Tomorrow, instead of walking about scaring the animals, let’s go to that waterhole we saw where a dry streambed joins the Mfolosi river and get comfortable and simply lurk there till lunchtime, like crocodiles! Let the animals come to us. Who’s in favour?

To my surprise and delight they were all so mellow and agreeable – dronk – they voted in favour, and we did just that. It was wonderful! We got comfortable a nice distance from the water, leaning against tree trunks, and watched as all sorts of birds and animals came to drink. My idea of heaven: Lurking with telescope, binoculars, books and food!

These were slackpacking walks, so our kit was carried to the outlying camp by these handy bongolos. Here you can see Dizzi looking for her luggage, muttering “Where’s my bongolo? Why don’t they have number plates, cos all bongolos look the same?”

Dizzi seeks HER bongolo

On the wetter walk it got hot one day and we asked our Rangers if we could swim. They said they knew just the spot. Miles later we got to the river at their swimming hole. But it was occupied:

Mfolosi Wilderness walk 1999 & 2005 waterhole collage

Aw! Two buffs, an ele and a lioness had all had the same idea. We didn’t argue with them, we trudged on. Miles later we crossed the river again, and had a swim. Sort of. Luckily no pictures were taken. These were of a shoes-off river crossing, footwear and footprints:

Wading the Mfolosi

These wilderness walks end with a last night back at base camp. We had left celebration supplies there in anticipation.

Mfolosi Wilderness walk 1999 & 2005-002

Then a champagne breakfast kombi drive before we left the park.

Champagne all round! And there's a shot of Aitch the photographer at last!
– at last our photographer Trish is in a photo – behind Jon’s champagne glass –

~~oo0oo~~

imbongolo – donkey; two donkeys: izimbongolo

Denyse took the kudu, zebra and vultures-on-kill photos in the feature collage