She was carrying a big soapy bowl of dishes she’d just washed and the big heart-shaped wooden cutting board slid off the top and shattered on the tiles.
– the giraffes are bemused –
We shouldn’t investigate, as we may find the root cause of the mishap being a slack home handyman. Had he replaced the mixer in the scullery sink, Jess may not have being schlepping dishes around in the first place. Moving on…
~o0o~
As with most things in this overstocked cottage, never fear: there are two more wooden cutting boards. One even has a heart-shaped hole cut into it.
I thought ya, ya, sure, that’s true. And dismissed the thought.
Tonight I was parked right outside the entrance to the Playhouse theatre in downtown Durban, opposite the City Hall, waiting to fetch Jess and Fatima after the show Shall We Dance? when out of the corner of my eye I saw cars taking big evasive action.
A bakkie zoomed from the far-side lane at breakneck speed right across four lanes towards my side of the road and smashed into the little silver car parked right in front of me. BANG! People standing under the No Stopping sign scattered, leaping every-which-way.
Silence. Then much Hey! Hey! and running. I couldn’t see, too many people, but ‘my’ carguard told me the driver had made a run for it and citizens had chased after him. I though Uh Oh! and phoned 10111. Listen, you’d better send your people here pronto. I’m afraid the citizens may rough up the perpetrator, I said to the operator. I’ll send the police there right away, she said.
To their credit, the Playhouse security people stepped in and took the perp, who my informant confidently assured me was inebriated, marched him back to his car and put him back in the drivers seat to safely await the cops.
Two tow trucks arrived. An ambulance arrived and took the driver into their vehicle to check him over. Hopefully check his breath. Now the cops arrived and took over. The middle-aged couple who were sitting in the little silver car when it was hit – and like me had been waiting to fetch concert-goers after the show – were amazingly calm. They took photos and told their story, filled in forms, no panic, even though their car was badly damaged.
In the whole pantomime there were only two poephols – the drunk driver and a prick in a Merc SUV who drove up and hooted for the ambulance, the tow trucks and the crashed cars to magically get out of his way, he was important. A family member (I assume – probably a son) of the ‘victim’ couple who had arrived to assist them went up to the jerk, gave him a withering look and waved him around the scene.
When the dust had settled I finally thought of taking a picture. Then the girls arrived at last and hopped in, unaware of the drama. They’d been waiting to have their pics taken with stars from the show.
As I was leaving, my man, my guard, my informant came and spoke to me firmly: Mkhulu, my parking fee is R20; I looked after you well and I have to feed my family. I agreed with him, borrowed R20 from Fatima and paid him! He was chuffed and stopped traffic in the main street – old Smith Street – to let me out!
For far too long I’ve been saying, OK Tom, we will go fishing. But one thing and another…
But at last we head north. It’s too windy for offshore and I forget you can’t fish in the estuary, its a sanctuary, as it should be. Go with Jeff of Fat Bike Fishing, says Tammy at our lodge.
Best suggestion ever. Even better when I find out we’re motor-assisted! Pedalling can cause perspiration, but with a tiny press of a thumb lever there’s a seat-of-the-pants shove and weg is jy!
– Jeff n Tom –
Seven km north we reach First Rocks in isiMangaliso Park. Jeff and Tom had already bonded as crazy ass fishing focused enthusiasts. Jeff baited up and cast into the reef where he knows the fish lurk.
Next minute, Tom was ON! First cast!
Well, that was it for normal people. The fishermen were busy! I had to move out the way.
Tom caught a cave bass, and then three cat-face rock cod. All beautiful fish. Each was given a huge grin, a wriggling-with-pleasure dance, a photo shoot and then was released to swim again.
On the way fresh leopard spoor on the trail, a number of birds on the vegetated dunes, ghost crabs, rock pools, and the realisation that Jeff is a damn good birder and safari guide too, having ferried trips into Hluhluwe Game Reserve as a previous career.
Anyone looking for an adventure on the Zululand coast – beautiful beaches, glorious solitude, nature, some exercise (or not: when I got tired I eased my thumb down on the magic button!) and even some fishing! look up Jeff here:
Barbs Kirby, special lady, died recently. The news brought some reminiscing, so I went looking in old sent mailboxes…
email to Barbs & Rip Kirby Sent: 22 March 2019 10:18 PM Subject: Chirpy wisdom
I suddenly had a clear moment in my fuzzy brain and thought of two things from way back when. And I thought “I must tell the Chirpies!” So here are the two stories I wrote down, you good people:
Story 1: When we first got infested with children I thought, What the hell are these things? They looked like a lot of fun so I’d play with them. Then for some unknown reason, they’d start crying and it was less fun.
Luckily, the Kirbys were frequent visitors and – with three blonde daughters – they were experienced. They said: “Always try feeding them first. Then see if you need to do anything else.”
Pearl of wisdom! That helped us LOTS!
Story 2: When the lil bastids started jolling I was on my own, no Aitch. So I started laying down the law: What you could do; Where you could go; When you must be home. Harumph!
Of course, they ignored it all, and just when I was about to start fighting with them, I suddenly thought: What do I want most? Their safety? Or to fight with them? And I remembered my jolling and how much fun it was. That’s when I remembered the Kirbys telling me they fetch their girls from clubs downtown or wherever.
“We fetch them from Wherever, at Whatever time – No matter where they go, we will fetch them, even if it’s very late at night,” they told me.
So I started saying “Where are you going please? and what time do you want me to fetch you?” or “Phone me when you’re ready, and I’ll fetch you.”
I fell into the Kirby method, and it has worked like a bomb! They tell me where they’re going. They phone me when they’re ready and I fetch them. And USUALLY not very late – often earlier than I would have expected and certainly earlier than I often got home in my day! Dodgy areas, sure. Same as I used to go to.
Right now, they’re snug in bed after saying, Love You Dad And Sleep Tight and all that shit that I never said to my father! Or him to me…
I love it. Thanks, Kirbys! Cheers, Pete
~~oo0oo~~
The Kirbs replied:
Thanks for the reminders.
Yep the bottom line is Trust. You are a GREAT father. So glad we could give you bits of advice.
Quite one of the best game drives I have ever been on! We headed for Red Rocks, a place where the sandy Shongweni riverbed is cut by a different geological layer resulting in an impressive cataract / waterfall.
To get back to camp we had two options: Back the way we’d come with a wall of green Mopani woodland on either side, or cross the river and head north and downstream along the left bank on a route I remembered as more open savannah dotted with big trees and glimpses of the sandy riverbed en route.
So glad we chose the latter.
It was beautiful. Miles of mixed herds of zebra, impala and wildebeest, lots of giraffe – up to sixteen in a bunch; one herd of eles with tiny babies; many waterbuck with young; one solitary warthog that got a fright, then chased our car like a dog!
The light was perfect, the trees – jackalberry, sycamore fig, fever tree, nyala, natal mahogany, mopani, apple-leaf – magnificent. The open grasslands between were a relief from miles of Mopani and that’s where the rutting impala ram noisily chased his target doe for the day; zebras kicked each other, raising dust, and wildebeests stared dopily while lying in the shade. The eles were peaceful except for one young bull who swore at us and raised his middle trunk as we passed.
Hornbills, including the big ‘Thunderbirds’ shown, fish eagles, puffbacks, go-away birds, weavers, 3-banded plover, crowned lapwing, hamerkop, drongo. All ‘ordinary’ birds and animals but in a wonderful quintessential African setting on a lovely cloud-and-blue-sky day.
Progress on the panelbeating of the Ford Ranger, but no end-date yet, as sourcing parts aint easy, her being a 2008 model n all. Also slowing progress is that scourge of old vehicles, *rust*! So panelbeater Chris is repairing, making some parts while searching scrapyards and pestering parts shops. And waiting.
So Jess and I did our usual dash to Kruger park. Waiting is hell in a town, bliss in a game reserve.
We got one night in Mopani camp, three nights in Shingwedzi. On arrival here, we snagged another two, making this a lovely 5-night stay in one of our favourite camps.
Lush green growth and lots of surface water after recent rains, so animals quite scarce. Some roads closed due to flood damage and much repair and reconstruction going on. Nature looking good, its our man-made infrastructure that gets damaged.
The couple camped permanently are still here. We met them when we had an mfezi in our bonnet some time ago. That’ll be well over two years they’ve been camped on the same spot in Shingwedzi!
One day we must ask to stay in one of the older bungalows here:
Hey, we got one of the 1935 huts! See how they’re much as they were back then – on the outside. The interiors are new and smart. Tiled, big shower, fully-equipped kitchen on the lovely shady porch.
Those mopani tree trunks in the foreground look only a little thicker after 85yrs!
– last drive on a drizzly day – – Bennets Woodpecker female outside our chalet –– Bronze-winged Courser –– tiny tortoise – about 90mm shell length –
Jess and I needed to get away – waiting for the insurance company to make a decision on our damaged vehicle was taking forever – so we chose one of our favourite places, Kruger National Park. For the first time we stayed in Orpen camp, the only camp we had never stayed in. And what a lovely little camp it is too.
Pics only for now
I’d go back to Orpen fo sho. Small and in the Timbavati river valley. Good habitat and uncrowded. Perfect.
Weird that a bakkie’s electric window winding mechanisms don’t last eighteen years, don’t you think? And that one can’t get spares after so short a time?
Being without a working driver’s door window made me a bit sad. That was OK, though as it made my kids even sadder. They were my automatic gate openers and parking boom and toll booth payers. Actually they did it with surprising good humour, enjoying rolling their eyes at me and sighing. I think, I believe.
Then Willie Panelbeater found an after-market window-winding mechanism for me. The driver’s door window is back in business. Once again I am rolling up to tollbooth windows nonchalantly.
Meantime, the two rear windows had been playing up for quite a while, and eventually conked. So far we’ve been unsuccessful in our search of Olde Parts Suppliers and scrapyards, so I have had to Heath-Robinson a fix for the left rear door.
– Window Closed –– Window Open –
Now for the right rear. We’ll take turns sitting in the back, cos having windows like these, that don’t open all the way, is not fun! Shouldn’t be allowed. How can you look cool if you can’t hang your elbow out the window?
Update 1: Both rear windows have yielded to my mechanical skill and know-how and can open and shut again – and: All-The-Way open! Elbow-hanging cool can now take place. Also photography out the window in game reserves. Admittedly all very manual, no electric motors involved, and closing them if it starts to rain or a lion wants to stick its snoot inside entails stopping, opening the door and manhandling them closed.
I call it nostalgia, a wonderful throwback to Mom growing up on Nuwejaarsvlei and driving to town in Dad Frank’s yellow 1927 Erskine Tourer. Read about that here.
~~oo0oo~~
Update 2: I bought an exercise mat on special and quickly, before any exercise could take place, cut it up and covered up the gaping hole. Netjies huh?
Jessie’s spotting again. We booked a stay in a treehouse at Bonamanzi. Arriving too early for check-in, we took a walk in the camp while waiting for the key.
Dad there’s a yellow frog. Where, Jess? Omigawd Dad, there’s a snake! Where, Jess?
I aim my binocs where she’s pointing on the ground and spot a beautiful, slender green snake. It lunges forward. Now I’m watching a bright green snake with a bright yellow frog in its beak. It makes for a tree, carrying it’s prey like a tiny peeled mango. Now, if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that our little yellow frog has croaked.
– Aargh! Didn’t have my camera with me! –
But wait! The unhappy frog is unwilling to die, and with a mighty kick it ruks los and hops off, snake in pursuit. That frog hopped well over twenty times higher than its full 36mm body length, three huge jumps in a row with that frog-catching specialist snake in hot pursuit. Then suddenly, maybe becoming aware of our presence, the snake changed it’s mind, abandoned the chase and beetled off. The frog paused for a breather and let me get close:
– cellphone camera is better for close-ups –
The frog was a Tinker Reed Frog, the snake likely a Natal Green Snake, but could also have been a Green Water Snake. About 600mm long I’d guess.
– the scene of the hunt, the grip and the escape –
Here he is, saying Holy Shit That Was Close!
Actually, I couldn’t find his call, so as a placeholder, I used a frog I hope to hear in the Chimanimani mountains on our upcoming trip to Zimbabwe. Enjoy.
~~oo0oo~~
ruks los – heroically frees himself with a well-aimed kick in the fangs with his one leg the snake didn’t quite secure; or maybe boxed him a left hook with his free fist?
Jess and Tom share a birthday, so Tuesday was lunch in Umhlanga Rocks for urban Tom, and Thursday was a picnic in Mfolosi game reserve for nature guide Jess. Once again we forgot to take pics in the gateway centre, being far too busy eating, chatting, banking – Tom – and shopping for clothes – Jess.
A warm overcast day with a cool wind in the game reserve, and we remembered the cameras!
Breakfast was egg-mayo sandwiches and coffee made by Jess; Lunch was gourmet burgers flipped by Dad. Jess had brought three puddings, but we couldn’t – took them home.
On the way out an open game drive vehicle from a lodge outside the park needed help. The mighty Ford Ranger could help the Toyota Landcruiser with jumper cables and a no.10 spanner. Unfortunately his battery was dead as a dodo and needed a new one swopped out from a lodge backup vehicle, which was in the park with four staff members to lay out a lavish lunch for the pampered guests. But hey! we scored an ice cold beer and a coke from their cooler box. Thanks, safari guide man!
This time we must remember to take photos, Dad! Especially one of us in a recognisable place – a nice backdrop. Right, Jess.
Lots of eles, including one herd heading north in a long straggling line through the bush, crossing in front of us twice, thanks to a dogleg in the road. I counted fifty, but Jess, who hadn’t counted, said, No Dad, there were about fifteen! So I said OK there were forty. Luckily I took a video of one of the batches moving past – added below.
We give eles lots of room, as Jess is very cautious of them. Even at a good hundred metres a few of the young males gave us the Hey! Watch Yourself! ear shake.
Lots and LOTS of warthogs, all happily covered in mud. One sounder had longer crests/manes than usual – and light, like blonde – looked like Rod Stewart as a quintuplet. Seven square-lipped rhino; One mama with a small calf crossed right in front of us – no photo!
Surprisingly, a number of birds considering the stiff breeze that blew all day. We considered taking lunch in the car, but Sontuli picnic site is sheltered, so we used the last available table. Good to see a number of people having lunch there, parking an assortment of very capable and well-modified 4X4 vehicles with raised suspension and knobbly tyres next to the Fiat Unos that keep them humble.
Another photo missed by staring-in-awesome-wonder was a gathering of vultures on a wide sandy beach on a bend in the Black Mfolosi River, sunning and sand-bathing. Joined by Woolly-necked Storks, Pied Crows, Blacksmith Lapwing and Yellow-billed Kites.
– same stretch of river, different visit –
Also saw buffalo, wildebeest, zebra, giraffe banging heads, baboon, impala, nyala and kudu (only one); Went on a detour in search of cheetah, sent by an excited lady on her own in a bakkie who said we couldn’t miss them. The spot she thought the group of four cats would obligingly wait for us was about twenty minutes away. But Jess wanted to go so of course we did. The friendly lady hadn’t nailed them down so they’d felt free to wander off. Still, nice drive on a road we don’t usually use as it’s an entrance route from the western Gengeni gate which we have only exited twice to explore the interesting Ulundi to Melmoth road.
Dad, I can’t think what to have for our third supper camping. Don’ wurrie Jess, I’ll do the first night, you just do two suppers. What’ll you do Dad? she asked, maybe regretting opening her mouth. Don’ wurrie Jess, I have a plan.
Her query had reminded me that our cottage came with three stainless steel braais, two built-in, and three braai grids, and two huge bags of charcoal – not your garage forecourt size – and eight plastic-wrapped bags of braaihout. I packed the grid, a bag of braaihout, fahlahter, safety matches, and two T-bones. I was going to become a brauer. How hard could it be?
At Bonamanzi there’s a built-in brick braaiplek, no grid. I go scouting the sixteen sites, only two occupied, and find a grid, collecting twigs as I go. At dusk I set the well-packed pyramid-shaped pyre alight and stand back watching the blaze with satisfaction, marveling at how easy this is and how okes gaan aan about their secret and foolproof ‘methods,’ etc and blah blah. When I have glowing hardehout coals – and admittedly still a bit of flame, I’m hungry so I sandwich the Spar-marinaded vacuum-packed very thinly-sliced bargain T-bones into my nifty snap-shut stainless steel braai grid that came wif the cottage, and plop them on top of the camp grid over the red hot coals. With a bit of flame.
I’m attending them noukeurig when the other camper drives in in the dark and I make the mistake of shouting across my coals, How was your drive? Turns out he thinks he should tell me.
He bustles over and tells me. I didn’t catch his name but if it isn’t Earnest it should be. Great detail about how their drive was not good, no elephant. Then where he’s from and what his 4X4 is and which one he actually wanted to buy (Nissan Pathfinder / Nissan Patrol) and how – exactly how – he built his own camper trailer on his parents farm and what he kitted it out with with his own hands and how although the trailer was old, the wheel bearings were still shiny silver when he took them apart. Also the pros and cons of a gazebo.
I’m shuffling and he’s getting into his stride and I’m polite. A fatal combination, which brings Jess with a torch to say, Dad you’ve burnt the meat!
~~oo0oo~~
braai – barbecue
braaihout – barbecue
braaiplek – barbecue
brauer– barbecue deskundige
deskundige – expert, but only in pyromania
noukeurig – barbecue with focus
gaan aan – barbecue talk
~~oo0oo~~
The campsites here are lovely
Nice winter birdlist in three days:
Yellowthroat Petronia, Purple-banded Sunbird, Emerald spotted wood Dove, Red eyed Dove, Egyptian Goose, Spurwing Goose, Great white Egret, Cattle Egret, Grey Heron, Reed Cormorant, Anhinga/Darter, Greater Honeyguide, Stonechat, Rufous-naped Lark, Orange-breasted Bushshrike, Gorgeous Bushshrike, S Boubou, Chinspot Batis, Puffback, Golden-tailed Woodpecker, S Banded Snake Eagle, Fiery-necked Nightjar, Wood Owl, Fish Eagle, Yellow-breasted Apalis, Crested Guineafowl, Spectacled Weaver, Darkbacked Weaver, Green Woodhoopoe, Yellowthroated Longclaw, Eastern Nicator, Camaroptera, Yellow-bellied Greenbul, Bulbul, Fiscal Shrike, Brown-hooded Kingfisher, Striped Kingfisher, Crowned Lapwing, Spotted Thick-knee, Ashy Flycatcher, Dusky Flycatcher, African Goshawk, S Black Tit, Fork-tailed Drongo, S Black Flycatcher, Black-crowned Tchagra, Pied Crow, Lipstick (don’t call me common) Waxbill, Crested Barbet, Yellow-rumped Tinker, Pied Wagtail, Cape Glossy Starling, Red-breasted Swallow, White Helmet-shrike, Burchell’s Coucal, Crested Francolin, Crowned Hornbill, Hadeda, African Jacana, 59
Often in my young life a bowl of dry crumbly uphuthu would arrive ready to eat, absolutely delicious with milk and sugar which I’d add all by my own self. Yum. Then the bowl would disappear never to be seen again until it was back sparkling clean on another day, filled with phuthu. Like magic. Made by Selina, mostly, who might also make egg, toast and bacon on a flat plate. I was pleasantly spoilt and didn’t know how things worked. Just that they did.
Recently we bought a 1kg packet of Nyala mealie meal from Mtunzini Spar and I’ve been successfully making iphalishi, slap pap, soft maize meal porridge to rave reviews from Jessie. Today I thought How Hard Can It Be? I’m going to make phuthu. Oh boy.
I make my phalishi in a glass bowl in the microwave but for some reason I think phuthu has to be made in a stainless steel pot with steel handles on a gas hob. Ouch, bliksem those handles get hot. So add the meal to the water that burnt me, add more meal, steam up the spectacles, stir occasionally, whoa! a lump has flown overboard and plopped down between the stove and the cupboard. Now I have to grovel and stretch in the tight space to get it out with my bum in the air cos I told Jess we mustn’t leave any crumbs for ants or cockroaches or mice. We found some mouse poo when we moved in and I was telling her that’s what brings certain snakes – the smell of rodents. Sometimes I should just shurrup.
To stir occasionally I have to hold the lid with a double-folded dishcloth and also the pot handle with the same hand while I’m stirring with the other hand so it doesn’t slide around. What’s that smell and why is Jessie laughing? Oh, the dishcloth got into the flame and is burning quite nicely. Damn.
Check the recipe on the Nyala pack: Stir occasionally, cook for 35 to 45 minutes. 35 to 45 minutes! Are they mad? I don’t do anything for 35mins non-stop. On average I do 35 unproductive things in 35 minutes.
Eventually its done and it tastes quite nice although its stickier, not dry and crumbly as I remember it and like it best. Once we open doors and windows the burning smell fades but the pot looks terrible, black and crusty, sending Jess off into uncontrolled giggling.
After breakfast Barbara phones and puts Mom on the line. She listens amused then says, Put water in the pot and heat it till the black crust loosens up.
OK, but no more phuthu. Forget it. That’s my breakfast ePiphany. Tomorrow Jess will make egg and toast if she can stop laughing like Audrey Hepburn.
~~oo0oo~~
Rave reviews from Jessie: I freely admit she is generous with her praise and in fact is very disapproving of Gordon Ramsay’s foul-mouthed rants describing food as shit and worse. She says even though at times it’s difficult, you can always find something kind to say about Dad’s cooking.
‘Geezer’ refers to an older person, almost always a man, whose behaviour is regarded as either eccentric or typically ‘elderly.’ So what’s that got to do with me, you ask?
Geezers make hilarious comedy. Some well-known American examples of ‘geezers’ are Grampa Simpson of the Simpsons, Grandad Freeman of the Boondocks, Albert in Steptoe & Son, etc.
Geezers are often – wrongly, I now growl defensively – depicted as irritable and cranky, at least mildly irrational, and mired firmly in the past. Hmph!
‘The metric system is the tool of the devil! My car gets 40 rods to the hogshead and that’s the way I likes it.‘ Grampa Simpson.
‘The best way to describe Grandad Freeman is that he is old yet unwise. He never accepts responsibility for his actions, nor does he learn any lessons’.
More Grampa Simpson:‘Dear Mr. President, there are too many states nowadays. Please eliminate three. I am not a crackpot;’
Grandad Freeman is not exactly the best parental figure or influence (eg. he is perfectly fine with sneaking into movies without paying). He mutters, ‘I hate to see a child go unbeaten.’ To explain his grumpiness, his grandkids sing of him, ‘He’s just mad ’cause his ass is old!’
Albert Steptoe (with a beer on the coffin of his brother): ‘This is the first drink I’ve ever had on him;’ and, ‘Reading books leads to communism.’
– two jebediahs –
The word geezer originally meant a person of any age, the criterion of ‘geezerhood’ being oddness. When it first appeared in the late 1800s, ‘geezer‘ simply meant eccentric in looks and/or behaviour. The root of ‘geezer‘ is ‘disguiser’ – a person who dresses up in costume for a masquerade or other occasion. To call someone a ‘guiser’ (pr. ‘geezer’) was to say that they were dressed and/or behaving as oddly as one might on Halloween, for example. Sometime around the 1920s ‘geezer‘ started to mean an older, eccentric man says The Word Detective.
~~oo0oo~~
My kids mainly call me Daddy or Dad. When they say Da-ad I know they’re going to ask for money. Tom also uses Ballie and Pops. Of my extra daughters, Gugu calls me Pete, and Ziggy calls me Geezer. I cracked up inside when she first said it, but bit my lip. So Ziggy always calls me ‘Geezer’ – and spells it ‘Geyser.’
