– life – bokdrols of wisdom –
Out on the Makalamabedi road south of Maun the Boteti river is flowing nicely. Three or four of the pipes have a swift current and the birds are loving it. And I only got two pictures, none of the lovely scene!
. . and then there’s the salubrious suburb of Tsanakona and Janet’s patch there on the right bank of the fascinating Tamalakhane River. Quite one of my favouritest places in the world!
So I decided to sell my home and go mobile, hit the road. Of course, I did some careful research into which mobile home I should buy.
Criteria: 1. No rooftop ladder! See, I have a brain, so you rooftop tent dwellers are OK, but I could get brain damage.
Criteria 2: No rooftop ladder. Those fokkin things can kill you dead! First there’s UP after six beers; then there’s DOWN in the wee hours because of the six beers. Ascent or descent can kill you dead. I need a gentlemanly collapse-into-bed setup.
Criteria 3: Cheap. Well, compared to a house. While searching, you do get tempted! Here’s one that costs about seven times what I just sold my home for!
Criteria 4: Not a trailer. We loved our Bushman Tracker 1 trailer, but been there, done that. If I hadn’t allowed it to rust I coulda saved all this cash n bother, but . . oh well. And anyway, it had a rooftop ladder. See the dangerous angled access to the sleeping loft on the left of this pic.
So how does one make the ascent in the AHA, seeing as it also has the double bed up on the roof? Like this:
Gracious and long-suffering hosts the Brauers kindly allowed me to do a test-pitch / unveiling on their driveway!
Fetching the camper was just the start. The old bakkie got a wobble-hop from the new weight and the diagnosis was new tyres and new shocks.
Rugged kevlar-reinforced off-road tyres; Soothing chamomile shocks for a tranquil ride; This is what they told me. Oh, it’ll be worth it, they said. Here we go, the never-ending, “And then just add THIS . . “
When I sent the pic of my new acquisition to Tommy his only comment had nothing to do with my shiny new toy; Just, Cor, Dad! Who’s been feeding you? It was Terry, of course. And I also had to eat Brauer’s vegetable portions.
~~oo0oo~~
Ancestral home of us Tshwanepoels. We have land rights. We’re biding our time before launching a land claim. As soon as Trump and the Guptas are in gaol, we’ll launch our bid. Meantime, I’m just visiting Chez Brauer in the Gramadoelas for Easter to keep death off the roads without driving on the pavements.
With Terry away that evening I thought I’d better buy food; you know how bachelors are, the fridge would be empty. So I took my Checkers deli ready-cooked booty and went to put it in the fridge. Dorothy had let me in – Brauer was still slaving over a hot autorefractor. Well, when I opened the heavy fridge door, two pounds of butter and three jars of anchovette fell on my toes. The fridge was filled to Terry-pacity. There was two kinds of every delicacy from 140 of the 200 countries of the world in that capacious fridge. I shoved my packet in and quickly slammed the door; only two pawpaws escaped.
Their beautiful kitchen was stocked with alles in wonderland – stuff for Pesach; stuff for Easter; stuff for Passover, Diwali and Lent; bunnies, brightly coloured eggs, marshmallow eggs, designer cubic eggs with dark chocolate (those were yum), and etc. Most of it was, of course, thanks to us pagans, who contribute all the fun stuff to holidays and celebrations. Think about it: The grog! the naked dancing! bonfires! You know that, right? We have Bacchus on our team, I think, don’t we? Probly Venus as well. The Abrahamic religions only contributed guilt and hellfire.
Diwali wasn’t so good; the lights were dim; thanks to Eskom – they switched off. So Brauer kick-started his borrowed generator and hey presto! Except for a bit of bronchitis. The generator would roar, then sigh, then get a death rattle and vrek. Some investigating was needed. We switched off everything we thought would draw a lotta power, but still the sukkel‘ing. Then Terry Sherlock had a thought: She switched off Brauer’s bar fridge. Aha! THAT was the problem, of course. That amount of hooch draws kilowatts. Now we had Peace on Erf.
Terry stopped Sid when he arrived at the top of the stairs. ‘Wait There, I’ll Help You Down,’ she pressed pause. Sid waited obediently while she sorted out a few things in cornucopia. Sid had driven himself in his BMW, he’s fully licenced and experienced in driving since 1948. Having escorted him down the steps, Terry said, ‘Sit. I’ll Make You Tea.’ She reached for the exact spot in the kitchen where, among 467 other items, she knew Sid’s cake was waiting. Silence. Uh, Oh! Confession time! There wasn’t a rat in the house. Well, not a small furry one anyhow. I had scoffed it the day before! I say let them eat . . . whatever Sid got instead.
~~oo0oo~~
gramadoelas – dodgy area with a truck stop and generator right outside the guest bedroom window; residents have corrupted the name to Maroelana to hide the dodgy
pavements – sidewalks
alles – Alice
vrek – go kaput
kaput – go vrek;
vrek – dead
sukkel – battle; suffer; struggle; like bronchitis
erf – earth; plot; erven; yard; peace on erf = domestic bliss
I decided to look for elusive gentlemen farmers Des and Ian by launching a stealth visit to the Memel district, choosing the Memel hotel as my base. This magic old hotel is not just IN the main road, its ON the main road. If you stretch your foot out while drinking a beer on the stoep it could get driven over by the big knobbly tyre of a farmer’s bakkie. Why’s the bakkie nearly on the hotel stoep and does his wife know he’s there? Well, ons sal sien.
I settled on that stoep with a cold beer and asked if anyone knew Des Glutz? Well, they all did and they all had lots to tell me. Just wait right there, said Rudi the friendly hotelier, He’s sure to pop in, it’s Friday.
Various bakkies arrived and men in khaki wearing boots or velskoens trooped into the bar. Most wore langbroeks in khaki. Then a Nissan bakkie parked right in front of me and under the chassis a pair of bony feet in blue slip-slops appeared, followed by a pair of bony legs in faded navy blue rugby shorts with plenty of ballroom. His face and neck were covered by a scraggly beard but two eyes peeped through and I could see this was my man. He’s kinda unmistakable with his half-closed eyelids. Also, khaki shirt with a notebook and pen for the amnesia.
I accosted him from my prime spot on the stoep: ‘Excuse me, what you think you doing? You can’t come in here dressed like that!’ Well, then he knew I was from far, cos he most certainly can and does go into the Memel pub dressed like that. He stopped in his tracks and stared at me with his chin tilted up and his eyes half closed, you know how Des does that. Then he kicked for touch: Wait, I’m just going to tell these fuckin old fossils I’ll be late. He ‘stuck his head in the door and cussed his three slightly older drinking pals, telling them they were fuckin old fossils and he’d be outside, they must behave themselves; then he came back to stare at me. Took a while to see through my new beard, then he said Coppers!? Is that you? He called me Coppers after a Clifton primary schoolmate oke called Copchinsky. He also called policemen copchinskys.
As people arrived everyone greeted Oom Des and he had a cussing and a vloekwoord for each of them. Except the ladies. Hello my sweetheart, I still love you but I’m worried about your heart, he says to one, Come here and let me listen to your heartbeat. She leans over him and he nestles his ear in her boobs and rubs back and forth going Mmmmmm. Haai! Oom Des! she says and rubs his head affectionately. Incorrigible. He has not changed, never mind improved. Not at all, I’m afraid. We had a wonderful evening nodding at each others lies. Every time I told him I don’t normally drink but I’d make an exception tonight cos he was there, he’d order another quart of beer each. He left for home, very late, with the re-heated and re-heated pizza Mercia had ordered as a peace offering.
I discovered a few things that Memel evening: One was that the mense of Memel love the oke.
The next day I drove around the well-known Seekoeivlei nature reserve; Des was off to pretend to buy bulls at a vendusie with one of the fuckin old fossils. I saw them on the road but Des had his head in his notebook for amnesia and the fuckin old fossil doesn’t know me.
Des and Mercia have a lovely spacious home in town and Oom Des decreed that a braai would be held there. Unfortunately I hopped into his bakkie to go there, mid-conversation, so I had no beers, no car. Soon after, another apparition arrived with a snow-white beard. The Bothas Pass hermit had emerged from his cave, bearing enough beers for an army, plus a bottle of brandewyn. Ian Stervis Steele, who I had not seen for many decades. What a night. About ten people, about a hundred beers and a gallon of brandewyn; lots of mutton chops, pork ribs and boerewors, a huge pot of pap and a very lekker sous. Very good oldtime music and Des at the head of the table till WAY late. Generous hospitality and much laughter.
Stervis, myself and a local couple stayed the night with Des and Mercia and their four dogs, the most notable one being a pekingese / sausage dog cross. Pitch black and chubby, about ankle-high, with that Pekingese-style smashed flat beak. Name: RAMBO. If you weren’t careful it would lick you. I got the comfy couch in the lounge.
The next day I was off-peak and had a snooze back at the hotel and booked another night. In the afternoon I drove out to Normandien and Mullers passes and then visited Des. For tea this time. Then back to the hotel where Rudi cooked me a huge T-bone and I had one glass of red and an early night, dank die hemel, Memel.
I saw stonechats, mountain wheatears and amur falcons; and the beautiful Klipspruit valley.
Before I left on this drive I called in at the butcher for some fatty biltong. The owner enquired what I was doing in town and I said I had been sent on a special mission to find and fix a man called Des Glutz. He and two customers in the shop roared with laughter and told me in no uncertain terms that there was no way I could ever live long enough to achieve that.
~~oo0oo~~
mahem – grey crowned crane that shouts ‘MaHem!’
bakkie – pickup; ute; status symbol
slip-slops – Glutz fashion footwear
fuckin old fossils – people slightly older than Des
vloekwoord – swearword; expletive; term of endearment
Oom Des – old codger
Haai, Oom Des – Stoppit, you naughty old codger
mense – people; folk
braai, boerewors, pap, sous, etc – ritual burnt offerings; various animals sacrificed
brandewyn – sacramental drink served as part of the braai ritual in tall glasses; distilled from grapes or peaches, they say. Stervis brought a bottle along which he’d found at a helluva good price, he said.
dank die hemel – Memel ‘sanks heavens’ ritual chant
~~oo0oo~~
Memel is maybe named after a Memel in East Prussia where they fought a battle in 1257, even before Des was born. The name means silence, but that has been broken since Des moved to town, and since Memel joined with Zamani to become Memel-Zamani.
Tom’s truckload was the first to leave.
And there goes Jessie’s today! She and her family are looking forward to the fridge and the microwave.
Now they can feed themselves and I’m free to roam! Our household goods divided fairly for the kids to start their own new lives. Yay! Fingers crossed.
~~oo0oo~~
Life without a fridge – first time since forever – and a microwave should be interesting. First meal: Starter, a packet of peanuts & raisins; Main, a camping sachet of three bean salad, crisps and freshly fried home-made potato chips with salt and braai spice. Washed down with a wee bottle of Vergelegen Reserve Merlot 2015 – a gift from Coo Evans. Yum!
(the album has been discarded, here are all the pages for posterity):
~~~oo0oo~~~
I gave a talk in the Kruger Park once called The Art of the Game Drive. It was magnificent, complete with exciting sightings and livestreaming. Pity was, I had an unappreciative audience. Well, they were from behind the boerewors curtain, so . . you know how they are.
It almost sounded like they had a pet monkey with them, as they kept muttering Ari Aap as I drove them serenely in quiet splendour and exquisite comfort in my VW Kombi 2,1 in subtle camouflage blue and white. But you won’t believe this, when I stopped to examine old poo there was audible sighing. Philistines. The talks are still wildly popular, but I notice none of that particular batch were ever repeat guests. And I mainly have repeat guests. *
*Like Jessie. She has been a repeat guest dozens – scores – of times. She can appreciate the Art of the Game Drive. ‘Specially if she has her phone, her music and noise-cancelling earphones with her.
~~~oo0oo~~~
Good photographers have presence of mind. I’d like more of that stuff.
Last night I leaned back in my office chair – director’s or boss’ chair deluxe, high-back, padded armrests – luxuriously and started to put my feet up on my imbuia wood desk. The smooth motion didn’t stop there, I kept going backwards, the high-back cushioned my head as I crashed, the wheels of the chair caught under the desk, sending a full glass of red wine and a plate of fine cordon curried mutton pie and tomato sauce crashing to the tiled floor, along with the PC monitor and my drone remote control.
Fokop. Chair horizontal, desk at 45 degrees, dramatic grape blood and tomato blood on the floor, legs in the air, same air blue with profanity.
A photographer would have taken a great picture, especially as the ‘blood’ oozed towards my collection of eleven Okavango Delta books I’d gathered together as I’m getting rid of my library.
I very boringly tidied the broken glass and ceramic, mopped the red wine, re-assembled the scattered shrapnel and then thought: Damn! A picture would have been good.
I sort of re-staged it this morning to show how the chair’s wheeled legs tipped up the old desk on the right.
Clearing out old emails
On Mon, Nov 22, 2010, Pete wrote:
I felt a snuggle in bed last night. Wasn’t Aitch. Eight year-old TomTom had come through and was spooned tightly against my back.
Later, when I had to roll over he was wide awake.
“Dad” he whispers close to my ear, scared he’ll wake his Ma.
Mm
“I’m hungry. Can I get up and make myself a snack. I’m really hungry.”
He’s 24 kg wringing wet, and his muti suppresses his appetite by day, so I say:
Mm
I wake again to a feeling that it has been some time. I can hear dishes clanking, so I get up and tiptoe to the kitchen, where the clock shows straight up 4am. Still dark outside, but the kitchen neon is blazing.
Lots of kit has been employed and a good dusting of icing sugar is evident on the chairs and the floor.
What? I ask
“Dad” he says, “I’m icing Marie biscuits.”
Have you eaten? I ask.
“Not yet, Dad, but they’re nearly ready.”
“And” he says, “I’ve made my school lunch.”
I didn’t ask.
~~~oo0oo~~~
Steve replied: Doncha just love it. This young man is not only a problem solver but also aware of the necessity for contingency planning. Hope this does not turn into a regular event though.
Our Neil [24] occasionally mentions he is “off to get some food” at the end of a phone chat to him down in Welly. I imagine this would mean most likely pizza, burger or when he is at his most domesticated, a ready-roasted chicken with some breadrolls.
Like you, I don’t ask.
The Old Goat’s usual crap when he phones: ‘What’s for supper?’ Sweet potato, I say. Blah blah, something about the price, always the price. The price here, the price in America, the price.
Ouma used to bake them in the oven with lotsa sugar and some butter, he recalls. I can remember the taste as if it was yesterday.
Wasn’t yesterday. That was a helluva long time ago.
ca.1927
~~~oo0oo~~~
. . and a lower quota of Booze.
Lang Dawid came to visit after decades in the hinterland. Always very organised, he sent bearers ahead of his arrival bearing two lists: Ten new birds he wanted to see; and Three old bullets he wanted to see.
We delivered thirty percent of his DD bird list: Desperately Desired: A Red-capped Robin-Chat, A White-eared Barbet and a Terrestrial Brownbul;
Forty percent if you count the bonus male Tambourine Dove that landed in a patch of sunlight, a photographic lifer for Dave.
All this thanks to Crispin Hemson showing us his special patch, Pigeon Valley in urban Durban. Talk about Guru Guiding! with his local knowledge, depth, anecdotes, asides and wandering all over, on the ground and in our minds. And his long-earned exalted status in this forest even allowed us to avoid arrest while climbing through a hole in the fence like naughty truant schoolboys. Whatta lovely man.
Then Dave and I retreated home to my patch in the Palmiet valley, where Tommy had cleaned up, readied the cottage for Dave’s stay and started a braai fire. Spot on, Tom!
We beat his thirty percent bird score when one hundred percent of Dave’s list of old paddling mates arrived. Like homing pigeons, Allie, Charlie and Rip zoomed in. So I had four high-speed paddlers in their day on my stoep, race winners and provincial and national colours galore. We scared off any birds that might have been in the vicinity (feathered or human), but had a wonderful afternoon nevertheless, with lots of laughs.
After they left, Dave and I had braai meat for supper; This morning we had braai meat for breakfast and he was off after a fun-filled 24 hours. I sat down to polish the breakfast remains and another cup of coffee and as a bonus, a female Tambourine Dove landed on my birdbath:
A tragic consequence of their visit was an audit of my booze stocks the next day. Where before they’d have plundered, quaffed, burped and depleted, this time I ended up with more than I’d started with. How the thirsty have fallen!
~~oo0oo~~
Dave's camera equipment is impressive:
- a Canon EOS 7D Mk2 body;
- a 500mm telephoto lens;
- a 70-200mm lens.
His main aim is getting a pic of every bird he sees. He shot his 530th yesterday here in Pigeon Valley. So he chases all over Southern Africa ticking off his ‘desired list.’ A magic, never-ending quest: there’ll always be another bird to find; there’ll always be a better picture to try for.
Here’s an adventure Dave and I shared back when we were bachelors, not ballies. That time it was beer n boobs, not birds n ballies.
~~oo0oo~~
~~oo0oo~~
Dad, What’s ‘Eggnog?’
Look it up, Jess. Ooh! It sounds good, Dad, it has alcohol and cream and sugar and eggs and nutmeg! Can I make some?
She does, it goes into the fridge and she disappears off to Folweni. So I’m sitting with a big batch of whisky eggnog in my fridge. What to do?
A few days later I spy the Jungle Oats in the pantry and aha! My Scottish blood rises along with me kilt and I think ‘porridge’ and make a big bowl of steaming hot oats and drown it in cold eggnog and add sugar, eating it the Scottish way: HOT porridge, cold milk, lots of sugar, don’t stir, let it mix in your mouth.
Yum, I had three happy breakfasts. Next time a bit more whisky.
~~oo0oo~~
11 December. Jess is 23 and Tom is 19
Lellos and Lodders spoil them with gifts, lucky buggers. I told them Hey, after thirteen you don’t get any. They just gave me withering looks.
Tom cooked Petrea’s gift – a ‘tomahawk.’ Jess was away, so she dipped out. We waited for her, but she didn’t pitch.
We each ate a huge chunk, had some for breakfast and there’s still a bit left. Delish!
~~~oo0oo~~~
Here’s a re-post from 2014:
Mother Mary (85 in 2013) went into Pick ‘n Pay looking for smoked hocks to use for making soup.
Two delightful ladies behind the butchery counter looked at her curiously when she asked for smoked hocks.
“What?” they asked “Smoked ‘ocks?”
“Yes,” she replied, “Smoked hocks.”
“No, sorry, we don’t have smoked ‘ocks.”.
“But I bought some here last month and made the most delicious soup!” Mary protested mildly.
.
The two of them looked at each other, turned to Mother Mary and the one said decisively, “We have never had a smoked ox in this shop.”
~~~oo0oo~~~
Friend Rita in Cape Town remarked: Reminds of the time I ordered two de-boned chickens. When I went to fetch them, the ladies at the cash desk were having a big discussion about my chickens. Eventually, one said, ‘Madam, we can’t let you have these chickens – they are flat!’
The conifers are a wonderful group of trees including pines, yellow-woods, redwoods, junipers, cypresses, larch and spruce trees.
From the bark and sap of the pine one can distill TURPENTINE; and
From the berries of the juniper one can distill GIN. – . . . sort of . . .
YAY!!
Juniper berries are actually modified pine cones, but fleshy and edible.
Gin was first mentioned in the 13th century (in Belgium – called jenever) and the first recipe for gin was written in the 16th century.
For all our lives we’ve had to drink London Dry Gin.
Now we can drink JOBURG DRY GIN!
YAY!!
Now, don’t tell anyone, but gin is actually distilled from ANYTHING and then that clear spirit is just infused with juniper berries to make it taste (slightly) better. It’s cheap! Shhh
The way they ‘infuse’ it is to sommer bliksem whatever they’re adding, into the container holding the gin (called ‘bathtub gin’); or to go fancy by sort of ‘steaming it with the botanicals.’ Right!
Gin was REALLY popular in London around 1750. Cos it was cheap, it was loved. So much so that there were 7500 ‘Gin Joints,’ and being drunk was called being ‘gin-soaked’ and gin was called ‘mother’s ruin’. In Victorian times Gin made a comeback in ‘Gin Palaces.’ Same thing, but slightly higher-toned.
So tonight we’re drinking – Local; – Anti-malarial; – Convivial – GIN & TONIC
To get gin-soaked and experience mother’s ruin.
And because IT’S MEDICINAL.
Tonic
The poms in India had to drink quinine to stay alive. Being poms, they mixed the quinine with gin.
It tasted awful but they persevered. They’re poms.
Someone began mixing the powder with soda water and sugar. That was a bit better, and thus a basic tonic water was created. That way the poms drank more gin.
The first commercial tonic water was produced in 1858.
So: The mixed drink “gin and tonic” originated in British Colonial India when the British population would mix their medicinal quinine tonic with gin. They’re poms, see.
So remember: IT’S MEDICINAL.
YAY!!
To make Pink Gin or Pink Tonic:
Simply add Angostura bitters, a botanically infused alcoholic mixture, 44.7% ethanol, gentian, herbs and spices, invented by a German doctor in the town of Angostura, Venezuela on the banks of the Orinoco River.
And remember it too, IS MEDICINAL!
Cheers!
~~~oo0oo~~~
On our trip up north in 2003 Aitch and five year old Jessie kept a diary; when they got home they made this picture album as a memento of the trip. Enjoy the slideshow!
(Slides change every four seconds. To pause a slide, click in the top right corner. To speed it up or to go back, swipe, or use the arrows).
~~~oo0oo~~~
