Me n Jess had a chill once Tom had left for school this morning. He left full of good cheer, a loud “LOVE YOU DAD!” as he strolled off across the lawn.
Fellow Lift-Mom Katie was coming to fetch Jess – we share a lift, I do one week in three. As the gate bell rang I looked at Jess’ shirt. It’s Civvies Day and she’s wearing a tank top vest. It looks like she and Sambucca the labrador have eaten three breakfasts on it and she’s done an art project in it.
Please change your top my love.
No Dad, I have to wear white.
Well that’s hardly white, my love. CHANGE please.
Grumble mumble.
Otherwise they’ll think I’m a bad Dad. Why the f#! do I care about that? I don’t. That’s not why I’m getting her to change. Well, then it’s because I don’t want to give them the chance to think I’m not managing. Why the f#! do I care about that? I don’t. I don’t want them to criticise her or embarrass her. Is that it?
All of that was in my scrambled egg brain. When I looked again she had already changed into a purple top and was on her way down the driveway.
We’re sitting outside a nightclub at 11pm and he’s asking while we’re waiting for the last of the boys so we take home all eleven that we brought (yes, ELEVEN).
Dunno, let’s check, I say. I know he’s interested as we were once bust in Lesotho for an expired licence and he doesn’t want that to happen again. Those okes with guns made him nervous. Me too. Soon after that they had their 2014 coup!
September 2015, I sigh.
So I’m in the queue for my licence for the third time. The first time I sat next to an old toppie. He musta been 60 if he was a day. He was timing the transactions. Average seven minutes per person and there were 17 ahead of me, so I would have been late for work, so I left. The second time I was making good progress when I overheard from the counter “where’s your proof of address”, so I left.
This third time I have all three papers. For the bakkie, the trailer and Jessie’s scooter – those two expired in 2014! And I have my proof of address, my ID card and money.
But not enough. I had R430 and the bakkie alone is R620 so I’ll be back a fourth time with more cash.
Since the new year rains the garden in Westville, KZN has been bursting with noise and activity.
Overhead the fish eagle and crowned eagle, the goshawk and the YB kite; In the trees the trumpeter and crowned hornbills; In the garden toppies (black-capped bulbul), yellow-bellied bulbul, GT and cardinal woodpeckers, brown-hooded kingfisher and FT drongos dipping into the pool for a bath and after drowning insects. black and dusky flycatchers, the first paradise flycatcher, golden-rumped tinker, scaly-throated honeyguide, black-collared barbet, white-eared barbet, black-headed oriole, white-eyes, camaropteras, TF prinia, bar-throated & yellow-breasted apalis, black-bellied, redwinged and glossy starlings; Hadedas probe the lawn, hamerkops inspect the pool; Pied crows and gippo geese sit on the high office building above us. Black, Klaas’, Diederiks’ and piet-my-vrou cuckoos.
In the shrubbery the natal robin (red-capped robin-chat) calls and mimics and a trilling noise tells me there are firefinches or (hopefully) twinspots around – haven’t been able to spot them yet. Boubous and puffbacks lurk. Red-eyed doves, mousebirds, Indian ringneck parakeets screech as they whizz past overhead.
Amethyst, collared, white-bellied and olive sunbirds. Bronze and black-and-white (redbacked) mannikins and YF canaries love the seeds in the long grass, swaying on the thin stalks; Loud louries arrive and chase each other around before stopping for a drink; The woodhoopoes are also loud; Spectacled and spotted-backed weavers compete with the sunbirds (and the vervet monkeys!) for the nectar in the strelitzia flowers; Forest (dark-winged) weaver sings his lovely high-pitched squeaky song; The streaky-headed canary also sits and sings happily; At night (late, 3am) the wood owl calls pondo, pondo no-shilling and earlier the nightjar says good lord deliverr us as the francolin settle down noisily.

Gotta have jungle and scrub and hideaways for birds. And a dripping tap.
So here we go: It’s January. A new year and a new school for Tom. High school.
He sure looks swish in his new tie and blazer and sleeveless jersey. He is so looking forward to this new school even though he hates the grade eight compulsory short pants! Long pants are from grade nine.
I bid him farewell and he sets off up the road. Years of doing the carpool lift to school have come to an end.
Eleven Years after Aitch decided we had to move out of River Drive, Tom walks to school.
Just as Aitch had planned. *
300m as the crow flies, 500m on foot including a detour through the shopping centre!
~~~oo0oo~~~
* In 2003 Aitch said to me on the driveway at 7 River Drive, “We must sell up here and move.” I said, What? No, I’m going to die here. Right here in River Drive, on the left bank of the Mkombaan river.
“No you’re not,” she said, “We have to move.”
Why? I asked, already feeling myself conceding defeat to the resident estate agent. I knew she’d have a good reason.
“We’re out of the school catchment zone,” she said. Which school catchment zone? I asked, puzzled. “Westville Boys High,” she said. What’s that got to do with us? I asked, faintly. “I want Tom to go to WBHS,” said she who knows things.
But he’s only TWO! I said, sensing victory.
“I know,” she said, delivering the coup de grace. We moved.
Another bill shock when my July bill comes through at R80 000 instead of the usual R4 000. After much back-and-forth on email and on the phone with deaf and tone-deaf males I have to go in to Florence Mkhize building in old Smith Street now Anton Lembede Street. A car guard finds me a spot and takes charge of my bakkie.
At last someone who would listen. Reluctantly (“Can’t you just pay?”) but she listened as I told her the tale of when my bill had been inflated by R140 000 a couple years ago and it was their mistake; and how now that it had been bumped up to R80 000 from its usual R4 000 I needed to know where that came from; She showed me. eThekwini municipality had billed me for electricity for my flat but not for my home since June 2011. Then I said I need all penalties and interest reversed as ’twas not my fault; She did so. Then I said I don’t want to pay for anything older than 36 months old – statute of limitations; Hey, she didn’t know about that! But after disappearing for a while she came back to say Agreed! Lovely lady with a wicked sense of humour! Ms Pride Gumbi.
Off we go to sign the agreement. Ms Gumbi sticks her finger on the biometric door opener and hey sesame! “Hey, it knows you!” I said and she cackled out loud. It hadn’t known me when I tried my finger on arrival as there was no-one to open up – it said Unidentified. Try Again. Down the elevator and into the foyer and out into the street; all the way she’s greeting everyone by name and hugely friendly. She’s well-known and well-liked it seems.
Downstairs another fingerprint and out to the ground floor next door and I’m asked/instructed to Sit. Stay while she goes through another fingerprint door. This one doesn’t sesame, so she waddles back to the counters shouting Knock Knock! She greets a lady teller in her usual friendly familiar way and gets told “Just push. Its broken” and in she goes.
Eventually I sign for R71 000 in arrears, payable over 36 months. It’ll add R2025 to the monthly bill. I think of challenging the figures again, it looks a bit high but hey, I’m weary. Let’s just go home. I buy my car guard a Russian roll from a take-away to go with his tip. And I scarf one meself.
My man Tobias Gumede has lost seven of his herd, once twenty five-strong, in the drought. He lives downstream of the Jozini dam on the Makathini floodplain on the right bank of the Pongola river. Not on the riverbank, but some kms away.
– cattle seen in the vicinity on a previous visit – not the Gumede herd –
His son Mpilo is his herdsman and the poor fella is certainly putting on mileage as the cattle venture ever-further in search of grazing. Lately where they have found grazing there’s no surface water, so every few days they turn round and head off near home to drink. He gets home on average every third night for a meal and a bed, leaving early the next day to get back to the cattle wherever they are.
That’s when you really have to know your cattle as there are no fences and they can mingle with anyone else’s herd. Good thing Marguerite Poland recorded all the names of the coat patterns and horn shapes, and good thing her cousin Leigh Voigt painted them!
~~~oo0oo~~~
Winter – Now his son is home without the cattle. They have not been seen for weeks. They have headed off on their own.
October – The rains have arrived at last. The cattle are home again. Tobias estimates (he’s not good with exactness) they’re down to just eleven in number.
When we arrived here Lovemore was nine years old, cute as hell and a regular visitor to swim in the pool or skateboard on the driveway. As he grew up we’d see him whenever he needed help, but less often to swim as he grew too cool for frolicking. Always friendly and helpful old Lovemore. That’s him on the right at Jessie’s 11th party – Pinetown Gym.
Ten years later he’s now more often called Mfundi, has written matric and the morning after the results this week he comes knocking, looking like death warmed up. “Pete I’m very sick, I don’t know what’s wrong” he says. “I’m worried” he says.
I think I know what’s wrong, I say. I heard you guys last night. You drank too much. You have alcohol poisoning, I say. I give him some cooldrink and some breakfast and some mirth. The mirth he finds a bit hard to swallow.
“Yes”, he says “It’s true. But I don’t know why I feel so terrible. I only drank the good stuff, Glenmorangie, Hennessy Cognac and Johnny Walker Black.”
My bad. We arrived at the Mocambique border with Tommy’s passport, birth certificate, Aitch’s death certificate, a copy of my application for Tom’s unabridged birth certificate plus the receipt for same. No go. They wanted his unabridged birth certificate itself, or a letter saying we’d applied for it. “But here’s the application itself, and the receipt,” I protested. In vain. They could not change their instructions from higher up – fair enough. As usual, the higher-ups are not ‘on the ground.’ They’re higher up.
So it’s Christmas day and we’re looking for a place to stay. It feels kinda biblical. Reminds me of a story I heard in my youth. Everywhere we went was full. If there had been an inn, it would have to have been full too. We drove on to Bhanga Nek, sandwiched between the big Kosi Bay lake and the beach. I’m in my element in a brand-new Avis rented Ford Ranger 4X4 with six forward gears and push-button 4X4 transfer case on my favourite roads – the Maputaland Coastal Reserve’s sand roads. The kids would probably rather be in a different element, truth be told.
We get to the Bhanga Nek Beach (see above) and the Beach Camp. Full. We drive to the Community Camp. Full, thank goodness: What an uproar! Seems everyone has spent their entire xmas bonus on grog and they’ve already imbibed half of it. All are noisy, some are already staggery at noon.
Thulani sees me and lurches over, ice clinking in his glass. “I have a place where you can stay,” he says. I ask the whereabouts and recognise it as a village we passed a couple of kms back. He hops in and guides me there. Doesn’t spill a drop of his drink on the bumpy – no, undulating – sandy road. He’s done this before.
It’s a lovely rustic chalet in Bhanga Nek Village. Not palatial, but not mangery neither. Real beds or bunks, not cribs. We eat and sleep. Not a single mozzie! It has been booked for the next night, so we’re back on those wonderful sand roads in the morning, vehicle in 4WD High Ratio second gear and easing along like a dream. Did I mention I’m in my element, happy as a melodious lark?
“Wow! I say, “Look at that!” pointing at stuff. Huh? What? “That view!” Oh, Yes Dad. Whatever. Those in the back seat pat me on my bald spot.
– Bhanga Nek beach and cottage –
The drive back was along my favourite roads in South Africa, through coastal grasslands dotted with umdoni trees. Paradise. Easing along effortlessly in 4WD high ratio second gear, barely touching the accelerator, barely touching the steering wheel, the tyres guided in the twin tracks in the sand. Again I said to the kids, “Isn’t this amazing!?”
Huh? they said, looking up and looking around. What? OK Dad.
Pearls before swine.
I told them Aitch and I would park on the road where Mdoni trees cast their shadows and have something to eat or drink till we heard a car coming, which was seldom. They were interested in that. Oh, Mom has been here? That makes things slightly better. They love any stories about their Mom.
– thanks, strayalongtheway.com for the beaut image –
Then we got to the very best part of that sandy road, where it cuts between the high dunes lining the Indian Ocean beaches and the shore of Lake Sibaya. Too beautiful driving under high shady trees with clear turquoise fresh water of the lake and white sandy beaches right next to the road.
We then cut through Mkhuze game reserve on the way home, enetering by the less-used NE gate. Three of the youngest little warthoglets we’ve ever seen ‘on the hoof’ ran behind they Ma. Tiny little piglets running with tails erect. Look! They’ve got signal, the kids say enviously, giggling.
– Kosi Bay to Mkhuze map with warthoglets –
A week or two later, back home, I overhear Tom gently mocking my organisational skills, and telling his mate where he knew I could overhear, “My Dad took us to Bangladesh for Christmas.“ I had to grin.
*sigh* At least they do love their home, that’s no maybe!
The recipe: Take a 5-star hotel. Fill it to the brim: Every bed occupied – 2700 people. Add 760 staff.
Then lock the doors. Lock all the exits.
They call it a luxury cruise, and people queue to go on one. They queue and they queue.
Queue to get through customs; Queue to present your ticket to get aboard; Queue to change your money to their money; Queue for meals; Queue for drinks at the bars.
Hell will be like this.
But the kids enjoyed it.
Comedian Tim Vine nailed it:“I’ve just been on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday. I’ll tell you what, never again.”
Should’n have asked, should’n have asked, should have gone to a game reserve . . . Jess decided she wanted an ocean cruise for her eighteenth birthday. Tom was cool with that for his fourteenth birthday, so off we went.
I checked with friend and veteran cruiser Craig and booked the four night cruise to Portuguese Island in Maputo Bay in Mocambique on the MSC Sinfonia.
Lots of queueing – LOTS!
What a bay!
– ferried ashore – There’s Milibangalala on the horizon! On the way back we had sunny weather.
The cruise north was rainy, so the kids had indoor fun. Jess took to quaffing cocktails at the various bars. Hey! She’s eighteen now! And the nice barmen didn’t need money, they just swiped her room key card.
Tom focused on the meals, making sure we got to where we needed to be and using the pizza and burger cafes in between meal times.
The highlight was going ashore on Portuguese Island in rubber ducks, having a swim and lunch onshore.
– two us are lovin’ this! –
On the beach a huge group of people formed a square and danced to some catchy tune. We swam and walked. I could see Jess actually wanted to join the dancers. But she didn’t. She just watched and watched and swayed in time to the music. Little did I know that tune was going to come back to haunt me!
– hamba nawe –
Back on the boat an obviously Durban family walked past us chatting to their friends about going for a jacuzzi; I had seen the jacuzzi and thought “Good luck”; Minutes later they were back to where we were sitting and told their friends “Hey you can’t even go in there, it’s CHOCKED!” Elbow-to-elbow people. Bum-cheek to bum-cheek. Every facility was crowded, every deckchair taken.
The kids loved the experience and I survived it, so all good.
~~oo0oo~~
IMO, Cruising is hell.
Update: More people experienced gastrointestinal illnesses while aboard a cruise ship in 2024 than any other year since 2012. Hurgh!
They Were There From Monday to Saturdee (well, Monday 8pm to 9pm anyway).
Jess and Jordie went to the bathroom together (don’t ask – teenagers) and that was it. With Aitch-like burglar guards the window was out of the question. I tried all sorts of levering and hammering and twisting and shoving and what-have-you but no go:
Had to phone the locksmith. Who came in and smashed out the innards of the lock by brute force and levered it open with a curly-shaped hook. Took him three minutes.
Flying ants, black rhino, wild dogs and a magic unidentified raptor.
Plus impressive thunderstorms, pelting rain, dry stream beds that ended up running merrily. The Hluhluwe river changed from dry sandy bed to quite a brown torrent between Friday night and Sunday morning.
A coucal bubbling in the rain, then listening intently till his mate or rival called then immediately hunching and bobbing into his call. Jess said “Look Dad: He’s laughing!”
Yep, three teen girls. Who were most impressed by the buffet breakfast and most unimpressed by the massive thunderclap that banged right overhead in the wee dark hours of Saturday. “Dad, I thought the thatch of our rondawel was going to catch fire!” says Jess. Also mostly unimpressed by the lack of wifi.
Samango and vervet monkeys with babies, bushbuck, nyala, duiker, impala, zebra, francolin, longclaws, lots of buffalo, a dozen white rhino; Two eles right at the roadside each munching a tree for breakfast; baboon; a hippo out of water; a few giraffe.
~~oo0oo~~
That raptor: I thought ‘Augur Buzzard’ as I stopped the car just outside the reserve cattle grid gate on the main road. Three raptors were soaring in the wind welling up from a little ridge on the north of the road, right overhead. Surfing the airwave, they were.
Pale leading edge, rust-coloured trailing edge, black ‘fingers’; A falcon-like head pattern (yet not quite) and the size of a YBK or a marsh harrier. Soaring and diving spectacularly. Saw the underside mainly. Upperside I think brown-ish. Clean forgot to take a photo!
Needed a fresh copy of my Letter of Executorship as Aitch’s one firm just woke up that they still have her pension money.
So off to the office of the Master of the Kwazulu-Natal High Court Durban downtown. Devonshire place near the old Durban Club (where I once got kicked out as Glen Barker’s guest for “unacceptable attire” – I was wearing slacks, shoes and a white top like we used to test eyes in back then. Farking snobs, I’m glad they went bankrupt and had to sell the club to a Zim lady, cadre of Bob Mugabe’s. Imagine how that must have stuck in their cravated craws! Pricks).
Pleasant enough experience as bureaucratic torture goes. Until it came time to pay. R4,50 – that’s about 30 US cents – for a copy of the letter. The catch: You had to leave the building, find an ABSA bank, queue there, pay and then come back with your receipt, starting afresh at the back of the queue!
You COULD NOT dream up a less convenient way of handling that if you spent a week plotting how to mess with a citizen’s mind!
