With this Flag...

Necessity is the mother of invention and nowhere is this more apparent than in South Africa when it comes to job creation. There’s no social welfare here, so if you don’t have money or any means of earning it, you don’t eat. The downside is, that with high unemployment, many turn to crime through desperation.

But not everyone. The more enterprising create jobs for themselves. Hence the large number of vendors at each and every traffic light intersection here, selling you everything from clothes-hangers to intricately hand-made children’s toys, such as hanging baby mobiles. Most however, have created jobs for themselves in the fastest growing industry in this crime-ridden country - protection. No matter where you park your car, someone will be on hand to look after it in exchange for a tip. At the beach, outside a restaurant and even in public car parks, you will find these self-appointed car guardians, who for a modest five rand (50 cents) will keep an eye on your vehicle. With hundreds of cars coming and going during the day, this I imagine can be quite lucrative if not boring.

Best prize however goes to the enterprising young woman on Hout Bay beach who picks up your dog poo in exchange for a donation, removing the need for carrying a plastic bag and doing it yourself. She does this by handing you a green flag on arrival which you plant in the sand beside your doggy do. This has a two-fold benefit, in that it not only clearly marks the spot for her to clean up but warns other barefoot beachcombers where not to tread. A service, that most agree is worth every cent!

Foot Fetish

I have decided I have a latent foot fetish. Ever since I don’t know when, I’ve enjoyed running around bare foot. I have had to deny myself this pleasure for the most part living in Ireland because the ground is inevitably wet or cold or both. Like most people at home, I only dispense with my socks and shoes when walking on the beach or going to bed. (Although, I’ve been known to wake still wearing my shoes…) I also like driving barefoot. (Try it some time, it’s very liberating…)

Africa is the perfect place to come out of the closet on this one. No-one bats an eyelid if you wonder around sans chaussures. Even in the cities. The other day, I did my shopping in upmarket Woolworth’s (which is South Africa’s M&S) au pied naturel. No-one even looked at my feet. (Imagine if I tried that in M&S in Belfast or Dublin? I would be thrown out or at least escorted to the shoe department).

I've just been notified today that I may have to appear in court as a witness to an assault. It happened on Halloween night while attending a birthday party in Long Street, Cape Town. Suffice to say, I was chatting to one woman when another woman appeared from nowhere, shouted something and punched her in the face. (Nothing to do with me, I might add!) My contribution to this event was to pull the attacker off. Unfortunately, I know both the women and the issues involved which puts me in the awkward position of testifying against one of them in favour of the other. It's a no win situation for me but I will tell the truth if asked.

Writer's Blog

I’ve been trying to sit down now for over a week to write this. I’ve done everything to avoid it. Not because I haven’t had anything to write (so much has happened in last ten days!) but because I’ve lost my narrative train of thought. That’s the problem with writing a blog which is basically a journal. You miss a few days entries and it becomes increasingly hard to pick up from where you left off. Anyway, I will try.

Just to recap, Elle and I had to leave Bulawayo for Cape Town earlier than scheduled because her step-father Brian had a heart attack two weeks ago. (Just out of interest, Brian’s family comes originally from Sligo, so the Irish already have a flag planted in Elle’s family!) Fortunately, Brian, 72, has since made a full recovery and now describes himself as ‘embarrassingly well’. He is a very interesting and cultured man, what we Irish would call a true ‘gentlemen and a scholar’ and the dash to Cape Town was worth it, just to make his acquaintance. Elle’s Mum is lovely too and it’s great to meet an older, happy couple who seem to complement each other so well.

Elle and I are staying with friends in a place called Hout Bay on the western seaboard of Cape Town. It’s a stunningly beautiful part of Cape Town, a valley surrounded by ragged, high mountains, leading down to a pristine, aquamarine bay and harbour. It’s really picture postcard stuff and trying to describe it in words doesn’t do it justice.

It’s strange being back in a modern city again with nice restaurants, traffic lights that work and ATMs that give you cash. I have to say that my first cappucino in months was an 'Ice Cold in Alex' moment.

Return of Elle

Finally got Elle back to Bulawayo along with the tragic news that her stepdad has had a heart attack in Cape Town. This means, that we will have to leave tomorrow. The journey will take about three days by car, so there will be another interruption to my blog. Please bear with me.

Danny Piper and the lessons from history

　
I’m reading an amazing book at the moment which you won’t find in any bookshop. Not yet anyway. It’s written by my Bulawayo host and good friend Ian Pugh (real name) and while you could accuse me of being biased, you would be very wrong.

The book is called ‘Wolfstorm’ and follows the adventures of twelve year old Danny Piper and friends as they travel through time. Ian, who has self-published the book, after receiving a bunch of standard rejection letters from UK publishers, asked me to read it and give my opinion. To be honest, I initially thought being a children’s book, that this my prove a bit of a chore but once past for the first chapter, I was hooked.

Danny Piper takes me back to when I first started reading books which was probably about eleven or twelve. ‘Biggles’ was one of my early heroes. A fictional pilot and adventurer, created by W.E. Johns in 1932, he was whipping the Nazis long before Indiana Jones put on a Fedora. (Incidentally, the first ever Biggles story was called ‘The White Fokker’ which is a WW1 plane by the way!)

Biggles was a wholesome ‘Tallyho’ character, who stood for essentially British values of bravery, honesty and fair play and while he smoked and drank alcohol (the books were aimed at adolescents), there was little ‘hanky panky’ with the opposite sex. Biggles it seemed preferred singledom and the company of his mates Algy and Ginger rather than settling down. But it’s the titles of the books in which are most memorable. Some of my favourites are ‘Biggles gets it rough’, ‘Biggles cuts it fine’ and most excitingly ‘Biggles does some homework’. (Monty Python did a ‘Biggles’ sketch once called ‘Biggles combs his hair’.)

Where Danny Piper’s story is similar to Biggles is in the attention to historical detail and actual real events. (Danny at one point, ends up at the Nuremburg Rally, dressed reluctantly as a flag-bearing Hitler Youth before making his escape!) Ian skilfully weaves historical fact into Danny’s time travel adventures, resulting an ultimately entertaining and educational read, which positively encourages a hunger for history.

But it’s his grey, technological vision of a future world of extinct animals and depleted vegetation, which probably teaches the most valuable lesson - that unless we start caring about the environment in the present, the outlook is a bleak one.

This is a wholesome book, that will appeal to both parents and children for different reasons, all of them enjoyable. Move over Harry Potter, here comes Danny Piper!

If you are interested in buying Ian’s book, you can email him on ian@blueappledesign.co.zw or if you living in South Africa, it will soon be available at Exclusive Books.

Just another day in Africa

　
Achieving nothing can sometimes take a whole day in Africa. Achieving anything at all can take a even longer. Patience might be a virtue in the first world, but here it’s a necessity.

I have spent nearly whole day trying to send a five page fax . Yes a fax. (Does anyone remember faxes?) But let me first explain why I had to send a fax in the first place.

After Terminal A (see under 'Spanish bastards' in previous blog) failed to issue a ticket in time for Elle’s flight to Botswana, I was left with no alternative but to purchase a flight last minute directly from the airline itself, in this case, South African Airways. (Incidentally, the journey time is about three hours and cost almost £600).

Having given my credit card details, I was required to produce my credit card and passport at check-in to confirm my identity. This was duly done and Elle boarded her flight.

However on arriving in Johannesburg, she was told that unless she had copies of my identification and credit card plus signed authorisation from me, she couldn’t continue her journey. (Fortunately after some persuasion, they relented but told her she would need the documentation for the return leg of her journey).

Fast forward a week and my credit card has been debited the amount but still the airline insists that she must produce documentary proof that the credit card belongs to me and that I authorised the payment. So this morning, I visited the airline’s office in Bulawayo and again produced my passport and credit card. This however was not enough and I was told I would have to fax copies of all my documents to Elle to produce on departure.

Now bear in mind, I have had no telephone contact with Elle for over a week because she has no reception and I’m in a country whose telephone system barely works at the best of times. So I’m hoping Elle will email me at some point, so I can tell her to find a fax machine somewhere which I can fax my document copies to. Better odds in a game of chance.

So finally we do make contact and she finds a fax machine. I have found a fax machine too and I have the number of her fax machine in the hotel in Gaberone where she is staying tonight. But then my fax machine won’t fax because it’s in Zimbabwe and nothing feckin works here. So then, we decide to scan the documents into the computer and email them. However, Elle has no internet service on her computer and can’t access her emails. It’s now 9pm in the evening and her flight is 7.45am tomorrow morning. She then suggests I email them to the hotel where she is staying but then discovers they don’t have a direct email address. (They have fax machine but no direct email? Need I say more…) EVENTUALLY Elle persuades the hotel to open up their business centre so she can access her emails. So after almost twelve hours, she finally receives the documents she needs to produce in order to fly tomorrow morning.

As I lie in bed typing this, I have a strange feeling that this is not over yet.

Never book a flight with Terminal A

　
Visited what is known locally as the ‘Bend Over Bazaar’ yesterday. This is not a gay nightclub as the name might suggest but rather a busy second hand clothes market in the centre of Bulawayo. (The act of bending over and rummaging through mountains of clothing has given the market its name) Born out of necessity a few years ago, this colourful weekend outdoor market has now become something of a feature of Bulawayo life as well as a must shopping destination for bargain-hunting wives. (Would probably go down a storm in Ireland at the moment).

Elle by all accounts, is having a roaring old time at the game reserve lodge where she is staying in South Africa. She’s been on game drives almost everyday followed by five course meals in the evening. (Her patron who owns the lodge is an American multi-millionaire). She is flying back to Bulawayo on Tuesday and I’m really looking forward to seeing her again. Mr B in the meantime, has actually come round in her absence and is in much better form. I envisage lots of hugs and kisses at the airport and you never know, I might even get some as well.

Talking of airports and travel, I want to use this blog for revenge purposes. Having failed to get an answer from Spanish travel company Terminal A, as to why they never issued me a plane ticket which I booked and paid for online, leaving Elle at the eleventh hour with no flight to Gaberone and forcing me to buy a last minute ticket from South African Airways, I now wish to warn others. Do not use Terminal A ever to book flights! (Having checked the message boards on the internet, I believe I have not been the only one who has suffered from their total incompetence!) So again, for the hard of reading. NEVER BOOK A FLIGHT WITH TERMINAL A. You have been warned. (And don’t forget to tell ALL your friends!)

Welcome to Limbabwe

　
There’s nothing like the sounds of a sultry Bulawayo night….as a thousand generators kick in all over the city, signalling yet another power cut.

Such is life in Zimbabwe’s second city, whose basic infrastructure has crumbled under Mugabe’s crashed economy. The roads are full of potholes, the traffic lights don’t work, and the electricity is more off than on. But apparently, things not as bad as they were. (My hosts, tell me that six months ago there was no water supply and they had to drink from their swimming pool for a week!)

Thanks to the recent introduction of stable currencies (US dollars and the South African Rand) , replacing the inflationary, sky-rocketing Zimbabwe dollar, things do seem on the surface, to be looking up. The petrol stations now have fuel and the shop shelves are full for the first time in years. (Up to very recently TM, the Zimbabwe equivalent of Tesco’s, was jokingly renamed MT because it generally was.)

The only problem seems to be lack of customers. I had the supermarket to myself this morning which made me feel a bit like Michael Jackson. After, several minutes I realised if I was going to buy anything, I would also need his wallet. (A medium size bottle of Head and Shoulders shampoo was price marked US $9.50 which is about £5.80!)

Talk to anyone and there does seem to be a tangible positivity in the air. But Zimbabweans have been here before and one wonders is it yet another false dawn in the country's attempts to revitalise its ailing economy. The newly appointed unity government is struggling, as the opposition Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) try to broker deals with a belligerent President Mugabe and his hostile, infighting ZANU PF party. More discord than unity, it seems.

Politically the country is in limbo which means its difficult to see which ways things are going to go. Maybe they could start with changing the name to Limbabwe?

Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

Elle flew to South Africa yesterday to spend a week in a luxury game lodge courtesy of one her patrons, leaving me in Bulawayo, a city which resembles a lost civilisation, with a dog on 'suicide watch'. (Can’t help thinking I pulled the short straw here).

Poor Mr B is traumatised by Elle’s departure and has slipped into a ‘black dog’ depression. I took him for his walk this morning at a nearby dam but on getting out of the car, he simply slipped underneath and refused to budge. All matter of inducements and entreaties fell upon his pointed ears but to no avail. It was only when I started the car, that he decided that being abandoned twice, was more than he could bear.

He spent the rest of day in my bedroom, head on paws, staring into space, occasionally getting up, to investigate any noises which might signal Elle's return. I feel really sorry for him and have tried to comfort him as much as possible with hugs and reassuring ‘doggy’ talk. But he just looks through me, like some war veteran with a thousand yard stare. While no dog psychologist, this is the worse case of co-dependency I have ever seen. Before she left, Elle suggested, my time spent alone with him would be a good opportunity to bond with him. She mentioned nothing about counselling for separation anxiety.

Talking of anxiety, I’m getting twinges myself. I last heard from Elle at 4pm yesterday at Johannesburg airport when she texted me to say, she was about to board her flight to Botswana. (The game lodge where she is staying is close to Gaberone, even though it is in South Africa). Have heard nothing since. I suspect her cell phone has died (it was dying yesterday and I can’t get through now). She said she would text me once she arrived. I’m sure she is ok but it would reassuring to know.

Lara, Ian's wife, (the couple I'm staying with in Bulawayo), asked me today, how Elle will cope when Mr B departs for the ‘great stick in the sky’, given their inseparability. Devastated is probably not the word but Elle knows, given Mr B’s age (eight and a half) that time will probably be in the next few years and has to an extent rationalised this tragic but inevitable event. This question gave me some cause for some thought though. What if something happened to Elle first and I’m left with Mr B? I’m really not sure how we would both cope. The thought of looking after a clinically depressed dog for several years, is well…a depressing thought.

PS Internet failure and power cuts have prevented me from writing a regular blog for the past few days. Being Zimbabwe, this is likely to continue. Please bear with me.

Hyena Poo

Hotter than the Burma Railway today. Thank God, Elle and I leaving the tent for a spell and heading back to ‘civilisation’ for a bit. I’m going to stay with a good friend of mine in Bulawayo (You know times are hard when Zimbabwe suddenly becomes attractive alternative...) and I’ve already warned him, that I will probably spend the first day of my visit, with my face pressed against his cold, tiled kitchen floor.

Had a German family camping upstream for the past two days. They managed to wake me at 6am this morning, by revving of their 4x4 engine. That and the incessant chatter. I doubt the original German invasion of the Caprivi, at the turn of the century, was as noisy.

Elle and I went out hyena hunting for the last time last night. Arrived at the ‘baiting tree’ to find a hippo standing there. His swift departure (they surprisingly agile on land despite their size and weight) was quickly followed by the appearance of two pairs of green eyes in the searchlight beam. Elle initially thought they were lions which gave some added urgency to my attempts to lower the bait, while standing precariously on her car bonnet. Fortunately, they turned out to be hyenas, no less dangerous I might add, but a little more circumspect.

After three nights of 'no shows', their appearance was a godsend. Elle managed to dart and collar one, meaning she could conclude her work for the time being. In the course of the evening, she also discovered a hyena ‘latrine’. Hyena ‘poo’ is brilliant white in colour, reflecting their ability to digest almost anything bar calcium. They also like to poo together in the same place. Honestly, the stuff you learn on this job…

The Suicide Month

It’s 10.30am and it’s hot. Seriously hot hot. October is traditionally the hottest month in this part of southern Africa. Known as ‘The Suicide Month’, temperatures can soar into the mid-forties. Today it must be edging towards 40. With no shade (no leaves on the trees) and no breeze, the only way to keep cool is to periodically throw yourself into the river next to the tent.

Inside the tent is like a sauna, so both of us are sitting outside at the table. Elle is wearing a blue bikini while cutting up her old underwear to use as ‘pull throughs’ for cleaning her rifle. I find this recycling combination quite sexy.

Elle got stung this morning while cleaning out her wardrobe. Not sure what it was but it left her was a large, nasty nettle-like rash across her stomach. She reckons it was probably a ‘hairy worm’, whose body hairs sting on contact with skin. Frankly, it could have been any number of large insects here, who are increasingly making their presence known as it gets hotter and wetter.

Both went out last night for dinner at a nearby safari lodge. Food was dreadful and tasted like leftovers but it was pleasant to sit in comfortable surroundings. Always nice to get away from camp for a bit and spend some quality time together away from hyenas. Turned into quite a romantic evening.

Things winding down here now, although Elle still determined to ‘collar’ a hyena before we leave here at the end of the week. (I’m going to Zimbabwe for a couple of weeks and she to a 70th birthday party in South Africa).

Had my first snake encounter this evening. Was chatting to Elle when she shrieked that there was a snake above me. Looked up to see a two foot shadow moving across the shade cloth literally six inches above my head. Turned out to be a Boomslang, one of the most poisonous snakes in southern Africa, eating a frog. Its poison is haemotoxic which attacks the red blood cells. If untreated, it can kill a human in about a week. Phew....

Hot Pants

Got into bed last night, chilled and wet to the bone, after spending good part of the wee hours wandering round the bush with a flashlight in search of a darted hyena. (Normally, they collapse pretty much near the spot where they darted but this one legged it, disappearing into the night!) Going after a wild animal, on foot at night, is not a recommended practice but Elle was worried that the hyena might be attacked by roaming pride of lions while sedated. I don't recall any mention that they might be similarly interested in an idiot with a torch.

Don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as damp as I did yesterday. ‘Damp, damp’ as the South African’s might say, repeating the words twice to give emphasis. (Like ‘Now, now’ as ‘I’ll be with now, now’, an expression which lends more urgency to ‘I’ll be with you just now’.) It rained for most part, leaving everything wet and soaked through. Even the bedclothes were damp.

I’ve taken to wearing beige 'short' shorts (as opposed to the long, knee length, baggy tourist variety) on Elle’s recommendation. This was a big step for me, as I’ve always been self-conscious about my thin legs. I was also concerned about attracting unwanted attentions from a whole host of brightly plumaged ‘wader’ birds who live on the flood plain.

Wearing 'short' shorts in the African bush is very de rigueur, I’m told. Worn by ‘old Africa hands’, they signify experience and knowledge, as well as being functionally cooler. According to Elle, George Adamson of ‘Born Free’ fame, famously wore 'short' shorts. (I have only seen the film, so I’m getting an rather unflattering image of actor Bill Travers). George also smoked a pipe and drank G&T’s. So two out of three ain’t bad. Maybe they will make a movie about me in years to come. They could call it 'Care Free'.

The 'Rainy' Season Begins

After several days of stifling humidity, the rains have finally come, accompanied by peals of thunder. As I write, huge raindrops are thwacking the tent canvas with all the intensity of a Summer’s day back in Ireland. Outside, the air is cool and the sky seal grey. It’s the first time I’ve felt homesick.

It’s 9.30 am in the morning and I’m sitting in vault-like darkness (all the tent flaps are down), shoes caked in mud and feeling a damp chill. Can’t say it’s entirely unpleasant state of being, given that my body has been simmering on Gas mark 3 for the past couple of weeks.

Namibians love the rain, much in the same way the Irish wish for sunshine. The arrival of ‘rainy season’ which runs from October to April elicits a comparable feeling of relief and renewal. It’s the time of the year when everything turns from dust to green shoots almost overnight. It also marks the sudden appearance of extraordinary huge insects, who have spent the rest of the year, hiding in a gym and working out on steroids. (I almost trod on a ‘spitting’ beetle last night en route to the fridge. They spit acid in your eyes apparently!)

Elle and I spent the weekend away, lazing by the banks of the Kavango River in the western Caprivi, about 200km from here. She read or slept most of the time while I contemplated a pod of hippos, alternatively surfacing and submerging like a small submarine fleet. I find ‘hippo watching’ very soothing on the soul. Strange how a combination of wallowing, snorting and farty, tuba noises can have that effect. It’s also hard to believe these huge animals which look so gentle and relaxed in the water, kill more people in Africa than any other animal. (Elephants come a close second).

Gave a lift to a cyclist and thought there was something vaguely familiar about him. Turns out, we met each other years ago when we drank in the same bar in Cape Town. Nice chap if a little strange. Part Austrian which probably explains it. My joke about having a family in the basement didn’t go down well.

Camped beside a lovely couple from en route from London via Cairo to Cape Town. He is a former hedge funder, which provided some mirth and she a private jet air hostess working for an central African government minister which provided even more. They planning to get married in Cape Town in January.

PS: Have had no internet for past three days, hence no blogs!
　
　

A History Lesson (Part Two)

A year after the outbreak of the First World War, South African forces captured German South West Africa and proclaimed it a protectorate. Mandated to South Africa in 1920, by the League of Nations, South West Africa and the Caprivi remained effectively under their administration until challenged by the South West African People’s Organization in the early 1960’s, just one of a rising number of communist-backed liberation movements, across the continent.

Using bases in southern Angola, SWAPO and its military wing PLAN (The People’s Liberation Army of Namibia) launched a campaign of cross-border incursions which were engaged by the South African National Defence Force. As the conflict intensified, the Caprivi became a front-line in this ‘border war’ which lasted until the late 1980's when eventually the South Africans, under increasing international pressure and despite their military successes against the insurgency, pulled out.

The remnants of this war can be still be seen to this day throughout the Caprivi region, in the many abandoned army bases, airstrips and part destroyed military ordinance. A more dangerous legacy remains however, in the numerous unexploded landmines which still litter the area, near the Angolan border. These occasionally kill and maims humans, as well as wildlife, such as elephants.

A History Lesson (Part One)

Look at a map of Namibia and you will find the Caprivi in the top north east corner. An odd looking strip of land which looks like a ballet dancer’s leg pointing at Zambia, the region is a shinning example of colonial map-making at its worst.

Designated a German protectorate and extension to South West Africa (now Namibia), the region’s borders were drawn and ratified in 1890 following agreements with Portugal, who occupied neighbouring Angola and the British Protectorate of Bechuanaland (Botswana). As the latter turbulent course of African history testifies to, nobody consulted the locals about this.

The Germans, who wanted a corridor to the Zambezi River, were uncharacteristically slow to move into the area and it wasn’t until 1908, that the first official arrived. Herr Hauptman Streitwolf, complete with grand title of ‘Imperial Resident, settled in a most unlikely spot, about 3km from the Zambezi, in a place which he named Schuckmannsburg, in honour of the then governor of South West Africa. (Although one wonders about the ‘honour’ of having your name attached to a insect-infested malarial swamp?)

On hearing of Streitwolf’s arrival, the indigenous Lozi tribe, perhaps fearing a future invasion of deck chairs and striped beach towels along the banks of the Zambezi, upped and fled to what is now Zambia. It is however more probable that they had heard of Germany’s virtual annihilation of the Hereros and Hottentot tribes in other parts of South West Africa. (Germany was busy practising ‘final solutions’ long before the Holocaust).

Schuckmannsburg, possibly the most remote and inhospitable outpost of the German empire entered into the history books on September 22, 1914 with the dubious honour of being the very first piece of territory ‘captured’ at the outbreak of the First World War. The garrison which consisted of four German officers surrendered to a small contingent British troops ‘without a shot being fired’.

A Long Illness

Just got word yesterday that Jacob, one of Elle’s Caprivian assistants, is in a critical condition with what is euphemistically called in this part of the world - ‘a long illness’. In other words full blown AIDS. Three weeks ago, we drove a gravely ill Jacob to the hospital in Katima, suffering from what was believed to be a bad case of the flu. After being prescribed antibiotics for a lung infection and some paracetamol to bring down his fever, he was dispatched the same day, looking much improved. However, according to a friend of his, he has since relapsed and is now seriously ill with little prospect of recovery.

Jacob, who recently married and admits to at least one mistress, is it seems yet another chain link in this dreadful disease which continues to ravage this part of the world where it’s estimated that at least 15 per cent of the population are HIV positive. Fortunately, unlike it’s neighbour South Africa, Namibia has introduced a comprehensive HIV treatment programme, which freely dispenses antiretroviral drugs to those diagnosed with HIV.

Last year, the government’s Ministry of Health and Social Services also introduced its first ever National HIV Testing Day (now and annual May public holiday) in which members of the public are offered free HIV tests and counselling at designated clinics and mobile testing units throughout the country.

As an incentive, people who participate have their medical ID numbers automatically entered into a national lottery with the chance to win prizes. Since its introduction, National HIV Testing Day has proven very popular, with people queuing round the block all day to be tested. Despite, its apparent success, I can’t help feeling this is a rather cruel lottery, where the chances of you being tested positively for HIV are significantly higher than winning a holiday for two in the Algarve.

Dog in a manger

Elle has a dog who I will call Mister B. He’s a Canis Africanus - an African dog, born and bred. Lean and muscular with one half-cocked ear, he’s a pirate of a dog. Tough, resourceful and good-natured, but fiercely protective of Elle. Threaten her and he will eat you. Make no bones about that. This is his default position.

My arrival on the scene has not been easy for Mister B. Both of us have had to make some adjustments to the ‘new order’ of things. Like a child from a previous marriage, I’ve had to recognise that he has certain inalienable rights - the right to lick the dinner plates clean, to chew sticks on the bed and to bark at anything and anyone he chooses no matter how annoying. Likewise he too has had to make compromises albeit more subtle ones. Used to sleeping in the bed with Elle, he’s now pretty much consigned to floor (although he stills get ‘under the duvet’ time in the mornings).

You can sense he’s not entirely happy about his perceived slippage in the Alpha male rankings and I’m reminded of this when I try to go to bed at night. If Elle is already in bed, I have to go through a regular Mexican ‘stand-off’ routine with him, in which he snarls, bares his teeth and threatens to go for my nether regions. It’s only after he’s been hugged, patted, kissed and reassured by Elle, that he allows me to get into bed. This has become a ritual now. Like trying to get past the bouncer into the nightclub.

This ongoing battle to regain No 1 spot in Elle’s affections has taken a new turn in the last 24 hours and I have to say his new strategy is a little disappointing given his tough reputation. He’s developed a limp in his left leg, which according to Elle is psychosomatic and a merely a cry for ‘attention’. I wouldn’t have believed that until I caught him limping on his right.

Going to Katima tomorrow. This means a full English breakfast and the chance to sit on a real toilet seat!

Mission Impossible

The quest to find Livingstone’s Mission yesterday proved to be something of a mission itself. First stop was possibly the world’s smallest museum, a one room thatched cottage, with a few exhibits, and not much bigger than a doll’s house, literally in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, it was locked and the museum ‘curator’ nowhere to be found.

From there, we drove to Linyanti, stopping at the Kusherashera Cash & Carry en route, a roadside shop which according to the sign is open 22 hours a day. The girl was just closing up (presumably for the two hours it shuts daily) as we arrived but we managed to get her re-open and sell us two luke warm cokes from her fridge. Ten minutes later, we arrived in Linyanti, which by village standards was more like an urban sprawl. With no map to guide us, we hoped that the locals would be able to direct us to ruined ‘mission’. But this proved fruitless. No-one knew who Livingstone was, while some people thought I was asking about a ‘living stone’. One young chap, eager to help, jumped in the car and directed us to a clearing where he explained that people ‘had once lived’, but he didn’t know when or who. (Caprivians are a very gentle, good natured people always eager to please, even if it means telling you something you want to hear, rather than saying they haven‘t the faintest clue what you‘re talking about!) Hot, tired and dusty, we gave up at this point and decided to return home.

There’s a noticeable moisture in the air and some clouds in the sky today, which means the rains are coming soon, bringing with them, according to Elle, flooding, unbearable humidity and a thousand fold increase in the mosquito population. The upside apparently is that everything looks very green and pretty!

The mouse that roared.

We’ve got a resident mouse in the tent. You can hear him last thing at night, moving furniture while wearing clogs. The little bastard who stands no more than inch high (I’ve actually seen him washing himself!) is an African Pygmy mouse and the smallest mammal on the continent. But like Napolean and others of small stature, he is obviously determined that size should be no barrier to ambition. So far he has not only managed to gnaw his way through the thick moulded plastic wall of the large cooler box where all our non-perishable food is stored but almost every Tupperware container therein. (What I thought was wild rice, was actually ordinary rice laced with mouse droppings). He has also chewed through Elle’s books, notes, clothing, the tent ground sheet, canvas tent bag, a portable shower bag and undoubtedly numerous other items which have yet to be discovered. Nothing it seems is beyond his titanium-plated incisors. Even Elle who re-releases the tiny fish, which accidentally swim into the water containers when filling up at the river, admits her patience is wearing thin. ‘He is very cute but skating on thin ice.’ Mouse you have warned.

Going off today to try and find the ruin of David Livingstone’s Caprivi mission, which he used as staging post en route to his ‘discovery’ of Victoria Falls. It’s not even on a map and we are hoping that some of locals will know where it is.

TIA (This is Africa!)

Bit of tension in the air this morning between Elle and I. Combination of late nights spent chasing hyenas taking its toll, and the daytime heat which just saps your energy further. I woke up feeling grumpy this morning, partly frustrated at not achieving the work I had intended to do here and generally just ‘getting out of bed the wrong side’. (Trying to finish writing a book I started about four years ago and making little progress!) Elle has very sore eyes from over-wearing her contact lenses and is also feeling tired. Neither of us has really spoken to each other this morning preferring an uneasy tolerance rather than risking saying anything that might be misconstrued as confrontational. Minor irritations are easily projected when living in close proximity.

Also been a frustrating past few days. No internet for 48 hours, in spite of several calls to the service provider who assured it would be back on in 'haff anowah'. I also had to spend the best part of yesterday morning in Home Affairs in Katima in an attempt to extend my holiday visa by a month. Unless you enjoy pain, this is not a recommended experience anywhere in Africa.

After being shunted from pillar to post by a staff whose general demeanour can at best be described as 'leisurely', I was informed that a committee would have to meet to discuss my application and that I would be informed by telephone of the decision. When I asked when this decision might be, I was told it would be ‘sometime, maybe, next week’ (emphasis on 'maybe'). This despite the fact that my visa runs out this Sunday.

Fortunately, they gave me a piece of paper which states that my status is under review, should I be arrested by zealous immigration officials. I propose to do a Neville Chamberlain impression should this happen, although I have a feeling my 'piece of paper' is probably equally worthless.

To die for...

I’ve lost quite a bit of weight since I’ve been here. My stomach appears to have shrunk dramatically and while not quite a washboard yet girls, its probably the flattest its been in thirty years. I put this miraculous transformation down to a lack of Guinness and walking a good half hour every morning, trudging through sandy soil in the bush. (According to Elle, walking through soft sand tightens stomach muscles!)

Meanwhile Elle claims to have put on weight, although quite where I’ve haven’t managed to figure out, as she has a well toned and muscular physique which most women would die for and most men would kill for. She’s very conscious of this supposed 'weight gain', proving that women everywhere, share the same concerns, real or imagined.

Once a week, usually on a Saturday, we drive an hour to Katima Mulilo to shop for food and essentials. It's a little dusty frontier town, with a mix of local businesses and a couple of big supermarkets. Africans throughout the continent, choose oddly endearing names for their shops. Katima has ‘David Shop’ which sells clothing and ‘Happy Shop’ which while I’m not sure what is sells, looks very popular.

You can buy most things in the supermarkets, most of which is imported from South Africa. Food is however expensive and a weekly shop for two of us costs an average of eighty euros not including the booze. (Elle has the odd glass of Chardonnay while I have developed a taste for G&T‘s. Tonic water contains quinine which is anti-malarial. Purely medicinal, you understand, old boy!)
　

'Cheap Shop'

Elle is forever asking me what day it is. It's easy to lose track of time here. The days seem to drift by like clouds, ending abruptly around 6.30pm in pitch darkness. (Nightfall drops like a shutter here). With few human appointments to keep, a watch is a pretty useless here. Time here is graduated to Nature's clock. You get up with a dawn chorus of birds and fall asleep to a frog opera. The hot hours in between are a constant hum and drone of insects, some the size of a Cessna light aircraft.

The days are hotting up literally by a degree a day as the rainy season approaches. The increasing heat seems to have an incremental effect on everything here. The frogs are getting louder and the insects more aggressive. (It reminds me of the 'marching season' back home). The 'mossies' are getting worse too and I'm covered in bites by the little blood-suckers. I've stopped taking anti-malarial prophylactics on the advice of those who live and work here. Prophylactics are not an absolute guarantee against malaria and tend to mask the symptoms if you catch it, meaning you might be unaware you have it until its too late. Celebral malaria which is endemic in this region, is passed on by the dreaded 'Anopheles' mosquito and can kill you in less than 24 hours, if not treated immediately.

Has been a productive week for Elle. She darted another hyena late last night, her second in a week. A large female, she attached a GSM radio collar to it and took blood samples before slicing two chunks out of its ear for future identification purposes. We had to wait almost two hours before it came round and was able to stagger drunkenly back into the bush, by which stage I felt like passing out too. (I fear it's only a matter of time before I sit on a syringe of Zoletil tranquiliser which Elle tends to place on my car seat while she is loading her gun and I'm out hanging up the bait!)

Having earned a day off, Elle and I are heading to a safari lodge tonight for a few drinks and a meal. The lodges here are ludicrously priced on a par with Dublin but there's little choice in the way of entertainment here on the weekend. All the locals go to 'Cheap Shop', a shebeen-come-convenience store with all the allure of a cow byre and a sound system which when fully cranked, is guaranteed to loosen your teeth. Having said that, its the hottest venue in the bush on a Friday and Saturday night...quite possibly because it's the only venue. The local liquer is a form of home brew called 'Tombo' which also removes rust as well as erasing long term memory. Haven't tried it yet but if I don't get some tonic water by Tuesday, I might be tempted.

Off to jump in the river now for bath. This could be my last blog...

A for Aardvark

I've been here three weeks now but it feels longer. The days tend to be slow because of the heat and lack of physical activity. I usually wake up as the sun rises around 6.30am. (I can see it from the shade net window on the tent, like a enormous sliver of melon rising through the trees). After coffee, Elle and I take a walk in the bush before it gets too hot. There are lots of little dusty paths through the bush made by the locals and Elle likes to scan these for 'spoor'. She's teaching me how to identify certain animals by their tracks. (About four months ago, a local stole a pair of lady's shoes from her tent and she was able to track him down to his home from by following his own shoe imprints.) This morning we found the spoor of a honey badger and an Aardvark which is actually an Afrikaans word meaning 'earth pig'.

Breakfast is either Pro-Nutro cereal made of wholewheat or the African version which is called Morvite, which sounds, looks and tastes like something you find in a builder's yard. Mixed with milk or water, the trick is to get it into your digestive system before it becomes a mold cast of your bowl.

There's always lots of chores to be done round the camp. Elle brushes out the tent everyday and for several minutes she's enveloped in a desert storm. It's a constant battle. The dust gets into everything. Your hair, your clothes, camera and computer equipment. Nothing is spared. (The water is black after washing clothes in a bucket!)

I try to write for a few hours each day but the increasing heat fugs your mind. The afternoons become slavish. Elle usually takes a siesta while I struggle on with brain melt. We have a couple of drinks around five (...a G&T for me old boy!), dinner about six before heading out to the park for the night to check on the hyena 'baiting' site. If the hyenas pitch up, we don't usually get back until after midnight. Then sleep.
　
　
　
　

As I swam across crocodile-infested waters...

Woke up this morning to a pounding headache having overindulged the gin last night. Tried to walk it off, accompanied by several biting flies determined to add irritation to my lack of well-being. Any romantic notions of living in the bush are quickly dissapated by the realities. It's hot, dusty and full of insects which bite, sting or just annoy. I'm covered in mosquito bites despite regularly spraying myself with repellent. Elle assures me, that the mosquito population will become exponential next month when the rains come.

Elle gave a talk and presentation last night to a group of bushmen last night, who are currently employed on a week long 'game count' in the region. Using her laptop, she showed them photographs of the lions, hyenas and leopard at the 'baiting' site captured on the remote camera. The 'bushies' thought the pictures were very amusing for some reason and there was much laughter and 'clicking' chatter.

Earlier in the day, I visited a beautiful, thatched lodge on an island, complete with its own 'crocodile pool' (This is an wire mesh enclosure in the river for human bathing, as opposed to pool full of crocodiles!) Getting to it was a bit of a mission and involved wading across three hundred yards of almost waist-high water to get to it. Quite nerve-wracking as its just the kind of place that a croc might be lurking. The irony of crossing a potentially croc-infested waterway to visit a 'croc pool' was not lost on me.

Jurassic Park

Elle, Robin, Kath and I went to the park last night to visit the 'baiting' site. Had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach as we drove. A sense of foreboding. About three hundred yards from the site, there was a huge trumpet sound. Elephants! Suddenly, Elle jams on the brakes and we are staring at baby elephant crossing the road. Another huge trumpet, this time beside the car. To our right and left, the bush is cracking and crunching. You can just make out huge dark shapes everywhere. We are now in middle of huge herd of elephants and they are not happy. My heart is racing. Elephants will crush a car and the occupants inside without hesitation especially if they feel threathened. Elle is terrified of elephants but doesn't panic. She hits the accelarator and we speed off along the sandy dirt track, to a chorus of trumpeting and undergrowth being thrashed through either side of the car. It's a truly terrifying gauntlet for several minutes.

We eventually grind to a halt ten minutes later and everyone takes a deep breath. (The last time I felt like that, was being fired upon by Serbs outside Tuzla in Bosnia back in 1993). We wait awhile, taking solace in the most beautiful full red moon which has risen. We know we have to go back the way we came. We just hope the elephants, given a bit of time, will move on. Eventually, we turn round and head back.

We get as far as the 'baiting' site and no sign of the elephants. The bait has gone and no hyenas. In the near distance staring at us, their eyes reflected in the torch-light, is a herd of Impala. I open up the safe box containing the remote camera which is chained to a tree stump opposite the 'bait' tree and Elle begins to download the pictures. Suddenly, the silence is broken by a huge trumpet sound in the distance. It's an elephant. A minute later, there is another terrific roar, this time so much closer. He's coming our way and fast. The air suddenly goes still. The ground begins to vibrate below our feet. He's crashing through the bush now and bellowing. We jump back into the car. Elle hits the ignition, and we speed off, leaving him behind us. For anyone, who has never had experience of angry elephants at night...think Jurassic Park. Not for the faint-hearted.

A Sense of Smell

Visited the 'baiting' site around 8pm on Friday night and strung up a 'new' maggot infested neck of beef to replace the one stolen by the leopard during the week. The smell of the rotting meat, which has been lying in the hot sun in the back of Elle's bakkie for two days was beginning to overpower the campsite and I'm glad it's now hanging from a tree in the bush five miles away. (Elle's olifactory senses have its seems, become inured to the smell of rotting meat over the years, and it doesn't seem to bother her much!) We also threw out bones and some left over Zebra meat. Hidden amongst these 'scraps' was a piece of meat, containing 75 milligrams Dormicum sedative which will cause drowsiness in a hyena, enough to allow Elle to fire a Zoletil tranquiliser dart and put it to sleep.

Within half an hour of playing 'squealy pig' noises over the loudspeakers, an old female hyena pitched up to investigate. Elle calls her the 'big grey one' or alternatively 'the old bitch'. We watched her for almost two hours, as she ate the scraps and wandered back and forwards. But before Elle could dart her, she suddenly disappeared. Such is the unpredictability of wild animals.

On Saturday, Elle, Robin and I drove to Katima to pick up Kath, a mutual friend of ours from Cape Town who is coming to stay for a few days. Kath wants to start a walking safari business in the Caprivi and has several meetings lined up. Starting a business here, is no easy task. 'Joint Venture' are the key words. Which means, any business idea, has to involve the local community at 'stakeholder' level.

The Seventh Day Adventists have upped and gone. Woken by the birds this morning which sound like a hundred ringtones all going off simultaneously.
　

The Snake Season

Getting hotter with each day. Practically impossible to do anything between noon and 3pm except lie on bed wearing a wet T-shirt and read. The only respite from the heat is lying next to a woman also wearing a wet T-shirt.

Known locally as the 'snake season' it's the time of year when you have to be little more careful when in the bush. A local WWF (World Wildlife Fund) guy spotted a four metre Egyptian Spitting Cobra yesterday, slithering through a pile of dead leaves not far from here. Generally, snakes avoid human contact and will get out of the way, if they hear you coming, so general advice is to make as much noise as possible when out walking.

Puff Adders are the exception to the rule, because they like to bask in the sun and are well camouflaged. Their bite is nasty but rarely fatal if you can get to a doctor in time. The worst snake here is the Black Mamba, which is very slender snake with a coffin-shaped head. They grow up to four metres long and their toxic bite can kill an adult human in less than ten minutes. They are known to raise their body two thirds of the ground before they strike and even chase their prey if it attempts to escape. They definitely not on my 'things to see and do' list.

Elle has gone out today with Robin, the Wild dog man to track down a hyena den, based on the information and locations supplied by the GSM tracking collar which she managed to download to her computer yesterday. The hyena in question has cubs, and if she can locate the den, she will place a remote camera opposite to record any activity. She is very excited about this.

I saw my first spotted hyena about ten days ago. Elle darted one and I was able to observe it up close. They are rather strange looking animals. There forelegs are longer than their hind legs which gives them a distinctly sloped look and a running gait like Quasimodo. Their brown spots are generally quite blotchy and they have a slate grey head like a giant rodent full of bone-crushing teeth. Elle thinks they look really 'cute'. They remind me of a bad acid trip in my late teens.
　

Lions Visit

Woken again at dawn this morning by the Christians across the river singing 'How are you this morning?' Elle has a PA system and speakers mounted on her bakkie which she uses to play injured pig noises to lure her hyenas. I'm thinking of playing a few Lion roars later tonight just to get even.

Drove into the park last night to visit Elle's hyena 'baiting' site which consists of a large piece of beef neck suspended by a rope from a tree. A remote camera is positioned strategically opposite and records any visitors that show up. Four hyenas have visited the spot regularly for the past couple of months. In the past couple of days, a leopard has been caught on camera, trying to steal the bait. But an even bigger surprise emerged as Elle downloaded the pictures to her laptop computer. Four lions, three females and a young male had visited on Tuesday night! Great pictures and quite a coup.

Elle got some more good news today. After fearing five month's of data from a GPS tracking collar which she removed from a hyena last week had been lost, it finally downloaded to her computer. From the information, she can now determine where the hyena, a lactating mother, has her den and her daily movements. This is a big breakthrough for Elle and after days of uncertainty and frustration, she is over the moon. It's the culmination of a over a year's work.

This Simple Life

Life here is very basic. There is no electricity and all power is supplied by car batteries which have be charged up on a rotation basis. Drinking water is drawn from the river with a bucket, while keeping an eye out for crocs lurking in the reeds. Elle had an encounter with a four metre croc about a month ago while out walking nearby. Says she heard huge slapping sounds a few yards behind her followed by a huge splash. She turned just in time to see his/her big tail disappearing into the murky water.

Toilet is a wander into a bush with a spade. A keen survey of the immediate surroundings is advised before getting down to the business in hand. Squatting in the bush with your trousers at half mast and your arse exposed is not the best position to be in if suddenly confronted with the unexpected.

Showering is a process of standing naked in a wash-hand basin and using a showerhead contraption with pump end submerged in bucket of water. The electrical end is plugged into cigarette lighter in the car. The result is a faint but steady trickle of water which succeeds in wetting the body just enough to work up a soap lather. From start to finish, a shower takes about half an hour but it leaves you feeling wonderfully clean and fresh albeit with a sense of achievement.

No Rest for the Wicked

Woken up at 5.30am this morning by loud humming of generator belonging to a large gathering of Seventh Day Adventists who are camped nearby. This was shortly followed by torturous and garbled rantings of their pastor over a PA system for about an hour. (Tip to Pastor: There is no need to shout into microphone.) This rude awakening was exacerbated by major headache from hangover. (I ran out of tonic water last night and was reduced to filling the remainder of the glass with gin...). I have nothing against Christians but this morning I am thinking maybe the Romans had a point.

Elle's friend and associate Robin, is arriving by bus from Windhoek this morning to pick up his Toyota Landcruiser which he was forced to abandon here, after his engine cooling fan splintered into a hundred pieces. He studies Wild dogs sometimes called 'painted dogs' because of their markings. Elle also got a text message from her trainee Calicious this morning to say his cousin Euster, who has been ill with the flu, is 'in serious condition and losing power' and needs a lift to the hospital in Katima.


Caprivians are by nature the gentlest of people but they are very expectant of help. Not a day goes by here, when one doesn't ask for something. A lift in the car, food, money etc. It's hard to refuse because they don't have much and you want to help. But the word swiftly spreads that your a 'soft touch' and before you know it, everyone and their cousin is beating a path to your tent flap.　

Sunday Roast

It's almost 11am and it's getting hot even though it's still winter here. Back in Ireland, I would be buried in the Sunday papers and/or nursing a hangover. Instead, I'm sitting outside a tent in the Namibian bush with an internet 'dongle' precariously positioned on my head trying to get a signal. (Note to Donegal internet providers: service here in the 'middle of nowhere' is about the same as back home!)

As I write, a beautiful emerald green dragon fly is perched on my laptop. We're eyeballing one another and I'm savouring the moment. Here for once, is an insect which doesn't want to bite, spit, release some foul stink or infect me with some paralysing or deadly disease.

Across the table from me, is my partner and sexy wife-to-be Elle, busy labelling sample jars containing dried hyena poo while listening to music on her iPod. Behind me lies a vast flood plain of tall reeds and water lilies, whose dark, still waters are home to hippos and crocs. You rarely see them but you can hear them, especially at night. A huge sudden splash usually denotes a croc has 'taken something'. A hippo sounds like a tuba warming up and is an oddly soothing sound. Throw in a chorus of several thousand frogs which sound like a wind chime convention and it makes for a surprising and oddly fitful sleep.