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!