We have a dual currency in Zimbabwe, since we can’t be trusted with our own money – we rely on South Africa and the US of A for our fiscal discipline. This is a challenge for a numbers impaired person such as myself. Read the rest of this entry
We went to Gonarezhou recently – well, I’ve posted the pics. Certain I will get stuck in the sand, dear trusting husband decides he had better take a shovel.
Our car is always absolutely chokka’s when we head out. We have a roof top tent, all our tools, khatunda, survey equipment. So a foshola is not the easiest thing to carry. But since, when I get stuck, he has to dig, I shrug and think….whatever.
Well of course I didn’t get stuck – I drive too well for that. I proved it reversing away from the mummy ellie in Gonarezhou. I did wipe out the ABS sensor to the rear brake, but I was chuffed with that cos I could drive on the dirt roads like I used to…
Anyway, since I didn’t get stuck and we had lugged the stupid shovel he decides he is going to dig a hole. For water. Why, I ask, when we can just go to the crossing and collect a bucket. No, he wants a bath.
He then stomps off (my emphasis) across the sand in front of our camp, to find a place to dig.
But, you know, its not that easy to dig in the sand, it keeps collapsing and there is no elbow room to get a good swing in. Then…its really hard to get out. But hey, I’m supportive….I stand and make conversation and don’t laugh as he struggles out of his hole..I don’t even mention the water isn’t clean, I kindly assume it will settle???.
Do you know, one night a hippo walked across the sand (we saw her footprints through the binoculars from on top of the opposite cliff the following day) she took a detour off her path about 50m away, obviously decided we hadn’t dug her a deep enough hole, collapsed a whole lot more sand into it and wandered back to her pathway.
Now the reason I am waffling away is to describe what happened the last evening we spent at the park….We had arrived back from a long hot day and successfully drove off a load of South African’s who preferred our campsite…
Hubby stomps off across the sand, acting all brave – like he can carry a 20l bucket all on his own…and I (silently) admit I could do with a bath…so I follow him. I hate walking in the sand – it reminds me of when I was fat – that’s exactly how I walked when I was fat.
…and the bloody baboons come into our camp, pulled the box with our fruit in it out of the back. They nonchalantly gooi the fancy gas stove to one side and the screams began. Half way across the sand, I realise what is happening and try to run back. (That feels even worse than walking in the sand..) I see a heap of squirming bodies, screaming, yelling, some running off carrying booty, munching it, their table manners disgusting. Several are on the roof, the bonnet, the tent. The big male tries to control the situation, he clouts a couple of the kids, but it doesn’t help, its mayhem. They find the little tupperwares, break them open, they pick out the tins and slobber all over them, unable to work the openers. They took my coffee, ripped it open and decided it tasted shit. So they just dumped it all out. They tore the tea bags – and slobbered all over them too. The campers next door watched with interest as I finally struggled up to the camp, holding a stone and log. The baboons retreated to within shouting distance, hoping I may turn back to fetch water.
What a mess. Standing in the middle of it all I thought – just like a jambanja. Exactly what our office looked like when the ‘warvets’ trashed it, right down to the shit all over the place…
OK – I rate guy’s mechanical ability….so sue me
I rate them on a 0 – 10 by asking questions, with that vacant look I have perfected.
I have always been of the opinion that men are taken aside and shown how to do a few things, around about when they are fifteen, I think.
One of them is to shower in cold water. Read the rest of this entry
I am. I’m a big, fat fraidycat…
There are a lots of things in life that scare the hell out of me. The first one is ‘committed causes’ people. You know, horsey people or dogie people. God people. I usually hide under the table when I see them coming. Look, I own dogs, horses, but I’m not a horsey or doggie person. I asked my husband to shoot me if I became one. He said he would be too scared by then. Read the rest of this entry
My grandmother believed very strongly in Etiquette. She said it gave everyone a solid base to work from. She said it was there so one needn’t constantly worry one had said the wrong thing, or sat in the wrong place…she spoke like that too. She said ‘one needn’t worry’ instead of ‘you needn’t worry.’ She said she had been taught etiquette from a young age, it was part of one’s education and up bringing.
I wish this blogging/advertising gig had some sort of guideline. You know, ‘blogging for idiots’ a guideline about blogetiquette, so I don’t post things in the wrong place..or comment when I shouldn’t.
I had not read any blogs in the past and certainly never had to sell myself. In our line of work, people come directly to us and we never, ever pressurise a client into using our services. Now I have to become known in order to sell my books. I have to create an internet presence, a footprint. Expose myself. I think it would be easier to take all my clothes off in Fife Street.
So I decided to look it up. Read the rest of this entry
Recently, we spent a few weeks in South Africa and I was really impressed by a couple of things. Read the rest of this entry