Ha ha ha holiday

Dear Reader(s?),

Whilst I would hate to make anyone feel even the slightest twinge of jealousy, I feel it only right to point out that whilst writing this I am sitting in a little oasis, with the branches of an enormously beautiful Baobab tree shielding me ever-so-slightly from the heat of tropical afternoon sun, as I sip something my daughter describes as a Mojito through a landslide of crushed ice. 

No, we haven't had a lotto win, nor have we any connection with the recent criminal activity (actually a recently published identikit of a bank robber did bear an uncanny resemblance to Mrs Ed, except for the fact that the perpetrator was clean-shaven). By way of explanation, let me go back a few days……

 “We're going on Holiday!” announced Mrs Ed, somewhat matter-of-factly. She does that- makes these great proclamations as if there is an unending supply of money. Normally it's some sort of Cruise the Coast of Iceland ad she's found in a magazine, waxing lyrically about the never-to-be-repeated-value of only R275 000 per person, not including bar drinks or visas or laundry or vegetables beginning with 'c'.

 My response has always been, of course, a cool, calm, “Yes dear, let's plan it for next year June, just after we register the gold mining rights for the back porch,” because I know the idea of a holiday will swiftly wane into insignificance once them Credit Card monsters call again to threaten us with legal action (I have tirelessly pointed out that when I was at school, 'Outstanding' meant 'Distinguished from others by high levels of achievement', but will they listen?).

But this time Mrs Ed had a somewhat serious glint in her good eye.  And as she explained the situation to me it seemed that this SHI (Sudden Holiday Idea) might actually become a reality!

Apparently her aunt had mentioned that a great aunt living somewhere near the northern border with Zimbabwe had just turned 91, and had expressed a desire to meet the Garden Route Branch of her extended family. This great Aunt's son had passed this request on to us in an email, kindly mentioning that he would gladly accommodate the entire tribe. 

Understandably, the immediate response from the huge rabble of relatives living down here was a sensible 'Nay! Alas, 'tis too far, the fuel too costly and who can afford time away from work?' 

Of course the son graciously replied that though it was a shame, they fully understood. And just as a matter of interest, in case we were wondering what they were up to in the Limpopo Province, he attached the brochure of his luxury game ranch which, had we been able to come, we would have stayed at, with an air conditioned thatch cottage for each family, full and exclusive use of the large lapa / pub / braai area, hot and cold running servants,  and of course a swimming pool, jaccuzzi, games room and a jumping castle for the kids.

 “It's such a pity you won't be able to make it,” he added “I would imagine one or two of the men might have liked to do a bit of hunting, and we have a surplus of wildebeest....”

It was quite a feat, getting 17 of us into two vehicles, but somehow we managed. Actually I think if there had been 170 of us it still would have been managed.  The offer of wildebeest was the clincher, as it resulted in the two 'hunters' in the family swiftly stepping in and arranging everything with crack-shot accuracy. In a matter of minutes the planning, packing and allocation of space per passenger were processed  - Indeed, the first time I had witnessed the efficiency brought on by what I now call 'The Call of the Hunt'.

Let me explain. You see I don't have  'The Call of the Hunt'  in me.  I think it's something you either have or don't.  I imagine that if the world as we know it suddenly reverted back to the 'hunter-gatherer’ age I would be the skinny dude playing cards with a kudu in the hope that I could get him to bet his left hind quarter on a pair of twos.

But let's not go into any 'should or should not hunt' debate here.  I am not qualified to do that as I am what you call an 'end user', in that I really do love game biltong.  Being also a fan of the idea of wildlife loping majestically across the plains and forests of Africa, up until now I have had to convince myself that this delicious delicacy simply grows on trees.

But I digress.  What I am trying to say here is that this Call of the hunt was VERY strong for some members of the family, hence the  military-style, synchronise-your- watches organisation of our trip. The journey, they surmised, would take 17 hours maximum.

It took us 27. I watched with interest as the best-made plans of our trip North went south. Indeed the hunters could not hold in their frustration.
“It's like this family is one big directionless amoeba!” my one seething brother in law spat at about the 47th stop.  The other brother-in-law could not add anything - he was too busy leaping up and down the back of the trailer like a wild thing, brandishing his hunting knife in the hopes that he could prevent anymore unwarranted unpacking by passengers. I truly thought that he was seconds away from loading his rifle.

The amoeba theory had some merit.  Sometimes only half an hour away from the previous stop a desperate plea for the toilet, or a cigarette, or a leg stretch would emanate from the depths of one of the vehicles.  The nearest petrol stop would be reached and, after strict instructions to 'Please. PLEASE make it quick' bodies would pour out every door and gather in one big central cell.  This cell would ooze towards the main building and bisect itself into the gents and ladies toilets. But on its return part of the cell would see something of interest in the shop and head in that direction… and, feeling this gentle pull to the side, the rest would simply ooze after it. 

And then the ‘cell division’ would start. Every aisle would be full of our passengers - as if no-one had ever been into a shop before.

Frantic dashes ensued.  Back to vehicles to ask for money. Back into the shop. Back again to ask a cousin if it was the grape Fanta or the traditional orange Fanta she wanted. Back in again, then out to the car to find moral support for the rather risqué sunglass purchase “Do they really suit me? Really?  You promise? Really? Hang on, let me get my t-shirt out the bag in the trailer to make sure they match..”


To put it simply, getting everyone back into the vehicles was like herding 16 oiled penguins into a small crate with unlocked sideflaps.  No one really wanted to get back in, and once in, noone ever stayed there if the car wasn't moving.

And so it continued.  For more than an entire calendar day's driving. ......

I must say, it was certainly nice that we eventually also got to see the gentler side of the hunters' characters.  I think the original plan was that we would arrive at the ranch at about 5pm, just in time for them to make a camouflage-coated, weapon-blazing dash into the veldt,and perhaps, er…. pick some biltong.  But in reality it was after midnight when we got there, and anyway by that time they were in no state to hunt, each curled up in the foetal position, sucking their thumbs and gently weeping real tears, as their wives sympathetically stroked their foreheads and promised them no, there weren't going to be ANY more stops…….

But alas, I need to leave you now, dear reader, as the pool beckons, my Mojito is depleted, and I feel the need to perhaps chew on another stick of fruit from the biltong tree.  I'd be mad if I didn't!

It's raining it's pouring...

An odd question, perhaps, but might I ask where we stand at the moment, regarding rain? Can anyone tell me?

You see I have a theory:- we are so used to needing it that when it finds its way into our everyday conversation, we kind of sound like stuck record players .... oops- uhhhm - scratched CDs?

This struck me like a rainsoaked rabbit the other morning when I bumped into someone outside the bank (these days I tend to hang around outside - firstly because I hope that someone might drop a bit of money, and secondly there's that restraining order…)

(Its unfair, really, I have explained to the manager that my visiting his house at three thirty in the morning to request another extension on my overdraft was simply my idea of 'moving forward', but he just won't drop it - something about my singing scaring his wife and children - which is absolute rubbish because I KNOW I sound quite impressive after six or so beers.)

Anyway where was I? Oh yes, bumping into someone outside the bank - one of the few people who I don't owe money (he'd been away for a month) which made it a more pleasant experience... well it would have, if it hadn't been 'raining old maids with knopkieries' (so much more descriptive than 'cats and dogs'.)

(Incidentally, many of you may have read that 'raining cats and dogs' came from the old times when domestic animals had to sleep in amongst the thatching on the roof to keep warm. Apparently when it rained hard enough the thatch became slippery and they slid out and plopped down to the floor, hence anyone looking through the window would remark 'It's raining cats and dogs'. Now the old Afrikaans saying 'Dit reën ou meide met knopkieries' makes me think that perhaps, in bygone times, the 'early settler' men were courageous enough to send their mothers-in-law to sleep amongst the cats and dogs in the thatch, which, let's face it, would make for a far more entertaining thunderstorm.)

But I digress. Sorry. I tend to do that. It drives Mrs Ed mad, of course (though I've oft commented, under my breath of course, that it's not a very long drive) but I, personally, don't think digressing a serious problem - certainly not worth all the bruises on my arm .

Come to think of it, at least I'm not REgressing which would mean I'm going backwards. And if there was such a thing as 'UNgressing' which would be the appropriate word for TOTALLY changing the subject, then that would be Mrs Ed's thing.

Indeed I'm willing to bet my entire over-draft that she would be the unchallenged Queen of Ungress, year in year out. She has it perfected, especially when we're in one of those very rare arguments that I may be close to winning…
“But my darling love-dragon,” I will say, very calmly of course, “The horrendous smell in the kitchen IS your fault. You are the one who put the frozen chicken into the oven, STILL ON ITS POLYSTYRENE TRAY and left it on at 400 degrees… ALL DAY!”
“Yes,” she will scream in reply, “But when was the last time you bought me flowers?”

Anyway. Back to the rain. Be it old maids armed to the teeth with clubs or a canine/feline combo, on that particular day it was pouring, which is why we bumped into one another this man and I - because we could barely see three feet in front of us (I used feet instead of metres because he is quite a bit older than me). Of course we tried to exchange pleasantries, but the rain and the howling wind made conversation almost impossible.
“……….. on the rocks,' I caught, as we ducked into a doorway.
“Whiskey?” I answered, “What a splendid idea, thank you very much - that would be a perfect warmer-upper.”

Apparently this confused him somewhat. I realised why when I discovered that he had been talking about the Kiani Satu, which was still aground at the time.

Eventually we moved onto the embarrassed silence that happens when two men run out of conversation, or one of them is convinced that the other is about to ask for a loan.
“How about this weather?” he said.
“Yes isn't it appalling?” I answered.
And that's when he uttered that standard answer, before making a hasty exit. “We need it though, don't we?” he grunted dashing across the road before I could answer.
“Er... Yes, I suppose we do. Talking of needs……could I…..” but it was too late, he was already in his car and reversing out, doing everything possible to avoid eye contact.

So I stood there like a damp hamster would, if it was wet and had the habit of hanging around financial institutions. And that was when it hit me. Not the hamster. The rain talk. Why would we need it? It had been storming for six days. Ships were crashing for goodness sake. They had brought in a heavy duty waterpump to try and stop people mooring their boats on the road outside the school!

But somehow we always say “Phew! We need it” every time it rains. Do we? Need it I mean? Has someone checked with the farmers? They could well be standing around wondering how they are going to get Blossom the milk cow out of the mud, or whether they should choose the tractor or bass boat to harvest the apples?

I do realise I may be appearing somewhat selfish here, so please don't get me wrong. If we need the rain then I'm all for it ….let it pour and pour and pour again…

But. Not. In. My. Office. PLEASE!

Yes. Alas, alack, Our new premises suffers from Porous Roof, and it does make it VERY hard to concentrate. The constant drip drip drip ON MY HEAD is more torture than… than… than Mrs Ed singing (her version of) Bon Jovi's Bed of Roses over and over again. (Should I take this opportunity to apologise to my neighbours?)

Of course I have tried shifting my desk around, but every time the wind changes, so the leaks seem to move. It's as if they are following me.

The other evening I had to work late to get the paper out, and it was really bucketing down, inside and out! This left me no option but to take my life into my own hands, if only to save all our computer equipment… and my sanity. So, acutely aware of the danger (one slip on the wet corrugated iron might send her crashing through the roof on top of me!) I bravely sent Mrs Ed up there with a handbag full of putty to try and block the holes up. It was terrifying! Her footsteps on the uneven roof sheets combined with the flapping of her over-alls in the high winds were enough to drown out even the thunder.

I would love to report that she managed to block all the leaks, and we all lived happily ever after… but she didn't.

In fact the only hole she managed to close up was the one just under the nose of a truck driver who had stopped his eighteen wheeler on the road just down from our office. Apparently a huge bolt of lightening had flashed just as had driven past, and seeing the vision of a handbag-brandishing Mrs Ed seemingly hovering under an umbrella at single story level had been quite a religious experience for him.

Mesmerised, he climbed out his cab and stood in the shelter of our doorway, as if it were a holy shrine. Whilst Mrs Ed clambered down the ladder I tried to explain to him that she had been on the roof trying to fix the leaks brought on by the torrential rain.
“Oh, I see,” he eventually said, rather disappointed that it had not been Mary Poppins after all, “Still.... The rain - we need, it don't we.”

I suppose it was a bit careless of Mrs Ed, swinging her handbag round like that, especially as it was still half full of putty. Apparently lips do tend to bleed a lot, but I'm sure in a day or two the swelling will have dropped and the man will be able to speak normally. He was very nice about signing the bit of paper stating that it had all been a simple accident.

Mind you, with Mrs Ed still swinging her bag above her head…
He'd be mad if he didn't!