THE OTTER TRAIL

Some time ago my SO (Significant Other) Anne managed to get 6 slots on the famous Otter Trail and as a trail owner I felt it behoove to take this opportunity to experience the opposition. The money was paid, friends were invited and plans were afoot.

Well the friends all backed out with various ailments and commitments and for a while it seemed it would be SO and I alone. Guise my neighbor and collaborator in the great Num-num enterprise and Albert who built the trails were however confirmed.

Anne assured me that a lady in her office had offered her free access to a cupboard full of every camping need the finest adventure shops had to offer and we should not get our own, fair enough!

After some delay and politics the kit arrived and looked immediately to be a bit small for the task envisioned but I loaded 10 or 15 kilo’s of metal into one and hung it on my back.

My first and immediate impression was not good. It was very heavy and I had yet to leave the house! We got to the middle of the dam about 250 yards down the drive and Anne and I were almost in blows over the sticks, one of which I flung into the dam in a rage. Another 250 yards and the straps of the bag were cutting through my spine sending agonizing bolts of pain into the top of my head. I threw a sissy fit!

I stopped, I paused in this mad pursuit for wisdom, I turned to Anne and said with great emphasis, “ There is no way in hell that I am going to be a beast of burden for a further 2 seconds let alone for 5 days” I paused for effect, “ The hike is cancelled and that’s that” I returned to the lodge a relieved and happy man at my decision.

Ahh but the spells we weave to deceive the heart, I could not look myself in the eye, and this was wek after all, not just the flip hopes of a youth. A duty and when duty calls my guilt ridden Anglo, western, protestant, catholic and Jewish angels all sing the same song.
So I loaded the same burden into my old bag I use for picnics which is fitted with all the right straps and harnesses and wandered around the estate to give it a fair go, and it wasn’t to bad, I was encouraged and went to the lowveld to do a little further research into the murky world of backpacks.

There are many and as with so much in life you get what you pays for, the expensive ones are very comfortable and the comfort decreases proportionately to the number attached, but after a lot of wondering about I settled on a Vaude which the First Assent salesman talked about with some reverence and for which I also managed to strike a keen deal. It turned out to be a very very good purchase.
I was warming to the experience. There are loads of toys to add to the ‘light weight’ of the bag, starting with sleeping bags each proclaiming to be warmer lighter and snugglier than the next. Then no hiker can go without the fancy little gas stove and a couple of gas cylinders, a survival bag is considered a must, which is just a big bag to put your bag into if you need to float it. There are hats and boots and fancy dried meals with titanium fork and knife sets, very light! There are head torches and walking sticks special socks and extra crocks, just in case, so that gram by gram you fill your 70lt bag with a great amount of dead weight that corresponds to the wilty feeling of your credit card.

Fear is a great motivator so I was also striding about the farm carrying my weighted bag about in preparation for what I was convinced would be a very physical challenge, something I have always avoided. Never liked making life more difficult and was in no way convinced that massive exertion was a source of pleasure!

Days slipped past fast and soon enough we were booked for a hot shower and bed for before and after and were standing filled with dread at the check in point being issued with maps, very long ones. More loot was extracted for random charges invented by who knows who and we were directed to a death by power point video film of the trail that Anne and I thought life was too short to tolerate. This production which I suspect was a source of great pride to the minions of the great SAN Parks organization was written by a bore, shakily filmed by some nephew of a minister, narrated by a monotone droner and the hikers featured were, to be kind, not the finest examples of humanity that might have been chosen.

Albert was however fascinated and insisted on watching the entire 45-minute production that filled him with dread about the river crossings, as he cannot swim! We however loaded up, Anne and I had divided the load she carried the clothes and I carried the rest! Seemed fair at the time.

Day one was a doddle, a very short easy start in fact a bit short and after the horror stories about kilometers of rock scrabbling that had already literally killed someone the new improved Otter start was a big relief and Hut 1 was soon occupied. Hut 2 was soon also filled with a group of German yoots on exchange at Stelenbosch University who shared their hut with a young couple from Israel. I noticed that they kept their gas stove outside, just to be sure!

Disaster number 1: we forgot to bring fire lighters and disaster 2: poor old Albert and Guise had left their first days fresh meat reward behind which must have been torture for Guise particularly, a trencher man of note, as the OG’s (Otter Germans) had half a cow on the fire. Zey ver not lads that ver scared of heavy loads unt had over 25 kilograms over each shoulder, I sag at the thought with my 15.

The OG’s had settled a bottle of clear liquor and were very quite when we left through the fresh morning settling into our string, I led with my 2 sticks like a demented burgundy armadillo plodding with a strange determination past the wonders of the world with Anne chattering cheerfully with her back up retinue of Albert and Guise behind.
My 2 high-tech stokies proving a great boon to the toil of the hike and would be recommended to the dullest to adopt. These sticks with their shock absorbers were a revelation and eased the way considerably, hoiking me up and balancing me down, good things, get yours say I.

I am ashamed to admit that even after so few days the memories fade, caves and coves with startling blue sea crystal pools, waterfalls falling into the sea, climbs and dips, climbs and dips through forest and beach with the craw of the Knysna Lourie and the red flash of their wings as they came to grok us, all becomes an endless dream with no beginning or end to the wonders we humped past.

We stopped and smoked and chatted about all the world and it felt good, we dined in paradise, we too to soon arrived at the next camp where again the lads had to settle on smash and tuna as we feasted on fillet. During the day we had discovered disaster number 3.

We had after much debate agreed that I would leave my car at the end and we all went together in Albert’s to the start and in the funk of fear of weight I had in a moment of madness asked Albert to keep my keys in his vehicle, these being essential to have for the return trip, very stupid and we all laughed and laughed.

Each hut is identical, constructed in 1964 with great attention to making them as utilitarian, basic and uncomfortable as can be achieved on a modest budget. Each wooden hut is ekzakedly 4 x 5 with 2 walls taken with 3 tiered bunk planks. In no stretch of the imagination can these horizontal torture machines be called beds. True there are some slightly malleable black leather/plastic slabs of some substance on the sleeping racks which could be mistaken by the uninitiated to be mattresses, but they could conceivably build battleships with them. All discussed the first couple of nights at some length and the consensus was unanimous, baaaad.

So day followed day, Guise’s gay camping shelves were mocked and envied, poor old Albert fell by the wayside with the flue and had to drop out, the horrors of the first river crossing turned out to be a bit of rock hoping which Albert in his fear and flue had departed for at first light.

Disaster number 4; I ran out of fags, Oh woe is me but Guise had shag and fags too so all was not lost, PHEW.

The rest of us were smug and blessed with perfect conditions all was wonderful! And the bag was getting lighter all the time.

The trail started to pattern out, the OG’s left late and charged past us, the Israelites left early and dropped out at the second river crossing, interscene bickering and the need for showers and beds being blamed.

We were fortunate that our low tide time was a convenient 11.30 am but nonetheless we had to push to cover the last few kilometers and this one was not as smooth as the first.


Disaster 5.
The Bloukrans River crossing is a thing of legend but we were there just as the tide was turning where we found the OG's frolicking just knee deep in it. Congratulating ourselves on our swift and rigorous hiking we stripped down, carelessly strung our boots and kit onto the bag and waded through what was but a trifling little babbling brook. When we were at that critical point halfway over, the trifling thing at our feet rose with a rush and a roar and strong underflow up to our chins sweeping us about and causing much consternation, snatching one of Anne’s shoes into the now murky depths and giving me a swift lesson in respect for the sea. Both of us got a huge adrenalin rush that propelled us like demented monkeys up the vertical rock face to a sunny spot safe on the heights to inspect the damage. Guise who had lagged behind waded through knee deep after us with not a drop of wet where no wet should be, the lucky bugger.

My magnificent Vaude backpack performed with great resolve keeping our kit dry and though the food compartment flooded and soaked our white gold (bog paper) and the camera and shoes got wet we escaped with only a thick ear from our brush with the grim reaper.

The hike continued past wonders, perfect places that one forgets still exist with blue skies, gentle breezes and all was perfect in the world, and all too to soon we got to the end, drove home saw some whales from the luxury of a restaurant patio, drove back to the city where I thought I was having a heart attack which turned out to be a 5 grand case of indigestion but scary nonetheless and now I dream of walking up the coast of Africa.

The Otter taught me many things, a backpack sits on your waist, not hangs from your back, constructing a pillow is an art that must be learnt, everything tastes better and life is sweeter in the wilderness.

Here is a brief report-back from the Oom Paul’s Escarpment Hiking Trail at Five Assegais (23-25 July 2010):

Here is a brief report-back from the Oom Paul’s Escarpment Hiking Trail at Five Assegais (23-25 July 2010):

· Participants:
o Five Footprint hikers in total: Petro, Megan, Irene, Victor and David
o Margit could not join us as she was not feeling well on Friday
o Janice Kitchen also cancelled at the last minute
o See attached signed Indemnity Form

· Arrival & Departure:
o Petro and I travelled together and arrived early at Five Assegais – God’s Window Camp on Friday 23 July (16h30). Megan, Irene & Victor arrived later in the evening (at 20h00)
o We started hiking early on Saturday 24 July (07h30) and Sunday 25 July (06h30)
o We all departed from the God’s Window Camp at about 14h30 on Sunday 25 July 2010.

· Hiking Trail & Accommodation:
o The hiking trail led us through some of the most spectacular scenery in Mpumalanga – with deep valleys cut by waterfalls, pools, slipways and pristine riverine ecosystems, layered mountains with mazes of rocks and crevices, and expansive views of the surrounds.
o We were pleasantly surprised to observe wild horses, a few Nguni cattle (in the most unusual locations on steep forested slopes), Black Wildebeest, Blesbok and Zebra.
o Trails were well marked, with clear signs placed frequently along the trail. Signs were pasted on rocks or droppers; and a few of these had fallen and needed to be re-attached. We used the trail map extensively, which was quite accurate. We noticed that there were bridges that are not marked on the trails map.
o The farmer has really made Five Assegais a special place for Footprint Hikers – there were several ladders (some taking us into holes in rocks), bridges, a tunnel through a cliff face – and the most funny sign we have ever seen “the Fat Man’s Trap” which is a narrow crevice that one has to walk through (definitely not for the overweight).
o We observed a number of Hiking Trails that cross and run along the Oom Paul’s Escarpment Hiking Trail – such as Num Num Trail, Milk Plum Trail, Pom Trail and Bladder Nut Trail. This confused us at times and had to back track on occasion to locate the last marker.
o The hike was longer and more strenuous than we thought with long uphill stretches. However the trail was carefully planned with lots of flat stretches between the steeper parts – allowing us to catch our breath.
o We were pleasantly surprised by a maze of rocks on day two, which some may describe as a natural labyrinth.
o Accommodation was very comfortable and way above average with thick mattresses, electricity, loads of hot water and very interesting facilities (open air showers; loos with views – you literally look over the whole countryside whilst on the loo). It was beyond our expectations.

· Weather: Fantastic weather. Warm and sunny during the days. Nights were cold.

· General:
o There were no incidents, issues or problems experienced.
o We were joined by a large group of 12 people in our camp, which appeared to be bit uncomfortable for some members of our group. The facilities could nevertheless handle both groups.
o The hike was a totally awesome experience – and will be one of our favourites. The group size was great and we stuck together.

Kind regards

David Jacobs
The Project Management Office
Government Communications (GCIS)
Telephone: (012) 314 2496
Mobile: 0836818904
Fax: (012) 323 5196
E-mail: davidj@gcis.gov.za
Website: www.gcis.gov.za

THE THIRD AND LAST WE HOPE

Howard was the harbinger of the bad news that my man, the lad I had had such high hopes for, had reported that my horse, the love of my life, my bakkie, my beloved and vital pick-up truck had been stolen from the farm!

‘Oh woe is me’, cried I ‘OH NO NO NO”.
I was not happy, this was a lot worse than just a heart attack this was an attack on the very foundation of survival for all on the estate.

Now Wonder boy as readers of these ramblings might recall arrived on the farm a few years ago and deeply impressed me with his clever hands and brain, but mainly that he seemed to want to work and make something of himself, a rare attribute out here. I vested in him trust and responsibility, I set him above other men and gave him all the wisdom and knowledge I could, I had such hopes and he has taught me a profound and expensive lesson.

Like most disasters this started very small, and there in is the rub. A battery charger disappeared, a small and really quite insignificant thing.
I who locks nothing, and who has lived here on my mountain with many people and have lost less could not believe that it had been stolen, and settled on the ‘lost’ theory. This was in retrospect my blunder and I must now beat my chest and once again cry ‘mea culpa’ as I should then and there have made a big fuss.

So began a series of mysteries, a cow, chainsaw, various tools, petrol all sorts of things just started to disappear but no one could be identified as the perpetrator. Actually we all knew, just knew it was him, but I refused to see the evil in him, so I lost my old bakkie, rolled when drunk and now even my fab Toyota Legend 35 pick-up with leather seats, blue teeth and chromed roll and nudge bars was dead because of him the bastard.

I delayed my return to the farm for both medical and practical reasons as well as the fact that I had no desire to interview Mr. Wonder whom I knew was to blame and on whom I had nothing on.

Having rented a vehicle I wondered my disconsolate way back, and as a consolation I stopped at Woolworth at Witbank to get some goodies, while there I just happened to call my good chum Phishy Tim to enquire after a product he had found there and naturally the discussion turned to recent events.

He had a tale to tell that changed the entire complexion of the dreaded interview with the wicked Wonder, suddenly from being a third rate power in my own domain I was elevated by Phishy Tim’s tale to that of all powerful and mighty.

It transpired that at last the bugger had made a blunder and had taken the bakkie to Tim’s place (without permission) to get some money from him and was thus bust to rights and could be immediately arrested and thrown into prison. I was delighted and having arranged this with the authorities was spared any confrontation and he was hauled off never to be seen again.

Once in the tender hands of Inspector Michael Mthunzi he soon spilt the beans and the whole sad and sorry tale came out. Nothing unusual or funny, in brief he took the money from Phishy and spent it on booze, got drunk and crashed the vehicle into some other folk, ran away and concocted a pathetic story about a mysterious theft, so he is gone and I miss him but am glad that that sad saga is over.

Just as an aside, when I went to the cop station to turn him in I found Brendon, Michael and Karel sitting around their prison look strangely smug. Like cats that have got the cream. I enquired at this sudden contentment with their lot and was gleefully informed that indeed my powers of perception were not letting me down and that yes indeed they were reveling in some long absent job satisfaction.

There had been riots in town that had handed them the opportunity to stick it to many members of the chattering classes who had in the past, been less than polite/helpful in their dealings with the officers of the law. They mentioned that over 7000 rounds had been expended in their struggle to maintain law and order. They were well pleased.
As was I, it seemed that the heavy hand of the law so long absent was being felt.

TROUBLES COME IN THREE’S THEY SAY SO………………………… I HAVE SOMETHING TO ADD AT LAST. Good news is so dull.

I have been longing to write for some time but life has been so pleasant and thus uneventful that there has been nothing amusing to relate but this could of course not last I knew and dreaded it.

The farm had grown and prospered with another few hundred hectares being added, the lodge is soooo smart that I now have to beat relatives and friends off with a stick to keep them out, paying guests are still as illusive and unreliable as ever. The hiking camp is a success beyond expectations and has been and remains full.

So that is the good news, and there is more, the deep satisfaction and contentment found in all the new life abounding around the place. I am slim again though beauty eludes me, the farm has managed to go a second year without a single fire, the cows are fecund the game is contented. God has been quiet in his heaven and all seemed well in my little world, but I knew, I just knew it could not last.

Poor poor Gromit was the first victim of our misfortunes, poor poor little Gromit and it was pure ‘mea culpa’ on my side.

I took the dogs with me to the timber yard and left them behind!

Mea Culpa, mea very culpa, I just drove off without them, Chaka went to the nearest friendly face and settled down there and was swiftly found but Gromit just disappeared.

The whole family being here on a holi, all were motivated into the search, posters were printed and distributed, money was offered, many, many fruitless hours were spent whistling and driving around trying to find her.

There was even the inevitable moment of joy swiftly dashed when another similar pooch was found.

It was all just awful and worse still, I had only myself to blame, naturally I lashed out at a few imaginary culprits, the eejits at the yard for not locking them up, but they had called me to tell me about my lapse, so really what could I say, the idiocy of the dogs for not sticking together but the truth is that I was to blame and Chaka still gives me the eye wondering where our chum has gone, and what has happened to her.

The mind does not help, by conjuring bleak scenarios of cold and fear and I still go the long way around the dirt roads with an eye open for her, we mourn and miss dear Gromit.

Big poo number 2 started quietly with a bit of indigestion at 8 am one morning.

Strange thought I, as took a Zantag and forgot about it till the next day when it struck again, same time, same place!

This was dull and a bit more painful so I took a zantag and a neurofen as well as having sawdust and cow goo for breakfast. That seemed to do the trick for a day or two. Then it was back again and again with tingling in the arms so I called the doc. I thought it was the right thing to do, sensible

.

Dr Emily expressed puzzlement and demanded I go to the hopital and get them to do a series of tests that she dictated to me.

The Nelspruit medi-clinic sucked me in, stuck me, drained me and plugged me onto a machine, scooped a couple of grand out of my wallet and declared me fit and well, mentioning in passing something called angina which I concluded was indigestion, gave me some pills and tossed me out.

This was sort of vaguely satisfying; nice to be called fit with a fine ticker but the continuation of the discomfort every morning was worrying even to an old cowboy like me.

Things soon got so bad I had a guest in the lodge to drag me to the scary tender mercies of the local municipal meat house, who sent me off much pleased with their service, which was cheap and included a nice jab in the bum which contained some very pleasant feel better juice.

I was now panicking quite a bit and called Howie, who immediately set the wheels in motion and after consulting various and many hypochondriacs, loaded up our resident hospital victim Bruce who has been in and out of hospitals pretty much on a weekly basis since birth, climbed into his weapon and fetched me to the big smart, shiny hospital in town, with Brucies terrifying hospital tales to entertain us, not!

I was dumped there in the early evening so depressed at this bodily betrayal that they prevented me from stopping on the way for a smoke, I was that disheartened. Excuse the pun.

The weirdest part of all this was that other than the ‘episodes’ I was feeling just fine, strong in fact. I have never been so fit, which is just as well.

The hospital plan went into smooth operation and I was again sucked in, jabbed and drained, x-rayed and generally shoved about the place after which I was left alone perched on the end of the bed feeling like a big bullshitter among the holt and the lame.

I was sure that at any moment some one was going to notice that I was fine and throw me out and I would be in big trouble with my insurers, having had a vast battery of expensive tests performed on me ordered by some absent mega doctor.

An hour or so ticked by and I was just casting about for an escape when this team of nurses charged in, literally flung me onto the bed, confiscated my watch and knife and had my kit off on the run as I was wheeled practically with sirens blowing down into the bowls of the place with just the breathless information that, “A test has come back positive” ringing in my ears.

What test? Why the fuss?

This was very worrying, they were sticking the whole world into me and attaching me to the rest with wires, all very ER and this on an oke that would have cheerfully walked a few miles to see a tree or what ever, but an extremely fine fit fellow!!

When the mega doc appeared at the end of my bed obviously having been roused from his favorite TV program in the middle of the night, eyeing me with an altogether too calculating look, discussing the subject of open heart surgery I finally realized I was in BIG trouble.

I desperately assured him that I was fine and would last the night and managed to avoid any precipitous actions on his part, and he went off having dictated a list of substances to be inserted into me, leaving me with the uncomfortable information that he had dragged me back from the very brink of death, cliff edges were mentioned.

I got the distinct impression however that when assured that I was not going to die on his watch and embarrass him, he had fun scaring the be-Jesus out of me, the bugger.

He toddled off leaving me now time to look around at where I was.

The curtain parted to reveal total bedlam, I had heard the noises but they had not prepared me for the awful hellhole I was in.

I was among the close to dead, the very close too dead! An army of nurses, doctors and burly okes from the ambulance teams were running around in a state of organized panic. There were hideous noises coming from behind curtains.

There seemed to be a lot of paper work involved.

Opposite me was some old skeleton with a mask over his face groaning and gasping. His machines were going hell for leather with anything from one to five blue glad drones laboring over him and squirting who knows what into him with an urgency that was disconcerting but thankfully knocked him out quite fast.

He had hardly settled into his comma and his sirens died down a bit when another army of wekkers heaved some poor old bugger in, who made the gasping skeleton look positively chipper.

This sad piece of meat called Mr. Levine, had been in an ‘exident’ and was in no state to be polite, he was fresh flesh and the hospital was having a feast. Paper was being produced in large sheets, and filled with small type and many signatures. He was heaved onto his pallet begging for help and mercy crying pitifully. He was in agony.

I was sat bolt upright in my corner with a bad case of the ‘I wanna get out of here’ blues, I did not want to be witness to all this let alone be some wall flower plugged into the same machine.

I had had a long day what with the debilitating effects of panic, long drives, much intimate prodding and baaad news, it was past midnight and I was not ready to sleep at all. The noise and constant toing a frowing did not help.

Eventually they knocked out poor old Mr. Levine and then dragged him of to pastures new and replaced him with a very quiet very unhappy African lady whom they seemed to be accusing of faking it before she started having a really bad time behind her curtain.

The next morning started early and I swiftly had to learn the tricks of survival in this new world, like how to pee in a bottle, they refused to disconnect me from their kit, even scrubbing me down in the bed and confiscating my underpants too.

My humiliation was complete; I was reduced from a leader of men to the plaything for the concerned and caring.

I was subjected to vile and strange procedures, listened too, pricked and prodded and left to rot with the promise, nay threat of more to come.

Things were explained to me in a foreign language and things were done to me with no explanation at all, in equal measure.

The wonders of this place did not extend to the meals, which were nasty beyond the realms of understanding.

Eventually I was wheeled of to be done.

The experienced in this sort of thing took it all with great calm, so I sort of settled into a coma myself, Emily my doc was there to hold my hand and all seemed to know what they were up to.

I was wheeled into a set from star wars with whizzing lights and big machines on computers with teckies and nerds banging away at keyboards and staring intently at monitors discussing their love lives and the lunch menu.

Everybody is very keen to keep the victim informed, one senses that this is corporate policy but frankly I was not in the mood, and their fascination with their procedures, even those to be performed on me, missed me entirely.

I was well pleased when they stuck happy juice into me and I ceased to be concerned about the economy of the Ivory Coast or anything at all in fact and quite enjoyed the show. I love drugs.

Look I must tell you that other than the fact that the ‘heart’ was the subject it was all very standard stuff, just another day in the office for all but I and other than an uncomfortable night I was rota-rootered my pipe was unblocked and though the plumber (surgeon) studiously maintained an aura of godhood he was other than a well tailored arse crack a plumber and I was jobby no 10 for the day, but he let me out the very next morning and boy did I bolt out of there.

Well that was disaster number 2 and catastrophe number 3 was in progress as I lay in my bed.

2 b continued

THEY SHOULD MAKE THEM GET A LICENSE TO WEAR BOOTS.

I have already mentioned the difficulties I have been having with lost hikers. They are a nuisance and a danger, wondering aimlessly around in a daze but their shrill complaints has not fallen on deaf ears.
I after some experimentation, I had had manufactured very slick and visible markers printed on metal plates which I hoped would be permanent, effective and very smart too.
So Anne and I did the trail with her leading, and if she hesitated at any spot we put a marker. If this was not sufficient I had Howard my chummy who gets lost on the way to his own house if he doesn’t have a GPS, do the trail as the leader and again put a marker where he got confused.
I felt now wholly confident that even the dullest would find the path with great ease.
Well Howard left his camera on the trail and I had to go and get it the next evening, and thank god I did because as I was sitting at a view point enjoying a nice smoke in the setting sun I spied a couple of eejits humping bags along the firebreak!!!! Obviously completely lost.
I was outraged; this was a blatant insult to my efforts not to mention those of my partner and partner.
I stormed down to them demanding to know how they had gone astray, they were scratched to hell and back and the woman was on the point of collapse.
She had followed her man blindly as they missed the path and rather than backtracking a bit and finding it again he just went hell bent up the mountain. Started wondering around as lost as a fart in a thunder storm, in no particular direction going in the opposite direction to any common sense.
I loaded her bag onto the bike; he insisted that he needed, as a man, you understand, to hump on with it.
I pointed them in the right direction, dumped her bag at the camp, fed the fish and the cows and other sundown stuff and thought I would just go and yell at them a second time as I was passing the camp and saw that they had as yet not arrived, not good. It was nearly dark and the thought of these two wandering around the place falling off things was not a happy one.
Well I found them and shouted at them the entire way back.
The funny thing is though, they were absolutely enchanted about everything, it was their 7th anniversary and nothing was going to bring them down, they liked being lost together, there is a lesson to be learnt in there somewhere.

JUST HOW COLD CAN A WITCHES TIT GET??

We are all agree that this winter has been hard, usually a fairly balmy affair with short spasms of cold lasting a couple of days, not this endless remorseless bitter wind bringing ice and death in its wake.
I love winter on my mountain. The world is blue and gold, the aloes are red and the sunbirds think it is Christmas in the middle of the year. The days are sunny and bright even if the nights are bitter, but not this year.
Well I think it is nasty but I have been assured, by the old and grumpy in the village, that this is nothing as the diesel in the motors has yet to freeze, the mind boggles.
As well as the cold, this wind from the North, has blown disquieting neighbors into my world, bringing with them a world of troubles.
From the East came the call about the Wildebeest that had escaped through an opened gate, opened by I suspect the very people who were complaining about these peaceful souls. I cannot actually bust them but I just know, you know?
They now claimed that they were threatening the mans livelihood and the well being of his children, wife and cattle, with he claimed their propensity to infect cattle. (See fat boring piles of inbred grass to protein converters, with no redeeming feature other than to make meat), with something called ‘snot sickness’ and they had to be destroyed, shot, murdered.
The man was really quite insistent even getting his wife to call.
It is one of the less appealing sides to country life, this propensity to dispense death with nary a thought as to the spiritual and sweeter side.
Down I went and had a look at the situation that was not very hopeful. The beasties would react to logic and good sense not to mention life saving attention with the distrust and suspicion that only thousands of years of persecution can instill.
In short the second they saw any two-legged monkeys running around they fled with great vigor. I fobbed off the insistent pleas for their death with mock charges into the field with friends,guns and bikes, to show willing in the hope that a season would go by and they would be spared.
My good intentions which seemed to be working, as young Boet Jan seemed to have overcome his fears and seemed satisfied at my intentionally futile efforts, but other country eyes, less romantic than mine were also watching, and they were hungry and had dogs.
And have I mentioned it is bloody cold!
The situation was getting out of hand, we now had the local lads hunting them with their nasty skinny hounds, and they eventually tore one to pieces.
My pleas and protestations were met with stoic indifference.
I was in a spot, even reporting them to nature conservation, had little impact, none in fact, their persecution continued unabated but the NC officers did give me the number of ‘Nicko’ who they said could come and dart them and thus save them, yea!
The darter man however was less than enthusiastic to come and do the deed, as he could see little profit in the enterprise for himself, but when after many fruitless calls I sensed that he was a man with Zebra to sell, and being a man who lusts for the same a deal was struck. He arrived pronto and shot them just after selling me the stripy ones, ahh well winter is hard.
I did get a moment of hope that something positive might come out of all this, as we caught the baby but she also died…bummer.
Add to this Chloe the donkey and a baby Haartebeest that also passed this is turning into a dark season indeed, winter is not the time to be old or young.
But nothing stands still, the world rolls remorselessly and brings joys with every disaster, and we now have 8 very nice zebra, my other tiresome neighbors have decided to throw in the towel and we are buying their land with it's many wonders and the opportunity to expand the trail into a 5 day marvel of the world.

ORIBI GIRLS AND WINTER with its sadness ARRIVE’S

Some time ago I was informed the ‘Oribi Wildlife Preservation Society” was to grace our area. Their task, to help concerned landowners to deal with this scarce buck. We were fed and watered at a neighboring estate before the inevitable process of ‘death by power point’ was imposed on us.
We learnt little and offered less. My impression was that they wanted to take control of our land; we would none-the-less do the work and put in the money too!
This on the basis of a tedious and lengthy presentation that told us nothing of real value to the day to day process of living in the bundu or to what to do about the stupid ungulates they were so concerned about either. So I was dubious about entertaining another.
A intense very young blond who should have been wearing an outfit with epaulets but was not, which I complained about, arrived in a large pick-up with logo’s all over it advertising ‘green’ activities but clearly identified as being paid for by those actively involved in the destruction of the planet, an oxymoron made flesh.
She was devoted to her little bokkies and all things great and small, she wanted to help, she would personally give her all in the cause, but thankfully I was spared her pitch as my Inkulu’s old lady passed and the news arrived on her heels which naturally made all plans redundant.
A death in a staff member’s family, no matter how distant, requires some considerable expense and aggravation for me. I am required by some very convenient cultural thing to give over dosh, help with transport and supply a whole lot of firewood, which I reluctantly do.
This required the entire estate to drop tools and spring to, to get this all together, and Oribi girl and I had long drive with weeping ladies clinging on to the back of the wood laden bakkie which I had to negotiate down tracks to huts in the wilderness. We were then embroiled in some dark African family disagreement over the arrangements. Drunken faces peered into our space ship to eagerly explain the wickedness that was being enacted. All quite captivating though completely incomprehensible.
We took some pictures of this strange world and departed, dumping a forlorn and troubled old man to wander into the bush to lay his woman in the ground, very poignant, sad.
We live here in this vast continent and really we can only hope to be informed visitors, the endlessness and cruelty of this land is beyond our ken.