Addiction revisited

Stanley - Thursday

I've been in the bush again, feeding my addiction to it and getting away from the trials and tribulations of world politics. In an hour I'm about to feed a second addiction - travelling by train - this time from Johannesburg to Cape Town, a 26-hour journey. So I apologise for reposting an old blog from 2016.

Cheers.

I’m in the bush, recovering from the world.  I am a total addict.  The more I’m here, the more I need to be here.

This time, the contrast with what came before is very stark.  Even though I have internet access (spotty at best), I’ve had no interest in keeping up with what is happening.  I’ve left behind the pervasive anger, intolerance, and deafness that is blanketing the planet.  I don’t know what is happening in the Middle East, Europe, or the USA.  I don’t know what my Facebook friends are up to.  Have the markets spiked because of the US election?  Or tanked?  I don’t really care because there’s little or nothing I can do about it.

Life is basic here.  Wake up early; have a cup of coffee and some fruit.  Occasionally egg and bacon.  Head out in the rickety Land Rover to wander around the three thousand hectares of bush I have traversing rights on.  Hope to see something interesting.

There is always something interesting.  The first blades of grass pushing through the drought-stricken earth fascinate me.  How do they do it?  Where do they get the energy to brave a new year?  

And in the midst of the barren red soil, a gorgeous plant with red flowers stands proudly for all to see.  

And another:

I wonder how long they will last.  Will they be eaten?  Or wither away, more victims of the drought?

Animals are sparse.  Not surprising really, even though the waterholes are full thanks to the floods of four years ago, which replenished the water table.  Unlike the grass, which is virtually non-existent, the trees look good, most with good foliage, also thanks to the good water table.  I guess their roots can reach the water.

He has right of way.

Surprisingly the impala look healthy – must be eating leaves, since there is no grass.  But I see very few youngsters.  Perhaps the impala women took a year off from being pregnant because their offspring would die for lack of food.

The most interesting animals this time have been two mother-child pairs of rhinos.  (Frankly, I can’t tell the difference between a baby boy rhino and a baby girl.  Not at a distance anyway.)  Someone else saw eight rhinos together, something I’ve never seen.  We’re all worried about rhinos – over a thousand killed in South Africa alone this year.  Poached to satisfy irrational desires in Vietnam and China.  It’s impossible to stop the poachers, who have little to lose.  We should be doing more to stop the demand.

Also interesting is seeing the corpse of a hippo.  Starved to death by the drought.  Enough water in the dams to survive the heat.  But nothing to eat.  Sad.  However, the vultures weren’t complaining.

Here's a hippo uncharacteristically out of the water during the day scrabbling in the dust for something to eat.  The vultures are keeping an eye on him too.

There are a few animals about - always delightful to look at.

Elephants are fine - plenty of leaves on the trees

Don't know what the steenbok is living off - luckily it needs little

A warthog praying for rain

The buffalo also look healthy - must have learnt to eat leaves

Sometimes I don’t drive around hoping for an interesting chance encounter.  Sometimes I take a cooler of food and drink to a hide and settle in for a few hours to watch the passing show.  There’s always something going on.  If there are no animals, there are birds – about four hundred species in this area alone.  Except when there is a drought, when many of the seed eaters are smart enough not to arrive.  This too has benefits – I don’t worry about trying to identify each LBJ (little brown job) – there aren’t any.

But I had one spectacular sighting – a pygmy kingfisher – a bird I haven’t seen in years.  It’s about the length of one of my fingers, but much more beautiful.

Yesterday one of the first migrants returned - the woodland kingfisher.  Its call fills the air.  Click here to hear it.  One of the magical sounds of the bush.  And early in the morning I heard to iconic call of the African bush - the African fish eagle.  Didn't see it though.  Click hear to hear its beautiful call.

Photo: Hennie van Heerden from www.beautyofbirds.com

And the rollers have started to return too - one of the stunning birds of the bush.

And early in the morning I heard the iconic call of the African bush - the African fish eagle.  Didn't see it though.  Click hear to hear its beautiful call.

African fish eagle - a cousin to the bald eagle, I would guess

 When the day is over, a gin and tonic awaits – medicinal, of course.  It’s important to take quinine to minimise the chances of contracting malaria.  And a glass of wine or two to prepare the mind for contemplation.

Then early to bed.  And the next day, the cycle repeats.

It is special here.  As I write this blog, I can hear some male lions grumbling about something.  Probably not happy that their female partners haven’t provided enough food, or that they had to exert themselves to get to it.  And when male lions grumble, the whole neighbourhood knows about it.  The decibel level of a lion’s roar must be about equivalent to a jet engine.

I also hear hyenas calling.  I don’t understand hyena talk, but I imagine the message has something to do with food.  Perhaps the food the lions are grumbling about.

And before I finish writing this blog, a miracle happens.  When I started writing, the sky was glowing with millions of stars.  Orion and his belt and sword were over there.  And I’m sure I saw his dog, Canis Major, wag its tale and wink, watched by the seven sisters.

Then a flash or two in the distance.  A bit later a gust of wind.  Another gust.  Then for fifteen or twenty minutes, the wind howls.  Mosquito-repellant cans blow off the table, doors bang, chairs blow over.  The sky is now full of lightning, but surprisingly little thunder.

More wind.  More lightning.

Then the thunder starts.  I love it.  Flash, bang, crash.  Mette hates it and burrows deep under her pillow.

And then I smell it.  Rain is coming.  Nothing nicer than the smell of impending rain in the African bush.

And then it rains.  Much needed rain.  Coming down horizontally.  Sometimes through the screens that comprise our outside walls.  

Even the lions are quiet.  So are the hyenas.  In awe of the storm and thankful for it.

And then it is over.  Just the sound of water dripping from the trees.

I settle down to finish the blog, thankful I had the foresight to cover the Land Rover.  I don’t like driving around sitting on a wet seat.

(Photos: Stan Trollip, Mette Nielsen, Martin Sambrook)

People who hold the door open for you

Leye - Every other Wednesday

Here, I demonstrate 'the look.'

People walking steps ahead of you, who hold the door open for you thereby causing you to jog or walk faster. [Slow head shake.]

And that look. You know the one. That look they give you when they’re holding the door open and they turn to look at you. That look that says, ‘Well, where is my thank you? Won’t you say thank you? And what are you doing walking so slow? Come one and hurry up, will you. I’m being very good towards you here, the least you can do is to acknowledge my goodness with a thank you, or at least a thank you nod, and with quickened pace. I am being a good person. A good person indeed.’

But wait, who told you I wasn’t ok with my previous pace? Maybe I’ve worked out how long it’ll take me to get to where I’m going to and my current pace is the optimal speed for me. Maybe I just don’t feel like hurrying up today. Hey, you held the door open; I didn’t ask you to. It was all your choice, so don’t give me that look that says you expect me to run up to you to relieve your hand from holding the door open for me.

Sometimes, when there are people ahead of me and we’re coming up to a door, I actively slow down to increase the space between us in anticipation of them feeling obliged to hold the door open for me. I slow down and increase the space between us because I hope they can sense how far away I’ve dropped behind and that they thus conclude that they need not hold the door open for me (so that I do not have to hurry up to the door held open). But so far it hasn’t worked.

Surely there has to be a distance between two people that determines when it’s appropriate for the one ahead to hold the door open for the one coming up behind. What is it? Three paces? Four? Five? Surely, at a certain distance it should be blatantly obvious that by holding the door open for someone you are causing them to alter the pace of their walk in other not to look like an ingrate at your ‘kind’ deed.

Not even when I’ve stopped walking and pretended to be on a call. Some people just don’t know when to pass through a door and keep walking and leave the decision of when to reach the same door to the person walking up behind them.

 I’ve concluded that some people just like holding the damn door open once there is someone behind them. And it’s not an act of kindness; they just like to see people run. This is my conclusion. And because of this, I decided, along with other anti New Year Resolutions, that I would stop altering the pace of my walk because someone has held the door open for me. Not even when they give me ‘the look.’ And not even when the look goes from ‘hurry up, will you?’ to, ‘Are you having a laugh? Don’t you see me holding the door for you? Are you really just gonna keep walking at your normal pace?  What in God’s name is wrong with you????!!!!’

And purely based on principle, I won’t even say thank you. I did not ask them to hold the door for me, did I? No. So it’s not an act of kindness. No. It’s an imposition. It is selfish, self-serving, dangerous (I might trip and fall from hurrying up), not to talk of inconsiderate.

The one time it’s ok to hold the door is when it’s an elevator door. I’ll even run for that. But not a normal door that won’t leave its position no matter what time I get to it.

I made this resolution at the beginning of this year and so far I’ve not had the opportunity to put it into practice until this morning.

I caved. I hurried up and said thank you. I am not proud of myself.

Paris, c'est un village...even more so this week

A gas explosion in a boulangerie in central Paris last week took many lives. And the lives of two pompiers/firemen responding to the call to control the fire and help inhabitants out of the block of buildings it took.

It was reported 'At 8.37am the fire brigade was called to 6 Rue Trévise to investigate a gas leak. While they were there a dramatic explosion occurred,” a spokesman said. He praised the courage of the firefighters who risked their lives to save people. He said one firefighter had remained under the rubble for two and a half hours before being rescued by colleagues.

Fires in Paris - a densely populated place - demand immediate response. The fire station is smack dab near the explosion. In the center of the quartier's life; by a school, shops. There was a moving tribute to these two firefighters as the funeral march passed with their hearses along the street and a hundreds of fireman from all over Paris lined it and saluted. In silence. My friend saw so many fireman in the Metro she wondered where they were going.

The next day people in the quartier took their children to the station offering condolences to the fireman who had lost their colleagues, their friends. The video showed them thanking the pompiers for their service and giving applause for those people they'd saved in the fire. A mother was interviewed, very moved, and said the pompiers are part of our life here; they visit my children's school, during safety week they bring the school children to the station and let them spray the hoses and get on the truck, and on July 14th Bastille Day they throw the best fireman's ball in all of Paris. Not to mention they hawk their hunk calendar for charity!

They're part of our community, the mother said. That struck me. There's so much ugly news, so much about the unrest in France, the violent aspects of some of the gilet jaunes- the yellow vests who have been demonstrating every Saturday, that I wanted to show, yes, terrible things but that people band together to get through it. People who appreciate goodness and selfless service. Every day.

Their community is a village. The village they identify with. Paris originally came from a collection of small villages. And they're still there - as Parisians say 'Paris, c'est un village.'
Cara - Tuesday

Dinner with an Artist: Elsa Bagarolo

Annamaria on Monday

This past Saturday, I had the privilege of an invitation to dinner at the home of Elsa Bagarolo.  Elsa has been a friend for decades.  She knew me before the novelist in me came out.  I knew her before she found the consummate expression of her artistic soul, which had always been obvious in the way she looked at and arranged her world.  I have her permission to bring you inside her home.

The place itself is a work of her art.  Everywhere one looks there are beautiful and interesting things. 

At the entrance of the apartment

In the powder room

The floor

The ceiling

*(Please keep in mind that No-photographer-I took these photos with my phone, in the evening, with available light.  In no way do they do justice to the what I saw.)

Elsa found a "siamese twin" oyster shell on the beach
near her place in Sardinia.  I might have noticed it if I saw
it.  She took it home and did this with it!.  

The dinner table was also a work of art.

Detail of the dinner table: with Elsa's delightful flowers
made of tiny beads.

And then there was the dinner.  It began with fresh pasta alla cinghiale--wild boar.  I am afraid  that I cannot show you a picture of it.  As I served some into my pasta bowl, the delicious aroma overwhelmed me.  The next thing I knew I was reaching for my phone to take a picture of an empty plate.

The salad though was almost too pretty to eat.

One cranks this gizmo, drawing the knife blade over the
soft, delicious cheese.  It produces blossoms to be served
over the lettuce, dressed with wonderful olive oil and honey.

The dessert was an Italian version of bread pudding.  Elsa had taken a photo of it baking in the oven and was surprised to see the ghost of a cat in the image!

All of this with conversation about art, while surrounded by Elsa's...well tapestries is the best word I can come up with.  Elsa's artwork is entirely sui generis: a way of making beautiful images that she herself invented.

She almost always bases her art on the works of other artists, many of them famous images, which she reproduces and enhances.  She works with a needle and thread.

The backs of the images are near perfect mirrors of the fronts.

Here are the ones I photographed that evening. Some of them are as much as four feet on a side.  Others as little as ten inches on a side:

After Klimt: and about the same size as his painting

Detail of the above to show you the stitches.

Details of the Sistine Chapel and of a Chagall,
just hanging out together on shelves!

This large work is based on Bernini's Saint Theresa in Ecstasy

Detail of the above: an expression of ecstasy captured
with a needle and thread!  My response:
"E' una meraviglia!"

A smaller work, after Van Gogh.  Experts verify the authenticity of
Vincent's work by his brushwork.  Elsa invented a tapestry stitch
that captures the energy of a Van Gogh original.

A shelf in a hallway displays some of her international trophies in recognition of her genius.  Here are just two of many:

Along the way, I saw this image of Elsa as a young woman.

Self-portrait

I can imagine a woman who looked like the young Elsa might think gorgeous was all she needed to be.  But she was and she is much more than glamour puss. She was possessed of an artist's soul.

She remains beautiful.  And goes on creating more beauty.

What a privilege to have such a friend!