The Horse Whisperer

 During our stay in the UK we came across a small band of genuine gypsies living in a small clearing in the New Forest.

One of the young ladies, living in an old horse trailer, proudly showed us her humble abode complete with a tiny stove for cooking and warding off the bitter English winters.

The pride of her life was her magnificent horse. From the outset it was clear that this was no ordinary horse, and that there was a very special bond between the two of them. In order to demonstrate this she repeatedly cracked a whip right next to the horses head. Note the whip in her hand, and draped over the horse between cracks. It didn't even blink an eye.

After the loud cracks she laid down the whip and touched the animal while whispering to it. This is what transpired:

It was quite an impressive performance, to say the least.

As she showed us around, I enquired about the rumours about fairies and elves in the New Forest.
She assured me there were indeed fairies in the forest. She noticed that I didn't believe her, and found her earnestness rather amusing.

She was quite adamant and insisted that I come back the next week at full moon. She would take me to a nearby glade, where I could see the fairies for myself.

When I asked her if we needed to smoke some mushrooms before venturing ino the forest under the full moon she did not find it amusing at all.

En of a new-found friendship.

Caterpillar train

Mimicking a snake

Some of the larger caterpillars use patterns and colour to mimic snakes, displaying large 'eyes' on the sides of their heads or tails. In doing so they appear less appetising for birds.

These little caterpillarshowever, measuring only about 3cm, won't get away with that. So instead they grew toxic hair all over their bodies. They also adopted the strategy of forming long trains of up to two metres when foraging for food - hence the term 'processionary caterpillars'. In this way they can fool birds into mistaking them for a snake instead of individual meals.

These are the larval stage of the moth Thaumetopoea apologetica.

I wonder what they are apologising for? After all, the more successful mommy is, the longer the snake.

Just gone live on Kindle

24 Selected stories with pictures from this blog have now been published in book-form.
Available from Amazon Kindle at $0.99.

The Gigantic Mole

I abhor killing things. But there comes a time...

Yesterday I noticed a mole-hill the size of an African ant hill that had appeared in my garden in less than two hours. I was hoping the guy would head somewhere else.

He didn't.

Watering the garden this afternoon I noticed fresh activity with sand and soil being pushed up as he was sinking a new shaft.
Dropping the hosepipe, I fetched the garden fork.
After waiting patiently for some twenty minutes, he was shoving up a fresh heap, and I struck.

Nearly as big as a small Jack Russell.
I did apologise profusely to Mother Nature, but there are millions of these guys on the Cape West Coast, but I only have one garden...

Stealing the horn off a living rhino.

So, it's National Rhino Day, eh?
Let me share this with you - it happened in the hectic days when we battled to restore sanity in the Maputo Zoo.
There was a single ancient rhino in a sunken enclosure, spending its days staring myopically at the concrete wall. That was simply what its life consisted of: no-one could tell us how long it had been in that tiny enclosure.

It was extremely docile and did not mind being touched. Some visitors took advantage of this, and when no-one was looking they would scrape shavings off its horn. They sure kept it short. We were never able to catch anyone in the act, and the guards simply didn't seem to care two hoots. They were probably the culprits.

It was so bad, some visitors even scratched graffiti into its skin. Look closely:

We are so inclined to ascribe human emotions to animals. It is my fervent hope that the word "dignity" is beyond the comprehension of rhinos. This poor animal had been stripped bare of anything remotely dignified by a bunch of savages.

Crocodiles fighting.

You are probably familiar with the term "crocodile tears". Check out the guy on the right.

During the civil war in Mozambique Dr Cobus Raath and myself spent some five years of our free time trying to restore the Maputo Zoo and keep the animals alive. A lot of the animals had died of malnutrition or had ended up over cooking fires by the time we intervened. The crocodiles, however, were breeding like rabbits. Procuring enough food for them was becoming a problem and we were running out of space, resulting in more and more serious fights for dominance.

We eventually managed to release some of the mature animals back into the wild in South Africa, but this was a story on its own - refer back to the blog post "The Maputo Crocodiles", dated 15/07/2013.

Up to then, the big males had been tearing into each other on a regular basis.

It was not uncommon to see some of them them covered in blood:

Most of the time treatment was not required, but now and again we had no choice but to step in with a little TLC. Considering what the business ends of these monsters look like, it was never a task to be taken lightly.

In those early days we were young an rather inexperienced, The dart had to be extremely sharp, and the pressure in the delivery device had to be adequate. If not, the dart with the tranquiliser would merely bounce back from the thick skin, revving up the crock and making it "the moer in".

Retrieving the dart was dicey, requiring a very flight-footed approach.

The good doctor (now professor) Raath was not even wearing running shoes, but he was clearly ready to take off.

Yeah, man, such was the frivolcy of youth, and steep was the learning curve...

Deep-sea hippo charging

I have just returned from a seven week road trip, and have many tales and pictures to share. I have also managed to dig up some old photographs relating to older blogs - I'll be sharing these soon.

But let's start with the offshore hippo:

Linga is an achipelago located in a very secluded nook on the of paradsie in unspoilt Mozambique, on the East Coast of Africa. It requires 45 Km of very tough 4x4 going through deep, hot sand to get there.
Once there, it consists of five dwellings, ensconced in coconut palms and surrounded by sugary white sand - and miles and miles of solitude. Once you have schlepped through all this with you ski-boat in tow, the ordeal is suddenly worth all the sweat an tears. Launching through the surf is a push-over, and out there the barracuda, sailfish and wahoos are panting for your lures.
Going out early one morning, we came across one of the most puzzling sights I have ever seen - from a depth of 15 metres, the bottom angled up steeply to expose a small sandy island in the middle of nowhere, three kilometres from shore.
Instead of the expected single palm tree with a marooned blonde sitting in the shade, there was a single querulous hippo eyeing us with malice.

According to the locals, the nearest hippos were in a river some 20 clicks up the coast.
We didn't have a proper camera on the boat but Ben was clicking away merrily with his Smartphone, urging Piet to go closer. Despite the hippo's body language we deemed this a safe move, being in deep water, with two 150 Hp motors idling on the transom.

The next moment the hippo charged full-tilt and Piet slammed the throttles to the gate. Everyone except Ben were in their seats and were thus able to handle the sudden acceleration safely.

Not so Ben. Fortunately he dropped his phone (preserving the evidence) in his futile attempts to grab onto something substantial before executing a perfect somersault into the drink, right between the outboards. His eyes said it all: he knew perfectly well that somewhere below him on the sandy bottom, two tons of malicious intent was zeroing in on him, hell-bent on cutting him in half.

Piet being a well-salted skipper, made a tight U-turn and Ben was retrieved with utmost haste. The water was still turbulent from the churning props when the hippo surfaced behind the transom, bellowing belligerently.

Such is Africa.

Sasquatch

Just gone live on Amazon Kindle. Also on Smashwords and next week on Apple, Sony, Kobo, B&N, OverDrive, Oyster, Diesel, Scribd and others.

All apes are quadrupeds. According to all accounts this creature is not an ape: it is a bipedal humanoid.

Sasquatch synonyms: Bigfoot (North America), Yeti (Himalayas and Arctic), Jungle Man (Vietnam), Man Beast (Panama), Waterbobbejaan (‘Water-baboon’: Africa), Moehau (New Zealand)

Nature came bouncing back with vigour after a virulent strain of AIDS had practically depopulated the planet.  Once the fighting was over Sam Jenkins and his people again established a self-sustaining community on the banks of the Sabi River in what used to be the Kruger National Park in South Africa. This time there were no more roving gangs of bandits – those who were not part of an organised colony either perished or were forced to become hunter gatherers: there simply was nothing left to loot.  Most people having grown up in ‘civilised’ society, there weren’t many left who had the necessary skills to survive.

The African wilderness was once again as wild as it used to be.

Or was it reverting to something much wilder still?

Rare Karet turtle saved at Yzer

Huge swells often exceeding six metres and icy water from the Benguela current have been lashing our little coastal town of Yzerfontein for weeks now.
Somewhere on the opposite coastline of Africa, probably north of Durban or even in Mozambique, a hapless turtle got caught up in all this.
Thousands of kilometres later, the animal got washed up on our shores. It was first spotted by local angler Koos Otto who immediately notified everybody he could think of.
In no time there was plenty of help on the scene, amongst others our trusty NSRI.

The icy water and rough conditions had taken their toll, and the 76 Kg animal was hypothermic, dehydrated and tired to the extreme.

The exhausted lady was immediately rushed to the Cape Town Aquarium where she will be receiving loads of TLC.

It is our fervent wish that she will make a full and speedy recovery, after which she will be returned to her home in the warmer climes of the Mozambique current.

It is always heart-warming to know there are still people out there who care.

On her behalf: Thank you all!!

Written a book lately?

You have two choices:
1. Pick up the pen and get going.
2. Pick up the scalpel and slash your wrists.

Option #2 is the easier one, but #1 holds the possibility of more long-term satisfaction. Even joy. And even that rarest sense of all: fulfillment. No-one needs to buy it or read it (even though that would be nice): like slashing your wrists, you are doing this for you - not for somebody else.

Should you decide to write a book, here is the recipe:

1. You need a mixing bowl - a big one. Big enough to hold a lot of blood sweat and tears, as well as a fusion of all of your emotions, moods and fantasies. Go for the wild ones. Dare to step outside the box. Bacchus can sometimes be of assistance in this.
2. Then you need to say goodbye to most of your friends and family. Don the hat of "The Seldom Seen Man."  Ignore it if your loved ones start whispering phrases like "he's gone weird again". It is of absolutely no consequence. 
3. Throw away your alarm clock - what is going to happen to you will not flirt with the concept of time.
4. Throw away the scalpel otherwise you will soon be reconsidering.
5. Start adding and mixing. Mechanical blenders are of no use - this is all about elbow grease. There is no such thing as inspiration: it is all about perspiration.
6. Now you can start playing God. The wonderful thing about this is that you can create people and characters, and you can make them think and do anything you wish, no matter how outrageous. Isn't that wonderful?

The key word is perseverance. Once you have saddled this horse, ride it into the ground and never, ever give up.

Speaking of which: this has been a wonderful respite on a sunny morning in Yzerfontein. I have reached the 10 000 words mark this morning with "Sasquatch", but apparently that is not good enough for him. Something or someone is kicking down my front door. Gotta go.

Good luck. Be sure to go for more equable characters. This guy is a nightmare.

Loveya all.

The day beer let us down.

Ever been so thirsty that you'd swap a full beer for a single sip of water?
Jip, it can happen:

After early coffee and rusks Tom and I hit the fire breaks at first light. As a result of yet more major surgery in an attempt to rectify the damage caused by the crocodile some years ago, Tom was again on crutches and unable to drive. His division, like those of the other senior game rangers, spanned some 20 000 hectares in the Kruger National Park and had to be patrolled on a regular basis.
Not being a Parks Board employee, I wasn't allowed to drive his official 4x4, so we set out in my Gelandewagen. We thus didn't have radio communication, but we had everything else: rifles, pistols and twelve cold beers in a tiny cooler.
Shortly after 5 A.M. the aircon was already going full-blast - the day was once again going to be a scorcher.
By the time we had the puncture some six hours later, the temperature was already above 44 degrees Centigrade and climbing. Just getting out of the vehicle was like stepping into a pizza oven.
We did not relish changing a wheel in this.
Little did we know it was merely the beginning of the nightmare.
The impressive-looking hydraulic jack that came with the vehicle wouldn't work. We fiddled and tinkered with it to no avail. This thing wasn't going to get a two-ton G-wagon off the ground. Besides, the metal was getting so hot you could no longer touch it with bare hands. And we re getting very thirsty, so we each had a cool beer.
Plan B: The vehicle was equipped with an 8000lb Warn winch. Gingerly driving on the flat tyre, we found a tree with a suitably thick branch and positioned the vehicle directly under it. Climbing the tree and attaching the winch sapped our remaining strength, and dehydration was beginning to set in. We tried another beer, but couldn't swallow the stuff. It actually hurt.
The bloody winch couldn't do the job either - all it managed to accomplish was to take some of the weight off the suspension, but the front wheels were still firmly on the ground. Even if we'd had a shovel (which we didn't) we simply no longer had the strength to dig the wheel free in the hard soil. So I had to climb the tree again to free the winch cable. By now we knew we were in deep trouble. Our lips and tongues were swollen and parched, and we could no longer speak coherently. This was a whole new dimension of thirst. We gave the beer another go and the frothy lukewarm stuff made us gag. It was like being on a raft in the middle of the ocean - liquid was available, but drinking it is more likely to kill you than slake your thirst.
Plan C: There were some dry washes caused by soil erosion, and we tried to maneuver the vehicle into a position where one wheel was hanging in the air. I have often managed it by accident before, but doing it on purpose seemed impossible. The wheel travel of the suspension defeated every diff-lock maneuver I tried.

By now it was 4.30 and we knew the situation was becoming life-threatening. The tourist road was some 10 Km distant, and sacrificing the wheel was the only solution. Fortunately the veld was mostly sand and gravel without too many rocks.

By the time we were approaching the tarred road we knew we were too late: the tourists had already been confined to the rest camps for the night.

Then, in the distance, a huge Parks Board tipper truck went roaring past. Tom pointed the muzzle of his .458 through the window and let rip. It felt as if someone had lobbed a stun grenade into the vehicle, but it sure got their attention.
It was a roadworks team returning to Pretoriuskop Rest Camp. On the back of the truck they still had some six inches of tepid water in a five liter Jerrycan. They considered it a delight to tuck into our remaining beer.
With old jam tins as cups, their lukewarm water was better than liquid gold. It was the essence of life itself. I don't recollect the water even getting to our throats - it seemed to enter our very souls straight from our parched lips and mouths.

Don't under estimate the stuff.  Ever.
 

Beware of the rogue wave.

The day the moon got wet.

The sea was placid as predicted, 1.2 metre swells with constant direction and periodicity.
Rhythmic tranquility prevailed as I contemplated the full moon setting over the ocean at first light. I didn't bring my fishing gear, so there was no need to go right down to the water. My lucky day, as it turned out.
The serenity of once again being one with Nature was total as I stood there, appreciating the beauty of it all.
It is a truly awesome feeling to experience this sort of beauty with all of one's senses.

Suddenly something at the edge of my peripheral vision jerked me out of my reverie. Out of nowhere and from an entirely different angle a gigantic swell had materialised, and was coming on like a freight train.
Trying to run on those rocks was out of the question: besides, getting caught on unsure footing would be courting disaster. Nothing to do but stand firm and hope for the best.

  Yeah, pretty close and very, very wet. Even the moon seemed not to have escaped.

Exhilaration is part of worthwhile living, but make very sure you don't get replaced with one of those little concrete crosses on the rocks somewhere.

The poodle, the poison and the witch doctor.

Raoel - prior to his pink stint.

They started building a house on the corner opposite our residence in White River.

In those days, everybody's dogs were running loose, and could go wherever they pleased.

It pleased Raoel to pay the builders' cooking shed clandestine visits. This was evidenced by perfect circles of mascara running from below his chin, around his face and above his eyes. It was, in fact, not mascara but soot.

In those days paint still came in metal cans. It was custom that one of the labourers would be the designated cook-boy, preparing his stews and maize porridge in used paint cans over an open fire.

With the building site abandoned after working hours, Raoel apparently took it upon himself to polish the insides of the cans, hence the rings of soot with which he would proudly pitch up for dinner. 

One fateful weekend all three our children were home from university. On the Sunday we were having a barbecue with friends down the road: the boys accompanied us and Linda stayed home to study.

Shortly after eleven in the morning Linda phoned with panic in her voice: "There's something wrong with Raoel."

In about five minutes flat we had Raoel at my friend Philip Whitfield's animal hospital. Philip immediately induced vomiting, and sighed sadly on inspecting the product. "Temic," he said.

Temic is a deadly poison used by farmers to treat soil for certain pests. The granules are fatally toxic and by law should be stored under lock and key.

"Sorry," Philip said.

"No way," we all said in unison. Both Linda and my wife were in hysterics.

I still think Linda's tears, anguish and obvious panic saved the day, and Philip relented: "Look, trying to save an animal that ingested Temic is basically useless. The fact that you got him here within minutes... I don't know... the granules haven'r really dissolved yet..."

We all grasped at the straw. Philip would do everything possible, but we "should expect the worst..."

On the way home the car was full of dark mutterings about revenge.  I told everyone to rather hope and pray, and give it time.

I visited early the next morning: Raoel was looking haggard, with every piece of equipment in the hospital hooked, shoved into, and clamped onto him.  But his heart was still beating. Philip just shook his head dejectedly. "We'll just have to wait and see..."

So we waited.

And we saw a miracle.

After two weeks he came home. All three kids traveled down from the city to welcome him home on the Saturday morning. 

However, as we bathed, brushed and pampered him, those dark mutterings of revenge started bubbling to the surface again.

In my bar at home I had a considerable collection of wildlife memorabilia - skulls, rare bones and things. Among others, I had the intact pelvis of a baby giraffe. When held upside down over the face it looks like a grotesque horned mask of bone. Scary. The boys just had to have it, so I let them have it. 

For those readers not familiar with African customs and beliefs: To this day, Sangomas (witch doctors) are held in high esteem, and treated with awe and reverence. Not entities to be trifled with.

We wound copper wire around some parts of the pelvis, and blue and red wool around others. It was further adorned with the tail feathers of a lourie, some guineafowl feathers, porcupine quills and other strange bits and pieces scrounged from my bar. To top it off, we placed a photograph of Raoel in the birth canal of the pelvis.

That Sunday night, under cover of darkness, we sneaked over and placed our creation against the door of the cooking shack, which also doubled as tool shed. Then we strew a ring of uncooked sago (none of them would have a clue as to what these white granules were) around the pelvis.

Raoel then had another bath, to which we added red food colouring. He looked magnificent in pink.

The commotion at the building site started at the crack of dawn as the first workers arrived.

I let it build to a peak, and then sauntered over with the pink Raoel on a leash.

Everyone was standing in a wide circle at a respectful distance from the cooking shed, babbling at the top of their voices. At the first sight of the pink dog everyone seemed to freeze and you could hear a pin drop.

I waited for a while, but the scene remained frozen in silence.

"You gave my dog poison. You all know that a dog that eats Temic dies," I said loud and clear. I could not say if the murmurs were denial or affirmation.

"So my dog died." Louder murmurs.

"But I have a chommie (friend) who lives alone in the mountain. She is a white Sangoma."

Now the voices were were back to full volume, shouting in a variety of native tongues. Fear, panic and uncertainty reigned supreme.

"It cost a lot of time and a lot of cattle, but she brought my dog to life again. Very powerful woman. As you can see, the dog is not quite the same. Also, now the life of the dog is linked to your lives. If the dog get sick, you will get sick. If the dog dies, you will also die."

Pandemonium. Within minutes the site was deserted and as far as I know none of them ever came near the place (or the dog) ever again.

And I got my pelvis back.

 

Your subconscious mind: Friend or Saboteur? You choose.

We are all born (free of charge!) with the most awesome piece of equipment in the universe.
Most of our lives it just lies idling in our skulls because we didn't get operating instructions with it. We simply don't have a clue how to use it so we simply blunder through our lives without direction. We accept what life throws at us and try to cope as best we can.
It will probably take mankind many more generations before we learn the ability to utilise the full power of our conscious minds.  We can, however, make a difference right now.
The good news: there's a simple little ON/OFF switch with which we can start taking control and get some direction in our lives.

I'm not trying to sell you something. I'm trying to tell you something. So learn:

Your subconscious mind programs your conscious mind to do, feel, act and respond in the way that it is programmed to do. Without realising it, you are personally in charge of that programming. Yet you allow other people and external events and impressions to do your programming for you. And then you live according to that, believing there is no alternative.  

The subconscious mind is like a very young child: it does not have the ability to reason. It simply accepts. It cannot evaluate things and it is unable to make decisions as to what is right or wrong, fact or fiction. It accepts without any elaboration, and obeys.  It passes on the instructions, which the conscious mind accepts as valid programming, and acts accordingly.  If an incompetent teacher tells you repeatedly that you can't do maths, your subconscious mind will program your conscious mind accordingly.  Once the belief has been programmed in, that's it - no maths for you. Which is a load of bull - you have merely been programmed into believing you can't. This same principle applies to everything else too: preconceived ideas and beliefs: once programmed into your conscious mind it is unquestioningly accepted as fact, and you live your life accordingly.

This quagmire sucks the potential of life out of you - step outside the box and start controlling your own destiny: Reprogram.

The three magic words are repetition, repetition and repetition. This "very young child" is a little hard of hearing. Although hypnosis opens the easy access door, persistent perseverance has the same end result. To use the maths example:  Slowly, clearly and persistently keep repeating to yourself  "I can do maths".
And no, you won't wake up one morning as the reincarnation of Albert Einstein. You will not be entitled to claim your PhD from the nearest university. But you will remove the block from your conscious mind, opening the ability to learn maths.  If you want to. The hard work is then up to you, with the difference that you now can do it.  No quick-fix.

Unfortunately most students in life are under the illusion that knowledge can be acquired through a process of osmosis. Just being there isn't good enough: it takes work - lots of it. But the certain knowledge that you have the ability gives you a tremendous head-start.

More good news: the maths example was just that - an example. This principle of reprogramming your subconscious mind applies to everything in your life. Everything. Keep repeating with conviction and wipe out all the negative programming. It is ridiculously easy. You can choose whether your subconscious mind is going to be your wings or your brakes.

Only two kinds of people in this world:  Those who make things happen, and those who wonder what happened.

Welcome to your bright new world!

 

And now for something completely different

You will love her, and you will loathe her. She will shock you, and she will make you cry.

    Michelle Montagne’s genes held the potential for greatness and success - she was both brilliant and beautiful. Fate had dealt her a good hand, but kept all the aces.  Her destiny was determined by external events from a very tender age, and her life became a continuous battle between doubt and trust, right and wrong. When fate was not kind to her, she fought it like a tiger.

Gran Ferri, her eccentric maternal grandmother, watched her wild genes bloom to womanhood, sometimes with wonder, sometimes with sadness.

Despite all our wishes and dreams of happiness and everlasting love, nothing in life is really free, and nothing lasts forever.

This novel transcends the limitations of genres – it is about the realities of life and a very unique woman’s quest for love and recognition. 

Available worldwide on Amazon Kindle, Apple, Sony, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, Smashwords and other retailers. 

The vicious circle of aches and pains.

This is bound to be one of my less popular postings, but once you stop seething at my lack of compassion it might be a good idea to take another look and contemplate the issue with an open mind.

I'm a good listener, and I find people simply love talking about their suffering. Seems to be their favourite topic. Often the only topic. I am not saying some people are not suffering, but hell, mankind cannot be in such a sorry state.  Just about everybody seems to be moaning and complaining about their special and very unique ailment.  And if they can affix an impressive-sounding label to it, so much the better:  "I got some bad medical news today - Doctor told me I've got fibro myalgia."  It has an ominous ring to it and it currently seems to be the flavour of the month. Sounds impressive - gotta have it. Lots of expensive pills, to be taken in the correct sequence and come see me again in a month.  They might even have to run some tests, too.

And then there is the old favourite "one of my headaches".  Not just any old headache, oh no - "mine".

It is a well known fact that our subconscious mind plays a major part in our well-being. With a concerted effort you can think yourself into just about any ailment of choice. Once your mind has convinced your body that it is sick, it will really be. Continuous repetition and confirmation will do it for you.  Sick as a dog, and down the vortex you go. Your life will become a misery.

The good news is that the opposite is also true.  Give it a shot and climb out of that black hole.  Greet yourself in the mirror every morning: "Good morning, Sunshine. We're going to have a great day!"  Just about everybody you meet will say "how are you?"  Then don't fall back by going "aaargh, ugh ugh..." and starting on your discourse.

"Top of the morning to you! I haven't felt this good in a long time. Is that a Cape Robin-Chat I hear? Just listen..."



  

Trekking with tree climbing lions, gorillas and chimpanzees. Wildest Africa.

Eh?

My daughter Linda and Kirsten have just returned from honeymoon in Uganda.  For them, no sugary white sand dotted with palm trees, islands and glittering hotels.
Nope - a month of roughing it off the beaten track, sleeping in a (very) small tent surrounded by roaring lions and other stuff that go bump in the night.

The wife and I did not sleep well.  I suppose one would from time have to time pay the price for that wild gene.
But then, that's how everlasting memories are made.

Under the watchful eye of the Silverback a youngster took a liking to the camera and kept showing off his climbing skills: check out the short clip on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=515fD9nSl1M

They spent ten hours on the fringes of a troop of more than a hundred foraging chimpanzees.

Truly an awesome experience, extending my bucket list once more.  I oft wonder if there is such a thing as reincarnation - there is still so much out there to see and do, and so little time...

Worship in a Temple with no roof, and no middle man.

Be in a nice place at first light, with not another soul in sight.
Don't ask for anything - rather spend your time saying 'Thank You'.
Every time your heart squirts another load of richly oxygenated blood into your arteries, say Thank You.
If you have one single person on this planet who loves you, you have enough to say Thank You for.

Stay like this for a while, and experience what happens next: your mind will open up, expand and cleanse itself.

For those of you who understand Afrikaans, here is a poem I wrote some thirty years ago:-

Leun jou hoof teen myne
  laat jou siel los en luister...
hoor jy ook die onding
  skreeuend in die duister...

In my is iets wat moet uit
  eers wurgend my siel dan smekend die drif
stadig maar seker,
  soos 'n adder se gif...

Just open up and let go.

Life is only on loan.  Say Thank You for it, and make every moment count.

Egotistical euthanasia of a rhino?

At an auction at the Dallas Safari Club someone has just paid $350 000 for the privilege of killing/hunting/euthanasing a black rhino in Namibia.
It was actually sold as a licence to hunt a black rhino.

So what is really the truth behind all the spin this has created?  The way I see it, it can be any of the following:
1. Dirty money. Pure and simple - a rhino dies and some pockets are getting a padded lining.
2. Honourable money - the money (all of it) will actually be intelligently spent towards survival of the species. Speaking of which: Are the decision makers fully informed on the species Diceros bicornis? Are they aware that out of the seven subspecies, three are already extinct? The subspecies currently on the brink of extinction is Diceros bicornis occidentalis - restricted to a few wildlife reserves in Namibia. Are they going to ensure the victim does not belong to this subspecies? Could be the last one, guys... Just saying.
3. A specific animal. There are rumours that a specific rhino is on the verge of dying, and instead of letting nature take its course, it can be euthanased with a heavy caliber rifle by someone crazy enough to pay a fortune for the 'privilege'.  The person may even refer to the exercise as 'hunting'.
4. The Namibian Authorities are sticking to their guns on a rather ancient decision that five hunting licences will be issued annually to hunt black rhino. If so, they have been living on a different planet over the last decade or two.

Sad to say, but this little planet we call home is in a sorry state.

POACHER

The re-edited third edition of this novel has just gone live on Amazon.
It is currently in the top 1% on the Amazon.com bestseller list.
On the Adventure/drama ..Romance list it is No 65 on Amazon.com.