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.