Kruger Park and Ngwenya Lodge

So here we are at the Kruger for our annual week in paradise.

Friday

We left early in the morning from Johannesburg and arrived yesterday afternoon. We have hired a Mercedes Benz Vito diesel bus for the seven of us, which is very comfortable and gives some necessary height when looking for animals. Add to that the facts that it has climate control, cruise control and a good music system and we are very happy. It pulls a 6 foot trailer with ease.

We stopped at Klipeiland Slaghuis (Stone Island Butchery) in Bronkhorstspruit, some 2 hours drive from Johannesburg, famed for its fresh meat at low prices. Since we were last there, a year ago, the owners have had a 6 foot steel fence erected with one-at-a-time controlled access in and out and a metal detector. They evidently had an armed robbery recently in which one staff member was killed and they are now taking no chances. We stocked up on steaks, chops and boerewors (sausage), crammed it into the cooler box and continued on our way.

Next stop was “Millie’s”, set on the edge of a small dam, somewhere near Waterval Boven, in the rolling green hills of Mpumalanga. A cup of coffee and a Cornish pastie later, we were again on the road. I took over the driving. Once I had figured out and gotten used to the 6 speed manual transmission and the handbrake which is actually a footbrake, I enjoyed the experience. The road is very picturesque as one descends the escarpment to Nelspruit (now renamed eMalahleni). It was a coolish overcast day and even in Nelspruit the car was only registering 20 Celsius. As we descended further towards the Mozambique border it climbed steadily to 25.

The last 10km or so of our journey was on a sand road. A bit rutted but nothing too concerning. Our chalet at the lodge was ready for us and we greeted it like an old friend. First stop was the patio, to survey the Crocodile River flood plain and see whether there was anything afoot. As expected there were some waterbuck grazing downstream, toilet seat marks on their bums visible even at a distance. Some very muddy brown looking elephant were mooching around on the far bank upstream.

First up was a swim in our favourite pool. The water is generally around 30 degrees Celsius which is fine for us, coming from the Deep South as we do. Then back to the chalet for afternoon tea and some of Mom-in-law’s special German Christmas cake. We contemplated a game drive but decided to rather just watch from the patio as the afternoon faded. As it turned out, we didn’t see much more in the way of big game, but were rewarded with a Purple Crested Loerie alighting in a tree just a few metres away from the edge of the patio and remaining there some 5 minutes while she ate her fill of berries. As if that wasn’t enough she then flew into the large marula tree which is right in front of the chalet and jumped from one branch to another so that we could get a really good view. They are the most beautiful birds, particularly when they fly and one gets a glimpse of brilliant red, and their calling from the treetops brings back many memories of kwaZulu Natal to us.

At five I started the braai and half an hour later the pork chops and boerewors were sizzling away merrily and the beers and Brutal Fruits steadily disappearing. Later we uncorked a bottle of Shiraz and that disappeared as well. There is something about sitting with family, sipping a good wine, smelling the braai, watching the sun set over the bushveld and listening to the birds’ dusk chorus, which I find most agreeable and of which I doubt I shall ever tire. Reminds me of the John Denver song “Poems, prayers and promises”, which has the words, “Lie there by the fire and watch the evening tire, while all the friends and my old lady sit and pass the pipe around...” Well, this wasn’t West Virginia and we didn’t pass any pipe around, but we made short work of the Shiraz and we did watch the evening tire, so much so that I needed to go for a walk and swim before bed. I should mention that because of the heat and humidity, sleeping normally requires having the air-conditioner and the fan on all night. We also had to sort out whether the princesses would be happy to sleep in the lounge, as they have in previous years, given that a spider had been sighted in the vicinity. In the end they did. So we retired weary, partly on account of the Shiraz, but happy to be back in the bush.

Saturday

This morning I was up at 5.30. In a Lowveld summer, that is actually long after sunrise and long after the animals and birds have started their day. It was still cool enough to sit comfortably on the patio and watch for birds and animals. Gradually the others started rising and soon we had a group on the patio, sipping coffee, passing the binoculars around, checking the bird book, enjoying the morning. A quick swim cleared the remaining cobwebs from the brain and then we were ready for a game drive. We all piled into the Bus and headed for Crocodile Bridge, only to find out that the level of the river had come up during the night and the bridge was closed. So it was all the way back to Malelane, some 40 km or so. There seemed to be a lot of people trying to enter the park via that gate when we got there. We were directed to a parking spot in a side road and as soon as we had our passes sorted out we were requested to move inside since our parking space was required (which we gladly did). We needed diesel so headed for Bergendal, 12km inside the park. It is one of the loveliest of the rest camps, nestled into a river valley in the more mountainous south west corner of the Park, overlooking a dam.

We got our diesel, bought some drinks and (our favourite) ice lollies and went and sat on a bench overlooking the dam. We were rewarded with a sighting of a large crocodile making its slow and steady way across the dam, a hippo wallowing in the shallows further upstream and quite a few water-birds, some of which we were able to identify. A Fish Eagle kept calling from across the dam, always a haunting but welcome reminder that one is in the African bush.

We walked down the Rhino Trail. There is a rather sad memorial to a 25 year old ranger student who lost his life there to a leopard attack in 1998. There is also a warning that one uses the trail at one’s own risk and that one should refrain from using it after dark. They have labelled the trees, so I was able to renew my acquaintance with some old friends like the sausage tree and the sycamore fig. I love bushveld trees and the one regret I have about living at the coast is that the wind and salt and poor quality of the soil preclude me from ever having such noble giants in my garden.

We took a slow drive back to Malelane. Somewhere along the tar road there was a small herd of elephant, browsing the foliage. One was a juvenile and we got some good photo’s.

Also a largish herd of impala with many young. A giraffe and one or two warthogs completed the picture and then on the way out a leguaan, another large croc and a pod of mostly submerged hippo in the Crocodile River and its verges and sandbanks.

We stopped in at Malelane Pick ‘n Pay on the way back to the Lodge to pick up some groceries and then headed home. Apart from a solitary hippo wandering around the flood plain there wasn’t much going on, so it was a choice of a swim or a sleep and those of us over forty opted for the latter.

Now it is twilight, the braai is on, the citronella candle burning, the first beer cancelled and the first glass of red on its way. Tonight we have beef steaks and boerewors. Another day in paradise. There is a reason I have looked forward to this week for the whole year. I can feel myself unwinding even as the hippo’s grunt, the night jars jar and the dikkops dik. Perfect.

Sunday

Today we managed to get our act together a lot earlier. Some were up before 5, all by 6. I phoned the Crocodile Bridge camp at 5.30 and again at 6 – they politely told me they were still waiting for the ranger to make a decision, so we cut our losses and headed for Malelane Gate, some 30 km further away. There was already quite a queue there when we arrived before 7, but we finally managed to complete formalities and headed off up the H3 in the direction of Skukuza. Only a few km into the park some 4-5 cars were stopped and we were thrilled to see two adult male lions, one lying next to the road in the grass, the other actually lying in the road. They looked pretty battle scarred. We were able to get a good quantity of close ups and a really good view before moving on and letting others have a look. We thought these were probably two old boys just enjoying their retirement. They certainly didn’t look in a hurry to do anything.

A few minutes later we spotted 6 or so white rhino about 50m from the road, peacefully grazing – they really are like large cows.

Around 9 we pulled into the Afsaal picnic spot. We had come well prepared with skottel braai, gas cylinder and cooler box. We found a sturdy table under a large shady tree and set up the gear. Then it was bacon, halved tomatoes, sliced mushrooms sizzling away and finally eggs to your liking, scrambled or fried. All laid down on bread and washed down with fruit squash. Magnificent. Even herself relented from her usual All-bran and yoghurt and partook of the feast.

The bonus of visiting Afsaal is that they have a resident Scops owl which lives in the tree in the picnic ground. We have seen it before but it is always special. Today he was sitting dozing on a low branch. The authorities have fenced off the area so you can’t get closer than 6 feet or so, but that is quite adequate. It is a small owl, maybe 6 inches high. There is a large notice saying please don’t use a flash – this didn’t deter the fellow behind us who clicked away 2 or 3 times with his flash on. Sigh.

We phoned Crocodile Bridge and ascertained that it was still closed so decided to turn right to the untarred S23 Nyamiti Loop which runs back toward Malelane and is famous for its sightings. Not far from the turnoff there were a couple of vultures (lappet faced and white headed) and an eagle (tawny) tearing away at some dead animal, we thought a bird. One kept chasing the others off and they would go and perch nearby giving us good opportunity to make the identification although photographs were difficult. We have seen lots of vultures and raptors before but usually circling and soaring or sitting at the top of a tree at a distance, which makes it difficult to identify them.

Near to Malelane we came upon 4 white rhino – 3 adults and 1 suckling juvenile – resting in the shade of a tree. I have never seen anything quite that large breastfeeding, but there is a first time for everything.

It was really getting hot so we exited from the Malelane gate and headed back to the Lodge. Crossing the bridge we got a good sighting of a solitary hippo foraging in the grass, attended by some 10 or so cattle egrets. They were clearly irritating him because, after trying unsuccessfully to get away from them, he went back into the cool depths of the Crocodile River.

We picked up some mangoes from an informal vendor near the N4 and drove home. Back at our chalet we were greeted by the sight of a lone saddle billed stork walking slowly up the far bank. He was too far away to get a good shot – as these are endangered species, with less than 200 birds in Africa, there is a competition running for photo’s of saddlebills. Then he changed course and “storked” away into the bush. Magnificent bird – hope he’ll be back. Refreshed after a swim (although the water temperature must have been more than 30 Celsius), I sat in the coolth of our air-conditioned chalet, enjoying a cold Coke and updating this travelogue.

Later, while the pork rashers and boerewors were sizzling and spitting on the braai, and we were sitting on the patio with our sundowners, there was some excitement from the binoculars committee – a herd of waterbuck on the far bank were running, seemingly quite alarmed at something they had seen or heard or smelt. An animal was spotted in the bushes a hundred metres away or so. We thought it at first to be a hyaena, but it turned out to be a leopard. We had a good sighting and then it turned away from the river and headed north. Then the light faded and we saw no more, so we devoted ourselves to devouring the meal - the meat was supplemented with mieliepap, tomato and onion “smoor”, and a green salad – and cancelling a good bottle of du Toit’s Kloof Cabernet Sauvignon. The dry hot wind gave way to a stronger and cooler one, and the sky darkened, lit every few seconds by sheet or fork lightning or both in the distance – quite spectacular. No rain though. Or not yet.

Monday

This morning it is cooler and drizzling. There is low cloud, almost mist over the Crocodile River. I slept better – my cold seems to be on the mend. I was up before six and went for a walk through the grounds of the Lodge. This really is a very beautiful resort. I think having been here a long time it has had a chance to grow organically, if you know what I mean, rather than being planned by some landscaper. The trees are old. Up near the central swimming pools there are two examples, right next to one another, of a fig having grown right next to / on top of another tree, wrapping its loving arms around it and pretty much strangling it, although the host trees are still alive. I saw a lovely tall tambuti (spirostachys) which reminded me of a game walk in the Umfolozi many years ago during which the old Zulu ranger warned us sternly of the dangers of using this wood for a cooking fire – it evidently emits some sort of toxin which causes acute diarrhoea and vomiting. He gave us a graphic depiction of the “tambuti dance” which follows such unwise behaviour, mimicking the actions of the unfortunate victim who is producing copiously at both ends.

There are lots of birds around in the early morning. An Egyptian goose was sitting on our roof honking cacophonously, calling his mate from the river bed, who refused to join him – so he just carried on ... and on ...and on. I’ve known some marriages like that! I saw the usual residents – masked weaver, black eyed bulbul. There were some cute and very pretty little birds busying themselves in the undergrowth, about the size of Cape white-eyes, but with orangey legs, but as I had neither the binoculars nor the bird book with me, I could not identify them. By the time I got back to the chalet I had forgotten what they looked like. Sod’s law. I find the little birds very difficult, as I expect does everyone else.

The two professional buffalo were lying on a sand bank just down from our chalet. Our impression is that these two are old fellows who are spending their last days of retirement in the relative peace and serenity of the Crocodile River flood plain. We may be entirely wrong – they may be youngsters who have been kicked out of the herd – what do I know? – but they look old to us. I guess eventually the crocs or lions or a leopard will take them down, but for the moment they look peaceful and contented. When the summer sun beats down they lie half submerged, cooling their “unders”. I think I’ll look for such a spot for my own retirement. Somewhere with birdsong, running water, a good view and a place to cool my unders every so often.

We had a lazy day on account of the weather. Drove into Komatipoort and did a little shopping. Had a look at the Crocodile Bridge on the way home – still closed and likely to remain so for a while. Went to see the resident estate agent here about upgrading our unit to an 8 sleeper and/or getting a second week in June/July – both unaffordable it turns out. They want about R130 000 for a week for an 8 sleeper.

Noone too keen to do much this afternoon so I decided to go for a run. Ran towards Crocodile Bridge on the dirt road and stopped at Buckler’s Africa, which is a B and B. I guess it took me about 45 minutes which means it was around 5 km each way. So a 10km run – not too bad considering I haven’t run for 2 weeks or so. When I got back I had a look around the new units at what is called Hippo Bend. Very posh, very impressive. As I said, not affordable. We then had about 90 minutes of tennis – nothing serious, just knocking the ball around, ages ranging from 9 to 46. It was fun. Dropped in at the office to hand in some lost property, request assistance with our chalet’s safe and took the opportunity to complain about the quad bikes I had noticed being driven around by kids who couldn’t have been more than 12, some with and some without helmets and to crown it all, smaller kids on the back. Management said they weren’t aware. My arse. Nice relaxed evening in front of the TV for a change. Lights out at ten as we want to be up early for a game drive.

Tuesday

Well we didn’t make it up as early as we had hoped to. One of us rose at 4 but the rest gradually dragged themselves out of bed around 5.30 to 6 and we only left at 6.30. Overnight the river had swollen considerably. For one thing it had become a deal more audible, even from inside the chalet. But it was also visibly swollen – sandbanks which were there yesterday had disappeared and it just looked broader and swifter and fuller. We did even both checking at Crocodile Bridge - we knew what the answer would be. So we resigned ourselves to the trek up to Malelane and in that gate. It was quieter than yesterday and we were through the gate in next to no time. We took the tarred road to Bergendal and then the dirt road which loops around back to the H1. We weren’t particularly lucky with the animals – just a few buck and a few birds. Possibly a pair of dwarf mongooses – they did not hang around long enough for us to be sure. Not much else.

Back on the H1 we did get to see some elephant close up, including a fellow who was presumably either trying to push a tree over or else ripping off and eating the bark.

We made our way back to Malelane Gate and actually exited but changed our minds. We drove back up the H1 to Afsaal, where we had breakfasted the previous Sunday. Only problem was that this time we didn’t have cooking stuff nor cutlery. So we bought a full breakfast each for R35 a head from the friendly fellow at the counter and sat down to await our breakfast. It was well worth it – what more can I say.

After a good breakfast we carried on up the H1 and then turned left towards the Orpen Gate. They let us out, surprisingly. We programmed “Patricia”, the satnav, to take us home and she led us through some fairly good looking areas in the outskirts of White River, then past Nelspruit and the Mpumalanga International Airport and back onto the N4. We elected to go all the way through to Komatipoort and then double back to Ngwenya rather than go via Maloth Park, since the latter entails more dirt road. We arrived home just in time for our tennis booking and spent a pleasant 90 minutes on the court knocking balls around with the kids, followed by a swim. Supper was chicken curry, to give us a break from braaivleis, washed down with Tulbagh Winery Cabernet Suavignon, which was very pleasant.

Wednesday

Today is a public holiday in South Africa – Day of Reconciliation, or some such. One doesn’t really notice it here. I got up around 6 and went for a walk through the grounds of the Lodge. I had noticed that someone has kindly labelled about half the trees here – and there are many – and wanted to take some photo’s and notes of them so that I would better remember and be able to identify them in future. It was wonderful to have this crash revision course, relearning many of the Latin names which I used to know when we lived in kwaZulu Natal in the 80’s and 90’s. One thing about trees – they don’t fly or run away the way birds and animals do! I had a very pleasant hour and a half being a tree journalist and hope to complete the job tomorrow or Friday.

We had a late and leisurely breakfast on the patio – fired up the skottel and made French toast which was consumed with jam or chutney depending on one’s taste, washed down with numerous cups of coffee. It was obviously going to be a hot day so every few hours we have been dunking ourselves in the pool. Not much in the way of big game in the flood plain today – a rhino, a hippo, some impala. Some nice birds though – black stork, black crake, dikkop, red bishop, woodland kingfisher, puffback, purple crested loerie, fish eagle, cattle egret, blacksmith plover, goliath heron and a few others. The princesses have been playing minigolf / putt putt and then tennis but those of us pushing senescence have been taking it easy on the patio or on the bed, although we did manage a walk around the estate just before dinner time. Dinner was a braai again – my responsibility this time – pork chops and boerewors, with savoury rice and salad, chocolate for afters, washed down with KWV Sauvignon Blanc and then some Amarula Cream, as the sun set over the Crocodile River Flood Plain. Life does not get much better...

Thursday

Last day of the holiday. We were determined to make the most of it and get into the Park early. By 5.30 we were driving. Of course Crocodile Bridge was still closed so we went through Komatipport to get diesel. The attendant tried to tell me my petrocard was invalid. Then he told me the garage doesn’t accept credit cards. So after I had muttered dark things about his ancestors, we gave him someone else’s which worked. A few minutes later we discovered a second garage selling diesel for about 10% less. Such is life. Move on.

Half an hour later we turned off the N4 for Malelane gate, expecting a queue of about 10 people at the office and no problem parking. It turned out we were number 47 in the queue of cars and could not even get in the gate or over the bridge. After some investigation we worked out it would take us around 2 and a half hours just to get in so we elected to drive up and around to the Numbi gate. This route takes in an extra R42 toll and about 90km of driving but rather that than sit in a queue for 2 and a half hours.

We duly found Numbi gate, where there was no queue at all. Strange. We enetered the park and followed the S3 up towards the Phabeni gate. It meanders through terminalia woodlands, hilly country. We saw rhino, brown snake eagle and some other odds and ends. We stopped at Phabeni, had a look at some “Albasini archeological ruins” – a house built by a Portueguese trader and his Afrikaans wife in the mid 19^th century. We found a picnic spot and did the skottel – bacon, scrambled egg, mushrooms, tomatoes and bread. No coffee but we survived.

After breakfast we continued following the S3 as it winds along the course of the Sabie River in the direction of Skukuza. Back on the tar road (H1) we came upon a zebra kill. The predators, whatever they were, had left, and the site was abuzz with vultures, mostly Cape and white backed, one lappet faced. Consensus seemed to be that they are impressive if ugly creatures. I think we mostly felt sorry for the zebra, but that is nature. We dropped in at Skukuza and got some frozen juices. These are life savers ion the Park – the temperature outside today is well into the thirties and even with aircon the bus gets pretty hot. The juices are ice cold, last a long time and actually quite tasty. Most of all they are cheap.

Now we are heading back, probably our last game drive, down the H3 toward Malelane. So far a lot of elephants including a nursery herd in a lush river bed and some bulls in twos and threes really close to the road. Some interesting birdlife. Radio Jacaranda keeping us company with some reasonable music and some really awful Christmas adverts. Guess everyone has to turn a buck.

We ended off the holiday with pizza’s at the Lodge restaurant. The view was tremendous, the pizza’s were delicious, the beers were warm and the service was atrocious, even though our waitress was pleasant. But it didn’t really matter – we had a good meal and then went back to the chalet for Amarula and coffee and sorting out the budget (yay!). Another year’s dose of the bush has come and gone. Now all that is left is to look forward to next year’s. The Kruger Park isn’t going anywhere. Ngwenya Lodge isn’t going anywhere. For all the minor irritations they are still an amazing natural resource and it is a privilege coming and spending a week in their company.

Friday

Up at 5 as I really wanted a last walk around the grounds. Found some trees I had missed on the last walk and added them to the list. Saw a pari of Golden Aurioles and a Blue Waxbill, so we can add them as well. The Orioles were in an avenue of Cassurina trees (in the bordering farmlands - they are planted as windbreaks I think). They are aliens and get a lot of bad press but on that walk I saw more birds in the Cassurina's than in the indigenous fever trees! Back at the Chalet we had a leisurely breakfast and started packing up. There were two white rhino down near the river, just taking it easy. Also some waterbuck.

By 9 we had everything packed and the trailer hitched up. Said some fond farewells and "see you next year"'s to our neighbours, and hit the road. It took about an hour to get to the airport - less than we had thought, which gave us time to have a very nice brunch in the Wimpy, which is upstairs and overlooks the apron. I remarked that I am no fan of airports, but that Nelspruit's is actually a nice airport. It is thatched and they have gone to some pains to make it look as natural as possible. It has a shortish runway and I expect cannot handle anything larger than a small jet.

We boarded a little late and found our seats. It was really hot and muggy until we had taken off and climbed a little. The trip was uneventful - they served us sandwiches and drinks and I spent an hour or so editing the holiday photographs on the laptop. There was a moderate south easter blowing in Cape Town so we approached from the north which meant a bit of twisting and turning. The landing was near perfect, I thought. Cape Town's new airport is unfortunately confined to the departures terminal - the domestic arrivals is still as chaotic as ever, but we got our luggage, almost undamaged and with no visible signs of interference, and found our car in the parkade waiting for us. We headed out, straight into rush hour traffic, but it was bearable. Devil's Peak was all but hidden under South Easter cloud; the wind is strong enough to keep your windows closed but the temperature high enough to make you wish you hadn't; Cape Town drivers are still amongst the world's worst; the timing of the traffic lights in Kalk Bay is still supremely idiotic and the weekend music on the local radio station has gotten even worse, if that is possible - but it is good to be home with our dogs and birds, our garden, driving our cars, sleeping in our own bed.

Bamako, Mali (2)

So here are some impressions following 4 days in Bamako, capital of Mali.

The hotel itself, grand though it is, is reasonably priced. That is compared to other hotels in Africa I have stayed in. The currency is about 60 francs to the rand and rooms are about 60 000 francs a night, minus breakfast. That may not sound reasonably but hotels in Dar es Salaam and Maputo where I stayed charge a lot more. R1000 a night is not bad. Even the dump near the airport in Johannesburg where I sometimes stay when I just need a convenient overnight charges more than that.

What has surprised me is the price of the food. I sat at the pool this afternoon and had two Cokes. That cost 3000 francs, R50. In similar circumstances in SA I guess I might be charged R20, maybe R30. But not R50. Breakfast this morning was 11000 francs. That is about R200. I find that outlandish. But one has to eat.

The climate suits me. It is hot during the day but not humid so it is a lot more bearable than for example Dar es Salaam. This afternoon there were swallows everywhere and clouds overhead, with a bit of a wind, but nothing came of it and this evening was calm and beautiful. I guess it is not the rainy season. I am comfortable sleeping without the aircon at night, but one doesn't need any blankets. I had a look in Wikipedia. December is the coolest month of the year with average minimum of 14 Celsius and maximum of 33. You don't want to be here in 6 months time!

Few Malians speak any English, I discovered. Even those in academia. The very senior people do, but not the rank and file. The lingua franca is French and the local language here is Bambara, Clearly one would need to learn French to live or work here. At present mine extends to good day, good night and thank you. The cleaner came in here this morning and asked me about 5 times something about the TV. I tried to understand - I thought they were telling me there was something wrong with it and that they wanted to bring me a new one. So I grunted and nodded and said OK and "bon". Funny how when you're searching for a word in a language you don't know very well, words from other non-English languages pop into your head. With me it is usually Zulu. I kept wanting to say to her "lungile" which means "OK" in Zulu. Odd that. Finally she gave up in exasperation and said to her colleague something about "anglais" and they exited. I still don't know what they wanted.

The president of the country came to open our conference, which impressed me. Back in SA it is difficult even getting the provincial premier to do something like that - most of them are far too high and mighty. He spoke in French, I have no idea what he said, but he seemed very nice. A local colleague told me that he led a successful coup d'etat many years ago, then retired from politics but was persuaded to come out of retirement to run for office and won with a landslide victory. He is reportedly energetic and popular. I shall have to read up on the man.

I haven't had much chance to get out and look around. I was taken to two hospitals on my second day here. I think the best phrase to describe them is "struggling but optimistic". I saw old buildings fitted out with new equipment. I saw patients housed in Red Cross tents because wards were being renovated. The tents were pitched in the middle of what looked like the parking lot. I saw some seriously and chronically ill patients with TB and HIV, but they looked cared for and spoke hopefully about getting better. I didn't get the feeling that they had been abandoned to their own resources, just that the resources which are available are limited.

The city itself has a feeling of space, something I haven't found in e.g. Nairobi or even Cape Town. I haven't felt crowded in here - it feels like one is in a busy town but one can see "the country" not that far away and there aren't throngs upon throngs of people and vehicles pressing in from every side. I think that is it - this is a very large country, although the top half is mainly Sahara Desert I think, but the total population is only about 13 million people.

Tonight we were taken to the National Museum - they had obtained special permission for us to have a tour outside of normal hours - followed by traditional Malian food and music in the grounds of the museum. The museum tour was very interesting. Their exhibits predate anything we have in SA by centuries. One of the more interesting objets d'arte was a burial urn. About the size of a laundry basket I suppose. They explained that because the area it comes from is very wet and the water table there very high, when they buried people they first placed them in these clay pots, in the foetal position, so that they would be protected from the water. Probably makes good public health sense as well. I thought it sounded quite comforting to end life as one began it, going back to the womb as it were.

The music was in two parts. The band came from the south of the country - I forget the details. To start with the line up consisted of drums, bass, 2 electric guitars, an traditional but amplified stringed instrument like a violin, and a couple of female vocalists / dancers. The music was traditional but the lead guitarist's riffs reminded me mostly of Jimi Hendrix! I spoke to a few other guests and several of them agreed. Wondered whether Hendrix ever visited here. The singing was OK but a bit shrieky - evidently that is the accepted style. Then they moved in two large marimba's and some bongo drums. These guys were truly amazing - I had no idea marimba's could be played like that. And the vocals now were male - the lead had a really good tenor voice, and what was more amazing he managed to sing these rather complicated tunes while hammering away on the marimba. Really good. Hope to get one of their CD's tomorrow as a momento. They deserve to go far (and I don't mean the farther the better).

Conferences

Being a keynote speaker at a conference is very stressful. You would think that the more you do it the easier it becomes, but it isn’t like that apparently. The more you do, the better you get, and the more you get asked to give weightier and longer presentations to larger and larger groups of people. What my friends and relatives in the music industry refer to as “high pressure gigs”. I can imagine what Barrack Obama feels like. There again, he doesn’t have to use slides and he has someone to write his speeches. I arrived here 5 days ago. I have attended a few sessions, had meals with one or two people, done a few visits to local institutions, but most of the time I have been closeted in my room on the 8th floor going over and over and over and revising and re-revising this presentation – over and over and over. Rehearsing, making sure it fits the allotted time, correcting spelling errors, checking facts with colleagues – it never ends. This morning I was up at six and at it again. I missed meals. I missed exercising. I missed life, all for this blasted presentation. By lunchtime I was trembling, sweating, felt my stomach churning. Dry mouth, slight tremor, slight nausea. It felt like final exams all over again. The speaker before me was an elderly gent from Brazil whose first language was Portuguese. He was struggling a little with the English presentation and more than a little with the English questions. He seemed to go on for ever. Eventually my turn came. I put my jacket on (why? the temperature here is in the 30’s! Don’t want to offend anyone though). Fortunately I remembered to take a glass of water to the podium – at least I have learned that.

I have a theory that no matter how many times you go through your presentation beforehand, there is always one slide which when it comes up causes you to think “Now where the hell did that come from? Did I write that??” Today it didn’t happen. Maybe I was better prepared. It usually happens when I use other people’s slides – like my boss’s. If you write your own you are more likely to remember why you said whatever is written there.

I dread the question time more than the actual presentation. You always get some bright sparks who feel aggrieved at not having been invited to speak themselves, and take their ire out on you by asking completely obscure questions, totally off the point and utterly unanswerable. I got one of those today. I have learnt that one can either side-step them, deflect them to someone else in the audience (did that twice this afternoon) or play a straight bat and bounce them back to the person who asked them. I suspect teachers use much the same techniques with teenage pupils.
I am not convinced that the use of multimedia has done anything useful for the standard of public speaking. I do it because everyone else does it, but the best addresses I have heard have in fact been delivered either with no visuals at all or with a bare minimum – I remember a talk at a conference some years ago by a professor of history, on the Influenza Epidemic of 1916 or whenever it was. He had one overhead flimsy, which basically gave the headings of his talk, and for the rest he spoke from notes. But he spoke beautifully, enunciated every word, emphasized what needed to be emphasized – it was like poetry. He might have been talking complete twoffle and I would not have minded.

I am also not convinced that these conferences themselves serve any useful purpose at all, apart from providing an opportunity to meet people – other players in the field, experts and authorities, like minded individuals. If, like me, you prefer not to meet such people, then there is little point in going to conferences. Registration for this one was free, being sponsored by the organizers, but I have paid anything from $50 to $1000 to attend a conference in the past. And that is just to get in. Add $200/night for accommodation and food, about $2000 for flights if it is international, $1000 if it is national, and a whole bunch of sundries like visa charges, travel insurance and the like and you are talking about $4000 before you are through. Then there is the time away from the office and all the work that needs to be caught up on later. There’s time away from home and the extra stress on one’s better half and kids. All this to give a 30 minute talk which half the delegates bunk and the other half fall asleep in. Someone must be laughing at us all, and I suspect it is the tourism industry. What a crazy idea. Anyway, the budget brakes are on for next year so I expect I shall be doing a lot less of this sort of thing for a while. I am not sure that I shall miss it.

The other downside of these trips is the toll they take on your diet and exercise schedule. It usually ends up that the costs of some meals are covered and of others not, so one ends up not eating when one should, and eating far too much when one should restrain oneself. I generally don’t sleep too well in hotels. I have a habit of leaving the TV on and falling asleep at right angles on the bed (so that I can watch) and then waking up at some small hour with some really awful movie (they keep the C grade stuff till after midnight) blaring at me – usually about chain saw massacres or kinky holidays in Xanadu or really lame “dorks day out” type of slapstick comedy. I hate it, but often don’t have the energy to get up and switch it off, the remote having slipped from the bed when I fell asleep and disappeared from view. So, being short of sleep, I have less desire to exercise and being short of exercise I have less desire to sleep – it really is a vicious cycle.

On the upside I have gotten to visit some pretty remarkable places. Just this year I have, let me see, been to Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Mozambique, Malawi, Mali, Czechoslovakia and The Netherlands. I passed up opportunities to visit Mexico, the USA, China, India, Cambodia and Burkina Faso. Next year I am supposed to go to Germany (Berlin) and Estonia. Not sure where else. A jetliner of the size which can fly me to Nairobi carries, I believe about 100 000 litres of fuel. The big ones that fly to the USA carry nearly double that. I don’t know whether they use most of it – presumably not – but even if they use half of what they carry, we are burning up a huge amount of fossil fuel with all this conferencing – is it really worth it? Shouldn’t we be leading the way and making a ruling about rather doing all this stuff by telecom or videocon. Of course the hotels would not be happy. But neither will they be happy when the climate changes to the degree that no one can visit them anyway.

That’s my take on conferences. OK up to a point. If one has to cut back, they can go. Been there, done that. Wanna go home.

Bamako, Mali

So here I am in Mali of all places. Had to look it up. Though it turns out that Mali is home to the world's oldest university - in Timbuktu. I am here for a meeting. Well, actually a conference, which takes place over 4 days, starting on Sunday evening. So I tacked a meeting onto the beginning of it and made it a 5 day trip.

I flew in via Johannesburg and Nairobi. That is not the shortest route. The shortest is probably Johannesburg Accra (Ghana) and across or Johannesburg Dakar (Senegal) and across. The problem with the latter two is that one is then entrusting one's life to unknown airlines, some of which are not allowed to fly to Europe, for reasons which may be fallacious but are more likely to be valid. I try and stick to SAA and Kenyan when flying in Africa. Every now and again one has to make an exception - I had to fly precision air to Kilimanjaro last month and I've flown Air Tanzania once or twice when it was still operating. But like I say, I try and stick to SAA and KQ.

The schedule is somewhat inhospitable. I have done it before. You catch a latish flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg and then wait for the Kenyan Boeing to arrive, which it usually does late. Because it is SAA and then Kenyan, you have to collect luggage in Johburg and check it in again at the KQ counter. I was interested to see that they now plastic wrap all the checked in KQ baggage. I don't think you have an option. My suitcase, whilst not that old, is extremely tatty, having come off worse against a few baggage handlers in Nairobi and elsewhere over the course of the last 2 years. So I was quite amused to see it getting the full treatment, along with the fancy cases my fellow passengers produced. The flight is supposed to leave Joh'burg at 00h40, and because of the rushed turnaround is often a little dirty, but by that stage you are so tired they could pull up in a garbage truck and it would probably suffice.

I got wedged into cattle class between a decent enough fellow, who kept to himself and looked out the window mostly, and an oldish man in a three piece suit, tie and hat who ordered red wine but never drank it and kept the light on till the wee hours reading some great tome. The arm rest was broken between the seats and sleeping was difficult, but I somehow managed a few winks. Actually I must have slept OK because I remember thinking, as I was wakened by the pilot telling us in rather loud and measured sentences that we were commencing our descent, what the ground temperature was, what the outside temperature was, what our land speed was -- all the stuff you really want to know at 5 am - that this could not be right, we'd only just left Johannesburg. If I can permit myself a little ethnic stereotyping, I have to say that Kenyan pilots, air stewards and air hostesses (actually the pursers) seem really to like the sound of their own voices. They do speak English beautifully, most of them, but a little less volume and a little less generally would be welcome.

The 2 hour layover in Nairobi was dreary. It is not a bad airport, but far from exciting. I guess volume wise it is busier than Cape Town but not as busy as Johannesburg. But while the South African airports have improved in stages, with fresh designs and upgrades, Jomo Kenyatta International has stuck with a rather dysfunctional design which can probably be blamed on the Russians (just a guess) and must be 40 years old if it is a day. The place has so much potential and space - they just need a few lateral thinkers, and some money of course.

Our plane to Bamako was somewhat smaller - a Boeing 737-700 which seats about 120 but wasn't full. I had a nice window seat just behind business and the seat next to me was empty so it was a pleasant trip. The flight takes about 6 hours. They serve you breakfast and lunch, although you arrive in Bamako around midday. You gain three time zones - Mali is the same as Greenwich in the northern winter. I sat behind a couple with an infant. Or I thought they were a couple. His hair was 75% grey and he looked in his fifties. She looked under 35. But they both interacted with the kid like parents. Interesting.

There wasn't a lot to see crossing Africa. We flew over Kenya, Uganda, DRC, Cameroon, Nigeria, Benin and I have probably left one or two out. Most of the way there was a thick blanket of cloud obscuring the ground. My impression as we descended and Mali itself came into view, was of a dry, brown country, sparsely populated, even near the major centres (Bamako is the capital). From 40 000 feet it looked like the Karoo - semi desert. But as we descended you could start to make out trees and actually there are quite a lot of trees. Not a forest, but more like savannah - single trees dotted around.

We flew over the mighty Niger River. I spotted a few makoro's (dug out canoes) or whatever they are called here. I was surprised at the lack of high density housing though. Maybe I missed it. I had expected something like Blantyre or Nairobi. Just wall to wall dwellings and cars and people. Bamako doesn't appear to be like that. Again, the Karoo analogy springs to mind. If you can imagine Colesberg or Hanover writ large, that is Bamako. Plus a very large river. Low koppies.

We made one of these leisurely approaches. At one stage I thought they had put us into a holding pattern but I don't think so - there weren't many other planes around, either on the ground or in the air. Half the passengers were staying on and going through to Dakar. The rest of us clambered out and into the waiting bus. It was hot, but a dry hot. I would guess the temperature was in the mid thirties, like Maputo, but the discomfort level was lowish.

I had to show my yellow fever vaccination certificate and then stand in front of a photographer (none of your webcam nonsense, this was a proper camera) and be photographed (so did everyone else), then show my visa and passport, and I was in. Fairly simple. Picked up my tatty suitcase, complete with plastic wrap, and headed for the exit. I was met by a charming fellow with a placard bearing my name who said he had been dispatched to take me to my hotel. He spoke absolutely no English and I speak no French so it was a challenging trip. He took me to the wrong hotel - the Radisson instead of the l'Amitie. Had to go back. He did manage to point out some landmarks - the statue of the premier president (the first after independence), the new municipal buildings (which I mistook for the presidential palace), the national archives, and sundry others.

The hotel is very imposing. It is not far from the north bank of the river, near one of the major bridges. I have a room on the 8th floor, facing the river, which is rather nice. The grounds are spacious and there is a nice pool, with warm but not too warm water. The room itself was rather hot when I arrived, but now (6.30) is bearable. So ends day 1 in Bamako. I need to go and get something to eat. As I do, the sounds of the city waft up 8 stories - traffic sounds busy, I can hear the muezzin singing and now the imam preaching over the PA system of one of the local mosques. Earlier there were what sounded like fire crackers, but I didn't see any fireworks. Maybe they were gunshots, but they didn't really sound right. An astronautical mosquito has found it's way through my open door. All that effort and then I squashed her!

Some pictures of the view to round it off.

Wayfarer

50 years ago - 60 nearly - my grandfather used to write a weekly column for a local newspaper. He called himself "Wayfarer", to preserve his anonymity since many of his friends and colleagues would presumably have read the paper. The column itself is called "The Quiet Moment" and would nowadays be classified as "inspirational writing", the kind of thing one might find in the "mind, body and spirit" section of your local book shop. He wouldn't have recognised the terms, I don't think - he was simply writing about his Christian faith and the faith of probably the majority of people reading the paper, and describing how it applied to his life and work. The clippings were faithfully collected by my Grandmother (I have been told) and pasted into exercise books with the date of publication written below each. The books themselves are something of a curiosity but not the subject of this blog.

I never really knew my grandfather - he died when I was four years old, and in any case lived over 2000 km from where we did when I was very young, so we only saw him and Granny when we visited on holiday or vice versa, and I remember little of these trips. But he had a personality, by all accounts, which was larger than life. He was intelligent, a scholar, with higher degrees from Oxford, Cambridge and London Universities. His sense of humour and capacity for spinning yarns and making puns were legendary. His disregard for anything as mundane as advice on his health (stop smoking and don't eat so much) likewise. His life spanned the Boer War, the First and Second World Wars and a number of other world changing events. He was both a man of the cloth and a man of letters. He died aged 72, some 41 years ago, as a result of a second stroke and is buried in a simple grave with my grandmother and father in Somerset West near Cape Town, where all three of them lived out their last years.

I learned of him through my elder siblings, who had had more chance to know him, through my parents, who referred to him often during mealtime conversations, through my aunts and uncle, and through people I have met and still meet who have said to me "I knew your grandfather ..." and have then gone on to recount some or other aspect of his character or accomplishments. Some have even told me I look a bit like he did. Perhaps this is becoming more apparent as I move into middle aged hair loss and further waist expansion. I also learned of him through his poetry - he wrote a small book of verse, most of it Christian poetry, of which I have a copy and into which I dip from time to time.

And now I am getting to know him through his newspaper columns of 60 years ago. Some of them speak to events of the time - the continued expansion of Communism, the horrors and hard aftermath of the second World War, the worrying rise of Afrikaner Nationalism in South Africa. Some of them speak to events within the church. But most of them speak to his faith and how he lived out his faith in the day to day life of Joe Christian in Cape Town in 1950. Some of his writing is dated and nowadays politically incorrect. He sometimes speaks of Black African South Africans as "the natives" and no doubt there would be those who today would consider some of what he wrote condescending and racist. He was in some senses a man of his time, in others not. But beneath it all I think there lay humility and concern, probably anxiety over the future of his family (DF Malan would have been in power for 2 years and my grandparents' youngest child would have been 10 years old when the columns were written). There is also wisdom in the writings, I think - the kind of wisdom which is borne of hard life lived and not of theories studied. Coming as he did from England he brought a different perspectives on South Africa's problems, quandaries and possible solutions. That is not always a good thing - foreign manufactured solutions to local problems are often far wide of the mark. But in his case I think he uses the breadth of his experience to good advantage.

Perhaps most striking is the fact that the issues he writes about are not terribly different from the issues which are written about in the Mail and Guardian blogs in 2009 (I seldom read newspapers so wouldn't know what is written about in the paper copies of our dailies anymore). The problem of pain, why bad things happen to good people, whether religion is a good or a bad thing, hanging on to time, the problem of contempt, being kind, being a good sport, prayer and servility, dealing with problems, waiting for an answer, aspirations, doing and not just dreaming ... these could have come from just about any period of human history and any context. I'll quote just one sentence from the column I have uploaded: "Life would be different in South Africa between Black and White, between Afrikaners and English, in our homes, churches, schools, offices, if everyone gave priority to the good things they know about people, and refused right of way to the less good." I see nothing dated about that observation and advice.

As I make my way through two boxes of musty old exercise books, I hope to discover more of this man who loomed so large in our childhoods - what made him tick, what he thought about X, Y and Z, how he handled the difficult situations he found himself in from day to day - and thereby discover a little more of myself, since I share one quarter of his genetic material and a deep love for the person he called "son" and I called "Dad".

What we spend our money on

Some things one buys one thinks afterwards: what a total waste of money. We once bought something called a V-slicer from Verimark. The ad made it look as though one could cut paper thin slices of a rotten tomato with the minimum of skill or effort. Turned out it wasn't even good for slicing a Granny Smith. So it sat in the cupboard for oh, so long, and eventually went the way of all useless and superfluous household gadgets - into the granny flat, where it resides still. Another was a plastic basket with large vacuum suckers which one was supposed to attach to the tiles above the bath to hold soap and other things. It wouldn't stay on, even empty. We eventually glued it in place and it still fell off after a week or so. I could go on - mini vacuum cleaners which didn't suck, plastic hubcaps which fell off on the first corner, popcorn makers which didn't pop, a "generic Weber" which didn't "Webe", microwaves which gave up the ghost or rusted out of existence after an indecently short time ... I guess we all have such lists. And yes, I know we should all be better consumers and take the offending item back and get a refund at the least, or report the retailer to Isabel Jones or whoever has taken over from her. Like I have the time and energy to do that. About 10 years ago we installed a 5 by 3m swimming pool. The problem is it gets the south easter full-on. As a result it has always been cold - seldom getting about 20 celsius. OK, that was warm when I was 10 years old. At our age, it is cold. So nobody swam. I threatened to fill it in and grow roses. More of the pool anon.

But on the positive side, once in a while one buys something that actually works. And works well. And makes an impact on one's quality of life. I can think of a few, apart from the obvious - house, car, cell phone, etc.

For years we did without a dishwasher. I even pretended I enjoyed washing the dishes and cutlery manually. Finally we got one. What a pleasure! And they tell me it actually uses less electricity, less water and produces less environmentally unfriendly detergent than the old way. I'm all for it.

For the first 5 years we were together, we had no TV. This was partly because we had no money, but also because we lived in an area where there was no reception, or very poor reception. Then we got one. We even got MNET. And for a while it was good. But the standard of programs on the SABC went from bad to worse, and the price of MNET went from expensive to unconscionable. So we ditched the MNET and gritted our teeth for another 10 years of the state broadcaster, supplemented with "e". Enough said. Essentially we stopped watching. Every once in a while we would have a look at satellite, but always decided it was too expensive until last December when we took the plunge and got the whole tootle. BBC, Geographic, the lot. It has made a huge difference. There is very seldom a time when I can't find at least one program worth watching and normally I have to choose between 2 or more.

So to get back to the pool. A few weeks back we were shopping at the mall and there was this guy promoting solar geysers (water heaters if you're American - no I am not referring to and misspelling geezers). We chatted and it sounded like a good idea given the proposed Eskom tariff hikes and the green issues. So I asked him to drop round a give us a quote. But I also asked him to quote on a solar heating system for the pool. He duly quoted, I accepted and this last week the systems were installed. There is now a contraption on the house roof, which looks like a black plastic lean to, and a gizzmo outside the bathroom which tells us how hot the water in the geyser is. It changes a lot - but it gets as high as 70 Celsius just from the sun some days. When the differential between what is in the tank and what is in the pipes exceeds 4 degrees Celsius, the motor cuts in and pumps water from the latter to the former. Great. Something similar has been installed for the pool. On the roof of the garage, there are 4 sets of small black PVC lattices, and the water passes through them when the pool pump is running. Simple. The temperature in the pool was 18 C on Tuesday. Today it was 26.5C. OK, we have had some hot weather, but that is incredible. And it hasn't cost a cent in electricity - just the installation. We are not only swimming regularly, but staying in. Definitely a good investment.

Today we drive to Belville, some 40km away, and bought a sleeper couch. We saw it a few months back when we bought a cane chair at the same shop. When opened out it is a double bed. Folded it is a four seater couch. It comes with a thick mattress which looks like a futon. We drove 40km with it in the back of our hatchback! Had to assemble it ourselves, but it wasn't difficult. Remains to be seen what the uptake is, but I have my spot booked for tonight! Hope to add it to the second list ("worth the spend") and not the first ("what were we thinking?").

Kenya

Nairobi

Friday, 06 November 2009

Two funny things happened this morning....

Last night I met with one of my staff. We needed somewhere quietish to chat so ended up being the only patrons in the residents’ lounge at the Hilton, which was fine. Nick had a cappuccino and I had a Tusker, It had been a long day. When it came time to pay I asked the waiter to put it on my tab. I signed the chit, including a 10% gratuity. But I got my room number wrong – I said 709 and it should have been 710. I only realised when I got back to my room, but thought that since my name was on the chit they would check it and assign it to the right room. When I checked out this morning, I told the check out clerk what had happened. He spent some time checking on his computer and finally told me that the bill had been paid already – the guest from 709 had checked out earlier and clearly hadn’t bothered to read his statement – just signed. They say there is no such thing as a free lunch – but I just got one.

The other was when I arrived at domestic check in for my flight to Kisumu. The security guy at the door checked my ticket and then motioned for me to put my bags and belongings through the X-ray scanner. Routine enough. I know by now that at Nairobi one doesn’t normally have to bother taking the laptop out of the bag, but otherwise it is the same as anywhere else. I put my case through, then my bag, then a tray with my jacket which contained my cell phone, wallet and a few other items. I then walked through the archway which went beep – I guess from my belt buckle. But nobody appeared to tell me to take it off and try again. I went forward cautiously, expecting to be apprehended at any point by some officious security person. When I got to the other side, to pick up my belongings, I saw why it was that no one had stopped me – the fellow whose job it is to watch the TV screen of the scanner was sitting (lying) stretched out before it, hooded jacket pulled over his head, apparently fast asleep. In fact he could have been dead. I was very tempted to take a picture but decided that my desire to document the occasion might not be viewed in a good light, especially if he woke up whilst I was doing it. Such is the standard of security checks at Nairobi domestic. I expect he was at the end of a long shift, or had been working a double job. Not that that is an excuse, just an explanation. One wonders though, why they bother – all these protocols and procedures are nothing more than window dressing, and sometimes they aren’t even that.

Saturday, 07 November 2009

The Imperial Hotel in Kisumu was full so I was booked at the Nyanza Club. Actually I prefer the Club, but most of my colleagues prefer the hotel, mainly because it has wireless internet, and so we normally end up staying there. There are 2 blocks of rooms in the Club, old (built 1979) and new (built within the last 5 years). I prefer the old, although there are bats in the roof, they aren’t mosquito proof and there is no aircon. But the view out of Lake Victoria from the veranda is stunning. I got back quite late after a long day at the site, but was in time to have a refreshing swim in the pool and then a nice dinner of grilled tilapia fillet and masala, with mashed potato.

I flew on Fly540 to and from Kisumu from Nairobi. In the past I have tried to keep to Kenya Airways when I could, but they have stopped flying to Kisumu because “the runway is too short” – go figure. There are a number of other airlines which do – Jetlink, Fly540 and another whose name I forget. Presumably their planes are smaller. I’m not sure what type of aircraft it was – I usually look at the safety leaflet but it was not informative this time. 2 huge propellers mounted below the overhead wings, if you know what I mean. Coming back it was right outside my window. I found myself wondering what would happen if it came off. I consoled myself with the thought that it could just as easily spin off in another direction (up, down, out) as come crashing through my window and cut my head off!

I discovered when I got onto the return flight in Kisumu that we would not be flying straight back to Nairobi, but would first be stopping at Eldoret. They told us it was 15 minutes’ flight to Eldoret. I know of the town but have never been there. I know that it is about 2 hours’ drive from Kisumu, over a not very good road, and that one climbs up an escarpment. So I was interested to see what it looked like from the air. We took off, banked and turned over the lake and then climbed steadily over the town. The houses and roads and cars got smaller and smaller. And then suddenly they got bigger again and the ground looked like it does when you are on your final approach – we had passed over the rim of the escarpment. It must be quite a drop – must go and have a look sometime.

Up on the plateau the scenery looked different in the twilight – different to that around Kisumu. Greener somehow, and neater. There were homesteads and hedgerows and roads but less than down by the lack and somehow it all looked more orderly. One could almost have been flying over England, or maybe what I imagine England looked like 100 years ago. And then before I could get too engrossed in it, we were descending and landing. The airport looked better than Kisumu’s – better tarmac, better buildings – just more modern. They told us it was international and there was one fairly sizeable jet taking off. We refuelled (during which we all had to unbuckle our seatbelts, for some reason – interestingly they didn’t make us switch off our cell phones, which they did on a Lufthansa flight once when we refuelled in Johannesburg). And then we were off again, this time to Nairobi.

The guy sitting next to me was reading something which looked like Arabic. It was leather covered book, with beautiful script in red and black. He seemed totally focussed on reading it. I have been reading Karen Armstrong’s book on Islam and couldn’t contain my curiosity. I leaned over and said “Can I ask you a question?” He didn’t say no (he didn’t say yes either – I suspect he thought I was going to try and covert him). “Is that Arabic script?” I asked. He nodded. “Is that the Quran?” Again he nodded and even grunted. “It is beautiful,” I said, “the script is really superb”. I think he thought I was mad. So I gave up and stared out the window and he went back to reading it. Maybe he was preparing for the Hajj.

Blantyre

I am normally the first to enthuse over Africa. And I love Africa and Africans. But I shall need to work harder to bond with Malawi. This may not be Malawi’s fault at all – maybe it was me or the circumstances but the long and the short of it is that I didn’t enjoy my trip this time.

SAA only flies to and from Blantyre twice a week – Wednesday morning and Saturday morning. I only needed a day, two at most, there but was forced to either spend 3 (or 4) nights there or else use non SAA / non Kenya airlines like Air Malawi or Air Zimbabwe, which I am a little nervous of. They may be fine – I am just nervous. So I booked Wednesday through Saturday. OK.

Tuesday night I was still packing at past ten and had to be up at 3.30 to get the red eye flight to Johburg, in order to make the 10.30 to Blantyre. The advantage of driving to the airport at 4 a.m. is that no one else is. It was blessedly quiet. Not too quiet mind you – one always wants a critical mass of other wake, warm human beings when driving past the Athlone cooling towers.
I found my favourite parking spot on the 4th floor of the domestic parkade and headed for the VIP check in. Not that I travel business class – I don’t on principle (and because it is against company policy) – but I have managed to attain Gold status on Voyager loyalty program simply by spending my entire life at 39 000 ft above sea level – well, that is what it feels like. And this one time they bumped me up to business class – but only until Johannesburg.

The SAA lounge in Cape Town domestic is crap and will remain so until they finish renovations, I guess. But it did give me a cup of coffee, sandwich and a chance to do some last minute emails. Similar story in Johannesburg. Forgot to get a customs letter for the laptop – the last one has expired. Wondered whether they would hassle me on return.

There is a definite pecking order at the airport. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I suppose it has something to do with volume (number of passengers). Seems to me that if you fly to Europe or North America you get to use the airbridges / elephant tubes. If you happen to be going to Maputo, Nairobi, Entebbe or in this case Blantyre, you can be pretty sure that your aircraft will be parked about 10 km away from the terminal which means that you get to use those rather grotty ground floor exits in Johannesburg, spend what seems like hours waiting in breathless buses on hot aprons until the driver decides to close the doors and switch the aircon on, and then another eternity trundling across the tarmac. I recently got delivered to the wrong plane – some of us had taken already our seats when the cabin controller (who had actually checked our ticket stubs) said “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that this aircraft is bound for Windhoek, Namibia!” Not that I have anything against Windhoek – I just hadn’t intended visiting it this year.

We left on time. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. SAA is not bad in that regard. The flight was scheduled to take just over 2 hours. For some reason we arrived in under 2. Something to do with the atmosphere or the stratosphere or the hemisphere. I had a window seat but as there was cloud cover most of the way just read my book – Karen Armstrong’s book on the prophet Mohamed. Very interesting and surprisingly readable. Then I started feeling guilty because I knew I had to give a talk when I arrived and did some work. When we did do our decline and dip below cloud level again, I was surprised at how brown everything was. Cape Town is lush and green right now. Even Johannesburg doesn’t look too bad. This place looked like it was in the grips of a bad drought. The other thing that surprised me was that I could not see any fence around the international airport runway. I was subsequently assured that there is one but it is not very substantial – just strands of wire. As long as it keeps the cows off, I suppose ....

Blantyre airport is quaint. I think that is the best word. Funny old 2 storey building, which looks like it was built in the days of BOAC (and probably was). There is an upstairs viewing platform which reminds me of my childhood Saturday afternoons coming out to Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg and watching the jets land and take off from the open viewing deck there – subsequently closed for security reasons. I think we even saw the Concorde from there.

Passport control was relatively painless. Helps to have an SA passport sometimes. The baggage is brought across in open trailers and tractor and man handled onto a conveyor belt which is about big enough for the arrival of a 12 seater aircraft but has to cope with the arrival of a 200 seater. Everyone stands around it in a cramped, crowded room with no air-conditioning and the Africa sun blazing in through the window. My case took an absolute age to arrive. I am frequently tempted to not take checked in luggage but if the trip is longer than 2 nights it gets a bit challenging. Finally made it through and was met by a friendly fellow bearing a placard with my name on it who said his name was Dave and took my bags. It was a 30 minute drive through to Ryall’s Hotel in the city centre and I fortunately had about an hour to have a shower and re-engage my brain. Ryall’s looks and feels like a medium sized reasonably modern hotel. It was only when I explored the back corridors and read all the picture narratives that I discovered that it had a much longer and prouder history and that the original Ryall’s had been something of a landmark and an institution. Too bad they knocked it down. I found the new hotel a bit sterile and characterless. But it was clean and comfortable and the aircon sort of worked even if it took me two days to work out that the hot and cold on the shower mixer were reversed which was why I couldn’t get any hot water.

I can’t pretend that I explored Blantyre. I had a heavy schedule of meetings and the like and when I wasn’t in those I was back at the hotel on telecons or preparing. My one foray into the city was to find the bank and draw some Malawian kwatchas. It is about 20 MAK to the rand, 150 MAK to the USD. I was hoping I would be able to pay everything on the credit card but got alarmed when I saw that there was an exit tax at the airport of 30 dollars. The concierge assured me one could pay in MAK’s so I drew 10000 (about 60 USD) just in case it had gone up. More of that anon.

I was taken around two of the euphemistically called “high density settlements”. In SA we would call them slums, squatter camps or, to be more PC, informal settlements. But I was told that slums was not a word used much in Malawi. They say you visit a country for a day and write a book about it, a week and write an article, a month and write a paragraph and if you are there for a year you don’t know what to write about it. So I should resist making sweeping statements and jumping to conclusions. My impression was that Blantyre (the economic capital of Malawi, I was told) is a poor city. Very poor. I know that poverty is everywhere and that SA has its fair share. But the kids I saw just had poverty written on their faces. Maybe it was the mood I was in. They seemed happy enough. They just looked poverty stricken.

Leaving was interesting. The SAA flight only comes twice a week – Wednesday and Saturday – and I was booked to fly out at 1.30 pm on the Saturday. My friends advised me that there was little point in getting there more than 90 minutes before it left, and even 60 minutes would probably be fine. It is a 30 minute drive from the CBD to the airport, so I arranged to be collected at 12. Everything would probably have been fine if we hadn’t got stuck behind a wedding procession. There were four cars with the bridal one somewhere in the middle. Nothing unusual in that. What was unusual was that the two rearmost cars’ drivers were taking it on themselves to ensure that no one passed the cavalcade by periodically driving on the wrong side of the road in the face of oncoming traffic and then violently swerving back into line at the last moment. I asked Dave what was going on – he said they were protecting the bride’s honour and this was a common practice. The result was that I arrived with something under 60 minutes until take off and joined the back of the queue. Twenty minutes later I was still standing in the crowded, hot, humid check in room. I finally got checked in about 5 minutes before boarding but still had to go through passport and customs control. The latter's official asked me whether I had any foreign currency. As it was I had quite a lot since, as I mentioned, I had been told there was an exit tax of $30 and I had therefore drawn MAK 10000 (about 60$) to be on the safe side. I had given some of it to Dave as a tip but I still had most of it since, as it turned out, there was no exit tax – or rather it was included in the e-ticket. The man looked disapproving – I was only permitted to take MAK 3000 out of the country. I could see my fellow passengers starting to move toward the door. I said “I’ll buy something – anything – where is the shop”. He pointed at a kiosk. I ran in and asked where the T shirts were – they were hanging from the ceiling, all 2 of them. How much was the black one – the gold shirt with the logo for Malawi’s hottest periperi sauce on it? MAK 5000 I was told. R250! $35!! I saw the last few passengers leaving, thrust MAK 5000 in the direction of the grinning shop attendant, muttered something about her mother and made off with the most expensive (and probably one of the least attractive) T shirt I have ever bought. I made the plane. As we trundled down the runway , I laughed at myself. Seasoned traveller, my arse. Got taken for a good ride. As we climbed above the clouds and the temperature came down to something civilized, I got out my book and relaxed. Malawi - been there, done that! Or maybe Blantyre – been there, done that!

Johannesburg and Klerksdorp

Klerksdorp Hospital

Highveld Sunset

The beautiful old SAIMR buildings and behind them, downtown Johannesburg

The old SAIMR buildings, the old Hillbrow Hospital and behind it, Hillbrow

The North West Province of South Africa is not a place I frequent. Nothing personal. Just not really on the way to anywhere I go and I don't have any business in Potchefstroom or Rustenburg. But I had to visit Klerksdorp for a few days.

We flew up to Joh'burg and saw some people there first. My colleague is from George and Cape Town so I agreed to drive and navigate. We hired a car at the airport - splashed out and forewent our usual VW Chico in favour of a slightly spacier and more comfortable Toyota Yaris 1.3 - what a great little car! Paid a surprise visit to Mom in Law en route to the hotel and was just in time for coffee and a chocolate brownies.

We had booked rooms at the Grayston Drive Southern Sun in Sandton. I think it used to be the Holiday Inn. It is an imposing hotel on the corner of two major roads. The reception staff were friendly. I asked about wireless internet. One rand a minute, I was told. I said "Aish!", which is a wonderful and uniquely South African expression meaning "How!", which is another wonderful and uniquely South African expression meaning "Good Grief!" or something similar but unprintable. The check in clerk just laughed.

My room was on the first floor (second in American), but there was a rooftop just outside the window so it was like being on the ground floor. I discovered that the sliding window did not latch. Normally this would not have bothered me but in Johannesburg on the first (ground) floor ... I phoned reception and told them my problem. "No problem," the man said, "I will send someone with a new card and you can move to the room next door." Man duly arrived. The room next door was indentical except that the window latched, but it didn't fully shut. But at least it latched.

We arranged to eat at 7. In the meantime I investigated the gym, which was small but adequate. Got rid of about 300 kCal in preparation for piling on another 500 at dinner.

We elected to eat in - there was a choice of the main a la carte restaurant and a Thai restaurant. We chose Thai. I ordered the calamari curry (mild) which came served with rice. It was OK. I wouldn't write home about it. The starters were good though (ordered by one of my colleagues who had not been to the gym) - spring rolls, crisp fried battered shrimp, calamari rings ... all highly calorific but very tasty and enjoyable.

We went to bed fairly early as two of us were jet lagged and the other two had an early start planned. I did not sleep well, partly because of the cacophony in the tree outside - I think it was Indian Minor birds roosting. I had forgotten how noisy they are. They start shouting around 5. But it was more than that - the aircon seemed to be set on 24 and I could not switch it off. That is too hot. I guess I could have opened the window. In Johburg - ja, right.

We left the hotel at seven. I had to get to a meeting by eight and as it was near Auckland Park and I was in Sandton, I figured it would take at least an hour. Also, I had spotted the jams on the M1 south the day before and thought I would be in for more of the same - which I was.

I was a young boy growing up in Johburg when the M1 and M2 were built and I remember how the traffic flowed so easily along them both - such a change after years of the stop start of Louis Botha Avenue and the like. Not that they were without controversy - land was expropriated from better heeled owners in the leafier suburbs and even my young ears heard the moans and groans and thinly veiled threats. But the motorways were built none the less. Nowadays they resemble large parking lots in rush hour traffic. Having said that, we were still early for our appointment.

We passed Parktown Boys' High School and Helpmekaar Seuns' Hoerskool, Wits University, Milner Park, the Milpark Holiday Inn or whatever it is called now, Auckland Park, and the Rand Afrikaans Universiteit, now called the University of Johannesburg ... all of them full of memories from 30 years ago and more - Rand Easter Shows with family and friends, walking from Milner Park to Clarendon Circle to catch a bus back to Highlands North at 10 pm on a Saturday night with my girlfriend (now my wife), aged about 16, pub crawling with teenage mates, school rugby matches at PArktown and Helpmekaar which were more like wars than contests ...

Our next stop was in Braamfontein, near the Civic Centre. I pointed out Constitution Hill to my colleague, the old Johannesburg Fort, and remembered peeing on the gate of the fort after an illegal afternoon in a Braamfontein pub during my teens. Clearly the guards weren't looking or I would likely have been in serious trouble. Disrespect for the state president or something equally ludicrous.

My friend remarked how clean central Johannesburg looked. I guess he was right. Johburg didn't look too bad - certainly not the part we were in. [side bar: 3 days later, the streets of Johannesburg are anything but clean, having been repeatedly trashed over several days by striking municipal workers - who will presumably have to pick it all up again next week when they return to work]. It was a sunny winter's day, the kind which you only really get at 1800m above sea level. Crisp, dry, bracing. No wind. Bright sunshine. Almost bright yellow sunshine. There is something about that Highveld sun which is different.

At 1.30 we headed south for Klerksdorp. I managed to navigate the M1 through downtown Joh'burg and out past Booysens, Gold Reef City and Nasrec. I found the turnoff to the N12, the alternative route to Cape Town via Potchefstroom, Klerksdorp and Kimberley. The road was better than I remember - double carriageway for most of the way. We passed the petrol station where I remember fetching my eldest brother and his broken down red Honda 350cc motor cycle (or was it the Bridgestone 175? - I forget - he had a few) back in 1973 when he was doing vacation work on a mine in Stilfontein. The garage hadn't changed - not to my mind, anyway. I remember we had to get the beast - it was a large bike - into the back of the Ford station wagon on its side and it leaked oil all over the place.

To the left of us ran the railway lines, the main line to Cape Town. I saw myself travelling back to Cape Town for holidays from boarding school in Johannesburg, a 27 hour trip in those days and probably still - that equates to an average speed of about 56kph, which is painfully slow, particularly when you are 15 years old and your holiday is running out with every minute that passes. I think I used to board at 10 am one day and arrive at 1 pm the next. We (my girlfriend, my friend and I) would take the Number 13 bus from Highlands North to downtown Johannesburg and have breakfast at the Wimpy near the station. I think one could get the Full Monty for about R3 each. The train ticket, which my parents prepaid, cost R42 and 3 meal tickets and bedding, for which I was sent cash, came to another R12 or so. I used to have a small and illegal (I was underage to drink in public) bottle of red wine with my dinner (Nederburgh Edelrood was my "favourite" - in truth I hadn't tried much else) and then sleep through breakfast, hopefully breaking even for the trip.

I travelled 2nd class, which meant 6 to a compartment or 3 to a coupe. Since I travelled alone, I was normally allocated a compartment with 5 other adult white males - South African trains were still racially segregated in the late 1970's. Some of the characters I got lumped together with were interesting, some eccentric, some objectionable. I remember one elderly schoolmaster from Wellington in the Western Cape who was fond of a game of chess but not particularly good at it. I think we played 10 games during the trip and I think he lost them all. I say he lost them because I was and am no Grand Master myself - he was just hopeless. Smoking in the compartment was permitted and it was sometimes necessary to stand in the corridor to avoid the blue cloud. With luck one could get the on of the top bunks - that way you could sleep and largely ignore the company. But the cigarette smoke also tracked upwards and it could become uninhabitable. I wonder whether, in 2009, the mainline trains still flush their toliets straight onto the tracks as they did then. Presumably not. Or maybe they do. Strange custom. The public health part of my brain goes into convulsions when I think about it.

21 years ago, almost to the day (3rd of August 1988), I rode the train from Milner Park in Johannesburg to Potchefstroom. That was a trip about which I remember surprisingly little, except that the 110km journey seemed to take an absolute age. I was on my way to start my 3 months' basic military training at Witrand, which was where the medically qualified conscripts were sent. I looked at the station in Potchefstroom when we passed through - but it didn't seem familiar. I tried to picture the drab brown SAMIL 20 trucks lined up, each with a driver and korporaal waiting to pick up their loads and take them on their first "roofie ride" (a "roof" or "roofie" was an Afrikaans term meaning a new recruit)- high speed, frequent violent stops and sharp swerving, calculated to cause maximum discomfort and panic in the "roofs" - but couldn't quite conjour up the images.

We passed turnoffs to towns, the names of which rang bells mainly from television programs, news bulletins and maybe novels - Stilfontein, Orkney, Fochville (presumably pronounced with a soft "ch" like our Maths teacher at school who insisted on being called Miss Fosh), Carletonville, Kloof ... until we finally arrived in Klerksdorp. These are all mining towns. Gold mines. Some of the deepest mines in the world are here, I am told. These people have gold in their blood.

I was ravenous, not having had either breakfast or lunch. We saw a sign post to Pannarotti's ( a well known pizza/pasta joint) "1.3km". We followed it, drove round downtown Klerksdorp for 10 minutes, found only second hand car dealerships and eventually gave up and opted for periperi chickenburgers at Nando's - another great South African institution.

Later, after midnight, the night air was bitingly cold. I said to my colleague, who having been classified as coloured (though he is lighter skinned and straighter haired than I am) did not have to go to the army, "Can you imagine getting up at 4 am in this cold and marching round the parade ground in a thin brown overall, plastic helmet ("doiley") and boots, for 2 hours before trying to get down a breakfast of cold sloppy scrambled egg, soggy toast and burnt coffee, and then enduring an inspection which lasted over an hour and consisted mostly of your corporal and/or lieutenant shouting insults and expletives at you, some of which you had never heard before?". He just laughed. So did I. 21 years has soothed the frustration and anger. Now I sit in a hotel room with the heater on full, well fed and mellowed out, and wax philosophical about the way it was.

The folk we were visiting in Klerksdorp were a mixed bunch. Many came from elsewhere – Graaf Reinet, Durban, Cape Town, Bloemfontein - but one was from the town – Klerksdorp born and bred. After a long day of meetings and presentations we decided to spend the evening together at a local restaurant – Koobah or something similar. We followed our colleagues across town – it seemed like quite a distance but maybe the illusion was due to the number of traffic lights and 4 way stop streets, beloved of small country towns in South Africa, at which we got stuck. I kept getting caught by the red lights. The person I was following got impatient with this slowcoach from Cape Town. Clearly could not keep up with the pace of life in Klerksdorp.

The restaurant was rocking when we got there – clearly more than a restaurant. We elected to sit on the enclosed verandah. They shoved three tables together and encircled them with plastic chairs – off-white or lurid green. The waitress wanted to know what cocktails we would like. The list was long and included such items as “the panty dropper” and “safe sex on the beach”. Little indication of what they contained. I opted for a Peroni draught beer and the lady next to me for a glass of Shiraz, leaving the cocktails for the more adventurous. But we are not off the hook – they brought a complimentary round of “French Kisses” which looked and tasted like red cough mixture with cream on the top.

I asked the one and only native Klerksdorper in the group what the local speciality cuisine is. She hummed and ha’d and finally pronounced “vetkoek, I suppose” – doughballs deep-fried and sometimes filled with savoury mince, eaten hot - kilocalorie city, “or maybe melktert” – a milky custard pie. So where does one get this sublime vetkoek or melktert? Oh, there are lots of tuisbak – home cooking – outlets in town. Tannie Mostert or Tannie Melktert are famous for their melkterts. On the ground floor of the office block where we had our meetings is a small shop called “Knuppeldik Kombuis”. OK – “dik”, means thick. So what is a “knuppel”? (rhymes with "nipple"). And what is a dik knuppel? Do I want to know?? I was assured they have good vetkoek. We decided that the little man who stations himself outside the shop and asks everyone their business should be called Oom Vetkoek (although he is thin and probably doesn’t partake of vetkoek all that much).

Back to the meal. We asked the waiter what the special for the evening was? Burgers, he said – two for the price of one. Looked like we were all having burgers. Nobody wanted starters except my colleague from Cape Town who ordered peri peri chicken livers, extra hot. He shared them with his neighbour on the other side, who happened to be Asian. They made highly appreciative noises. I remembered my mother preparing ox liver every Wednesday during my childhood – doctors instructions, which Mom took extremely seriously, and on account of my grandmother’s pernicious anaemia, we were told. I can see her taking this great bloody lump of organ and cutting it into chunks with a sharp knife, rolling them in flour and then frying them. I hated it and still do. The bile ducts seemed to turn more green and more prominent with the frying. The liver itself tasted like what it was – an excretory organ. But maybe chicken livers are different, I thought. I speared one and cautiously slipped it into my mouth. Wrong! It tasted the same as they did 40 years ago. I didn’t spit it out but neither did I take any more.

The burger was OK. Not earth shatteringly OK, just OK. I washed it down with a good latte. They brought another round of cocktails – slightly different this time – green cough mixture with cream on the top. I was the designated driver so have a water-tight (waiter-tight?) excuse. Someone else got mine – she said she was walking home. I somehow doubted it but what did I know? The cocktails had loosened tongues, removed inhibitions and blurred boundaries. The stories got louder and more hilarious. We heard about a local storekeeper who had refused to replace a pair of sunglasses, because he suspected they had been exposed to the sun! We laughed about the Klerkdorp police detective who reported, when asked about an investigation into a stolen laptop computer, that the computer was still “undetectable”. We were entertained with scurrilous stories about the mens’ health clinic upstairs from their offices, and the characters who worked there (and their partners). We heard about a local GP who presented for a job interview for a research post and when asked why he had applied said he wasn’t sure – his brother (also a doctor) had told him to apply. One of the group had gone to a strip club in Klerksdorp and had had her breasts unexpectedly fondled by the (female) stripper. She also recounted how a male employee had asked for time off work to see the doctor and when she asked what the trouble was, had immediately dropped his pants and showed her – an abscess on his buttock! It seemed that life in Klerksdorp was far from dull.

The next morning I went for a run around the town. Well that is an exaggeration. Even Klerksdorp is too big to circumnavigate in 30 minutes. It was cold – the hotel concierge expressed concern. I said I would run fast enough to keep warm and, apart from my hands, I was right. I ran through a technical school and out on the Orkney road, over the railway and up to a reservoir. The houses were mostly of that typical style which one can see in just about any small town in the more rural provinces of South Africa. Built 50-100 years ago, single storey, solid brick and mortar construction, plastered and painted, usually orange or green, corrugated iron or asbestos sheet roofing, wiremesh fencing, maybe a “hoenderhok” (chickencoop) or aviary in the back yard, separate garage, usually a few peach trees, some garden gnomes and occasionally a fish pond. Also common are wagonwheel design gates and glazed pottery plaques of Mexican's with very large sobrero's sleeping under cactus plants, displayed prominently next to front entrances. Some houses have deep verandahs or “stoeps” which run along one or more sides, but they are generally the older ones – presumably the style went out of vogue at some stage. In the driveway, normally a “bakkie” (pick-up), often the larger older variety like the Ford or Chevy 3 ton, and a family car, like an old Mercedes Benz (the 240D very popular) or a Toyota Cressida – ugly but solid. Being on the Highveld they don’t rust.

I find that running in strange towns shows you a side of life you don’t otherwise see – in this case, the bustle of early morning activity around getting kids to school and parents to work. A sour looking woman in a luxury SUV blasted a taxi driver for stopping in her path – I am no fan of taxi’s but this one didn’t seem to have done anything illegal to me. The sun was just rising as I turned to run back, large and red from the Highveld dust I suppose. The other thing I noticed was the constant cooing of the doves in the pine trees – very much a highveld sound in my mind. We get doves and pigeons in Cape Town but they must roost elsewhere because I seldom hear them in the morning. Maybe it is a different species.

I met someone later in the day who has lived in Klerksdorp all his life and he is past retirement age. He told me that crime is not a huge problem in Klerksdorp but is ever present, and that he and his wife had just moved into a secure housing complex. He seemed very English in this rather Afrikaans town. He said that he had done his 9 months' army training in the local commando's, back in 1961 - before I was born. He had family all over the world - Afghanistan, England, elsewhere in SA - but clearly he was happy in Klerksdorp. I thought I could be happy in Klerksdorp. Life seemed simple, rounded out, navigable. Life in Cape Town is anything but.

Then I was back at Johannesburg airport and waiting for the call to board our plane to Cape Town. Back from the time warp and the memories. Back to the genteel packaged sandwiches and glasses of grape juice which the SAA lounge offers its loyal sons and daughters. Outside the multicoloured aircraft came and went - Mango, Kulula, SAA, Comair/BA - they lined up and taxi'd out like obedient kids in a kindergarten class. Every now and then the building rumbled from a jet taking off on the distant runway. Such activity. Such industry. Such craziness. What a strange life.