Category: My Lovely Man

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Zambuk, it’ll last you forever – Daily Life, My Lovely Man

My lovely man has had a cold for over a month.  The poor bugger.  We have self-mediated, of course, but yesterday actually went to see a doctor and got him some anti-biotics.  This is his second dose of antibiotics, but the first lot didn’t do the trick it seems.  Possibly because it was just some stuff I had lying around to treat a cat bite.

Have I mentioned that you can pretty much buy any drug in Mozambique?  We are not as regulated.  No time for that shit, no money in it really. 

I had, being Flo Nightingale, been giving him some meds and arranging a steam bowl a couple of times a day.  And a little towel of course.

The doctor applauded my efforts and said that the steaming was good and needed to be continued.  He said that it’s the steam that does the good, not really what you put in the hot water.

I scoffed at this, I believe it’s the Vicks I put in the hot water.  The first time I gave it to my lovely man I had maybe put too much Vicks in the hot water and he nearly passed out.  Are you sure this is good for me he wept through streaming eyes.  Get under that towel already…. Course it’s good for you.

So, when we stopped at the chemist to get the antibiotics, I suggested he get more Vicks (yes, he went in on his own to get his meds, I had this blog to write).

The lady said that Zambuk to rub on my chest or steam with will also do the trick he announced on his return.  We have Zambuk don’t we?

Yes, of course we have Zambuk, we’ve had it for years.  Why for years, because you can’t get the lid off a Zambuk tin can you?  That stuff lasts forever.

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Life in Africa – yes, we have tape, it’s red

We had cause to transact with a government department.

Always a time to gird your loins, particularly in Africa.

The first government department we were channeled to were super pleasant but directed us to another department and building down the road. You need to go to the 13th floor they advised. Of course, it would be the 13th floor.  Didn’t think they even allowed 13th floors in buildings, isn’t it bad luck?  It certainly was for us.

What are the chances there is a working lift my lovely man asked as we navigated our way there.

There was a man here yesterday trying to fix the lifts, the ground floor reception fella told us. But, he continued, the problem seems more complicated than his ability.

My lovely man, at this point, could have sent me up into the ether by myself, as it was my issue, but, he is super supportive and courageously led the way. His two knee replacements no doubt saying ‘hang on a bit.. is this wise?’

As we braced ourselves at the bottom, our senses were assailed with a strong urine smell. So, shallow breaths for 13 floors was required.

I did sympathise as by now my bladder was prompting me for attention.  However, I managed to restrain myself from piddling on the staircase you will be proud to know.

My Samsung watch went into overdrive.  Alerting me to the fact that I was exerting myself. It has never been so excited quite frankly.

We staggered, gasping to the 13th floor reception and she immediately said we needed to see someone on the 12th floor. There was no oxygen available from what we could see.

These people, bless them, do this every day. A couple of times a day I imagine.

We met another unbelievably pleasant lady on the 12th floor, and she laughed at the condition of us. There was little sympathy, she is doing this climb daily 5 months pregnant.  The lifts have not worked for two months. Honestly, for me, that would have been contraceptive enough.

Thank you for coming she said, you are in the right place, but, in fact, you need to write us a letter with your request and bring it back for our consideration.

This is Africa, there is no point in asking – is this information readily available anywhere as to what the process is?

There is also no POSTING a letter.  One must deliver it personally.  Can one leave it at the ground floor reception we asked tentatively… better to bring it up to the 13th floor reception yourselves we were advised.

Of course. 

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My Lovely Man – bring on the bees already

Two days ago there was great excitement and my lovely man dragged me out to the bee hive where indeed, there were half a dozen bees buzzing around.

But they went away and so far, have not returned. Clearly not impressed with our hive.  I’m considering putting the price tag on it to assure them of it’s quality.

We need to figure out how to attract them my lovely man stated sadly.

My suggestions of moving the compost heap the hive is near, painting the hive orange (orange is ALWAYS good), maybe thinking about putting in a little jacuzzi, some art work and a comfy bean bag or two have been met with scorn.

This morning my lovely man had found an educational You Tube channel.

Darling he said, the sound is off, please help.

My lovely man is somewhat technically challenged.

I spent 10 minutes trying to unmute it. Checked all the settings, subscribed, generally faffed around.

Eventually I said… Is the volume down?

We probably don’t deserve bees, we are idiots.

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My Lovely Man – A Weekend with the Boy

Hot off the press.

I have received an email invitation to be part of a reality TV Show in Mozambique. On one of the islands. We will be one of two young couples apparently. Of course I received this in Portuguese, but it seems to translate into Weekend with the Boy.

Everything will be paid for they say, and there will be entertainment and games. We are only obliged to portray how young couples love each other in Mozambique.

Why are we invited my lovely man immediately queried. We are not young.

Also, he said, what if they require us to stay up after 8pm? I don’t think we can be entertaining after 8pm. Will they let us have our afternoon nap? And watch our soapies?

Well I said, people only have to pay 10 Mets to watch us they say, so I don’t think their expectations will be very high.

Will they want us to drink those fancy cocktails he fretted. We don’t like those. Check ahead how much beer they have.

It doesn’t look high budget I worried, might be more like Survivor. We are not into roughing it.

We’ve considered this long and hard over our morning tea and biscuit, and sadly, we are going to have to regret the invite.

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My Lovely Man – can you hear me?

Quite often my lovely man will comment that this person or that person talks a lot.

With supreme confidence that I don’t (talk too much), I stupidly asked ‘I don’t talk too much do I?’

Yes, sometimes you do, he replied, with no hesitation.

So much for my self-awareness.

Perhaps, I said darkly, you think that because everything I say must be repeated 3 times.

(My lovely man is hard of hearing, or perhaps selective in his hearing).  He also has an attitude about wearing his enormously expensive hearing aids.  Lots of excuses why he doesn’t or can’t wear them.  And if, on the rare occasion he does, he ends up getting into the shower with them.

They are amazingly resilient.  And very clean.

I worked with a guy once that was hard of hearing.  Or selective.

He once said to me…

“The trouble with you Rosie, is your voice is very highly pitched.  You are like a dog whistle, no wonder I can’t hear you”.

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Daily Life – The Slow Movement

Have you heard of Carl Honore? He of “In Praise of Slowness’” fame? https://www.carlhonore.com/

I’m reading his book on my Kindle.  Slowly of course. Very insightful.

He promotes us all slowing down. This surely is a good thing? In Italy, I understand, there are cities that strive to transform themselves to Slow Cities. A meal there, for example can take an age deliberately.  One must not arrive hungry, because they probably only start harvesting your grub when you order.

I personally have very fond memories of spending the whole day at Clube Nautico Restaurant in Beira with friends. Completely inappropriate conversations that lasted the whole day.

The Italians, I further understand, are also known for their very fast driving. This, of course, is somewhat incongruent to the slow movement ambition.

Africa, is not always burdened with an enormous sense of urgency. The nation must have read this book and fully embraced it. Amanhã will do in Mozambique for sure.

When I moved to Mozambique from corporate Johannesburg almost a decade ago, I thought I would go mad. Or have a stroke. Of course, it was me that had to adapt to some extent. Finding a balance between high standards and not giving myself and everyone around me an ulcer.

But perhaps this is an attitude we should all embrace.  So much competitiveness and a need for speed.  Can’t be good. We need to be more Mozambican, or Italian maybe.  Wine and good food. I’m in.

However, there is clearly a fair bit of Italian in a Mozambican. Once they are behind the wheel of a car, it’s a race. Every second counts. One must get there urgently and then relax back into a snail’s pace.

Speed bumps and potholes do not in any way deter most drivers in Africa. These things are to be navigated in top gear. Like pulling off a plaster really. Do it quickly and put the jarring, shuddering pain behind you.

I used to drive hellishly fast. Was proud of my behavior too. Aggressive. I wasn’t going to take any nonsense from anyone. Johannesburg cured me of that. Along with realising I was going to give myself a heart attack, my aggression resulted in a confrontation I had to back down from. Road rage is not clever, and you don’t want to meet someone that is prepared to take it through to the end.

So, by the time I was driving in Mozambique, and indeed Zimbabwe, I was in the right head space.

And it’s always about head space, isn’t it? Everything really.

My lovely man is an excellent driver. He’s a good deal more assertive than me, and more inclined to nip around and push himself into spaces. Despite this, I feel very safe with him.

I suspect; however, he does not feel the same when I drive. And, when we do long distances, I often drive more. He’s got this bum thing going on that when he drives or sits in a car for a long time, he gets a pain in the bum.

He is, in fact, a pain in the bum when I drive. Nervous and critical. And his brake foot pumps excessively and impotently in the passenger seat.

A lot of calling out to Jesus to save him.  And the irritating ‘watch it, watch it’

Just close your eyes and relax I urge him. I can’t he tells me, who will watch you.

At least, he says, we are likely to go together.

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Historical – My Lovely Man – Life in Africa

Things have largely calmed down with regards to having to be hosed down and disinfected every time you go anywhere. Thank goodness. We still get disinfected and have to wear a mask into shops here in Zimbabwe and Mozambique. Us cynics suspect that the governments are NOT likely to lift restrictions totally because there is still AID to be begged for and subsequently exploited.

Certainly in many parts of Africa the washing facilities that were insisted on were less than desirable and likely to leave you with more disease than you started with. It was also quite common, it seemed, that they carefully tracked down the village leper to disinfect you.

Anyway, here is a post from March 2020 to remind us.

We trundled back to Beira from Harare yesterday. Spent an unpleasant few hours at the Consulate in Mutare, patiently waiting for them to do a 5 minute job of issuing a work visa, applied for a month ago. Why did it take so long? To flex their power I presume after I stupidly explained we had animals in the car outside and needed to get to Beira that day. The mind boggles. Smiled and kept my 😎. Arrived at the Moz border and was waved down frantically having driven past the Corona Virus check point unwittingly. Stopped and was instructed by the muffled voice through a face mask that we must have our temperature taken and wash our hands in the chlorine treated water. So there you go, Moz will be safe now.

Watched my lovely man dunk his hands in the dirty bucket of water.

Darling, I said, what are you doing ffs?

He said I must wash my hands..

That’s the catchment bucket sweetheart, use the tap above it.

Never mind he says, we’ve complied, let’s go.

Might let him touch me by Christmas.

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My Lovely Man – and his Beehive


My lovely man is interested in bees. And bats. He will speak at length about Bee Vectoring, which (I believe), involves bumble bees carrying chemicals (pesticides/fertilizer – who knows) to crops.

It is fascinating. Although I have queried with my lovely man if they have little knapsacks and if they are paid, this information has not been forthcoming.

On the bat issue…

When I enquired about what was on his bucket list he advised me that he always wanted to go to Zambia where apparently there is an enormous bat migration to view.

We are not aligned on this bucket list item.

Back to the bees.

For some time now he has indicated he wants to get a hive or two to keep at home. Bees are indeed to be nurtured, so this I encouraged.

I too love bees. Sadly, I had an unfortunate incident when I was a child. I stood on a dead bee and had a quite violent reaction to its sting. This has been my only bee sting, and it was dead! Who would have thought that could even happen. So, I am not sure I am allergic, but I am reluctant to repeat the experience.

Nevertheless, must be supportive. And we all need bees. There is a shortage I read.

So, my lovely man has done some research and then tracked down a fellow from a garden centre nearby who makes hives. My lovely man bought this fellow back to the house and together they determined where the hive should be located. In the corner of the garden.

Unfortunately, quite near where I like to sit with my wine and strawberries.

It’s going to end in tears I can see, and they are likely to be mine.

Apparently, this fellow is making the now ordered bee hive and it will be delivered hence forth.

Does it come with actual bees I enquired? Or at least a queen to attract the poor little worker males? (Wouldn’t it be ideal if the rest of the world operated like that – a big fat queen adored by her buzzing little male workers).
I don’t think so he said, the guy said that the bees will just come.

I refrained from reminding my lovely man that we did this with a bat box and not one has ‘come’

Location, location, location I suppose. Who knows.

So, we will have a hive and then, I guess, we will wait to see if they will come, or if it’s just a scam.

As it turns out, I will remain the only queen around for now.

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My Lovely Man – and his spiders


Last night my lovely man leapt out of bed in the middle of the night, switched the light on and started beating the bed clothes.

The pups immediately went ballistic, adding to the chaos.

What is wrong????!!!! I screamed, most reasonably.

Spiders he announced, there are spiders in the bed, and they are biting me.

What the actual…..

Are you bitten? Do we need to tend to your bites? What the hell?

Then he switches off the light and goes to sleep. As do the pups. I lie there for the rest of the night, rigid with fear.

I like spiders and generally am not scared of them. Spiders, bees, snakes and ghekos should be nurtured really.

However, I do not really fancy a bunch of bitey spiders as bed mates.

This morning my lovely man wakes me up with coffee (bless him). He also wakes me up with coughing, snorting and nose blowing (he has had a cold FOREVER it seems).

Are you OK I asked when he had finished hacking. Do I need to look at your spider bites?

No, I think it was just a dream (we’ve been there before with snakes, I should have known).

So, this morning I’m shattered and I’m looking to trade him in really.