Tag: Life in Africa

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It’s an emergency

My lovely man is big on health and safety. Big.

So, he was delighted when a worker injured his eye while helping us with something at the house the other day.

He could launch into action. My lovely man’s launching into action immediately involves me.

The fellow had hurt his eye.

Rosie, we have an IoD he yelled, bring the first aid kit.

It’s also necessary, it seems, to break into code.

Where’s the H&S SOP file he continued.

What? Rousing myself from the depths of an email.

We have an injury on duty he said somewhat impatiently, where is our standard operating procedure file for health and safety? And get the first aid kit.

I have a cotton swab, some bicarb and eyedrops I offered. There is no file.

He sighed… Obviously hoping I was in a position to perform surgery.

My lovely man’s biggest thing is ladder safety.

There was no ladder in this situation, but it didn’t stop him giving the fellow with the weeping, injured eye the lecture anyway.

If the man ever regains his sight, he will know it’s imperative to have someone hold the ladder. Oh, and never be without eye goggles.

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That might kill you

We have a recurring weed patch that pushes it’s way through part of the paving. Just a small section of the paving. When I pondered aloud as to why the weeds were coming up only in that section, my lovely man said that it was probably over the sewage section.

I’m sorry I asked.

So, we have to dig these wees out intermittently. We were told that a concoction of hot water and salt might be easier.

I suffered some conflict in this regard, which was scoffed at by my lovely man. But, it just doesn’t feel right to pour boiling water over any living thing does it?

Anyway, he asked if we had salt he could use to put in a jug of boiling water and I said that he could use some of the dishwasher salt.

The weed patch looks very sad now.

Then he advised me that he had used some of the same (dishwasher salt), to top up the salt grinders.

I don’t think…. I started….

Salt is salt he said firmly. In the VOICE OF AUTHORITY.

Well, Google says it’s not. Dishwasher salt is not to edible standards.

Proceed with caution if we invite you for a meal.

We recently had a visitor who developed a stomach bug. Not sure there is a connection.

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Not mum of the year then?

Circumstances have dictated that we’ve become a bit of a tortoise sanctuary. I get enormous pleasure from my handful of little hinge back tortoises. They, sadly, do not get as much pleasure from me… but there you are… they are a lesson in unconditional love really.

Every time we travel, I come home to jubilant welcomes from my pups and cats. Not to mention Mandova. Heartwarming stuff. The tortoises couldn’t really give a flying… nobody thunders out to greet me.

Tommy, the original chap, did find his way into my office the other day. I was ecstatic. He dropped a large turd and exited. I guess that was a request for indoor plumbing, who knows. We have a little way to go on house training.

We are up to 5 tortoises now.

Because my lovely household know how much pleasure I get from seeing them (I feel like I am living in a nature reserve when I sit on the verandah and a tortoise wanders by), they call me every time one is spotted. Because I am the only one who can tell them apart, I spend a lot of time looking at the same tortoise, who has moved a few metres and then been spotted again by my lovely man or Mandova. I actually don’t mind, I am grateful for their thoughtfulness and I do like seeing the little fellows.

We are still relatively ignorant on tortoises but what I can advise is there is a lot of sex. A lot. This has, inevitably, resulted in babies. Eggs, they lay eggs. The girls take weeks and weeks of rumbling around and digging holes to get to the point of actually producing anything. During this time, the sex doesn’t stop. There should be a crime line they can phone.

But, last night, my old girl, Tummy laid eggs. Great excitement. She is the biggest and presumably the oldest (ages are a secret not shared), and she’s really battered. Perhaps there was an errant lawnmower in her past. Doesn’t stop her getting lucky it appears.

So, she laid some eggs. Nowhere near any hole that had previously been dug. She laid them on the pathway paving. And crushed one of them during her labours it seems.

On the morning of the evening birth, she was quietly having a drink of water when she was rudely pushed into the water bath and assaulted from behind. She probably still doesn’t know by who. When I asked her this morning who the dad of this lot were, she advised that how do you even know what baked bean actually makes you fart?

This morning, Tommy was wooing her again. Straight after a night of labour! Rude.

So, now we have eggs. Whether they are fertilised or not is an unknown. They are surprisingly large. Apparently the survival rate is quite low because nurturing is not really in the nature of a tortoise. I gave Tummy some mushrooms and cucumbers this morning and congratulated her. She was not enquiring of what I had done with her growing babies. Not mum of the year this one.

A friend advised me that I need an incubator for the eggs. I informed my lovely man who said ‘wot, do they have incubators in the wild then, maternity wards and health care?’

Guess the eggs are taking their chances.

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Living his best life

My lovely man and I travel what is known as the Beira Corridor quite regularly.

Beira port functions well, so road transport is alive and well in our neck of the woods.

For a variety of reasons I won’t bore you with, I am the designated driver. I get no thanks for this act of service. I do get an ongoing stream of input. Mostly ignored. Except if we are in imminent danger. I then react… But grudgingly.

Another thing that happens quite grudgingly is the acknowledgement that there are a bucket load of trucks on the roads. Road improvement, road widening and managing this volume at the borders is not an obvious priority.

If you ever feel a bit mizzy about your job, thank your lucky stars you are not a truck driver on the Beira Corridor. Patience in abundance seems required.

So, on a recent road trip, we found ourselves in a grid lock of enormous trucks, trailers and other cars. Patience…. was not in evidence.

After a time when it became apparent nothing was going to move, my lovely man bounced out of the car ‘to see what the hell is happening’.

A further significant period of time passed and it dawned on me he may be lost for ever.

I immediately panicked. But then…. I realized he hadn’t taken the biscuits.

Another epoch passed as I munched happily on the biscuits and beamed up at all truck drivers around me.

I pondered if I should consider rationing the biscuits.

And then! Miraculously, we started to move. I wondered vaguely where my lovely man was in this chaos of trucks, trailers and cars and looked fondly at his phone that was in the car, with me. I hoped that we would find each other somehow, or that he would at least find his way home one day.

But! It was him! My lovely man. Kicking arse and taking names. Full traffic cop mode. Instructing people left and right to stop being knobs and move this way and that way. Saving the day. His only regret was not having a reflective jacket. And maybe a little cap. And a gun. Or at least a baton.

Everybody loving him and grateful.

And in no time we were on our way. What a guy.

What happened to the biscuits he asked me.

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The continuing bee saga

You may remember our attempts at bee keeping. Apiculture for those in the know.

We are far from in the know. A few You Tube videos and we were thoroughly daunted and reaching for the wine.

Our newly purchased hive was attracting nothing, until we put it in the garage and it became the location of choice. Making getting in the car hazardous.

So… We moved them all out the garage into the common area corner of our complex. As a result of my fear of my dear Alfie pup enraging them into a killing frenzy if they were in the garden.

The entrepid Mandova maintains them somewhat. Making sure water is available and that there are lots of pebbles to sit on so that they don’t drown.

I am learning so much about all the animals you take in and I have to look after Mandova advised me. I’m sure with gratitude for the opportunity.

Just as we did this and beamed at each other proudly as to how they were thriving, some of the gorgeous young mums in the complex invested in and built a playground for the little ones in same common area.

What could go wrong we thought.

Maybe if we tell the mums and kids to stay away from the hive my lovely man suggested.

Have you met a toddler I replied.

So… We have given away our hive and some bee fellow took it and most of the bees away in the dead of night.

Supervised, of course, by our self named Estate Manager, Mandova.

Some anti histamine was required. The less said about that the better.

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Yes, there’s a parallel here

I’m reading a book at the moment called ‘The Running Grave’ . Actually I’m listening to it on Audible. What a blessing audible books are.

Anyway, it’s very gripping. It’s about the goings on in a cult.

I’ve not had a lot of experience with cults. I don’t think a cult would tolerate me for too long. I’d either be expelled or locked up in a box until I realised the error of my ways.

It occurred to me, as I gazed across the lawn at the tortoise antics and listened to their bellows, that we are, in fact, housing a cult.

There’s a great deal of free love going on.

Even battered old Tamara is getting her fair share. And honestly, I’ve considered getting her adult diapers.

Incontinence, it appears, is of no consequence. Tamara, the hottie, is rocking it.

I’m considering playing something from Woodstock for them, it seems fitting.

My lovely man, watching this lot, commented ‘inspiring’. And then he gave a little roar.

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Steady on….

When we saved grumpy, ungrateful Tommy the tortoise from a likely end of being a snack over a fire, he patrolled the garden perimeter relentlessly, presumably trying to find a way out.

I worried that he had a family to get back to. He was not saying.

My research indicated that they are generally solitary creatures and that he would be fine.

Still I fretted.

Turns out my friend has an excess of tortoises. This, in fact, is a thing.

So… Timmy and Tammy arrived. I laid out the snacks and did the introductions.

With not so much as a how’s your father, Tommy mounted Tammy.

Oi, she cried, I’m just having a bit of nibble on this cucumber.

I’m not sure there is hashtag me too in the world of tortoises, but if so, Tommy is bloody Harvey Weinstein.

However, it’s cheered him up no end, and he gave me a little wink and nod of approval I swear.

Sadly, as soon as he had finished with dear little Tammy, he set his sights on Timmy and nudged him over onto his back.

This too is a thing. Turn the competition over and be done with them.

So, now we spend our days finding Timmy and rightening the poor little soul.

Timmy has assured me he’s in the friend zone with Tammy, he just needs to persuade Tommy.

Then Tamara arrived. An old, somewhat battered duck is our sweet Tamara. She’s even bigger than Tommy and has old injuries. Looks like she’s been run over by a truck at some point.

We have welcomed her into the bossom of the household and she seems quite happy.

I even had a house built for them. They hate it.

As it turns out, previously suspected asexual Timmy, has fully embraced Tamara.

Mandova called me from my desk to witness the antics.

Rumble in the jungle indeed. Pint size Timmy is vocal in his passion for much larger, Cougar Tamara.

I can tell you for nothing there’s a lot of action in this household.

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Love me do…

It has been six months since we took in Tommy the tortoise. 

He is not grateful.

Amazingly, he has not died in my care and has made it through winter. There was not a lot of hibernating allowed as I forced love and food on him daily. 

I wish I could say we are soul mates and tripping through the tulips happily, but this is far from the case.

We are still finding our feet with our relationship and he is not as adoring as I might like, truth be told. I am convinced he prefers Mandova over me. Hurtful really. 

But, I like to think we are progressing as I purchase delicacies to nourish him on and try and figure out his likes and dislikes. Loves green lettuce, not purple lettuce, loves watermelon, not as fond of tomatoes and strawberries. 

I have had to point out to my lovely man that giving him my wine soaked strawberries may not be clever. But, what do I know really? He might prefer them like that. 

He leaves his little house to wander the garden quite a bit. Speedier than you would think and very well camouflaged. So, I call for him of course. To no avail sadly. Doesn’t come when I call or answer me. 

We will get there. 

Apparently tortoises make a racket when they are copulating. We are unlikely to copulate, but if he can make a sound, perhaps he can answer my calls. 

I’m not sure how bright tortoises are, but Tommy may be special needs. Wedges himself regularly into places he has to be saved from. So, there is a fair amount of saving of his life. Up until recently, he rewarded me by piddling on me. This may be his kink of course. 

He no longer piddles on me when I pick him up. Does he no longer find me attractive, or is he no longer scared of me? 

So many questions. 

I have convinced myself he gives me a little smile when I scratch his shell. 

I have been advised that he is most likely a Bell’s Hinge Back tortoise. They are apparently more inclined to keep to themselves than, for example Leopard Tortoises. But it was Tommy we saved and Tommy I love!

What I have learnt about Tommy is that he is very consistent. Resting face pissed off really. What he has learnt about me is that I am needy and clingy and like it if you come when I call.

A sanctuary has offered to take him in. Does he need friends / a mate?

I suspect I am not enough for Tommy.

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Change is a coming…

Mozambique recently enjoyed Municipal elections. 

The run up to this day is quite festive. A reason to play loud music and drive around waving flags really. 

The party that leads in our province has a chicken as their emblem. The other parties seem to have more ‘call to arms’ emblems, but we have a quite noble looking chook. 

The guy who started the party must have had a particularly memorable KFC dinner maybe. An historian, I ain’t. 

If you are planning to resurrect as a chicken, my advice would be not to do it in Mozambique. Not a fun place for chickens. Most of their time is spent hanging upside down and being offered for sale. And then slowly roasted over a long suffering truck driver’s fire while he spends the better part of a week trying to cross some border or the other. Not really sure who should get the most sympathy really. Not an easy life for either I suspect.

We foreigners, of course, do not get a vote. So our vote, on the imposed holiday, goes to a boozy lunch. It’s a win for sure, and worth waving a flag for.

Of course there is unhappiness with the vote outcome in some provinces. I’m not quite sure why they bother with elections in Africa. Aaah yes, it’s a democracy. 

But, I can report there is positive change… I slipped a guy a ‘spot fine’ for the speeding he insisted I was doing and he said it was too much and gave me change. 

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Stick to the script

Generally, I consider myself quite compliant. I’m not much of a rebel or rule breaker.

Occasionally I go off the rails. With some spectacular results.

An example…

Some years ago I decided that I could leave one country on one passport and enter the next on a different passport. Who knew this is not allowed? Actually everyone… Including me.

My actions in this regard may or may not have had something to do with not wanting to pay visa costs.

Perfectly legal of course.

I got away with this three times and then I was hauled into the back office for interrogation.

The fellow was delighted to lecture me at length. Despite my sincere apologies and explanation. I had to, of course, produce my second passport because he asked me if I had been loitering on the bridge between the two countries for some months. I had not.

He felt it necessary to go through every page of each passport and examine each stamp. It became tiresome.

What do we need to do, I asked, to be able to move on from this and get on with life?

This irked him surprisingly.

Are you travelling alone he asked?

No, I said my husband and dogs are in the car wondering where the hell I am.

You, he informed me, are too British, let me talk to your husband.

Darling, I said, I lied and told that man you are my husband, also he said he’ll sort this matter that I’ve now been caught out on, with you, because I’m too British.

What does that mean even he asked? I think it means get this cheeky bitch out of my face.

My lovely man has never really let me forget this and now considers himself the better negotiator.

Whenever we have a situation to negotiate however, we discuss the plan. This is Africa. One has to be prepared.

We go in, I always think, on the same page, with the plan clearly laid out.

Inevitably, he goes off script half way through and says something gobsmacking.

We scramble through somehow. A fair amount of sweat rolling down my face considering the unexpected overshare of information.

And then he looks at me smugly… Just as well I was with you to help, he reminds me, they probably thought you were too British.

Love him.