Ornithological Adventures cont…

I think I may take up bird-watching. Well, I have, by default, anyway due to my new location. I am currently sitting on the balcony at home with my camera, a book entitled ‘Voels van Suider-Afrika’ (a gift from my oldest friend, Ruth – which is simultaneously turning me into a bird anorak and improving my Afrikaans which has become almost non-existent), and my laptop on which I am furiously documenting the birds as I see them. I never understood how some people derived so much excitement from bird-watching – my childhood pet, a canary called Chirpy, never evoked much admiration in me – but I am now beginning to appreciate the bird-watchers fervor. Admittedly, the cuteness factor plays a big part in my new found hobby, and I find myself squealing at each new sighting and, just recently, launching myself off the balcony, camera in hand, in order to stalk these birds who then eye me with great skepticism and mistrust.

But I find it therapeutic to watch them go about their business – catching fish, paddling on the lagoon, terrorising each other. The more I observe, the more I learn about their behavior and  I can now even identify most of them by their calls. The Seagulls hang out in packs, squawk loudly and all have ASBO’s. The Mallards are aloof but rather dapper and appear to be in monogamous and committed relationships.  The Cormorants are eager and industrious little creatures, but lacking in social skills. The Kingfishers are jittery but keen hunters and the prettiest of the lot. The Hadeda’s look almost prehistoric, but I hear them a lot more than I see them. My book describes their unique call: “Een van die bekendste roepe in dele van Afrika. Lawaaierig in vlug, maak ‘n haarde ‘ha-ha-ha-dah-da’.”

Since I began writing this post I have spotted the following from our balcony and managed to photograph a few:

1- Malachite Kingfisher

Malachite Kingfisher - Not a great shot because he was quite far away but definitely the cutest bird I've seen so far.

2- Pied Kingfisher

3- Little Tern

4- Great White Pelican

5- Cape Gull

6- Hadeda Ibis

7- White-breasted Cormorant

8- Cape Cormorant

Cape Cormorant - very industrious little divers that spend more time under water than in the air.

9- Egyptian Goose

Egyptian Geese - rather handsome, but they seem angry.

11- White-Eye

12- Wag-tail

14- Hartlaub’s Gull

Hartlaub's Gull (seagull) - the chavs of the bird world.

Woodbridge Wildlife

Let me tell you about the animals in my neighbourhood. I recently moved back home to Cape Town and live in an area called Woodbridge Island – not the most ‘happening’ place in the city and it rather resembles Wisteria Lane from Desperate Housewives, but, due to its situation between a lagoon and a beach, it has an impressive variety of wildlife.

Our front balcony overlooks the lagoon and is an excellent spot for bird-watching – especially in the morning whilst having a bowl of muesli. (No more fry ups – all the women in Cape Town are toned and tanned and I’m feeling inadequate with my pale, bandy legs – so I’ve implemented a regime of yoga, walks on the beach and ‘health food’). Breakfast time is often shared with the local ornithological community.  So far I have spotted: a flock of Seagulls, a few Cormorants, a pair of Egyptian geese, a couple of Kingfishers and some small white birds with yellow beaks and legs I think may be Egrets. The lagoon is also full of silvery fish of various sizes that dart about in the shallows and are often gulped up by the birds. I think I might take up fishing. I could catch a delicious bass every Friday for dinner. My favourite discovery, however, has been the pair of otters that come to feed almost every night. More accurately, they come to visit us almost every night. They appear between 10 and 11pm and we’re alerted of their arrival by the loud snorting sound they make. They have sleek brown bodies, with a white throat and belly and long whiskers. Wikipedia tells me these are Cape Clawless Otters, so named because instead of having claws like sea otters, they have partly webbed paws which are very good at holding onto fish and grabbing unsuspecting crabs. And that’s just in the front of our house.

Out back we have a small courtyard surrounded by palm trees and with a large hibiscus bush in it. Here I find little White Eyes who peck at the hibiscus flowers. There are also a couple of doves  I often find pecking at the paving stones. Do they survive on sand and dirt alone? Then there are the geckos that cling to the walls and occasionally some butterflies wobble past. Finally, our neighbour has a belligerent parrot that spends most of its time in the backyard making noises like a car alarm.

I must also mention the local human inhabitants who I like to include in my inventory of indigenous fauna. I have identified two main species so far: 1 – greying, retired men, who have too much time and money and trundle around, either in their Range Rovers, or their golf carts which they park in their very large, triple garages.  2 – radical surfer dudes, who have silly hair styles and only wear boardies and flip-flops, and say things such as “Hundreds my bru”.

And since I started writing this, we also appear to have adopted a small praying mantis called Clive.

Memories of Ghanaian markets

These are two excerpts from the journal I kept in Ghana..

- May 2006

“O Broonie!” This is what the kids in the street shout at me. It means ‘hey whitey’, but I’m told this is a term of endearment, not an insult as I first thought. It’s my first day in Accra and all my senses are being assaulted. Nyami, my eternally-grinning tour guide, decides it’s a good day to show me the city – despite the torrential downpour. The streets have been turned into rivers of mud and I’m trying in vain to avoid it. My flip-flops flick mud up the backs of my legs with every step and I have to stop at each corner to wipe it off. I give up on this futile exercise soon afterwards and instead tell myself that being caked in mud from the knee down is a good look.

Nyami takes me into Makola Market – the biggest and busiest in the country. It’s hot and the humidity is at about 95%. Its a bit like walking into the bathroom after someone has just taken a long, hot shower. He tells me they sell everything here from bread, to underwear, to umbrellas, to chickens. He doesn’t tell me they also sell pigs trotters, cows feet, giant snails and buckets of angry crabs. I stop to watch a young girl hack open a cows hoof with a machete; I’m grateful – when the bits of sinew and fat fly onto my legs – that they are still covered in mud. Nyami senses the experience is a bit much for this ‘whitey’ and very graciously takes me to a friends house to wash my legs and feet. I am beginning to realise that I have become squeamish living in London. Not that London is a particularly sanitary place, but this is my first taste of real ‘Africa’. Growing up in suburban Cape Town does not prepare you for this either.

Pigs trotter sashimi anyone?

I am yet to have my first supper in Ghana and suddenly have a vision of going home to my lovely Ghanaian host family to find the dinner table laden with boiled pigs trotters and snails the size of my fist. I imagine them sitting around the table with expectant faces and me being forced to eat the mutant molluscs. I doubt I would handle this situation very well. I am relieved when I get home and discover that spaghetti bolognese is on the menu. Its only the next morning I find out that it was made from goats mince.

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- June 2006

It’s the day after Ghana beat the USA in the Football World Cup. Making it through to the 2nd round of the tournament is a first for these debutantes. I’m in Kumasi, the capital of the Ashanti region, and Ghana’s victory last night prompted a spontaneous street party throughout the city. I came here with a group of fellow volunteers and we spent the night drinking Star beer, jumping up and down, and hugging everyone we passed.

It was a very happy night, but now its the morning after and I have a severe hangover. This is not helped by the sweltering heat and the humidity which is at its usual level of 97% – not ideal conditions for nursing a hangover. We have to go back to Accra today which, unfortunately for us, means a trek to the other side of Kumasi where the bus terminal is located. After crawling out of our ’5 star hostel’, we navigate our way through the remnants of last nights celebration to the central market where we hope to find something resembling breakfast. This is Ghana however, and breakfast here rarely comes in the form of a fresh croissant and a cappuccino. Perhaps a stale bread roll and some jam if we’re lucky.

Not the best hangover cure

We arrive at the market and march straight into the heaving mass of people ahead. As soon as we’re inside I can smell that this is a bad idea. I can see a woman behind a small table – she appears to be selling a pile of honeycomb. Or perhaps its coral. Why would she be selling coral I wonder – we’re nowhere near the sea… As we get closer the stench confirms what she is selling. Tripe. Great steaming heaps of it. It doesn’t take long until we notice that there is a woman selling tripe at roughly five meter intervals in this market. And if its not a pile of tripe laid out neatly on the table, its a large enamel basin full of slightly rotting fish. The smell is incredible. I can hardly breath and am certain I will either faint or throw up in the next two minutes. Its midday, the sun is fierce, the market is busy and noisy and I feel completely disorientated. I keep bumping into people in my state of semi-consciousness and nearly walk straight into a table full of tripe. The rest of the group are in a similar position and we must look like a bunch of recovering heroin addicts. At this point the thought of eating anything here makes me retch and the relief is tangible when we finally make it out the other side. I can see the bus terminal and now have a three hours of motion sickness to look forward to in a dilapidated mini-bus along the most pot-holed road in Ghana.

Tonsillitis and Tequila

I can hardly swallow. It feels as if I have crushed glass in my throat. The glands in my neck are swollen and protruding. My ears hurt. My body aches. I’m exhausted. Time for some tequila. Definitely not a shot of Jose Quervo with salt and a lemon wedge though. And forget the Gypsy Kings. My current condition can only be remedied by the restorative properties of a Tequila Toddy. Sipped quietly in bed. One part tequila (Don Julio Reposado in this case), the juice of half a lime, agave syrup and hot water, all stirred into a mug.

My Medicine

Making this proves tricky in my state of exhaustion and mild delirium. It takes all my strength to squeeze the lime into the mug and I forget to catch the falling pips. Chewing or choking on a lime pip is not recommended for sufferers of tonsillitis so I try to fish them out. I choose a steak knife for this task – clearly the best tool for scooping up slippery pips. I locate one and manage to maneuver it half way up the side of the mug.  I have a bit of a wobble and the pip slides back down. The second attempt results in a similar outcome. And the third. And the fourth. By the ninth attempt I’m tilting the mug at such an angle that I pour a good portion of my toddy onto the floor.  About half an hour later I slide the last last pip out of the mug. Feeling significantly weaker than before I started, I worm my way into bed with the elixir and two nurofen. I am asleep before I even finish the fruits of my toil and labour.

I wake up early feeling bright. My throat hardly hurts and I no longer feel like one huge bruise.  Then I get a phone call and discover I sound like Rod Stewart.  However I do feel much better and it seems my Mexican medicine worked, so I can deal with sounding like an ageing rockstar for a day.  My phone goes again. Someone has tweeted at me. Excellia Tequila has tweeted at me.. I remember entering a competition two days ago to win the whole range of their tequilas……  I read the tweet: ” Congrats Hannah, you win 2 big and 3 little bottles of Excellia – the whole range! Mailing address please.” I do a little jig in my bed. Excellia is the Rolls Royce of tequila; aged in Grand Cru Sauternes and Cognac barrels, it’s one of the finest highland tequilas. This is not something you shoot in a bar where the girls whip bottles of tequila from their bandolier belts. This is sophisticated sipping tequila. I think some kind of Mexican themed knees-up is in order. Tonight. Margaritas, nachos, tacos,  quesadillas and mariachi music. Today is National Corn Chip Day anyway. I couldn’t think of a better excuse.

London’s Lessons

Like any city, London has its quirks and idiosyncrasies. But I think, because of its size and intensity, London has developed more than most. Some of them are dangerous, such as: Never Dawdle on Pavements. Dawdling can be lethal, particularly if you’re shopping in Oxford St on a Saturday afternoon. Shoppers in this area become militant whilst searching for plastic sunglasses and leopard-print leggings. Primark bags filled with cheap underwear become battering rams and are used indiscriminately to navigate a clear pathway into Topshop. Walk as fast as possible at all times to avoid obliteration. Note that prams and umbrellas are also deployed to maim and decapitate bystanders blocking the entrance to any high street store with a sale on.

Some I will never understand, such as: Queuing for Sales. And I don’t mean queuing for an hour or even two hours, I mean spending the night in a sleeping bag on the pavement outside the store in order to be one of the first to get their grubby hands on the 70% off items.  Boxing day sales induce mass hysteria all over London and many families will abandon their Christmas dinners early to rather spend the night in a tent outside Selfridges. I’m still baffled as to how anyone could want a half price sofa that badly but apparently lots of people do.

Queuing for the new i-phone 4

Some are soul-destroying, such as: Public Transport turns Normal People into Bad People. Myself included. Being herded onto the tube in rush hour and having to stand in a position most contortionists would find difficult with a strangers armpit 5cm above your face for about half an hour seems to bring out the worst in people. Funny that. No one speaks unless we’re ‘politely’  asking someone to “please move down” (whilst in our heads we’re thinking “move your fat ass out the way lady!”). Even when the trains are a minute behind each other we become consumed with a desire to ram into the back of people already on the train so our heads get mashed between the closing doors. Just so we can get to work about 45 seconds earlier.

And some defy the laws of nature, such as: Drunk Teenage Girls do not Feel Cold. I’ve seen this one so many times but am still in awe of these creatures. You can spot them lurching down Charing Cross Rd at around 2am on a Saturday morning, their shoes in one hand and a bottle of WKD in the other. They’ll either be singing, screeching at passing men or throwing up in the bus stop.

Looking good

Even in February when the temperature is below zero and arctic winds howl through the streets they’ll be wearing little more than a tea-towel and a tampon. These girls are immune to the icy conditions and seem to be virtually indestructible.

These are what make London one of the world’s great capital cities. Oh how I will miss them.

Not yet at home in Beaune

Mr Papin doesn’t seem to like me. I’m not sure why. Each time he trundles out the driveway in his little red van I wave and smile at him, but in return all I get is a blank stare. He lives in the house next door to the place I might call home this summer. My New Home is on the slopes of the Cote de Beaune in Burgundy and has views of some of the world’s most famous vineyards; although I doubt I’ll ever be able to afford the bottles of Pommard and Montrachet that are produced on my future doorstep. I’m going to have to chip away at Mr Papin’s frosty exterior with a large ice pick if I’m ever going to win his affections.  I am determined though and have visions of us one day chuckling over a glass of wine, reminiscing about the days when he was not bowled over by my winning personality.

My New Home

I spent last week with JD in my New Home and saw the New Year in there.  Living in Burgundy with your lover, learning French and eating foie gras for breakfast may sound idyllic, but as I learnt last week, the reality of the situation can be far less romantic. Rural France is rural and my New Home is a 400 year old stone cottage with no heating, dodgy electrics and the most difficult toilet in France to flush. Can I also just say that the novelty of building a log-fire every night wears off pretty quickly when it’s permanently cold and damp; outside and inside the house. In my short time  in Burgundy I managed to collect a few nuggets of information which will be invaluable in my attempt to adapt to a new life there:

• Grand Cru Montrachet vineyards make good emergency lavatory facilities - be sure the spot you choose cannot been seen by passing cars though.
• Not all towns in Burgundy have quaint cobbled streets with charming shops and bistros. Some are filled with people that all look inbred, chintzy shops selling cheap clothes and rococo inspired cafes serving stodgy crepes. Note: avoid Lons le Saunier.
• You will never, EVER know all there is to know about wine.
• Most Burgundians have cute dogs. Some of them are called Robin and like ‘gin tonique’.
• The hot chocolate in Beaune has ‘incroyable personalitie’.
• There really are men in France who walk through the streets wearing a beret with an armfull of baguettes shouting “Je t’aime mon cherie!”.
• Laptops dont like having Grand Marnier spilled on them.
• Boules is best played in a large pair of Wellington boots with a glass of cider in your free hand.
• You have to drive like an asshole if you want to get anywhere.

The reasons for change

A change in search of happiness. A change to realise my goals. A change because I am brave. A change to escape repression. A change for the thrill of the new. A change because the wind makes me restless. A change for all that is good. A change in the name of love and wine. A change to meet my expectations. A change beacause I get bored easily. A change to ease my longing for change. A change to cure my trepidation. A change  to keep myself young. A change because my feet are itchy. A change for the sake of my heart. A change because life is short. A change for all the right reasons. A change for all the wrong reasons. A change because I seek adventure. A change because I love cheese.  A change so I can walk the long road home. A change because the light is fading. A change to make my candle burn brighter. A change because I am a soldier. A change because the avalanche inside me is imminent. A change because love will tear us apart again. A change to make me stronger. A change because I’m claustrophobic. A change because I hear footsteps in my mind. A change because I want to be better. A change to sate my appetite. A change so one day I’ll look back and smile. A change because I see it in his eyes. A change to mend the broken pieces of my life. A change because ‘what-ifs’ poison the mind. A change to learn the language of love. A change so I can look up and see the stars. A change to release all those words. A change in order to grow. A change because I can. A change because the time is now. A change to complete the transformation. A change because change is inevitable.

Those Swedish bastards

So I went to this bastard restaurant with my bastard lover. We have a long weekend together in Copenhagen and southern Sweden and had spent most of our time being abused by Scandinavian weather fronts. We drive through gale force winds and torrential rain to get to the ferry port so we can cross over from Denmark to Sweden. Before we set off we can’t decide whether to take the ferry to Helsingborg, which sounds like a place where they drink each others blood, or drive over the bridge to Malmo.  Maureen, the wretched voice in the GPS, refuses to acknowledge the bridge even exists, forcing us to drive up north and get the ferry. We arrive at the port unscathed but a bit rattled after some hair-raising moments on the road (lots of verbal abuse hurled at Maureen).

As soon as I catch a glimpse of the sea I know we are going to die. The water is black, frothy and churning like a giant washing machine. The Helsingborg Sea of Death. We queue for about ten minutes before driving onto the ferry and line up neatly with the other cars. Death is imminent. The ferry pulls out and JD cheerfully suggests we go upstairs to the shop. The enormous ferry has a supermarket and cafe on board but I’m not keen on doing any shopping or eating at this point. Despite its size, the ferry is rolling and dipping about in the Sea of Death like a dinghy. Everyone is lurching and crab-walking and the supermarket seems to be full of drunk people trying to do some shopping. I’m clinging to a rail outside the toilets peering through the window at the disappearing land and trying hard not to throw up.  Mercifully, the crossing only takes twenty minutes and the ferry driver successfully navigates his way across The Sea of Death. Its a relief to feel solid ground under the tyres even though we’re still being battered by howling winds. We discover later that the bridge to Malmo was closed because the winds were so strong that small cars were flipping over. Now I feel bad that we shouted at Maureen.  After a night of incessant howling winds and freezing temperatures in a hotel room that over looks a building site, we wake up to a calm and sunny Sunday morning.  We bundle into the car after breakfast and I programme ‘Master Johansgatan, Malmo’ into Maureen. We arrive at The Bastard an hour later. There are pigs everywhere; pictures of pigs, porcelain pigs in the toilets, pigs heads on the walls, and a sign of a pig with a fork in it hanging above the front door.

Outside The Bastard

All the staff look as though they’re from a Levis advert and either have radical hair or are covered in tattoos. Our waiter is from the first group and has a fantastic peroxided quiff.

Inside The Bastard

There is no menu, just a set six-course lunch which turns out to be one of the best meals I’ve ever had. We are brought cured pork and salami with pickles and home-made bread, soft-boiled eggs with caviar, kohlrabi, radish and watercress salad, lamb frikadeller with bean stew, roast chicken with aioli and seasonal vegetables, and finally a passion fruit and lemon curd eton mess. This lunch seems like a worthy end to our treacherous journey  and I really hope to return for more ‘bastardurous’ food in the summer. These Swedish bastards really know how to cook.

The Bastard chef

Am I a grown-up now?

I recently made the transition from my twenties to my thirties. My dirty thirties apparently. As I mentioned before, I was daunted by this prospect. However now that I’m officially a thirty year old woman (and I suddenly feel comfortable referring to myself as a woman) I’m starting to understand what all my friends, who’ve already reached this milestone, are talking about. Something shifts in your thinking once you turn thirty. Things that used to bother you, don’t anymore.  You start to care less about what other people think. A new confidence emerges. You have a clearer vision of where you are going and where you want to be.  You become a lot more comfortable in your thirty year old skin.

I remember how shy I used to be. How unsure of my self I was. Always avoiding eye contact, staring at the ground when I walked, constantly worrying and wondering what people thought of me, turning my phone on silent in case it rang while I was on the train so I would be spared the embarrassment of having a conversation in front of other people.  It used to happen on an almost weekly basis that a stranger would walk past me in the street and say “give us a smile” or “cheer up love”. But in reaching thirty I seem to have graduated to the next level of cat-calling and now the construction men/BT engineers/random chavs flatter me with comments such as “hey sexy” or ” excellent lady”. This is progress indeed.

And now I’m doing all the grown up things that grown-up people do without a second thought; I can stand up for myself, question people, query things on a bill, disagree with people, make my point, I’m better at arguing (not sure if that is progress?) and I have even started wearing make up and painting my nails. Check me out. I also love that I don’t take myself so seriously anymore. Life is way too short. So it seems that the answer to my question is ‘Yes’ – I really am a grown-up now. A round of applause if you please.

Remember, remember the fifth of November

I should have been born on Guy Fawkes, but I decided to stay in for a bit longer. As usual I was in no rush. A week later the doctors pulled me out with salad spoons leavings bruises on my cheeks. This is why I have such rosy cheeks.  Well, this is my theory at least. Perhaps, because I was due on Guy Fawkes and born shortly, after I developed pyromaniacal tendencies.  This is a pretty rubbish theory I realise, but nonetheless it’s a theory. Bonfires, candles, fireworks, barbeque’s, matches, fireplaces, lighters, you name it – they all hold a kind of magical allure for me. If it burns or explodes I want to be the one that’s making it burn or explode. I can’t explain it, but lighting fireworks or throwing logs on a bonfire fills me with glee. The term ‘pyromania’ comes from the Greek word ‘pyr’ meaning fire. Us pyromaniacs aren’t like arsonists who start fires with the intention of inflicting harm, we start fires to induce euphoria.

Blowing up snails used to be a favourite pastime of mine when I was about 11. My best friend and I would collect snails in her garden and then position ourselves behind her front wall which over-looked a busy road. We would jam a tom-thumb (one of those little green or red fire-crackers) into the snails shell, light the fuse, and then hurl the poor creature at passing cars. We shrieked with delight at every exploding snail. Once I managed to throw one of these snail bombs right through an open car window and the snail exploded inside the car. Bang! The unsuspecting woman screamed and nearly swerved off the road when the flying snail blew up in her face and splattered all over steering wheel. Not the most intelligent way to spend an afternoon and I’d have probably been arrested if she had actually crashed, but it was so much fun.

I indulge myself in slightly less dangerous activities these days. Fireworks must be one of the pinnacles of human achievements; I cannot fathom how they make some powder in a cardboard tube launch into the sky and explode in all these different colours, shapes and sizes and the bigger and louder they are, the happier they make me. But as much as I like watching a firework display, what I love the most is letting them off. Lighting the piece of string that sticks out the end, watching the spark snake up the fuse, waiting until the very last second before running away screaming, and then looking up to see the sky light up with colours. Whoosh. Bang! Kerpow! Aahh… Sometimes I’m so easily pleased.