Powerful

Another Sunday Scribblings post. I've never felt the desire to be powerful, maybe because I'm a British bloke and we take a certain amount of power for granted; around the world emasculated groups (essentially anyone who is not white, male, christian, middle class, straight and vaguely 'western') on the other hand are more interested in the concept of power, as it is something that they have to struggle with every day in our global society. I remember years ago in South Africa hearing the anti-Apartheid protesters singing 'Amandla', which, apparently doesn't mean 'freedom' interestingly enough, it means 'power'.

So those who don't have power, well I wouldn't necessarily say they 'crave' it, but it would seem to be a nagging itch that could be seen as a panacea; if only I had the power to change my world, what a wonderful world it would be. Well, from one white westerner to, well, whatever form you come in, it doesn't really help. It just means you have more responsibility, more decisions to make and more people to disappoint. It weighs heavily...

Hi, my name is...

Hi, I'm four. This was the first thing that Eric ever said to me. To be fair to him, he was four. I was six I think. It was one of those long hot summers of the seventies. We were doing this amazing trip across the states visiting my mum's friends and we'd got to Liz and Paul's in Minneapolis. He also had a one year old baby sister called Maija. I always remember thinking it was a really cool name, because there was this exotic alien on Space 1999 called Maija. She was only one though, so it was difficult to tell exactly how exotic she was. So in the week or so that we stayed there, my brother and I and Eric became firm friends.

Fast forward to 2004 and Eric is ill. Basically he had a tumour that was slowly eating his face away. All the staff in the hospital loved him because he refused to be a miserable bastard. And he died. It was a week before his 34th birthday. He was obviously not entirely thrilled about dying, but his main concern was for his family and the pain they were going through.

Liz was in a job she loved and suddenly found herself fired with no explanation. This happened just after Eric died. Then Paul was diagnosed with the early stages of Alzheimer's. One has to wonder what the family had done to deserve all this?

And now I find myself in receipt of another message from the States and I hardly dare read it. I know no more details other than Maija has died. 34 years old. I don't know how and it's completely out of the blue.

When I think about Liz and Paul and their family I get so angry that life can be so unfair, and find myself wondering how does anyone cope with so much tragedy? No one should have to bury their child, but how does one reconcile all this? Well it takes time. Grief and loss are healed with time, but one also needs a little introspection to try and step back a little and look at their whole life. I'm sure Eric and Maija are up there now looking down on those who knew them thinking, "Wow, we were loved! But we were alive for 34 years each, why is everyone only focusing on our deaths? Oi! Will you lot stop being so bloody miserable, it's not like all we ever did was die! We did loads of other stuff too you know! Don't forget that! Get a bit of perspective!"

Well, writing that was kind of therapeutic for me and I'm grinning now as I sit here typing. We all die eventually, so we just have to make the best of the time we have; that doesn't mean 24 hour partying, it just means, I dunno, be excellent to each other.

PS. You get extra points for spotting the two film quotes.

Rapid Eye Movement

This is a song by the Rapid Ear Movement chaps. I have the lyrics plugin in my media player and up they popped. Have to say I smiled, so I thought I'd share them with you. First time I'd ever really noticed the lyrics, despite having bought the album in 1988. The song is called Get Up, from the album 'Green'. Anyway, I'm much better now, or at least, I'm much better at the moment. Still, here you go;

Sleep delays my life (get up, get up)
Where does time go? (get up, get up, get up)
I don't know
Sleep, sleep, sleepy head (get up, get up, get up)
Wake it up, up (get up, get up)
You've got all your life (way up ahead) (get up, get up, get up)

Dreams, they complicate my life (dreams, they complement my life)

I've seen you laying pined (get up, get up)
I've seen you laying pined (get up, get up)
Life is rough, rough (get up, get up, get up)
I've seen you laying down (get up)
With the loving kind (get up, get up)
I know life is hard, hard (where goes your time?)
Where to turn? where to turn? (get up, get up)

Dreams, they complicate my life (dreams, they complement my life)

Dreamtime

Dreams, they complicate my life (dreams, they complement my life)
This time, no escape, I wake up (get up, get up)
Get up, get up
Get up
Get up
Get up, get up, get up

Collecting

The idea for the post comes from Sunday Scribblings; (here is an idea, go scribble about it) and my instinctive reaction to the prompt 'collecting' is an awareness that it's a symptom of insecurity and an inability to trust one's own judgement, then I realised that actually, I was confusing 'collecting' with 'hoarding'. I have hoardy tendencies, but I'm getting better; (piles of business correspondence, most of which I probably don't need isn't necessarily a sign of hoarding, perhaps just a sign of not wanting to deal with such a monumentally dull task as sorting through it all).

I guess one difference between hoarding and collecting is that hoarding is a passive activity where one is afraid to throw out stuff 'just in case' one might need or regret it, whereas collecting is a much more active pursuit, almost at the other end of the scale of how comfortable we are with decisions: Collectors know exactly what they want, whilst hoarders don't have a scooby.

So I hoard, a bit, but I do collect. What do I collect? Different answers are expected, depending on one the point of view of the one asking. So...

a) The western answer

I collect coffee cups, because I like good design and good coffee.

b) The sarcastic answer

I collect dust. The only exercise I get is with my mouse hand and typing fingers. I really must get out more.

c) The Mensa answer

I collect archaic English and use it in social situations to make myself appear intelligent.

d) The Buddhist answer

I collect experiences; experiences being instances of emotional note. I think this is my favourite collection. It helps me in life and aids calm decision making.

Obscenity

When you go to the cinema the films are rated - up to 18 here if there is sex or violence or other 'subversive' behaviour, such as drug use or young people enjoying themselves. Let's just deal with the sex and violence.

It's possibly an age thing, but certainly a 'good' age thing, something I notice not because I'm old and miserable, more because I'm older, wiser and understand the world a little better, and this thing is a growing unease with our (society, Australian and US films sensors, and more importantly film makers) treatment of what is obscene and what is harmless fun. So this is pornography and clearly corrupting reasonable adults all over the world. This however, is perfectly ok and won't create and reinforce twisted values in any human being, even the most unstable and psychotically violent. So why is one of these films to be raved over by critics in family newspapers and TV shows, shown as a 'milestone' film of Deep Cultural Significance on TV and worthy of shameless marketing campaigns in full view of children, whilst the other (sex between consenting adults) will quite possibly result in arrests and court cases?

I want to see a world where men in dirty raincoats have to go get their depraved obscene films from dodgy backstreet shops, where other equally seedy men will be shuffling embarassedly through DVD titles such as 'Mission Impossible 2', 'Reservoir Dogs' and '24 Series 6'. There will be different sections depending on your fetish; handguns? Over here sir. Explosions? That'll be in softcore. Headshots? Would that be adults or children being shot in the head sir? Might I recommend this title sir, as there is a particularly satisfying drawn out scream and a beautiful shot of the blood spattering over his family. Oh the look on the children's faces!

Contrast this with the scene in HMV where kids point at the promos for the latest Dirk Diggler movie. "Daddy, when I grow up I want to be like him. He's just so COOL, and he goes round making all those pretty ladies so happy." "They're films for grownups son. Now where's the Disney section?" I wonder if in this case the quality of 'sauce' on offer would go up? Assuming it can hardly go down, once the shame factor is removed and it becomes socially acceptable to understand that, say, people have sex and it's to be celebrated and doesn't necessarily do anyone any harm,,even to the point it might be argued that it does quite the opposite, maybe some more films will come to the shelves alongside the current tiny crop of 'thinking' films with explicit sexual content. Films such as 'Romance', 'In the Realm of the Senses' and 'Y tu Mama Tambien', as opposed to lowest common denominator popcorn that gets churned out currently. There are 'pop' shots and they're really bloody corny, hence popcorn.

Well, we humans are degrading ourselves with the current state of affairs; I really feel quite ashamed. Sorry, this was just something that for some reason got my goat, although I'm not sure why today in particular. It's not something I've really articulated before, so my explanation is somewhat disjointed. What do you think? Am I on to a hiding to nothing?

Holga

I've just bought a Holga camera. Well, I've paid for it at least. It might take a week or so to arrive, and then it'll take me another couple of weeks to find 120mm film, but I'm quite excited. Seeing as my last camera had a 12x zoom, took video, stills and audio and had a billion million mega pixel things (as opposed to ordinary pixels), and this thing has a plastic lens, costs about 50p to make and scratches the film & lets light in I think I'm moving in the right direction. It's all Susannah's fault. Can't remember how I came across her blog, but it's definitely her fault.

Tears

Not the kind of tears that the desperate put in their jeans to look 'fashionable', rather the kind that fall out of our eyes when we're really sad, or really happy for that matter. Or when we're looking for sympathy and chocolate. The kind that Emperor Ming's daughter thought were a sign of humanity's 'weakness'. Well, tears are a sign of our humanity certainly, in that they are a symptom of our emotions, unless you are eating a really hot curry or you're caught in a sandstorm, in which case they're a symptom of your body trying to get crap out of your eyes.

Over the past couple of days I've been finding myself rather teary. I don't feel particularly sad or particularly happy; I think the best word to describe my emotions at the moment would be 'intense'. It seems that however I feel at the moment, I'm living the emotion viscerally and physically, so my body decides to get the tears out to help it cope; watching a footballer score a goal, listening to Bach, seeing a man in tears in a film because he misses his family. All these are giving me surges of emotion which I'm frankly not used to. It's a bit odd, so I'll try not to do it in public.

A Milestone

Or a couple, actually. Be forewarned, this is long and will involve football. Aston Villa to be specific. So how much background should I go into? Villa is a historic club; we were founded in 1874 and one of our directors had an idea to set up a football league, which came into being in 1888, which now comprises the Premiership, and all those below it. We've won loads of stuff, albeit mostly nearer the 19th century than the 21st, but things are changing.

Why is this club important to me? Well my grandad, born in 1911 I think, used to go watch Villa when he was a lad and when I was small he said to me, "So are going to support birmingham city or Aston Villa?" A question that can really have only one answer, "Er, Aston Villa Grandad?" Now that I no longer live in the city, I guess Villa is my last remaining connection, having no friends there any more. The reality is, for people like me, it's not about football, it's about where you're from, it's about roots and it's about identity.

So Villa of late, and I guess since we won the European Cup in 1982, have stagnated. Is that the best word to describe us? I guess in sport if you're not improving, you're going backwards, being overtaken by those who are. We had a chairman, Doug Ellis, who 'loved' Villa, but ran it like a 1970's corner shop crossed with a mediaeval fiefdom. For those of you who haven't worked in a place where every decision has to go through the man (it usually is a man) at the top, the key thing is that good ambitious people don't want to work there, as they have no authority to take any action without approval from the boss. Ellis was proud that he signed and approved every cheque personally, be it signing a player or buying staples. What happens in this kind of place over time is that innovation and ambition is squeezed out, as people either leave or give up, with only the yes men, the corrupt, the unambitious and the incompetent remaining. For any business this is crippling over time, but for a sports organisation, especially a Premiership football club, lack of ambition seeping onto the playing staff is catastrophic. The end result under the Ellis years was a team that regularly gained and lost managers, as each over time became unable to dam the tide of inertia (tide of inertia - I like that) creeping onto the pitch. Why give that extra mile when all those above you have no goal other than existence? We regularly drew matches we should have won, lost those we should have drawn, never beat the 'big' clubs, occasionally had a semi decent cup run and gradually fell behind in our ability to attract good players, for both financial and footballing reasons. After all, why would the best players in the world want to play for Villa, a club going nowhere, no plans to change and no fight to win anything other than season ticket receipts? The Groucho Marx Conundrum - I wouldn't want any player at my club who would want to be there.

Things were coming to a head at the end of the 05/06 season when we barely survived in the Premiership, and not only were the best players not willing to come to us, the good ones that we had inexplicably managed to hitherto keep happy for so long had had enough and wanted to leave. Mr Ellis decided that it was time to sell up, for he was, at 86, the oldest PLC chairman in the country, and the only one who was also CEO. The one thing, the one and only thing I will ever be grateful to him for is holding out and selling to a certain Mr Randy Lerner; apparently even taking less money than other people were offering, as Mr Ellis felt that our Randy had the best interests of the club at heart. And boy, does he. So I guess there is my first milestone. Someone who who has the best interests of the club at heart, the cash to back it up, about $1 billion or so, but most importantly, an understanding that he doesn't have all the answers and a desire to find the best people he possibly could to run the place. My favourite quote from him; "Own is not necessarily a verb. You can't go in and own all day. Hey, what time is it? I think I'll get down to Villa and own for an hour." We now have an excellent, intelligent, forward thinking manager who is constructing a hungry, young, talented English team, a chief exec Richard Fitzgerald who has the experience and drive to make strategic things happen and another by the name of General Charles C Krulak who talks and listens to the fans, shares what he has discussed with the board and communicates back to us. They understand that whilst Mr Lerner technically owns the club, the heartbeat is with the fans.

So, onto the most recent milestone. We beat one of the big clubs. Really, honest. Chelsea to be precise. They were league leaders, and we beat them 2-0. Both goals at the Holte End where the die hard fans have always stood or sat. And in a league where some teams at times have no English players on the pitch, we had a midfield comprised entirely of young, talented, athletic, hungry English lads. And who scored? Two who were not only English, but were from Aston and had been Villa fans all their lives. And one, Zat Knight, on his debut. Only a couple of days previously at the press conference announcing his signing, he was like a little boy saying how it had always been a dream of his to come to Villa, and he and his family were absolutely over the moon. You could tell how excited he was. And then he scored. On his debut. Against Chelsea. At the Holte End. I used to dream of that when I was a kid. That is something money just can't buy. I was in tears of joy for him, and I'm actually getting very emotional now, typing this almost a week later. So what does it mean to me and to the team that we beat one of the 'big four'? It's, well it's a milestone. We turned the corner off the pitch in the Summer of 2006. On Sunday the 2nd of September 2007 the off pitch changes of last season for me finally filtered through onto the pitch. And do you know what? We played well. Not just successfully, but it was a cracking game to watch. What football ought to be about. Running from end to end, last ditch defending, incredible skill and athleticism.

I'm so proud to be a Villa fan.

Edge

It's very easy to fall into the habit of just whinging about whatever's in my mind and washing around in my emotions, as it tends to be self obsessed, but I guess this happens when you go for days on end without speaking to anyone. Maybe I should get myself a basket ball.

So why do I write this? I came up with a concept ages ago of 'emotional memory', the key here is that I don't have one, or at least, it's very weak. What I mean by 'emotional memory' (let's just call it EM) is remembering how I felt about different things, as opposed to facts and figures, languages, things to do and so on. My problem is that I can't remember how I felt in the past, for example why it was important for me to go out and meet people, so I don't do it, then when I do go out, all the memories come flooding back and I kick myself for not going out more. It's usually at this point that I forget what it's like to not want to step outside, to not 'get' what human contact is all about. As I write I realise that although my emotions tend to exist only in the present tense, my mind, my thoughts, my intellect are often racing ahead to worry about some potential future catastrophe, meaning that I find it hard to fully relax and enjoy my 'now'. Aside from being cruelly ironic, I'm sure there's a psychologist somewhere that can explain what's going on.

So, coming back, I write this as a record of my emotional state. Unfortunately because of my poor EM, when I'm feeling good I don't feel the need to write; can't remember why, and when I'm feeling down I don't see the point, or am paralysed with indecision and a failure of courage. Occasionally when I flip the coin and it lands on the edge I actually get something down. Is this where the phrase 'on edge' comes from? So today I am on edge. No, that doesn't feel accurate.

I think I'm just really, really bored.

Dear Diary

My word, yesterday I went out! I went shopping in town, to get stuff I've been meaning to get for ages. So I finally have a new pair of shoes (last pair bought in October), shirt, a couple of books, some fabric and part of my Godson's birthday present. I got home about 8pm, feeling tired. I was in bed by 10 and asleep by half past. A friend phoned up at midday today and woke me up. By 1pm I was feeling tired, so went back to bed and slept until 6. I'm quite good at sleeping. It's now quarter to eight and I'm beginning to flag.

I think I'll be able to get more done this week - my anger shackles seem to be a little looser, so let us see what happens.

Limbo

I'm caught between continuing my routine of sleeping and sleeping, and doing something constructive. Caught, as in stuck, paralysed. And I end up getting stressed and making no decision, which means I sleep. Everyone has their own reaction to stressful thoughts, feelings and situations; some redouble their efforts, some get violent, some turn to drink. I get tired. It's an unconscious reaction. Of course, it's down to me as to how I respond to the tiredness, whether I bat it away, or let it take hold and wash over me, let myself slip into a blissful doze, free of physicality, only limited by my imagination. The most healthy and useful reaction for me naturally, is to fight and come out the other side, get on with my life, but the one time when my moral compass is off, the one time when I make really poor decisions is when I'm tired. And when I wake up (I don't just mean being awake here) I always, without exception, regret having slept so long. Why didn't I just get up? Life would have been so much easier if I'd only got out of bed and say, gone to work, or failing that, called work to say I couldn't make it. But each time I fail to do the thing that is best for me. I'm stuck in a loop.

And I like it.

Courage, Merry

I think that's what's failing me. No courage, or the tiny amount of courage I have feels so brittle that I daren't test it or use it. Every task fills me with fear and anxiety. There are calls I have to make, letters I have to post and bills I have to pay. I have a working phone, envelopes and stamps and the funds to pay the bills, but... I... just... can't. I don't want to. So angry. Why am I still on my own after all this time?

Something from Lawrence Durrell's Justine, about a man who has lost his love:

"As soon as my work was finished I locked myself in my own room and crawled into bed... ...I was afflicted by a gradually increasing numbness, a mental apathy which made me shrink from contact. Once or twice I accompanied him for a walk along the river (he was a botanist) and heard him talk lightly and brilliantly on his own subject. But for my taste the landscape, its flatness, its unresponsiveness to the seasons had gone stale. The sun seemed to have scorched up my appetite for everything - food, company and even speech. I preferred to lie in bed staring at the ceiling and listening to the noises around me."

For me it's not a lost love, but the endless, thankless, soul crushing search that is withering me.

Andorra

Jeez, it's not like they were expected to win, but they could at least try to play football. If I was Andorran I'd be thoroughly ashamed of they way my football team played tonight. All they wanted to do was roll on the floor, wind up England players and frustrate the game. Even when they were losing 2-0 they brought on a defender. Maybe Eriksson is in charge behind the scenes.

Mind the Rat

Did a pointless trip to Wales this weekend. Some would say all trips to Wales are pointless, and I would agree. I guess this trip was doubly pointless then, but more of that later. Have you ever been to the cess pit that is South Wales? If you drive there on the M4 you have the delights of a toll bridge (didn’t bother trying to remember the name) to cross. It’s a nice bridge, just a shame about the destination. Also wryly amusing is that it’s only a toll bridge one way; to leave Wales is free. They are surely missing a trick there; I can’t believe that I actually have to PAY to get into Wales. Surely they’d make more money if it was free to get in, but you had to pay to get out. Wales has an image of being deprived, so what's the first thing that happens on your arrival in the country? “Give me some money.” The toll booths are actually at the far (Welsh) end of the bridge. And they only take cash. And they have no cashpoint, so if you need cash, they stop all the traffic and send you back over the bridge to find a cashpoint, the nearest one being 9 miles away. Breathtaking. Oh, and the first car I saw once over the border had a bumper sticker saying, “I (heart) my rat.” Dear God, please save me from this hellhole.

I went for an ‘International’ conference, with the hope of meeting some international national team members (not sure that makes sense – the people that run the organisation in each country i.e. the national team), in order to talk to them about governance and transparency. It turns out that none of the members there were in any positions of authority at all – they were just a bunch of 18 year olds, albeit 18 year olds from all over Europe. I arrived on Saturday about 6pm, the meal was supposed to start at 8, but eventually got going at 930. You ever been to a ‘formal’ meal? You know the kind; where the chaps dress up in their tuxedos and the ladies wear their best frocks? Whilst I don’t expect a bunch of 18 year olds to be wearing Armani and I would be very surprised if they all possessed dinner suits, but is it unreasonable of me to expect them to make some effort? Since when have jeans been formal? Leather jacket anyone? T-shirt? To be fair, on the whole the girls had made an effort, some of them looking very glamorous, but the guys were just... embarrassing. Some thought that wearing a shirt was enough to be ‘formal’. The more progressive amongst them even ironed theirs. One chap, wearing jeans round his thighs and a grotty leather jacket decided that wearing a trilby would be his nod in the direction of formality. It was quite entertaining seeing him try to keep it at the same jaunty angle all evening.

So, I had a couple of glasses of wine with my meal then went to bed, as there was absolutely no point whatever in wasting any more of my time on this lot. I was in bed by 1130 and up at 9. Then I left. I didn’t make any excuses. Utterly, utterly pointless trip.

I may at some point in the future write something upbeat or amusing but right now I’m kind of bored so you can suffer my rantings.

Moody

I ought to be writing something interesting rather than just whingeing, but well, I’m in the mood for a whinge. Why do people talk bollocks? Why do people say, “I don’t understand; I’m confused dot com” or “I got in last minute dot com”? Perhaps they just want to make sure I don’t invite them to parties.

I’m not sure what to do with my life, professionally at least. Actually, that’s quite reassuring. I only added ‘professionally at least’ to make clear that I’m not contemplating suicide or anything like that, but adding that phrase made me realise that it was just my professional life that I’m unsure about, not my whole life. It’s funny how you get inspiration and insights from the weirdest of places. So, professionally, I’m not sure where to take my life. I’m so bored at my current place, or to be precise, I’m not inspired by my current task list. Spreadsheets about colostomy products can never be that enthralling, but isn’t every job dull? There is a certain altruistic bent to colostomy products; uncool and slightly gross as they are, they make a huge difference in the quality of life for thousands and thousands of people around the globe. It’s nice that I’m helping people, but… well ‘nice’ is the most apt word I can find, and if you have to say ‘nice’ it’s generally better to say nothing. I’d like an exciting job, but am I being unreasonable? Every job is meaningless to us, unless we’re on a labour of love like creating music, or writing a book, or in the case of the aforementioned spreadsheets, one is an ostomate (for such is the term for any one with an ostomy). And an ostomy is somewhat different to an ‘ology’. Don’t confuse the two. You could end up with an unpleasant surprise.

I broke my computer. Or at least, it stopped working. I claim no responsibility for its demise. Salvation is at hand however, as I’ve sent the errant parts back to the supplier and am awaiting their response. The hope is that they will send me replacements, or at the very least tell me how to fix them. It’s quite a pain, especially as I got 2 new games for my birthday (or to be precise 1 for my birthday and one for Christmas – long story) and I’d really like to try them out.

Ever been in one of those moods? You know when people try to cheer you up? Well I’m in one. And people keep trying to cheer me up, buggers. Well I’m not having it. Especially when their idea of cheering me up is to talk about how their central heating doesn’t work. This defiance is good, I can use it. But I’m in one of those moods where… and so it goes on. Humbug.

Flat tyres and a head of Steam

It's Tuesday evening and I still haven't tidied up. My inactivity isn't getting to me just yet, as I have done useful things today, not the least of which was getting two new tyres for the car, one because I had a puncture, and one because there was only 2mm of tread left. Must be all those emergency starts. Been trying to sort my phone out too. I had to give them the exact time and circumstances when it bust. It was like filling in a bloody police report. "So where were you when you noticed that it was broken?" "In the back of a truck" "Was it moving?" "Yes" "And were you sitting on the bed of the truck?" "No, I was sitting on a seat" "What kind of seat was it?" And so it goes on. Can you just please send me a new phone without asking my fucking inside leg measurements? And get this, I get a new phone, just a new phone. Not a new battery or charger. Just the phone. How bloody tedious. And when the guy drops it off tomorrow I have to give him my old fucked one. Can't I have it so I can get all the data off it? No. Aargh. Fucking officious idiots.

One thing that I have sorted out is my media player thingy. Basically I bought a DVD player with a few extras - as well as the DVD tray, it has an SD card slot for photo viewing and most importantly I can hook it up to my PC, so I can listen to all the tunes I have on my hard drive and watch all the films I have on it too. But as is usual with these kind of things, it only works properly intermittently, although I thought I'd sorted it by downloading new software... but now it can't find my PC at all. Grr.

Guess I'm not in the mood to be funny today. There are some interesting looking girls on the dating site, but I'm not in the mood to contact them either. What I'd really like to do is watch My Name is Earl on my media player thing. Bugger.

Where there's pizza there's cake

It's Saturday evening and I've been back since Friday morning. To be honest, I haven't got a whole lot done, other than washing and unpacking. When I say unpacking, I have to make it clear that all I have done is take stuff out of my bags and kind of spread it around a bit. The putting it away part is tricky. It involves making decisions about where things should go. Well, putting stuff somewhere, anywhere is kinda easy, coming up with a reason for it to be in that place is where I come unstuck. So I have a nice sea of travelling crap spread over my bed, bedroom floor, office and other rooms variously hanging, flopped, screwed up, piled and shoved.

Having a dicky foot has given me the perfect excuse for idleness; I can't go shopping, I can't go to the gym and I certainly can't tidy up. I had tried to do some shopping online, but have been screaming at Tesco and Ocado, so bravely gave up and ordered pizza. Now I have ordered pizza before, and I have occasionally received a freebie, maybe an extra topping or some cold garlic bread, but this time I received some cake. Kind of threw me that one. I mean, how did they know about my relationship with cake? It was kind of a cheesecake thing with like toffee stuff and nuts. Very pleasant, but with pizza? Things have changed since I've been away.

Things like me wanting to go to the gym. I actually do want to go, honest. Not because it's January, not because I'm fat and unhealthy and not because I know I just plain ought to. These are incidentals. The reason I want to go is so I can play football. I loved playing football in Malawi (for those reading this sentence in puzzlement, I have to make clear that football is the important bit, not Malawi), in a way that I never thought I would; it's been so long since I got genuinely, heart-pumpingly excited about anything and football did it. I'm not sure what was more surprising, me being excited, or me being actually pretty good. There's a real difference between kicking a ball about and playing a proper match, in a defined position, against moderately good players. I really want to play it again, but seeing as I was completely fucked before I'd jogged from kick off to my forward position, I think I need to get myself a bit of stamina. Hence the trip to the gym. Need to get my foot sorted first though. GP on Monday I fear.

How do I feel about being back? I'm genuinely looking forward to sorting my life out if I'm honest. I'm almost excited. I think impatient would be a much more appropriate word. Gotta go, things to do...

And here we are, at the end of all things...

Or the start of new things. So I'm back. And I did get upgraded, to cattle class plus AND I didn't get woken up. As a matter of fact, I fell asleep an hour or so after take off and woke up about three quarters of an hour before landing. Quite a feat on a twelve hour flight in my unhumble opinion. I'm now feeling unexpectedly refreshed. The difference between regular Zoo class and Zoo class+ is subtle, but marked and makes a HUGE difference to comfort. The seats are just that little bit wider, the leg room just that little bit leggier, all just enough to make you comfortable, certainly compared to the standard 'World Traveller' class, which I shall now rechristen 'Veal Class'

My plan, as you know, was to post drunken ramblings, but half way through the day I was moved into the BA lounge, rather than the 'every other airline' lounge. The BA lounge was really lovely, having reopened two days previously after being burnt down by, incredibly, fire. Unfortunately they had no computers to play with, so I was forced to play with the champagne bottle instead, something I would recommend to anyone contemplating doing any work. So, the afternoon flew by with me making brief reconnaissance trips to the shops, although all I bought was three packs of Haribo Konfekt - a legacy of my days in Germany. You can't get Konfekt over here, and this was the first time I'd seen it outside of Deutschland, so I really had no choice: essentially licorice allsorts, these are less brightly coloured, less squishy and less sweet, the raspberry ones being particularly fuggin ace. What this does mean is you can eat more of them, which I would recommend to anyone suffering from post gastroenteritis sickness, as it appears to have cured me. Fingers crossed.

Having a non-functioning right foot does have its advantages, particularly when travelling by plane or rail. Arriving at any airport (in this case Heathrow at 9 this morning) you have to wait for everyone else to get off first, which surprisingly is a very relaxing way to leave a plane; none of this 'seatbelt race' that everyone seems to indulge in. Children are a great barometer of feelings. They can tell when parents have been arguing, when daddy's had a bad day or when mummy and daddy have just being trying to create a little sister for them. In short, they can tell when something is afoot. You can tell something is up because kids all go quiet, sensing the tension in the air as the plane taxis agonisingly slowly to the terminal, reaching a peak as it slows, then slows... And the seatbelt light is... off! Cue stressed passengers leaping over each other, elbows and expletives flying, to haul bags out of the overhead lockers, the even fouler languge as they discover that their bags have (inevitably in my mind) spilled their contents open, kids screaming, husbands screaming 'Go! Go! Go!' to stunned and bemused spouses, the husbands getting more irate as they fail to convey any sense of urgency whatever to their family. All this I missed out on this morning. Wheelchairs come last in society generally, and on planes specifically.

I then get wheeled through immigration, right to the front of the queue, past the aforementioned husbands arguing with their wives that if they had just gone when ordered, they might be two or even maybe three spaces further ahead in the queue of four hundred. The queue which I have just bypassed, holding my crutches ready to defend myself against thrown passports, sun hats and duty free perfume. Of course, once through immigration you then have to collect your bags (another half hour bottleneck), which is interestingly roughly the same time it takes to get through immigration and down to baggage reclaim. I felt it best not to point this out to the seatbelt racers at this juncture. So, got bags, got wheeled to the train, got bags portered onto the train, portered off at Paddington, buggied around Paddington station, past the queues of commuters (ha!) to a cash point, past the queues of commuters (ha!) to a taxi. Home in half an hour. Bostin.

I just picked up an email from Jacqui who was on the trip and... they've found my camera, in the bottom of one of the lockers, which one I've no idea, but this does mean I have about 10 days and 2GB of pics/vids and best of all audio diaries which I can keep, sort and maybe post. I think the lion orgasm definitely has to go up on youtube at least. Now I'm back I guess I can get on with things; perhaps it's time to make a list. Maybe tomorrow will be when I reflect on how I feel about the experience, but here's a summary: Glad I went, glad I'm back.

The First Rule of Flying

Catch your flight. Having characteristically failed at the first hurdle, due to circumstances beyond my control, namely a hangover, I threw myself at the mercy of BA's ticket people. I mean, I wasn't that late. I think it's perfectly reasonable to turn up at the airport within, say, 30 minutes of your departure time and expect to get on. Apparently not, even though I'd checked in online the day before. Roy, my BA man, tried to get me on, but the hold had been sealed and I was stuck. He apologised and said that the best he could do was put me on tonight's flight, something with which I was extremely happy, as when I was last here there was only one direct flight a week. So, I'm now on tonight's flight, which means that I can climb aboard, crash out and wake up in grimy London. The reality I'm sure will be different, probably involving being woken up to be prodded variously with food, drinks and duty free. "Would you like a drink, Sir?" "Why yes, thank you, that is precisely what I was thinking about IN MY FUCKING SLEEP!"

Anyway, back to the present. This being BA I didn't get charged for the flight home; take note SAA. I think Roy felt sorry for me as he also has manged to get me into the executive lounge, seeing as I'm going to be around all day. He will certainly be mentioned in dispatches. Now what's the chance of me getting an upgrade do you think? On the one occasion before that I've been in an exec lounge I thought to myself, "This is great, free food, free booze, free soft drinks, I could stay here all day." And now I have the chance. So exciting. I'll be posting later on with lots of spelling mistakes and poor punctuation. Probably be a few drunken rants too.

And so, to the past and the reason for my tardiness. Well, the reason is because I didn't leave myself enough time, but I think I'll blame the alcohol if that's alright with you. It being my last (sic) night here, I thought I would visit the Mount Nelson Hotel, as it would be frightfully impolite of me not to. The 'Nellie' is Cape Town's oldest hotel and dates from colonial times when the British army only fought fuzzie wuzzies armed with spears, and has beautiful gardens and grounds. Rooms cost from 600 pounds per night, so whilst staying there wasn't an option for me and my sanity, drinking heavily certainly was. To be fair, I didn't drink heavily, but on arrival I ordered a bottle of South African sparkling wine which was basically Louis Roederer Kristall without the price tag or loss of social credibility. Thirty quid and it was fucking lovely. Can't remember what it was called, but it was damned spiffing sitting there, drinking fizz amongst all this opulence, playing golf on my mobile phone, because I am a social pariah and have no friends. My waitress was dead nice though and kept bringing me snacks as an apology; at one stage I actually had to pour a glass myself as I couldn't find her. Once I'd finished the bottle she suggested a cocktail. Let there be cocktails, I have faith in you, bring me the finest cocktail known to man, the name I need not know. And Lo, there appeared in front of me a... thing. Looked like chocolate ripple ice cream in a glass with straws. And I moved upon the cocktail and fuck me was it good - tasted of chocolate, sweetness and ice cream. I know someone who would catch a flight from London to get her hands on one of those babies. Anyway, once I picked myself up off the floor, I decided to beat a tactical retreat and head home.

And that, your honour, is why I missed my flight.

Feeling Better

This morning, maybe I just needed to get the resentment out, but whatever the reason, I'm not feeling sick. Yet. I discovered what looked to be a roof terrace that I could have been using all this time, but hey ho, I'll check it in more detail when I get back from Cape Point Tonight.

Laters

Just Fucking tired

I'm tired of being ill, I'm tired of feeling sick CONSTANTLY, I'm tired of having cold sweats, I'm tired of crutches, I'm tired of the painful hands that come from crutches, I'm tired of having no energy and I'm just plain tired. I slept from 1130 until 230 last night and then couldn't get any sleep at all. I tried all the usual stuff; listening to audiobooks (Old Man and the Sea - very good), I tried dreaming of being a footballer, I tried thinking up new ways to bring down German bombers without harming the crew, yet capturing them. I tried watchin TV (just fuzz). Nothing seemed to work, until about 830 when I fell asleep for half an hour or so. I do hope this isn't the start of something new.


Last night I met up with Simon and his wife Liz; it was like old times, only better as we're both more grown up and loads of things have happened in both our lives. He'll be over in London some time soon so I'll hook up with him then. We met at the Waterfront Radisson, which isn't in the main waterfront bit, but down the side toward Mouille Point, right on the sea. Crackin' buffet, top champers and laughs all round.


Today was supposed to be my day of action - once up I breakfasted then went to book myself a car for today and tomorrow. By the time it was all sorted out, including the obligatory 'African mix up', it was 230, but I was feeling so sick that I just came home and lay down for a couple of hours. Then turned on the radio and they said that Camps Bay was great for sundowners tonight, so I headed over there in my mean machine at about half five and had sushi and a fruit latte - kind of like a McDonalds milkshake would be if they made it with real fruit and decent ice cream.
I'm still feeling queasy. It's really frustrating as it pervades every thought and feeling. I just wish it would stop soon. I've finished my antibiotics, but am still on the doxycycline for malaria prevention, but if it's still there when I've finished them, I'm going to camp out at the GP's. If I eat, I'm queasy, If I don't eat, I'm queasy, If I drink... etc ad nauseam (great pun I think).


Tomorrow, stomach permitting, I plan on going either to Cape Point or Rondebosch to my old flat, or both. In the meantime, here are some pics of my R300 per night room and the view, for it is, indeed, a room with a view:

Tables

Just a quickie this. I wanted to buy this table:

The price was R900. (Divide by 13 for Sterling). Then I saw that the first 9 was only printed faintly. So R9900. Maybe not then.

Gastro pubs and Gastroenteritis

Well I was feeling a little queasy when I was writing my last post, but everyone feels queasy from time to time so I didn't worry too much about it. Went to the Afro cafe to meet Marlon (for t'was his name), but still feeling queasy told him that I'd probably be going straight home after supper, which I did. No sooner was I back at my room than the gates of hell opened and stayed open all night. (D&V for those in the know). By mid morning on Saturday I was dehydrated and in agony. I eventually managed to find my phone and the number for reception - they came over and called a doctor and ambulance for me.

The doc eventually arrived and gave me two injections, one in each buttock; the first one hurt, but the second one had me screaming for about a minute, right up to the point where I threw up on the bed all over my arm. Kind of annoying as I'd managed to keep everything in the loo all night, even when - you get the idea. I was severely dehydrated so they put me on a drip and carted me back off to the Christiaan Barnard Memorial hospital, where I stayed over night. Lovely view of Lion's Head, but to be honest I couldn't really have cared less. It was quite entertaining actually getting me IN to the ambulance as my place is on about a forty degree slope and I couldn't walk, even if I wasn't completely dehydrated. The injections worked though - no more pain and no more sickness.

So, I spent Friday night in agony, Saturday night in hospital and Sunday night in an exhausted heap on my bed - which had been cleaned, but not made. I found out this morning that they were going to move me to a nicer room, hence the lack of bed making, but that can wait until tonight. The doc came by this morning again and gave me some painkillers for my foot and a nice bill for the insurance company. I'm sure I'm going to get a black mark after this - a stolen camera, missing airline tickets, a nearly broken foot and an admission for gastroenteritis.

Well, I'm up and about again, the foot is getting better and I should be back on solids sometime before Easter. Oh yeah, and if you read this, please do leave a comment as I can't tell if I'm talking to just to myself, or to others as well.

Old friends, new friends and pictures

This'll be a quick post, I think, as I'm meeting up with a guy I met last night who lives here; he's going to show me round a bit and introduce me to his friends. This may or may not be a good thing, but I have to try. Yeaterday I wandered into town and had a look at my old office on Long Street, which is conveniently where it all 'happens' - where we're going tonight. I wound up in a really nice cafe called Afro which had really friendly staff who looked after me all night. I talked to the owner Marinda who was telling me about the pros and cons of working and living here.

Earlier on in the day I'd wandered into an estate agent's and chatted to Veronica who's going to show me a couple of places tomorrow. I'd like to live and work here, but I don't know how feasible it is, but somewhere to live is part of the equation, so I'll go and have a looksee.

I slept in today as I had rather a lot of beer last night, but all is well. I had lunch at a Thai place just over the road from my pad (white building on the right). Nice, but for Cape Town, very expensive. It cost me nearly eight pounds for Pad Thai and a coke.

Finally got hold of Simon who I worked with in 1989 - we're meeting on Monday evening for drinks at the Waterfront. I'm really looking forward to seeing him, finding out what he's been up to and what his take is on living here. The view of the mountain from the waterfront; rubbish isn't it?

There are things afoot at the Circle K

Things have changed in South Africa since I was here last. Obviously Apartheid is gone, but I was curious as to how things would be different. What's most noticeable are the things that I didn't appreciate as unusual when I was here last. TV for instance, in 1989 it was just normal TV as far as I was concerned, pretty unremarkable, but now on SABC1 (BBC1 equivalent) most of the programming is in Xhosa rather than English or Afrikaans and nearly all the presenters are coloured, Indian or black now. The head of South African Airways is a black man. In restaurants the non white people are no longer confined to the kitchen. They are serving, welcoming and most remarkably, eating. All sorts of people are out on the streets. With this new racial tolerance comes other kinds of tolerance. There are now openly gay bars and clubs, whereas before it was something spoken about in hushed tones.

Today the weather has again been spectacular. A little cooler than yesterday with a few little fluffy clouds, but the best bit is the 'tablecloth' of cloud on top of Table Mountain. It's not static either, it continually rolls off the edge and dissipates as it slides down the front of the mountain. I set my alarm for 8 this morning; me? Setting my alarm for 8am when I have nothing planned? What is the world coming to? It's not that I'm so excited to be here I'm like a child on Christmas morning, more that I knew I'd castigate myself if I slept in late. So I put on the radio (on my phone - woo hoo!) and showered & shaved. My foot is getting much better, so I might even be able to do a little walking by the weekend, but I won't push it. I got back to the Tourist Information place too late last night, so I couldn't pick up my crutches which I'd swapped for a wheelchair earlier and I therefore had to go back to the Waterfront today to pick them up: it's a hard life. Obviously I didn't get them straight away, but got another wheelchair and rolled about round the shops for most of the day. It's odd being in a wheelchair. The lazy bastard in me loves that I can get around without getting off my fat arse, and going down slopes is pretty cool. I also like that my upper body gets a little exercise. There are drawbacks though. All those slopes in place of steps are useful, but it's still hard work getting up them and some are so steep! Additionally people tend not to hear you coming or see you out of the corner of their eye, and this, combined with an inability to squeeze past people means that I have to keep asking people to get out of the fucking way. Politely of course. Those who have driven with me on a motorway will have experienced similar. On the whole though people are really friendly and helpful, happy to help me up steep slopes, especially seeing as the wheelchair I had today had completely bare tyres. I never realised that wheelchairs have so much character, just like cars and bikes or, in the case of the one I had yesterday, shopping trolleys. Bloody thing kept veering to the left, which meant I had to push more with my left arm, which is of course the weaker one.

I called a friend (Simon) from my last visit this morning and left a message for him, but he has yet to call back. Guess I'll be hanging out in the bars near my crash pad tonight then. The city beckons...

Of tickets, planes and broken bones

Scroll down to 'Many rivers to cross' and read upwards. Might make a bit more sense to you...

Right then. Still can't walk, this could be serious. Well, I can't put any weight on my right foot at all. This is an issue when you have to cart your luggage around an airport. And when you're hoping to spend 10 days walking/driving at your destination, having a serviceable right foot is a distinct advantage. Putting this aside for one moment, there are more pressing issues as it turns out that I'm supposed to have a paper ticket for my two flights (via Jo'burg to Cape Town). They can see that the tickets have been paid for. They can see that I have paid the departure tax. They can see my whole itinerary, and for good measure I have the original that they sent me. They know I am who I say I am, because they have seen my passport. So what extra information does a paper ticket have, I ask? You need a ticket, they say. But why, I ask? Because you need a paper ticket, they say. This continues for some time. The upshot is I have to buy another ticket, for US$201; I'm just grateful I didn't have to pay in Zim dollars at the official exchange rate, that would have really hurt. I just hope I can claim on my insurance.

All this pain was countered by being plonked in a wheelchair and wheeled past all the queues right onto the plane, where they organised a P.A.U. to be ready for me in Jo'burg. A what? A passenger assistance unit; essentially a truck with an enclosed platform and a lift that carts cripples between plane and terminal. Bloody genius. I ought to hurt my foot more often. Whizzed past more immigration queues to the SAA desk to try and sort out my ticket issue. A very familiar conversation ensued, but I was too darned weary to argue. This time the flight was only 75 quid rather than 100. Curiously, this is less than the original total of 220 that I paid when I booked the flights. Ho hum.

So, I gets to Cape Town and am sitting on the right side of the plane so get a glorious view of the city and Table Mountain as we come in to land. It's 1pm, 27 degrees and not a cloud in the sky. I feel very emotional coming back here, and not a little frustrated that I'm going to have difficulty getting about. Get whizzed past all the queues again and out in to the taxi rank. The taxi takes me to my hotel (after much fucking about I must say - why am I paying for this bloke to drive around lost), who confirm that they have no record of my booking and no space. So, I go walkabout to try and and find somewhere to stay. Oh no I don't, because I can't bloody walk. The lady who runs the place is lovely though; she goes up and down the street trying to find somewhere for me and eventually comes up trumps. Then, just as I'm about to go off, they get a cancellation and I've got myself a nice little crash pad, for half the price of the room I 'booked'. Now that's sorted out I can finally get myself to a hospital to get my foot X-rayed. I was going to go to Groote Schuur, where Christiaan Barnard performed the first heart transplant, but my helpful lady suggests the Christiaan Barnard Memorial hospital which is nearer and a lot less busy. So... one taxi ride and four hours later, it's confirmed that I haven't broken my foot (hard cast and six week recovery), but I've bruised it badly which is merely a crepe bandage and 2 weeks recovery. And some hardcore anti inflammatory drugs. Most importantly though, I get some crutches so I can get about.

When I broke my left knee aged 11 I had wooden crutches that you stick under your arm pits and hold onto, ie, you can spread the load between your armpits and your wrists. These new crutches are them metal ones where you have to take all the weight on your wrists, or more accurately, the palms of you hands and your wrists. I went out to get some food at about nine, but although the restaurant was about 400 yards away, it took me 20 minutes to get there because I was in agony. Clearly the people who design these things have never used them, and as for the people in healthcare who choose them for their patients, make them use them for a day, then we'd see a change I think. I'd like to take one of these crutches and shove one up their arse, which, I must say, would be considerably less painful than actually using one of the fucking things.

Sitting in the restaurant I got really down, as I had thought that whatever the outcome of the x-rays, at least I'd be able to get around on crutches. To spend so long looking for somewhere within walking distance of the centre of town, only to find I can barely hobble ten yards is depressing, made even worse by the steep hill I'm on. Maybe I was just tired and hungry; airline food is not the best for filling you up and I'd risen at 5, so I stuffed in my burger and chips then hailed a cab to take me the 400 yards back home to bed. Maybe things would look better in the morning.

And so they did. Already I can feel the improvement in my foot. If I could get a taxi to the V&A Waterfront shopping centre/attraction/hangout place, maybe they would have wheelchairs for use by crutch victims. And so, here I am, sitting in a web cafe, with a wheelchair at my side, having bought myself a new phone and camera; last time I was here I had no camera and I'm buggered if that's going to happen this time. Just for the record, Cape Town is stunningly beautiful. I keep having to pinch myself when I look about; the weather is fine and I'm just thrilled to be here. If my foot keeps improving then I'll be able to walk, or at least drive, by the end of the week.

Life is good.

Skip to the end...

Well well. It's New Year's in Harare, and what an odd country Zimbabwe is. For the record, Mozambique was uneventful, although at the Malawi/Mozambique border Iain and Hayley had a haggling competition to see who could get the best woodcarving for the least money. Iain got a small rhino for 395 Kwacha (Malawi currency: 250 = one pound Sterling), 2 US dollars and ten cigarettes. Hayley got a nicely carved bowl with a lid for 350 Kwacha. We voted that Hayley won. I then decided to see what I could do, as guys were coming up to the truck selling stuff. I got a carved rhino, twice the size of Iain's for 230 Kwacha. I am clearly a haggling god. Much amusement (and amazement) all round.

Mozambique was uneventful, although whilst we were pitching our tents a couple of the girls found some scorpions. Cue much squealing, swearing and flapping. Very tedious. And it rained all night. Er, that's it.

In keeping with the rule I mentioned last post, the border post into Zimbabwe was... interesting. Normally Kate can collect our passports, go get them stamped, then bring them back to us. And that's it. In Zimbabwe we all have to queue up to get (obviously very large and ornate) visas in our passports, then we HAVE to buy $20 in Zim Dollars and get a receipt. Then we have to cart all our bags off the truck to go with them through customs. And just for good measure, they search the truck too. And then they check to make sure we all have yellow fever vaccination certificates.

For a bit of background on Zimbabwe, have a look here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/country_profiles/1064589.stm

Before getting to the campsite, the cook group had to go shopping. I'd read that the inflation rate was about 1000%, so I was curious as to what we would find. At the official exchange rate US$1 = Zim$250. Looking round the supermarket I realised that all I could afford to buy with my Zim$500 was a few sweets. A can of ham cost twenty pounds, a one litre carton of juice cost 14. How on Earth can people afford to eat? The cook group eventually emerged from the store in a daze sporting 2 loaves of bread and two cans of peaches.

Anyway we got to the campsite, giving our tour leaders the opportunity to go and change some cash on the black market. The rate they got? US$1 = Zim$2200. Nearly ten times the official rate. The government knocked three noughts off the back of the notes in the summer and printed a whole load of new ones. You know that an economy is in trouble when the notes they print have an expiry date. I kid you not. Printed this summer, they run out next summer. Talking to the lady that runs the camp site, it turns out that inflation is nearer 1200%. About 10 years ago a beer would have cost maybe 5 dollars. Now (if we keep those three noughts they dropped from the currency) the same beer costs two million. This is only good news if you have a) a mortgage, b)foreign currency with which to pay it and c) hope for the future. How anyone can get through this without developing mild insanity is beyond me.

On to matters celebratory. We did a kind of secret Santa fancy dress thing where you have to get the outfit for someone else on the truck. What did I get? Go on, guess. I got dressed up as a granny, complete with thick glasses and knitting. Damn I looked good. It was all going really well, right up to the point when I fell off the bar on which I was dancing barefoot (I must stop this dancing on bars thing, it's undignified for one of my age) and landed on the concrete floor. Luckily I put my right heel out to break my fall, which worked, but it may have broken my foot as well. So, an early night I think, seeing as a) I can no longer move unaided and b) I have to get up at 5 to catch my flight.

I've really enjoyed these last three weeks, but I'm so looking forward to Cape Town that any sadness I feel about leaving this marvellous bunch is more than countered by my excitement about going back to the Cape.

Blantyre Belly

(Ignore the posting date, this is from Friday the 29th, then Saturday the 28th)

Had a terrible night's sleep. Slapping mosquitoes from my body all night and I woke up with 23 bites evenly distributed about my body. Additionally, loads of the bed slats were missing, in particular the one under the pillow, which I didn't discover until this morning, so I have a cricked neck and spent most of the night choking/snoring/waking up due to the choking and snoring, but not enough to realise what was going on.

As I'm in tonight's cook group we had to shop from the supermarket for tonight's meal. I was feeling quite rough so I had to get water and find a loo half way through - I'd had little bit of
Blantyre Belly yesterday, but today it hit me really hard. When we got back to camp I couldn't even help cook, so I had to go to bed about 5pm and slept through until 9am. I didn't take my evening antihistamine, so the extra fifteen mosquito bites I picked up in the night were itching like wee bastids they were, but I felt an awful lot better in the belly.

The only reason we were going to Blantyre was to get our Mozambique visas: they take two days to get, but that's longer than we plan to spend in Mozambique - we're just passing through on our way to Zimbabwe. There is a rule (which I made up) about countries. You can judge how insignificant a country is on the world stage by how onerous its entry procedures are, and how ornate and huge its visa stamps are. Needless to say the Mozambique visas are HUGE and they take the aforementioned two days to get, kind of amusing really.

We're going to travel along the Tete corridor through Mozambique, which used to be a route for the weapons trucks, but it's safer now. Hopefully.

Many Rivers to Cross

And most of them have bridges. (Ignore the posting date above, all this was on Thursday the 28th)

We eventually left Kande Beach relatively early, with about a five hour drive to Blantyre ahead of us. Blantyre is the commercial capital of Malawi, Lilongwe being the seat of Government. As Malawi is so poor there are a lot of aid projects going on to boost the infrastructure. The current craze is for upgrading the bridges, so most of them that we crossed were either brand new or were temporary structures alongside a half built new one. We came to one such set of roadworks and stopped - in the back of the truck we can't see out the front and there is no intercom system, so we often don't know what's going on (half the fun). On this occasion the new bridge was still being built, so we were to cross the dry river bed. Jase had stopped to ponder HOW on Earth he was supposed to get the truck across. After a couple of minutes Kate came round the back to tell us to hang on tight - it was going to get a little bumpy. Needless to say, despite a sizeable run up, we got stuck in the soft sand. All on board the truck were laughing as I guess this is the kind of thing you hear about in Africa - for my part I guess it was one of the things to do on my trip; go on safari, get a tan, get food poisoning, get ripped off in a market, buy souvenirs, get stuck crossing a river. All part of the experience as far as I was concerned. So, we disembarked and surveyed the situation. It turns out that there WAS a temporary bridge, but it had been so shoddily put together that it had collapsed. The workers had then built a 'road' across the river bed which consisted of two lines of rocks for vehicles to negotiate. An articulated lorry had gone across and jackknifed on the way out, blocking the road to anything wider than a minibus, so Jase had tried to go around the outside and got stuck. Hey ho, you have to try.

Well, I've learnt from playing Dungeons and Dragons that when you're in a tight spot, look around if you can and see what materials, alternative routes etc are around. To cut a very long story short, we had to use the sandmats from the truck, chop away half the river bank and build a new 'road' from rocks that I found. All with the 'help' of the builders and several locals who'd shown up in their best football shirts to watch the party. Three hours later we were on our way. We'd had to pay US$100 to the guys for their help, which made me absolutely livid. Firstly, we could have probably done it without them. I found the rocks and us passengers formed a human chain to transport them. All our helpers did was dig a bit and shout and argue. Secondly, why should WE have to pay them? I can understand them getting a 'thank you' payment, but why should WE pay it? What about the incompetent person that built the temporary bridge? Why should he not take responsibility? And what about the jackknifed truck? It turned out that it had been there for four DAYS. I guess this sums up how I'm feeling about Africans at the moment - it seems perfectly acceptable to take no responsibility for your own life or actions, no matter how small or large, from sweeping in front of your house, to dropping litter, to providing good food or service, to governing a country. This irresponsibility seems to be all pervasive and I must admit, very dispiriting. Is this the result of European rule, or does it go further back than that? I'm not looking to apportion blame, just to try and find if not a solution, then just a little hope for the future of this continent.

So we eventually arrived at the campsite in Blantyre - buggered if I'm going to pitch a tent in pouring rain in the dark - time for a dorm room upgrade methinks. We're all shattered from the day's exertions so after a couple of beers and food from the bar, it's bed time. No mosquito net; this could be an interesting night's sleep...