72 sleeps

I tried to call my youngest brother last night. I have a calling card number for Canadian calls, so I call the toll free number, follow the prompts, enter the numbers and BAM! I'm connected.

Not so last night. I called the toll free number, followed the prompts, entered the numbers and then BAM! I hung (hanged?) in cyberspace for minutes on end. I finally got in touch with a real live operator who, in turn, put me back in the auto-prompt system to let me tele-hang in cyberspace all over again. I gave up at 2 am.

I miss my youngest brother. That's the one who's lazy *ss I threw on a bus to Zimbabwe.... I jest...I jest...

Seriously, he was with me in RSA, staying with J and I, doing a weekend river trip here and there and spending the rest of time in front of the tv and living like (as my mother would say) he was the King of Riley.

The problem was that, aside from the occasional weekend river trip, he was living his life as he would in Canada. And that's not why we are in RSA. So, I told him that he should go hang in Zimbabwe for a while. Live a little, you know? Kayak the Zambezi, paddle the Okavango, ride an elephant, take in the Namib, hitchhike the Caprivi strip. That kind of thing. So we set a date - we gave Big E two weeks to sort himself out (pack, deal with mind numbing tooth ache, convince dentist to let him take his Xrays, sort out bus [ha!] ticket, etc).

Two weeks hence, I had Big E, his bag, his kayak, his paddle, his guiding gear and his first aid kit at the Cape Town Bus Station. His InterCape awaited. He got on. I waved. He looked at me.

And that's when I saw it - that look. I am absolutely positive I had that look when I hitchhiked the first time, or shot a rapid for the first time, or got lost in rural Japan by myself, or had my stuff stolen, or packed the Bullet on that day.... I actually have a few I can choose from, but I digress.

It's the look of abject fear. It's when you realize all your planning, all your talk, all your dreams, all your hopes and all your fears are sitting with you, like a monkey on your shoulders, as you travel into a seriously foreign situation all by yourself. And there is no backing down and no way but forward.

Well, off Big E went - to Zim via Namibia on a bus. I put him in charge of one thing to do by himself without me supervising - make sure you have cash for when you get there. Not hard, right? I did ask him before he got on the bus. He - snarkily - informed me that the backpackers had informed him that there was an ATM machine there.

Ok.

I didn't hear from him for four days. Then six. Then eight. Finally I caved and started tracking him down. I starting calling backpackers in Livingstone. Finally, I got hold of one, who laughed when I asked and said "Oh, Big E?!! He's at Jolly Boys."

A backpacker named Jolly Boys? How dodge.

I finally got in touch with Big E, who informed me of the following:

1. There were no ATMs that took his Canadian Bank of Montreal debit card on the way to Zimbabwe.
2. He had neither food nor water.
3. There is a USD 25 visa fee to enter Zimbabwe.
4. The bus patrons had a mini fundraiser to raise the funds so that Big E could obtain his visa.
5. A kind older woman provided him with both food and water.
6. The ATM machine in Livingstone only accepted foreign credit card cash advances.
7. He had no money to pay for the backpacker where he had booked himself.
8. They sent him to Jolly Boys, a camping backpackers down the road.
9. Jolly Boys was letting him stay on the campsite and eat one portuguese roll in the morning and a hot meal at night in exchange for him doing the maid duties.
10. He was fine, he didn't need my help, he didn't need any money, and I could f*ck right off.

You see?! ADVENTURE. That's what it's about! What an awesome story to tell.. He stayed there for six months doing the catch-the-pig thing and finally hitched down (good boy!) through the Kalahari to the Felix base camp on the Orange. Unfortunately he picked up malaria along the way but when he recovered he ended up guiding for another eight months. ADVENTURE.

(PS - for the record, and to prove I am not an absolute devil, I had my dad wire him some money to tide him over for a couple of weeks.)

73 sleeps

I have seriously neglected the blog this month. I see we are at month's end and this is only my fifth blog. I'll be better in February, I promise!

I suppose it's a good sign for the Company that I haven't had a chance to blog much... they've got a lot of new stuff on the go, which means that I have a lot of stuff to review. Good for them.

Otherwise, hmmm... what's news?

Ok, here we go...

The top five moments of January 2009!

5. Arguing with a tarot card reader over the correct definitional interpretation of the word "home". And winning.

4. Intense debates with theGreek and Domtastic over which superpower would be best to have, not including the obvious answer "all".

3. Moving to the new DP. It was sad to leave the old place, but onward and upward! I love muay thai so much, I'd probably enjoy training in an underground parking lot though :)

2. Finding 5 books in my collection that I could pass on to worthy readers.

1. The Queen's Hen Party on Saturday night. I always love an excuse to wear feather boas and glitter and dance until obscene hours of the morning with a great bunch of friends.

And... WTF? 73 sleeps? I've realised, since making The Decision and starting this blog, how quickly time flies.

I first started noticing it with my nephews. One minute I'm like: Oh wow! My sis-in-law is pregnant! That's kinda cool for her. The next it's like: My nephew is fluent in french and starting kindergarten?! Wasn't he still in the womb just yesterday? And now there's another one too? Sheesh, I'm still - still - living my life like a 22 year old college student (I AM still studying, in my defense) and one of my brothers goes and gets kids and stuff. Bloody hell.

But now, counting down sleeps is effin hectic. I'm going to blink and it'll be four sleeps and I'll be apoplectic about leaving and confused and sweating and wild eyed and thinking. I think a lot. Sometimes I think myself awake, which is a total pain in the *ss, cuz if you wake up thinking, there is no way you are falling back asleep anytime soon.

84 sleeps

A moment with my housemate, theGreek

[Friday; 2pm; I am reviewing Agreements in one of the offices; theGreek comes in and sits down]

TheGreek: If your friend won the lottery and gave you USD 100 000, what kind of account would you put it in?
T-Lo: Did this actually happen?
TheGreek: No. But what if - what would you do? Would you open an account in London?
T-Lo: Mmmm... probably not. The tax rate is too high there.
TheGreek: They would tax me on it?
T-Lo: Of course. In fact, if you accept it in SA, you would have to pay a 'gift tax' on it.
TheGreek: Really?
T-Lo: Yes - and it's something ridiculous like 50%.
TheGreek: [swears repeatedly] So not London and not SA. Then where?
T-Lo: Somewhere like Mauritius. It's a tax haven and there's a double taxation agreement between SA and Mauritius.
TheGreek: Cool. Do you think I would have to go to Mauritius to open the account?
T-Lo: Probably not. I'm sure Standard Bank has on 'off shore' branch there. You could go to any Standard branch and get it opened I presume.
[aside: I, personally, would go to Mauritius and open that account. I've got a pretend USD 100 000 at my disposal, so why not splurge? And, whilst there, dive for a week and eat seafood until I fall over. But that's just me.]
TheGreek: Cool. So, once you get the money into the account, how do you get it out again?
T-Lo: What do you mean?
TheGreek: Well, I'll obviously want to spend the money. So how do I get it out?
T-Lo: Are you asking me how to get your pretend USD 100 000 out of your fictional off shore bank account?
TheGreek: Yes.
T-Lo: Well, it's a bank account. Surely they would offer you a bank card with your bank account. Or you could set up an automatic direct debit from your offshore account to your RSA account on a monthly basis for additional income.
TheGreek: Will they tax me on it?
T-Lo: Of course! It's income!
TheGreek: [swears repeatedly]
T-Lo: You'll be taxed at the appropriate tax bracket rate relative to your total income.
TheGreek: That's not so bad. Thanks!

And he was off.

Personally, I wouldn't withdraw any of my pretend USD 100 000 from my fictional offshore
account. Why not put it in a fictitious aggressive investment portfolio? That way, the pretend USD 100 000 stands a good chance of growing exponentially over the next few years and, when it is finally at a sizeable chunk, you can then set up a fake trust and withdraw small amounts from the not-real total in order to provide additional income to your salary stream. But that's just me.

89 sleeps

I watched about 12 minutes of an episode of that nonsense "The Hills" yesterday. That's about 12 minutes too many. Two minutes in, my retinas started vomiting from the site of these characters and my eardrums were screaming at the dialogue: Stop it! Stop it please!

What is up with that programme? Whose 'reality' does it purport to represent? Are those people supposed to represent the average North American citizen? If so, please count me out - I want nothing to do with it. I sat through a section of the show where Twat # 1 (peroxided siliconed collagened blonde chickie) and Twat # 2 (peroxided weird bearded general douche bag guy) get married in a 'secret' wedding in Mexico.

Problems:
1. If it's a secret, why are there cameras there?
2. Why is there absolutely no chemistry - friendship, sexual, otherwise - between these two twats?
3. Are they capable verbalising words with more than two syllables?
4. Is this the average vacation that the average 20-something (I presume) takes in North America?
5. Why do they speak so negatively about everyone but themselves?

WTF is up with this show?! Seriously?! Ok - this is 'reality' television. Now, I'm not much of a TV fan, but I presume reality television is supposed to represent some sort of reality, or I presume it's meant to show viewers a realistic slice of a life that they themselves could live. Right? So, according to this show, all I need to do to achieve everlasting happiness is:
1. peroxide my hair
2. stick stuff in my lips
3. get bigger boobs
4. exhibit little to no knowledge about the world around me
5. speak badly about everyone around me, except my 'boyfriend'
6. marry said 'boyfriend' in an intimate private ceremony attended only by him and I and 20 television cameras.

WTF?!?!!!?

Grade: F
Rage gauge: 246 points

91 sleeps

What a glorious weekend! Canadians, sit back in your goose down waterproof windproof ice resistant snow suits, wrap that scarf tight, pull the beanie down a bit more and read on…

It was a proper Cape Town summer weekend.

On Saturday I went rose-picking with Mrs SS at the Chart Farm. Fellow Canadians (and uneducated South Africans, if you dare admit this) who don’t know the Chart Farm: you can pick apples, cherries and peaches when they are in season and you can also pick fresh roses from their rose garden. I picked a huge bunch of white and golden yellow roses (Johannesburg Sun) to match the lilies I picked up earlier in the week. Between the lilies and the roses and the gardenias, our lounge is a flower paradise! Quite literally, you walk through the front door and you get hit – hit! – with the aroma of fresh flowers. It's rather divine and, as theGreek would say, chickified.

Saturday night was braai (aka barbeque) night with some friends in Sea Point. Fellow Canadians, this is the South African tradition of gathering with mates in the out-of-doors at someone’s house in the late afternoon and taking in a spectacular sunset over a quiet drink. Then, you consume vast quantities of meat (lamb, chicken, rump steak and the ever present boerwors sausage featured) with a leaf or two of lettuce. After the meat induced shock subsides, you listen to some chilled music, have a glass of wine, enjoy the moon and the stars, then go home. Delish.

Finally, Sunday rolled around in spectacular fashion. Cloudless. That’s kind of rare. Windless. That’s so totally rare that I almost fell off my balcony in surprise. HotHotHot. Like me.

There is only one thing to do in that situation – HIT THE BEACH. And so we did. Jools (henceforth known as FantaPants, courtesy of Mr Starke), Mr DW, the Crazy Scot and I spent the afternoon at Llandudno. I love Llandudno. I have fond memories of that beach, especially from the late 1990s, and always enjoy my time there. We debated Clifton and Camps Bay, but both were so packed that you could run from end to end of each and be in the shade the entire time. Umbrellas umbrellas umbrellas absolutely everywhere…. No joke.

I’m really going to struggle with the weather adjustment. Cape Town has two seasons, really: Hot and Windy and Mildly Chilly and Rainy. If it gets down to about 5 degrees, the entire city is apoplectic. Canada’s four seasons run to the opposite extreme: Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter and Construction. I don’t think I’ll go outside for the first year I’m back. As my mother succinctly put it - she's enjoying the weather now. It's - 14 degrees, which is balmy compared to - 40 degrees. *shudders*

98 sleeps

(A point in limine for my mom: don’t freak out when you read this; all’s well that ends well)

Santa sucked this year.

I went to the family SS for Xmas, which was great. We had the standard present-and-turkey day; the food was a delicious traditional hot lunch. ‘Twas all lovely. I woke up the next day with a horrific pain in my stomach. What is this?, thought I. Did Mrs SS go a little too ballistic on the spices for the turkey stuffing? Was I getting flu? Was it a latent injury arising from the last time I trained? (PAH! Pfft! That’s funny even as I write it… one must actually train hard for an injury to arise.) I went to the emergency doctor (after I went to the bookstore and purchased myself three – three – more books). He did his cursory examination on the table by tap-tapping on my stomach. Flu? No. Torn muscles? Hell no. The doctor said that my symptoms were consistent with someone who had either an inflammatory pelvis or ovarian cancer.

[sound of needle scratching on record]

Or what? What? Can you repeat that please? What? How the f*ck can this happen to me?

Ok, we can deal with this. We can deal.

I went back to the flat and locked myself in. This was on the Friday. I was booked in for the sonogram on the Monday. I made a big pot of herbal tea (shameless plug: Cape Town Nights Black Tea blend from the Tea Emporium in Cavendish) and hopped into a hot bath (shameless plug: with mint and eucalyptus bath salts from Rain in Waterfront). Then I drank my tea and sat in the tub until it was cold. Then I re-ran the bath and got back in. And did the same thing over again. I think that’s what emotional shock does. Wash, rinse, repeat in some sort of Jung-ian return-to-the-womb fashion. I spent three days drinking tea, bathing, watching adventure movies (Pirates; Lord; Indiana), hiding in my flat and sms-ing Mrs Starke, Sister SS, DomTastic and Little Mouse, who were all supportive and provided rational arguments for the whole process (thanks guys!!!).

When Monday finally rolled around, I half-ran, half-crawled to the radiologists. Being petrified by circumstance and difficult by nature, I made the radiologist show-and-tell the entire process. After twenty minutes of examination, they gave me the all clear. OC eliminated as a problem.

Phew!

With that, I hopped into TheNotTheBullet, threw Sister SS in the passenger seat and screamed up to Little Mouse’s spot on the Breede River. We were meant to stay one day; we ended up staying for four. What a fantastic spot! Fishing for kabeljou! My favourite thing! Riding waves in Blaublass! My favourite thing! Reading by the beach! My favourite thing! Braaing with the folks! My favourite thing! Riding in the rubber duck to the Bush Bar! My favourite thing! Carrying the rubber duck across the river at low tide in the dark for a vodka lime! My favourite thing! Laang-araming with the hotel cleaning staff on NYE! My favourite thing! I’m sorry I missed Beaverlac with Mr and Mrs Starke, the Dunbar Whittakers, Heids et al, and I’m sorry I missed out with the Queen and her crew, and my housemate theGreek and his crew, but I had an absolute blast at the Malgalas hotel on New Year. In my mind, you know you are doing New Year’s right when you are barefoot, on a dirt road in the bush, listening to a blend of saakie music, 80s pop, current hits and hip hop and trying to speak three different languages.