The Pick-Up

Arms swinging wildly, she swam. Desperate to escape her thoughts, she pushed off the wall and struck out for the far end. Blurred vision forced her to pause, but she pressed on again and again.

Finally limp, she pulled herself from the pool, only to be met by the young man’s gaze.

“Come here often?”

*???*

And with that our heroine ran screaming for G-Man's place to escape those few 55 words. But hey,

"It's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A!"

Spare Me a Towel

The sun rose warm on another beautiful day in Malawi. I pushed the mosquito net aside from my sleepy cocoon and wandered out to join Brett for coffee on the verandah. Joey heard our muted conversation and hurried over to serve us our breakfast. I felt like royalty as I sipped on my freshly squeezed orange juice served by our attentive minion.  Nothing in life was as sweet as this day and I savoured every moment of it.

My day continued in a tranquil vein, as I headed out to the beach to catch up in my journal. I laid my towel in the shade, aware that the day would get hot soon enough. The hope was for a lazy day of swimming, writing and nothing more strenuous than that. My time in Mwaya Beach was coming to a close and I wanted to soak in every nuance of it.

I laid my handful of possessions down and strode into the gentle waters that lapped at my skin.  I dove into the warm lake and popped up for air, only to strikeout for the distant shore.

Aw, who was I kidding though? After several strong strokes, I paused to tread water and look around. A wisp of wind touched stately palms on shore and I caught sight of the housekeeper wandering over to clean our hut. I rolled onto my back and lazily kicked my feet, as I traced cloud shapes in the Malawian sky. A bird flew overhead gliding towards shore.  Life was perfect in this moment and I wanted it to last forever. My sun-warmed  smile filled the universe and I was at peace.

Eventually my fingers began to pickle though and I made my way back to shore. I laid down on my towel and picked up my pen to capture life around me. I became engrossed in recounting my experiences at school the day before and only looked up when I noticed a man walking by me on the beach. I looked up with a smile in greeting.

“Jambo”, he said.  “Hello”

“Hello,” I replied. “Beautiful day today.”

I noticed the net thrown over his shoulder and asked him if he was going fishing. He looked confused, so I pointed to the stringy bundle on his back.

“No,” he said. “I work at the Matete post office. This is my towel.”

His towel was nothing more than a few threads loosely strung together. He then proceeded to ask me for my towel. While my heart lurched, I had to say no. It was my only towel and a possession that I would continue to have need of for the foreseeable future. While I could afford to go and purchase a new one, I was still on a tight budget.  Comparatively, I was rich in their eyes. Just by my presence there alone. Handing them anything and everything would do little good in the greater scheme of things though. In Mozambique, the widespread aid organizations that handed out alms only helped to create a beggar society. I loathed the thought of the friendly people of Malawi following in those same footsteps.

My visitor took his leave with a smile. He wandered off to enjoy a bath in the lake and I was left to contemplate the economics of wealth in a continent largely unfamiliar with it. Back home, I had clothes and towels aplenty. More than enough to spare and share. I knew that hand-outs took their toll in pride though. I offered my good-will and that was enough for the day. I prayed that the warm heart of Africa could keep its special nature, and perhaps one day be able to proudly have more wealth to share with its people. Today though, it shared what it was able and I was grateful for all that Malawi was.

A Stolen Heart

“Sheets,” I exclaimed. “Look, there is actual sheets on the beds!”

“And mosquito nets too,” I added, fingering the delicate gauze material that hung from the roof of the thatch hut.

“Pretty sweet mate,” Brett nodded as he dropped his back pack onto the matching twin bed on his side of the hut.

A man materialized at the door with the lemonade we had requested.

“Thanks Joey,” I said as he placed the tray on the sturdy wooden table and set the two tall glasses down.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked yet again. We had been here a handful of  minutes, yet Joey had already taken our dinner orders, retrieved pillows for our luxurious looking beds and shown us every courtesy he could. I could tell that our 50 kwacha a night was going to be the best money I had ever spent.  

After double checking that we had everything we needed yet again, Joey bowed, then quietly walked back in the direction of the kitchen. I caught sight of the swish of a colourful sarong disappearing around a corner, then turned back to our room.

“This is going to be awesome,” Brett declared as he bounced on the bed with a laugh. “What should we do first?”

“I need to jump in the lake,” I declared.

The sparkling lake beckoned just a stone’s throw from our hut. Brett stepped onto the porch to give me a minute to change, then we headed down to the beach. Dropping my towel, sunglasses, journal and pen, I ran to the lake’s edge and splashed in to my thighs, before diving head long into the warm waters of Lake Malawi.

I burst through the water’s surface and smiled my face up to the sun. In a pure moment of joy, I kicked out and drifted on my back gazing at the Malawian sky that surrounded me. The sandy beach lay behind me, with its cluster of neat little huts tucked amongst green palm trees. Looking further out into the lake, I saw men in mokoros fishing for the myriad of fish that called this place home. I idly drifted my legs back and forth to gently propel myself along and luxuriated in the moment.

There was no place I had to go. There was nothing pressing that I had to do. I did not even have to worry about what to scrounge up for dinner, as Joey was presenting us with seafood crepes that evening. Later, he would trek across the sandy expanse from the kitchen to our hut, with delightful home-made cuisine on a covered silver platter, but right now there was just me and a serenity that I cherished with all my heart. The warm heart of Africa had stolen mine.

Joey’s Seafood Crepes (for one)

·         2 small eggs

·         ¾  cup flour

·         Pinch of salt

·         ¾  cup  milk

·         1 tsp baking powder

·         1 Tbsp oil

*Beat the eggs until smooth, then add flour and salt stirring

*Add milk and oil until smooth

*cook crepes and set aside

Filling:

·         Cut-up pieces of kampango or chambo (fish)

·         1 clove of Garlic

·         1 cup of milk

·         1 Tbsp of cheese (white sauce)

·         1 ½ Tbsp butter

·         1 medium onion

*Fry fish and set aside(can substitute chicken or meat)

*Cook remaining ingredients, then add fish back in and simmer for 10-15 min

*pour filling onto crepe, wrap it up and serve

Delicious!

Camping comedown

   I have returned to the land of indoor plumbing, air conditioning and daycare (blissful daycare that I dropped my darling babies off to this morning!). I am welcomed home to a mammoth pile of laundry of truly gargantuan proportions. I think I counted 8 potential loads, but there might be more to be squeezed in. It is mind-boggling how much laundry can be accumulated in such a short span of time. I can barely step into my laundry room, with every square inch crowded with smoke-saturated articles. Dirt is ground into towels, jeans, shirts and shorts. Lake Erie sand is sprinkled in everything, but especially coated on bathing suits and beach blankets. Excuse me while I go switch over a load...

    Ahh, despite all the prep work before and clean-up after, I do love camping. Once you have set up your temporary enclave, the biggest task is to learn how to relax. Food and beverage is imbibed freely and regularly. Dishes seem to be never-ending, but somehow do not seem too taxing when done outdoors. We were at the beach every day soaking up the fresh air, sunshine and washing it all down with a hefty dose of swimming and splashing in the nearest Great Lake to our home. With it being the shallowest of the Great Lakes, the water temperature was quite warm. It was refreshing enough to cool you down and wash away the sweat from a hard days work (suntanning?), but not startling enough to turn all the men into eunuchs and women into glass-cutting nipple-wielding  terrors. One day, we enjoyed terrific wave bashing into a torrent of white-crested water, but the subsequent days were more along the lines of peaceful splashing in the rolling waves. Fun for kids and adults alike. 

    All that fresh air and fun was definitely enough to work up an appetite as well. My other favourite thing about camping is the food. Cooking on a Coleman is challenging at times, but nothing beats that morning cup of coffee it produces. The campfire is where the real magic is made though. Steaks seared to perfection were the order of the day on Day 1. Hot dogs just can't be beat over the open flame and where else does the humble marshmallow shine so brightly, as but over the glowing embers of a fire pit. It always amazes me how much I can eat while camping, but it is just all tastes so good! Oh yum. 

    As I change another load of laundry, I can smile at the memories that were created for my children. They thrilled at their beach days, sleeping outdoors in a tent, bush pees (everybody does it, don't they?!) and togetherness with friends and family. While I know I had my grumpy moments, I prefer to forget them and focus on the smiles of my children and laughter of my friends. I shall perhaps share a photo or two in the days that come, but today cleanup is the name of the game. I hope you are enjoying your summer, for those of you in the Northern hemisphere. I certainly am.

Drifting with the swish of the water

   Marjorie and I leaned back into the mokoro we were drifting in. Oscar casually pushed us along with his long pole pushing through the still waters. Occasionally he would stop and point to a distant moving dot on the horizon and whisper “Look impala!” or “Wildebeest”. I was constantly amazed by all of our guides keen vision. They could spot an animal large as an elephant or small as a jackal from seemingly miles away. The words we did not want to hear were the warnings of “Hippo!”, as their dangers had been spelt out to us from Karel on the drive in to our meeting spot with the polers. A hippopotamus caused more deaths to humans than any other animal, due to their massive size and weight. The belief that their weight would slow them down would not save you if you were to get between a hippo on land and its route back to the water. Those stubby little legs could reach speeds of 30 km/hr and leave one trampled to death in its wake. Being in the mokoro was no safer, as they could easily tip the little canoes and leave you vulnerable in the water. Although vegetarian, their large teeth were deadly. Thankfully the grey and pink submarines were spied from a safe enough distance away to satiate our curiosity, but not tempt safety.

   So as the sun shone down upon us, we soaked up the serenity of the Okavengo Delta. I relaxed into the sense of security that I chose to envision. Personally, I needed the peace. We had spent another night over-imbibing on the local brew. The morning had certainly been a rough start. The night previous, we had welcomed Marjory into our travelling group with gusto. Friendships were forming fast, as stories flew around the bar stools. Smiles of anticipation had splayed across everyone’s faces. An abused body and hazy brain were the resulting trauma of the night, but reaching a battered cup into the clear waters of the Okavengo River smoothed even the roughest edges. Now we had nothing to do, but watch the world glide by from the safety of our mokoros. Lunch was the largest issue that we would have to tackle until reaching the campsite.

   As Marjorie and I rounded a bend in the stream, we saw the lead boats pulled up to a shallow area. Tristan and Sassa were stepping out of their mokoro and wading into a sand bar. We had reached our lunch destination. It was one of few spots we had seen that looked solid enough to even stand on, let alone set up table and chairs. Oscar pushed us hard into the shallows and jammed us into the soft bottom of this Botswana super highway. Freedom was ours as Marjorie and I gratefully jumped into the warm waters of the Okavengo. Leaving shoes behind, we waded towards the little group that was forming on the shore. Food hampers, stools and folding tables emerged from the boats that had sped ahead to set up our lunch siesta. As the last of our straggling crew joined us, we all tucked into sandwiches ravenously. The fresh air created appetites apparently unrelated to the activities we had partaken of during our morning paddle. Anon, the food disappeared along with the beverages on offer. After the crumbs were licked off of seeking fingers, we were allotted a measure of free time to splash in the comparatively safe shallows of our nook. Bath time was ours to splash like preschoolers at a water park in glee. And splash we did. The warm water washed away the last of the previous night’s cobwebs and sighs of ecstasy were the loudest roars to be heard in our vicinity.

   Alas, this was not the last stop of the day. After packing up our lunch debris, we stepped back into the mokoros to continue our course. We were headed towards a bit of land in the middle of the swamp. It would be considered home for the next few nights. We would be sleeping in our canvas tents and cooking over a roaring fire. The scorpions that Karel had warned us about had not materialized yet, but were definitely around, he intoned. Bigger threats now though were the animals that surrounded us in the wilds. We had left the security of civilization behind. We were now in their home. Stories of crocodiles and lions were the ghost stories that would fill the late night campfire banter later. The illusion of safety in daylight was our companion as lechwe leaped off in the distance of our sublime climes.

   By mid-afternoon our polers had maneuvered us to the spot of land we would take over for the next few days. Again we poured out of our trusty mokoros, but leisure would not be attained until earned. I re-joined my tent mate Eric to erect our domicile and roll out our beds. Lucky Marjorie got a tent to herself, as she was last to join our band of merry men. I was not heart-broken about sharing a tent with this 1.93m blonde haired, blue eyed man though. Thoughts of home were buried in the far reaches of my mind. I was in Africa and the wilds were embraced. I refused to question what I did or did not do, only pulling back as safety beckoned. The smile that lived on my face was the thrill of adventure being lived in this incredibly exciting time.

   With tents erected and homes laid out to our specifications, we re-emerged to the group. Rocks were gathered for a fire pit. Brush was dragged into the clearing to be hacked away with machetes into sizeable pieces for the fire. Lines were strung for laundry. This work was done by Karel, Masters and some of the polers, but people from our group joined in to help as well. We were paying members of this troupe, but expected to help out as necessary. That meant that we all took turns at helping out with dinner prep. We all washed and put away dishes. We were on this adventure to be exposed to the beauty of Africa and were expected to leave behind nothing to mar its beauty. Everything brought in, must be carried back out again. The only exclusion was when it came time to using the toilet. As we had already been exposed to, there were no water closets in our domain. Karel was adamant about reducing the footprint of our journey. This was as much for our safety as for the enjoyment of the pristine beauty for others. In order not to attract wild animals with our scent, we needed to lesson it. That meant that when we had to relieve ourselves we went to a dedicated spot and took a shovel with, if necessary. Modesty still existed, but handing off the shovel to a squirming face was done with knowing eyes and the mirth of roughing it to the extreme. Having camped in the past, I was not adverse to squatting in the bush, but this proved to break down any last vestiges of reserve that existed between us.

   The busyness of setting up camp slowed as the sun made its way across the horizon. A simple meal was created and we settled in with relish. I took my turn as dish washer, thrilled to be dwelling in the bush, if only for a time. We discussed plans for the following day, then settled in to enjoy a campfire and the stars in a sky unmarred by city lights. The occasional cry of lions in the distance reminded us that we were not alone at our circle of light. Vulnerability lay in the dark beyond the fire’s glow. As our troops slowly melted into weary beds, we went with the knowledge that a small measure of security was afoot. The many polers that had sailed us into the Delta would play babysitter and guard for us as the hours grew long. They had set up a camp a short distance apart from ours, but close enough for comfort’s sake. Insurance aside, it would not look good on the adventure brochures to have a tally of deaths en route. Turns would be taken for someone to guard the perimeter throughout the night, ensuring that safety of all was maintained.