(some names have been omitted to protect the guilty)
Did you blink? You might have missed it. We did. We heard there was music and great TV and delicious food and special shopping nights and office parties, but I think we must have dozed for 10 mins. And it looks like Father Christmas missed MT on his way through, sorry kids.
In some ways it was refreshing not to have the constant pressure to spend, not to have pretend you like your colleagues, mince pies and Brussels sprouts, and not to have to join the mass exodus from everywhere to everywhere else. But in other ways, without it… it just isn’t Christmas.
There was tinsel though (one piece), and Christmas crackers (a complete novelty, not just to Tanzanians but to Canadians and Polish alike), and Christmas pudding (thanks Dad) and Mark had his Christmas shave. In our house we made the day a little different to make it memorable. We didn’t arrange for a monitor lizard to wander through the garden or for an enormous storm at 6.00 which dropped the temperature a few degrees – heaven sent indeed – but both added to our festive cheer.
After a fried breakfast and opening of a couple of pressies we have room to carry out in our luggage, we got in Steve’s taxi to go to the next town – no day off for him. Early on we had decided that, because of our limited cooking equipment, transport options and the hard work it took to procure food as well as get it home and prepare it, the Christmas lunch being put on by a nearby ‘Up market hotel’ was worth spending a bit of cash on. The set up for the meal was nice enough – in the shade of the trees next to the small pool on the hillside so it caught some breeze. We even remembered to bring our cosies for a pre lunch dip, thinking, ohhohhoh, that as we were spending quite a bit of cash having lunch there then they wouldn’t charge us the ‘visitor’ rate for swimming for £2 a person. There were several other wazungus there but not many Tanzanians. Sodas and beers were opened and the seafood starter was a good thing to kick off with.
I had forgotten the mean mosquitoes that they breed at this hotel, but they really got going just after the seafood starter.
Then it just got odd.
Mango soup followed. It was an interesting idea but I’m not sure it worked. It’s fruit. It’s sweet. And it’s a cold soup. But points for imagination and local food sourcing.
Then the main course. Turkey! Yipee! OK, don’t get too excited. For a start did someone tell them that Christmas day was the 24th? Cos I’m sure it was done by then but they had to keep it warm until the 25th. And I think the waitresses could have got more meat off the bird if they had gone at it with a feather duster. Use a sawing action people!! Don’t just poke at it with the end of a blunt knife and smile at the queue of people who are beginning to realise that in yes, in fact they could have done a better job at home for a fraction of the price. I ended up holding the bird still while the waitress tried again at cutting. I suggested a couple of places she could try for some meat (no, that’s bone again) and eventually I got a few morsels. I’m not sure everyone else was as lucky…. And of course, the meat was served with omnipresent rice and stewed vegetables and beans. Enjoy your cold roasties people! Finally we had what I think was a cake… covered in liquidised cake. Not the Christmas pudding that was advertised – maybe that was a blessing in disguise?
But this was Christmas and not even bad food would get us down! After settling our UK-sized bill, we headed down the road to knock back a few Amarulas and share some banter with the other wazungus, a great way to restore the festive feeling.
And finally, what better way to end your Christmas day than by heading to your local Indian with some local big cheeses, who buy you some scrummy food and a few more beers? If it’s not a Christmas tradition where you are then make it one.
Merry Christmas and Happy 2009 to all our readers!
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
Monday, 22 December 2008
Name that fruit!
By way of a Christmas quiz, does anyone know what this is?
We peeled and ate one today from the garden. The inside is a bit like a cocoa fruit, if that's any help (ie lots of pips and a white, pulpy flesh)!
Friday night in Shangani
I wanted to write about the way in which this place feels different to London, but there are so many things, so many ways. Eventually I thought I may as well just describe one thing in a bit of detail. So, this is a typical Friday night:
This Friday just gone, unfortunately, Suze wasn’t at all well, so having spent all day cooking and nursing, I made sure she was OK for an hour or two and went to our local to unwind in the evening. Our local. The connection here is not fast enough for me to upload pictures at the moment so I will have to describe it. It looks like a car park. To be fair, by British standards it would be a fairly poorly maintained car park, in need of the shrubs trimming and the surface could be a lot flatter. And it probably only has room for 3 cars. Still, very few of the locals have cars, and those who do aren’t too precious about them so it’s fine. This was a busy night, with 2 cars there and 2 other tables occupied.
On one side of this car park is a container – a big metal box that would carry freight on a boat or truck. It has been whitewashed, and then someone has set about it with an angle grinder, hence creating a door, and a serving hatch. Inside are a few shelves baring whisky bottles and a local spirit called konyagi, and two large fridge/freezers, both full of beer. The main local beers are:
East Africa’s ubiquitous Tusker. Not very much flavour but hey, anything’s better than Budweiser. And as an old team mate Ed pointed out, actually doesn’t taste too bad warm if the fridge breaks or the power goes down.
Serengeti. Pretty bottle but not to my taste. Too much maize in with the malt.
Kilimanjaro. Now we’re talking. A decent lager of about 4.5% which, unusually for Africa, actually has noticeable hops. Refreshing, and two Kilimanjaro (or “Kili mbili” to a local) is a good default choice for you and a friend.
Ndovu. If you’re lucky they will have a bottle or two of Ndovu tucked away. It means elephant and this one is genuinely good. The label says something about using Czech hops and you can taste them. My favourite by far but you can’t always get it out here in the provinces.
On one shelf they also have some Stella Artois, but it may be just for display as I have never seen anybody drink one. The bar is staffed, on and off, by either of two large local ladies. They don’t speak any English, and they laugh at our primitive Swahili, but they are always smiling and seem friendlier than most of the bar staff around Leicester Square area. When they aren’t looking there’s a rat who comes out and sits on the crates of pepsi, and then scurries away again before they return. And if you’re thinking that sounds a tiny bit like Tom and Jerry, it is.
Beers cost TSH1300, which these days is just over 50p. That’s enough money for a taxi half way to town, 5 or 6 mangoes or about 500g of tomatoes, so not to be sniffed at, but you get a choice of 3-4 local beers and on a warm humid night they’re worth every shilling. It is fantastic. Sitting under a tree in the dusk, sipping ice cold Tusker from a chipped glass, reading a novel or just smiling at the locals and watching the occasional bicycle go past. There’s a sea breeze most evenings which also helps to cool you down at the end of a hot dusty day. There is no music and no bullshit and nobody cares in the slightest what you look like, but there are millipedes in the trees.
From now on, I want all my bars to have millipedes.
This Friday just gone, unfortunately, Suze wasn’t at all well, so having spent all day cooking and nursing, I made sure she was OK for an hour or two and went to our local to unwind in the evening. Our local. The connection here is not fast enough for me to upload pictures at the moment so I will have to describe it. It looks like a car park. To be fair, by British standards it would be a fairly poorly maintained car park, in need of the shrubs trimming and the surface could be a lot flatter. And it probably only has room for 3 cars. Still, very few of the locals have cars, and those who do aren’t too precious about them so it’s fine. This was a busy night, with 2 cars there and 2 other tables occupied.
On one side of this car park is a container – a big metal box that would carry freight on a boat or truck. It has been whitewashed, and then someone has set about it with an angle grinder, hence creating a door, and a serving hatch. Inside are a few shelves baring whisky bottles and a local spirit called konyagi, and two large fridge/freezers, both full of beer. The main local beers are:
East Africa’s ubiquitous Tusker. Not very much flavour but hey, anything’s better than Budweiser. And as an old team mate Ed pointed out, actually doesn’t taste too bad warm if the fridge breaks or the power goes down.
Serengeti. Pretty bottle but not to my taste. Too much maize in with the malt.
Kilimanjaro. Now we’re talking. A decent lager of about 4.5% which, unusually for Africa, actually has noticeable hops. Refreshing, and two Kilimanjaro (or “Kili mbili” to a local) is a good default choice for you and a friend.
Ndovu. If you’re lucky they will have a bottle or two of Ndovu tucked away. It means elephant and this one is genuinely good. The label says something about using Czech hops and you can taste them. My favourite by far but you can’t always get it out here in the provinces.
On one shelf they also have some Stella Artois, but it may be just for display as I have never seen anybody drink one. The bar is staffed, on and off, by either of two large local ladies. They don’t speak any English, and they laugh at our primitive Swahili, but they are always smiling and seem friendlier than most of the bar staff around Leicester Square area. When they aren’t looking there’s a rat who comes out and sits on the crates of pepsi, and then scurries away again before they return. And if you’re thinking that sounds a tiny bit like Tom and Jerry, it is.
Beers cost TSH1300, which these days is just over 50p. That’s enough money for a taxi half way to town, 5 or 6 mangoes or about 500g of tomatoes, so not to be sniffed at, but you get a choice of 3-4 local beers and on a warm humid night they’re worth every shilling. It is fantastic. Sitting under a tree in the dusk, sipping ice cold Tusker from a chipped glass, reading a novel or just smiling at the locals and watching the occasional bicycle go past. There’s a sea breeze most evenings which also helps to cool you down at the end of a hot dusty day. There is no music and no bullshit and nobody cares in the slightest what you look like, but there are millipedes in the trees.
From now on, I want all my bars to have millipedes.
Thursday, 18 December 2008
The Plague
We’ve been in the house a few days now, so I thought it would be a good time to give an update on things.
The house is nice enough. It is huge compared with anything we have ever lived in before, and the bedrooms have some old and noisy but effective air-con. It is very basic in some respects – a hard dusty floor rather than any carpets and the shower is a trickle of unheated water – but it’s impossible to miss the many reminders of how much luxury we have here compared with most people. Luxuries like running water or a fridge are way beyond many of our neighbours, never mind air conditioning (old or noisy or whatever). It is good to get into the house and out of the insulation/illusion of Tanzanian life which we had in the hotels, but at the same time this is when you start to feel the culture shock and it starts to get much harder.
An immediate problem is that everybody wants to be our maid/houseboy/washer-woman etc. I leave in the mornings and people who have been sitting in the garden approach me to offer such things, usually without being able to speak a word of English*. I don’t want to be mean and I suppose eventually we will end up hiring somebody, but (aside from the fact that I am pretty uncomfortable with having “staff” and telling someone to clean my house for me) for the moment it is the only thing I have to do! Currently my daily routine goes something like:
Do some exercise before it gets too hot (i.e. before 0800).
Put some washing into soak (the “washing machine” these days is a large plastic bucket, a tap and me).
Boil some of the tap water.
Go to the market for vegetables/fish. This is done before the midday heat but is still searingly hot; something in the 30’s and humid.
Scrub and rinse the washing. Hang on branches or broomsticks to dry.
Pour the now slightly cooled boiled water into the gravity-fed water filter.
Lunch
Sweep floors.
Fold and tidy washing.
Generally clean the place.
Cook dinner. etc etc
So if I hire someone to sweep the floors and scrub my smalls then I will have absolutely nothing to do except start writing a novel or something.
AND then, on day 5, the plague of winged things arrived.
We had a fair bit of rain, and then these big 4-winged termite things started appearing apparently from nowhere. Now this is obviously fantastic news-
If you are a gecko or frog, as you get to eat like a king. If you are a human it is nightmarish, a kind of Hitchcockian world in which little beasts push under your door or through you netting. They just pushed against the windows or against each other, reminiscent of a miniature "Night of the Living Dead" (forgive me mixing my horror metaphors, as NOTLD was Romero I think, but you get the picture- it was horror). One got through at first, then 3, then dozens, all flinging themselves with suicidal abandon into the lights or into us. They were posessed of a hydra-like quality where the disposal of one seemed to lead to its replacement by two. Eventually there was no option but to go to a bar and have a couple of beers, and hope.
Our wishes came true and by the time we returned there was nothing to see but sloughed wings, dead insects and bloated frogs. Made me think about the way a basic knowledge of the weather and/or biology could have made people seem like wizards or gods in days gone by...
Other early observations:
Nothing which used to be white will ever be white again. White clothes will soon become grey clothes etc.
I need to learn more Kiswahili*.
Next update will hopefully be around Xmas time, so anyone who has been reading, have a merry one. :-)
The house is nice enough. It is huge compared with anything we have ever lived in before, and the bedrooms have some old and noisy but effective air-con. It is very basic in some respects – a hard dusty floor rather than any carpets and the shower is a trickle of unheated water – but it’s impossible to miss the many reminders of how much luxury we have here compared with most people. Luxuries like running water or a fridge are way beyond many of our neighbours, never mind air conditioning (old or noisy or whatever). It is good to get into the house and out of the insulation/illusion of Tanzanian life which we had in the hotels, but at the same time this is when you start to feel the culture shock and it starts to get much harder.
An immediate problem is that everybody wants to be our maid/houseboy/washer-woman etc. I leave in the mornings and people who have been sitting in the garden approach me to offer such things, usually without being able to speak a word of English*. I don’t want to be mean and I suppose eventually we will end up hiring somebody, but (aside from the fact that I am pretty uncomfortable with having “staff” and telling someone to clean my house for me) for the moment it is the only thing I have to do! Currently my daily routine goes something like:
Do some exercise before it gets too hot (i.e. before 0800).
Put some washing into soak (the “washing machine” these days is a large plastic bucket, a tap and me).
Boil some of the tap water.
Go to the market for vegetables/fish. This is done before the midday heat but is still searingly hot; something in the 30’s and humid.
Scrub and rinse the washing. Hang on branches or broomsticks to dry.
Pour the now slightly cooled boiled water into the gravity-fed water filter.
Lunch
Sweep floors.
Fold and tidy washing.
Generally clean the place.
Cook dinner. etc etc
So if I hire someone to sweep the floors and scrub my smalls then I will have absolutely nothing to do except start writing a novel or something.
AND then, on day 5, the plague of winged things arrived.
We had a fair bit of rain, and then these big 4-winged termite things started appearing apparently from nowhere. Now this is obviously fantastic news-
If you are a gecko or frog, as you get to eat like a king. If you are a human it is nightmarish, a kind of Hitchcockian world in which little beasts push under your door or through you netting. They just pushed against the windows or against each other, reminiscent of a miniature "Night of the Living Dead" (forgive me mixing my horror metaphors, as NOTLD was Romero I think, but you get the picture- it was horror). One got through at first, then 3, then dozens, all flinging themselves with suicidal abandon into the lights or into us. They were posessed of a hydra-like quality where the disposal of one seemed to lead to its replacement by two. Eventually there was no option but to go to a bar and have a couple of beers, and hope.
Our wishes came true and by the time we returned there was nothing to see but sloughed wings, dead insects and bloated frogs. Made me think about the way a basic knowledge of the weather and/or biology could have made people seem like wizards or gods in days gone by...
Other early observations:
Nothing which used to be white will ever be white again. White clothes will soon become grey clothes etc.
I need to learn more Kiswahili*.
Next update will hopefully be around Xmas time, so anyone who has been reading, have a merry one. :-)
Saturday, 13 December 2008
IM: Some like it hot
I was feeling pretty pessimistic about the whole triathlon malarkey when I left the UK, and was feeling like I may have to use the opt-out/refund that seems to be available. Swimming was not improving, still, meaning that 400m was a struggle, never mind 4km. This was particularly disappointing as I had some apparently useful lessons from a fantastic moustachioed Turk called Mohammed, who was forever encouraging me to kick harder and make my arms “Floppy floppy floppy,” or “Floppy more, floppymore!” Add to this my doubts regarding the possibility of a Mzungu like me taking any form of aerobic exercise in 30 C heat, and I was starting to wonder if there was any point in resuscitating my dying hopes.
But, here I sit in a Kibanda in Mtwara, admittedly on only my 2nd day here, and things seem a lot more positive. I feel I can move forward with all three disciplines:
Swimming. Suze and I’s first hotel had a pool, only a tiny one but sufficient to do some drills and repeatedly practise being floppy. After 2-3 days of this we went to Bongoyo Island, where there is the opportunity for some unprecedented sea swimming in stunningly clear warm water. I always feel far better in open water, and Bongoyo was no exception. Mtwara will be a lot more difficult to get going, owing to the savage underfoot coral and broken shells, but once into the water it again looks beautiful.
Cycling. My mountain bike got here. I guess the phrase I’d like to use would be “Got here in one piece”, but this would be a wicked lie. I had to unbolt almost everything that gets bolted on, to the point where it was debatable whether there was any merit in paying what I did for a bike box, it was really a large suitcase full of spare parts. Even this took a few metres of duct tape and a few hours of sweating, jiggling and swearing to close. Then I had to work some Jedi mind tricks with two separate airport security people to persuade them that they really didn’t need me to open it again. Still, more or less all of the parts arrived, with only minor scratches. I could only bring very basic tools within my luggage allowance, and found myself wishing I’d paid more attention to that week in Swahili lessons where we learnt to say “I don’t suppose your mechanic has a metric hex-key torque wrench I could borrow?..” Initially I was all on my own in putting it back together, but then a bright blue agamid lizard hung out for a while, subsequently joined my a few of the hotel staff. Having built it up again (in the shade of a palm tree in front of the sea shore) I find only two problems. The back brake is locked on (should be surmountable by disassembling the calliper and forcing the pistons back, but don’t want to rush this and damage anything); and I forgot to pack a pump. This second point is truly, weightily and historically stupid, especially given that nobody in Tanzania seems to use Presta valves. I must thank the Mrs for pointing out that I can buy two local inner tubes with local valves until my remaining spares and tools arrive. Since the friendly hotel maintenance man and I have tried all we can with an industrial air compressor (but no torque wrench), this will have to be the way.
Running. It is possible! We went this morning at 0615 and it is pretty bearable really. By about 0700 is becomes insufferably hot and humid, but I think that longer runs will be do-able if I set out at 0500 and take a bottle of water with me. The most striking thing I learnt was that you must not stop! If you think you are getting sweaty while running, keep in mind that your movement is creating a sort of airflow over your body; try stopping for a minute and unless there is some kind of breeze it just starts to cascade down your face and torso.
But, here I sit in a Kibanda in Mtwara, admittedly on only my 2nd day here, and things seem a lot more positive. I feel I can move forward with all three disciplines:
Swimming. Suze and I’s first hotel had a pool, only a tiny one but sufficient to do some drills and repeatedly practise being floppy. After 2-3 days of this we went to Bongoyo Island, where there is the opportunity for some unprecedented sea swimming in stunningly clear warm water. I always feel far better in open water, and Bongoyo was no exception. Mtwara will be a lot more difficult to get going, owing to the savage underfoot coral and broken shells, but once into the water it again looks beautiful.
Cycling. My mountain bike got here. I guess the phrase I’d like to use would be “Got here in one piece”, but this would be a wicked lie. I had to unbolt almost everything that gets bolted on, to the point where it was debatable whether there was any merit in paying what I did for a bike box, it was really a large suitcase full of spare parts. Even this took a few metres of duct tape and a few hours of sweating, jiggling and swearing to close. Then I had to work some Jedi mind tricks with two separate airport security people to persuade them that they really didn’t need me to open it again. Still, more or less all of the parts arrived, with only minor scratches. I could only bring very basic tools within my luggage allowance, and found myself wishing I’d paid more attention to that week in Swahili lessons where we learnt to say “I don’t suppose your mechanic has a metric hex-key torque wrench I could borrow?..” Initially I was all on my own in putting it back together, but then a bright blue agamid lizard hung out for a while, subsequently joined my a few of the hotel staff. Having built it up again (in the shade of a palm tree in front of the sea shore) I find only two problems. The back brake is locked on (should be surmountable by disassembling the calliper and forcing the pistons back, but don’t want to rush this and damage anything); and I forgot to pack a pump. This second point is truly, weightily and historically stupid, especially given that nobody in Tanzania seems to use Presta valves. I must thank the Mrs for pointing out that I can buy two local inner tubes with local valves until my remaining spares and tools arrive. Since the friendly hotel maintenance man and I have tried all we can with an industrial air compressor (but no torque wrench), this will have to be the way.
Running. It is possible! We went this morning at 0615 and it is pretty bearable really. By about 0700 is becomes insufferably hot and humid, but I think that longer runs will be do-able if I set out at 0500 and take a bottle of water with me. The most striking thing I learnt was that you must not stop! If you think you are getting sweaty while running, keep in mind that your movement is creating a sort of airflow over your body; try stopping for a minute and unless there is some kind of breeze it just starts to cascade down your face and torso.
Mtwara, Mtwara, so good they named the town after the region
Getting to Mtwara was not without its challenges. Tanzanian immigration took me 2-3 hours. A couple of days of catching up (on sleep and with Suze) in Dar, and then I would be moving on to Mtwara. Dar is friendly in a busy way. Decent variety of places to eat and an abundance if taxis to take you there. Much cheaper and cooler than a taxi is a pujaji, which is basically a motor rickshaw. Or to put it another way a moped with a cheap tent on the back. This has the advantage of allowing in a cooling breeze and the disadvantage that in the case of unplanned meeting with a Toyota Landcruiser, it offers no more protection than, well, a cheap tent.
Another advantage became apparent shortly after one of our pujaji drivers (a boy of surely no more than 14?!) proudly boasted of his “short cut road”. We soon hit a rock and punctured one of the puny tyres, but the lightweight construction, along with the good fortune of me being a large-ish mzungu, meant we could lift the thing up and change said wheel despite him having no jack. Genius. At least we could be sure of better reliability in the 100 dollar internal flight down to Mtwara…
The plane down to here was delayed 4-5 hours and when it did arrive it was – how shall we say? Knackered. Imagine Del Boy’s Reliant with wings. Still, the crew were very nice and “ye cannae change the laws of physics”, so given its full compliment of two wings and at least one engine, it was a plane and it could fly. Unfortunately, by the time I got on, a nun had stolen my seat and didn’t want to move, and my guessing somewhere else to sit caused a domino effect of clashing seat numbers and milling travellers in the baking hot oven of a cabin. Finally, some 4 and-a-bit hours after we should have finished the journey, we took off for the 45 min hop to Mtwara.
I had been told that the view from the plane was impressive, but I didn’t see much to write home about? Countless meandering rivers and soft deltas, pouring their water into deep oceanic blue. Forests and mangroves held back from the water by a tiny strip of golden sand. Shaded, green islands and occasional wooden sailing boats. Is that it? Maybe I have been spoilt by living the last 2 years inside a picture postcard: London’s square grey concrete and round grey smog…
But enough of such banalities; what is it actually like to be in Mtwara? For the first hour or two words failed me. Among the words I should have been using would be beautiful, peaceful, picturesque, friendly, lush and did I say beautiful?
To get an idea of the view from either our kibanda or the terrace/bar: In the foreground there are big spiky fingers of orange-brown coral. Just beyond them a kind of mud and sand-flat with rock pools and wandering ghost- and hermit-crabs. Big dark birds seem to be common on the flats (purple heron and hammerkop, I mention specifics just in case you are an ornithologist or imagine that I am a xenophobe). And beyond that is a full widescreen panorama of sea. Bright, almost shining turquoise in the day time, but with layers of darker blue visible over the deeper straights. As evening draws in fishermen punt across the shallow water in dugout canoes, an incredible slow motion display of patience and balance which seems to be mocked by the manically fighting geckos on the rocks and posts at the edge of the shore. The next months will have their challenges of course, but it’s hard not to feel like the luckiest person around, when you think about spending years living here.
The plane down to here was delayed 4-5 hours and when it did arrive it was – how shall we say? Knackered. Imagine Del Boy’s Reliant with wings. Still, the crew were very nice and “ye cannae change the laws of physics”, so given its full compliment of two wings and at least one engine, it was a plane and it could fly. Unfortunately, by the time I got on, a nun had stolen my seat and didn’t want to move, and my guessing somewhere else to sit caused a domino effect of clashing seat numbers and milling travellers in the baking hot oven of a cabin. Finally, some 4 and-a-bit hours after we should have finished the journey, we took off for the 45 min hop to Mtwara.
I had been told that the view from the plane was impressive, but I didn’t see much to write home about? Countless meandering rivers and soft deltas, pouring their water into deep oceanic blue. Forests and mangroves held back from the water by a tiny strip of golden sand. Shaded, green islands and occasional wooden sailing boats. Is that it? Maybe I have been spoilt by living the last 2 years inside a picture postcard: London’s square grey concrete and round grey smog…
But enough of such banalities; what is it actually like to be in Mtwara? For the first hour or two words failed me. Among the words I should have been using would be beautiful, peaceful, picturesque, friendly, lush and did I say beautiful?
To get an idea of the view from either our kibanda or the terrace/bar: In the foreground there are big spiky fingers of orange-brown coral. Just beyond them a kind of mud and sand-flat with rock pools and wandering ghost- and hermit-crabs. Big dark birds seem to be common on the flats (purple heron and hammerkop, I mention specifics just in case you are an ornithologist or imagine that I am a xenophobe). And beyond that is a full widescreen panorama of sea. Bright, almost shining turquoise in the day time, but with layers of darker blue visible over the deeper straights. As evening draws in fishermen punt across the shallow water in dugout canoes, an incredible slow motion display of patience and balance which seems to be mocked by the manically fighting geckos on the rocks and posts at the edge of the shore. The next months will have their challenges of course, but it’s hard not to feel like the luckiest person around, when you think about spending years living here.
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
Meanwhile, back in the Northern Hemisphere….
I’m up on the 11th floor and I’m watching the cruisers below, on a grey, dreich day in London. Last week or two was a frenetic mix of cleaning, selling or throwing out everything I own, punctuated now and again with a swimming lesson or a run around the common. Don’t mind saying it was stressful and without many laughs, and for a while I felt that me and my sanity were having the same kind of relationship as the Spurs goalkeeper and a high ball. (Suze, hopefully this answers one of your questions below?) But I have now left the flat in Tooting and moved to a cheap and moderately shabby hotel room in Earl’s Court. The tiny bed, grubby shared bathroom and continuously passing traffic makes it feel very much akin to a sleeper train, except bereft of the pleasing prospect of ever waking up somewhere as bonnie as Aberdeen.
The supposedly fully-staffed and stress free removals system didn't go quite as much like clockwork as I had been promised, as they turned up without nearly enough space to take everything in the crates. We managed to muddle through by prioritising which things went and which didn't, with freecycle Wandsworth and my parents sharing the leftovers. Tick, tock. I feel some trepidation about when and in what state we will next see our bicycles but I guess they are insured, should they go South figuratively as well as literally.
But are we downhearted? Well, not really. Only about 4 days until I go to join Suze and we can start to find out about the place together. That has to be good.
At this stage we should also reiterate our thanks to both of our families for the help they have given in cleaning, storing and moving things, as well as (sniffs back the tears…) providing a retirement home for the pussycat. Next update from me will almost certainly be written in the heat of Africa, so apologies if the typeface starts to look a little sweaty.
The supposedly fully-staffed and stress free removals system didn't go quite as much like clockwork as I had been promised, as they turned up without nearly enough space to take everything in the crates. We managed to muddle through by prioritising which things went and which didn't, with freecycle Wandsworth and my parents sharing the leftovers. Tick, tock. I feel some trepidation about when and in what state we will next see our bicycles but I guess they are insured, should they go South figuratively as well as literally.
But are we downhearted? Well, not really. Only about 4 days until I go to join Suze and we can start to find out about the place together. That has to be good.
At this stage we should also reiterate our thanks to both of our families for the help they have given in cleaning, storing and moving things, as well as (sniffs back the tears…) providing a retirement home for the pussycat. Next update from me will almost certainly be written in the heat of Africa, so apologies if the typeface starts to look a little sweaty.
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