Fun in the Sun

It is not the first time I went to Dubai, but it was the first time I progressed passed the airport. “A bright new culture to be experienced first hand” I thought. During the short dash from the airport to the taxi parked outside, the heat hit me like a hammer when I got outdoors. I took off my jacket, a relic from the winter in South Africa, and got into the taxi. The taxi was cold, freezing cold, and I had to put the jacket back on for fear of freezing in this weather. “That would make me look like an ass” I thought. It was just after 09:00, and the temperature gauge already showed 36°C. The taxi driver offered, “It’s still cool, will be nice and hot this afternoon”.

After checking in at the hotel, I had to do some personal maintenance to rid myself of the look and smells of flight. I was ready to go, and dressed for summer now. I went to the lobby, and asked for directions to a market, “No tourist place or mall, I have those in South Africa, an old style place will do” was the specific request. The person got out a map of the Metro, and made some marks to indicate where I am, the best Metro station to go to, as well as a place to get off, really efficient. He assured me “This is in the old city”.

Outside the hotel, I got into a taxi and indicated my intentions. The taxi driver said “The metro only opens at 2 pm today, it is prayer day”. It was 11 am. “I’ll be going there with you then”, came my quick response. I felt very cold; the taxi was again at meat freezing temperatures. The other attribute of taxi drivers became very clear, they drive like being possessed. There was no real traffic on the seven-lane highway, but the taxi driver drove like a horny dog smelling a bitch in heat. In no time he stopped at the market place 40 kilometers from the hotel and pointed at it. I was still amazed at all the buildings we passed, and decided I’ll go back with the Metro as it is elevated and I could enjoy the view better that way, but first the market had to be visited. I got out into the blistering heat.

Already the mosques started their prayer calls. I do not understand the language and thus was robbed of the message spread by the echoes as competing mosques argued about the direction to go. I was ejected from the taxi about two minutes earlier, and started oozing sweat and assumed the look of a glazed doughnut. “I have to get out of the sun” I said out load and headed for the market. My nose in particular turned out to be a final gathering point where droplets would grow until the force of gravity plucked them away to race to the ground.

I got inside, and relief from the heat was not found; only the sun disappeared. I gasped for air, it was a fish market. In this heat, the smells ejected by the fish and fish butchering hung like smog in the building. What made the taxi-driver think I am going to buy fish? I rushed out to the back of the building to discover a runny bloody fluid and some bins filled with rubbish and fish guts. The heat was no joke, and there were no flies to appreciate the stench. This shocked me as the smell could not be missed. I was sweating, melting like jelly in an oven.

I progressed down the street, taking in the wailing from the mosques. There were other shops in other buildings, selling clothing, crockery, figurines, and anything else imaginable. Most shops were closed, or about to close for the prayer time and I took this as my queue to leave. I was in desperate need for a beer, in a Muslim country where those are not easy to come by, and I let the thought go.

Walking down the street, I continued melting into the pavement. I was looking for the Metro, to get out of this heat; to the safety of the hotel. I turned around and was shocked when I found I am not leaving a trail like a snail. It surely felt like there had to be a trail due to the rapid loss of fluid. I reached the Metro, and the doors were locked. I thought of the taxi driver, “Nice and hot this afternoon, my arse, this is unbelievable”. I decided to walk in the shadow of the Metro-line to the next Metro-station. What a bad idea that turned out to be. It was not a long walk. I could see the next station from the start, but the heat was something I could not get away from. My body clearly did not understand what was going on. Normal procedure would be to sweat when heat was experienced. However, no matter how much water the natural systems poured onto the skin, there was no relief from the heat. Even the flies were cleverer, they stayed away completely. The locals looked at me, obviously worried about the amount of liquid I spilled on my track. "Humans are very adaptable", occupied my thoughts. Clearly they adapted to this heat. Maybe not completely comfortable, but at least not turning the place to an inland sea with their combined sweat.

Burj Khalifa - tickling the
gates of heaven

I was rewarded when I arrived at the next station. It was open, no trains ran yet, but the air was cool. Air-conditioners with gale force ability were blasting in full force. I stood there for fifteen minutes, soaking up the cold air. I started freezing up again, I was not going to disappear into a pool of sweat after all.

The trip on the Metro was better than I imagined. The metro was air-conditioned too. The view was unrealistic. The number of high-rise buildings in a single view was unbelievable. The tallest one is called Burj Khalifa, and is a breathtaking 828 meters high, and seemed to disappear into nothingness. It did not seem to be planted in the ground like a normal building, it seemed to hang from an invisible sky-hook, too high to see from the ground. “See if you can build that”, seemed to be what architects said to engineers with growing complexity during the past decade. It looked like a battle between architects and engineers were being won by engineers, because they built it. The buildings rose into infinity, and had curves, arches, holes, pins and needles of every size imaginable. There were so many buildings featuring architectural design challenges that I got off the Metro a couple of times, but never wondered far from the air-conditioned entry halls to observe the wonders. Some buildings were spiraling rectangles, others rounded and bent shapes, and yet others seemed to be slashed with a huge sword at a strange angles. “It is architectural heaven this place, built in the harshest environment imaginable” I thought. Buildings were not boring blocks that fell into the ground from the heavens, and people then hollowed those out to live in. They were designed, strange, unimaginable sculptures, exclaiming human might and riches on a grand scale in the desert that want to burn people alive.

I got off at the indicated station 39, the name did not make sense, to get a taxi for the hotel. By then I had enough of the heat, it was 3 pm. As I was recuperating next to another frustrated taxi-driver with no traffic to be frustrated about, my mind was stuck on the heat. The people living there now seems to be coping well with the heat, but only because any space occupied is cooled to sub-zero with the most efficient air-conditioning money can buy.

I wondered about those highly contested biblical lands with detailed battle descriptions in the deserts recorded by the men of the Book. It is very similar to the deserted wide empty roads, but the taxi-driver still had to express frustration, but to what? In biblical times there were no air-conditioning units running. Is it possible that the ancient contests were fuelled by frustration about the heat, and since nothing can be done about that, they found an alternative outlet and had a little war? They sure as hell had no axe to grind over the fertility of the desert sands, and the taxi-driver had no convenient outlet of a mild war like the ancients.

Friday 21 June 2013

Arse Flavoured Pellets Please

I cannot imagine how bad dog pellets must taste.  Considering the evidence, I am sure as hell not going to risk tasting it either, the mystery shall remain.  If you read the package it should be quite palatable, but maybe the factory got the taste all wrong.

We took the two dogs for a walk.  They are quite cute, these two sisters, perfect specimens of the Pekingese breed.  They have an inability to express happiness through facial expression; bred with a constant frown and upside-down mouth features they look permanently unhappy.  Thus, the only way to know if they are happy is from the external signs - bouncing like a rhino in heat, shivering with excitement, and the universally understood tail wagging.  Their faces still portraying eternal morbidity.

We were merely walking up the street, but these two beasts were super exited with all the signs in full blossom, when my observations were conducted.  Like the historic Leonardo da Vinci, I did not interfere with their actions, nor did I try to lead them too much, I just observed.  They were sniffing at everything available - old bags, drain pipes, oil stains, bottles, and anything else that crossed our path.  Posts, any posts, standing proud with lamps, or with signs on them, were the best – they seemed to be bubbling with a microcosm of smell which could not be appreciated with a simple passing by, it required stopping and taking in the evidence like an unrushed connoisseur.  Connoisseurs, they truly were, merrily sniffing about on our route, savouring every smell.

The only action which posted any challenge to the posts was relentless butt sniffing.  This was done with no discretion.  Their own, each other’s, and even the random alternative dog innocently passing by got a proper sniff down in the rear, before being waved off.  Clearly, their inability to read made them immune to understanding of the term “germs”, and this activity was top notch entertainment and delight.

My dogs are very healthy despite their relentless interaction with germs.  My wife, excellent mother that she is, tries to feed them only proper dog pellets - the expense type.  With absolute stealth do the other house inhabitants slip pass a bit of food from the table to their begging eyes.  If the well-doer is however found out by killer mom, the consequences are horrible.  Since this is not a horror story, I refuse to elaborate.  The only legal treat allowed in moderation, is dog biscuits.  The dogs love their biscuits and will happily surrender to that as only approved meal if mother would give the idea a nod.

Gina and Bella lurking and praying for gravity to provide.

The one dog, Gina, weights 4 kilos.  Her sister, Bella, pushes down the scale to a well underfed 3 kilos.  Observing the two at home explains the source of this difference in gravitational influence quite well.  They are both equally successful in their begging for scraps off the table, but Gina is the one that succumbs to hunger more frequently, and then have some of the ever-present pellets.  The packaging claims chicken liver flavoured.  Bella, on the other hand, refuses to drop that low in social standing, and her main dietary needs are fulfilled by Gina’s earwax.  Mining for the sweet nectar is something she developed into a fine art with remarkable efficiency.  The return of favour explains the source of Gina’s extra weight.  The symbiotic relationship allows Gina an equally fair supply of earwax, from the Bella brand this time.  I can testify this is their main hobby, a horrifying discovery. 

A lot said to paint the picture, but where did it go wrong?  We do make chicken liver from time to time, for human consumption.  When the tiniest of pieces fall to the ground, Bella will appear from underneath the stove where she is lurking and lick it up from whatever surface became the resting place of the shrapnel.  The dog pellets however, with the same supposed taste, do not receive any attention, unless weakness drives her to this final source of nourishment.  The conclusion can only be that, either the factory got the recipe wrong, or the imbecile that designs the tastes does not have the foggiest idea of what chicken liver tastes like.

Should they apply their minds however, and observe a dog or two, they will be able to design a taste that will be loved by any dog.  I do however see a problem in defining the attributes of the taste.  In order to know if the taste was nailed, it had to be sampled by one of those guys with exceptional taste abilities, and compared with the real thing.  I think it would be possible, with the correct motivation, to get the odd volunteer to taste the final product.  Keeping the expected outcome a secret might also be critical in the approach.  Finding the perfect taster to go lick on a dogs’ arse and making the appropriate notes to define the taste for reproduction, is where the trouble lies.  I just do not see that happening.  No connoisseur of note will violate his taste buds with an action like that to make a dog’s life better.

With this understood, Bella will stay skinny, and “Fresh dog arse taste” pellets is not a label that will appear on the shelves soon.

Sunday 16 June, 2013

The Mechanic with an Oil Cap

Finding a good mechanic is important if you have a car which outlived it's maintenance plan.  The alternative is to find a spouse who keeps on buying the new cars, or stumble onto a diamond in a field.  Since I do not consider the first alternative viable on our family income, and do not walk about in stray fields too frequently, I am searching for the mechanic.

My wife called me to the car one evening after I returned from work.  She opened to bonnet of the Citroen, walked around to the front of the car, and expertly pointed to the oil top up inlet.  Her analysis was complete when she said, "I am sure there should be an oil cap there."

I never rated her as a mechanical expert, but she was right.  Where there should have been an oil cap, there was none.  I am also not the type that take the car apart for weekend fun, but I am no fool when it comes to general mechanics.  I had to say something to highlight my intellect in the field, then uttered, "This is serious, it has to be sorted, and quick".  Fast turning into Chief Investigator, I started interrogating her as to when last did she check oil, fill the car with fuel, open the bonnet to admire its interior.  She immediately understood that I was trying to make her the imbecile who lost an oil cap, and thus her responses were measured and evasive.  This did not help the situation, as the cap was no longer there, and arguing and questioning would not return it.  Despite this reality we gave it a go for about ten minutes.

My wife then came up with the plan, "I will find a new cap, and in the process get a reliable mechanic to check the car out properly".  This was easier said than done.  It turns out that Citroen has nothing, as far as oil caps are concerned, in relation with any other car.  There are also plenty of knowledgeable mechanics around, but they are allergic to Citroen.

She met Sam, working in an auto parts shop, a few days later.  They tested no less than 14 different oil caps, and concocted a fit by adding some o-rings to one, before they achieved some level of success.  Sam told her to call later for a good Citroen mechanic's number.  The news was shared eagerly at dinner, and my wife could smell success.

The number belonged to Mike, an eager mechanic.  I drove to his shop, and found a man resembling Andy Cap, but the cap was replaced with a dark blue, and well worn, artist's beret.  He explained in detail how he went to France for his apprenticeship on Citroen, and would have my Picasso in top notch without breaking a sweat.  The beret almost made his story sound authentic, "an original relic from those training days", I thought.  The shop was no more than a double deep, double garage with an air hoist in the far most right-hand bay.  There were however three cars in various states of disassembly, stored half on to of each other, in the left-hand bays.  Another car, without engine was parked on the pavement.  None of these were going anywhere soon, that was clear.  Not an encouraging sight for a client who will shortly hand over his car keys and retreat to home, whilst this automotive assassin goes to work.  First things first however, he needed to test drive the car for a full assessment of the damage.

He got into the driver seat, and then I noticed his hands.  They had all the digits connected in full, but they were tiny.  I have never seen a mechanic with such small hands, "how does he hold spanners with those, and he does need both hands to pick up an oil filter", I thought, but said nothing.  He pulled out of his shop's driveway, and we set off.  I explained about the oil cap fiasco, and was assured that would be dealt with.  There was also the loose engine cover, which I thought was just an added nuisance, but Mike was ready for that challenge too.  Mike was connected to every scrap yard that has an unlimited supply of usable parts for Citroen, and as such even the cost would be marginal, he assured me.

About a kilometre further I noticed the black Navara 4x4 driving slowly.  Mike looked at the car with serious interest.  Blood turned cold in my veins when Mike started to gain the driver's attention, it was a textbook hi-jacking scene unfolding in front of me and I was surely going to find out what my role in this would be, pretty soon.  I said nothing.  Mike wanted the driver of the car to stop, and he became adamant.  "Did I hand over my keys to chop shop master of all Citroens?  That would explain the shop set-up with the decomposing vehicles", was the reoccurring thought in my mind.  Then the impossible happened.

At the red traffic light, Mike got out of my car, left the motor running and casually strolled over to the Navara parked slightly ahead of us.  He made good ground for a chubby fellow, and by the time the Navarra's driver realized what was going on, his door was pulled opened, and Mike relieved him of his car keys.  I cannot describe everything said there.  From the colourful language and accusations however, it was clear that this fellow owes Mike money.  The traffic light turned green and red no less than three times before Mike thought he expressed his unhappiness in full.  He returned to my car with the built up traffic applauding his efforts with high pitch erratic horns blowing.

As Mike got into the Citroen, already apologizing for the chaos he created, the Navara driver came over and very politely asked for his keys.  These were given to him, and he made sure to disappear, not waiting for the light to turn green before thundering off.  Mike then went on to explain that that guy with the expensive car owes him money, and he hates to see people live rich and not pay their dues.  "No matter what he does, I'll pay this guy", I said to myself.  This went on until we got back to the shop.

Mike offered to drop me off at home, and then return to work on the car.  "It will be about two hours", he said.  "How much?", I asked.  No response came for quite a while, then he said, "Not much, nothing big wrong.  Give me your number and I call you when I know."  He pointed to the young lady sat in one of the wrecks to the left of the garage.  I went to her, and she took down my number.  She did not say much, a real shy and tiny woman.

On the way home I thought, "I do not want his guy to know exactly where I live".  I directed him to a neighbours' house.  Then I allowed him to disappear from sight before I ran across the road to my house.  Upon entry my wife was quite surprised to see me with no car and said, "Is the car stolen?".  "No time for a joke like that", I responded and explained what a lovely fellow Mike turned out to be, and he would be attending to her car's every need.

Three agonizing hours later I did not receive any word of Mike.  I rang him three times in the following half hour, but received only his voice mail.  "This is not right, what if he is chop shop man, or on the way to he border?", my wife  lectured me.  This was all the motivation I needed to jump into action, if only to escape from her suggestions.  I drove to the workshop.

From a distance I recognized the silhouette of the Citroen, an elongated oversized white drop like shape.  The bonnet was still open, but all was connected with hinges.  The lack of parts stripped off became clearer when I stopped for a closer inspection.  Relieved about my discovery, I made my way over to the lady in the one wreck who took my number earlier.  "Where is Mike?", I asked.  "I don't know, he left a long time ago.  I paced over to the man working on the engine cover whilst asking, "Why did you not call me as agreed with a quote?".  "I tried to call Mike, but cannot find him", came her response.  I stood there for a while and realized they know the level of my mistrust now, then turned to leave.  My parting message, "Let me know how much I need to pay for the service, and when the car is ready".

Another hour passed and I found myself on the way to the workshop again.  This time however invited as the car was ready, and accompanied by my wife.  Upon arrival, Mike greeted us with a wide smile and explained that the missing oil cap was found on a cover at the bottom of the engine, "It must have fallen in there somehow."  That was the least of my worries, the car was not hacked to pieces, or stripped to parts, and that was a relief to me, but I said nothing to that effect.  "You never gave me a quote", I told him.  With a huge frown he shouted at the girl "Shany, sort out the customer", and disappeared.  The girl kindly asked for R892.  "What a bargain" I thought, as a less successful service cost me more than R3000 two years prior.  I paid, we greeted and set off to home.

We had a coffee whist discussing the bargain we just received.  Then the phone rang and a familiar number appeared, it was Sam.  She was in a panic, asking "Did you get your car back already?".  "Yes, but why?".  "Mike came in this morning and ordered lots of parts without paying, including your spares for the service.  He just came back, and refuses to pay for them now.  He left without paying." She protested.  "And what does this have to do with me?", I enquired.  "Well, it is your parts, did you pay him, and how much?", she asked.  "I really do not understand why you call me, your deal is with Mike, isn't it?", I finished off.  "Ok", she accepted and greeted reluctantly.

I had so many things to be confused of at that stage.  Mike upset about someone not paying his dues; I got a very cost effective service done or did I; Sam pulling me into the purchase of spares; and the neighbours' address linked to me.  The last one I was quite happy about.  What a roller coaster ride, and that for a simple service.  It least I found my reliable mechanic, well reliable to me at least.  Sam obviously had a different view on it, and I suppose the Navara's driver would also have his opinion on the matter.  Trust was also not easily given on my part, considering the number of times I thought this will take on a strange outcome soon, whilst this episode unfolded.

Mike called a few days later, enquiring if I was happy with the service.  He also located a replacement oil dipstick, as he noticed mine was a bit worse for wear.  All this cemented my trust in this highly recommendable character to weary Citroen owners.

Monday 10 June, 2013

Alien Heritage

Visiting my brother some weeks ago in Cape Town was an enlightening experience.  He had a lifestyle of a pop star, with a schedule full of parties up to a year ago.  All this changed when the stork came visiting and the young addition to the family had just more than a year to infiltrate their schedule and home.  Despite his tender age, he took no prisoners.  He is the schedule, and their home resembles a scene from a hurricane aftermath.  Most important however was that he has loving parents, and is allowed to grow and learn with guidance.  They are doing a great job!

Being responsible for two of my own, and not having surrendered my recollections of past events to Alzheimer's yet, I can report that my brother is only following an established trend of loosing control of his life.  This will escalate as soon as his boy learns to speak.

My memory drifts to a specific event where my own son's talkative nature got me into a very tight corner.  In his defence, I did set the trap myself.  We were driving back from holiday on the West Coast to our home in Middelburg some 9 years ago, a boarding 14 hour drive.  Having two protesters, my 6 year old son and his 4 year old sister, made the journey no more fun.  They have seen the Jetsons complete a journey like this within seconds, they thought it fair that we would be home within 30 minutes.  Time, distance, and a need to drive within speed limits are concepts that develop in ages past their achievements.  With this understanding lacking, a continuous fight about the most senseless arguments were their only logical diversion to pass the time.

Fortunately they fell asleep just after we refuelled in Colesberg and I could thunder home.  My wife was keeping a trained eye on the speed indicator to ensure the cost of the trip is not inflated unnecessary, but she succumbed to boredom just before Bloemfontein, and fell asleep.  There I was, a Lone Ranger, with a cargo of my happy family, the only reminder of their presence by a random snore.

Just after Kroonstad, I felt a familiar breath in my neck.  My son was sitting upright, but it did not seem like he was aware of that fact yet, still caught in his own battle of regaining full consciousness.  After about 5 minutes of yawning and looking around, pondering the correct announcement of his return to life, he said his first words, "Where did all the dinosaurs go?"

Usually I left them to speak first.  Many times they would appear to wake up like this, but after realising we are not home yet, just fall back into their sleep.  Sleeping at least made these long journeys more bearable for them.  His entry conversational topic was also not strange as he was dinosaur expert by then.

I was glad to hear a voice as boredom was starting to register with me too, and as sole pilot of this expedition back home, that was something I could ill afford.  "They all died", came my sombre reply.  Our conversation was taking place in slow motion where at least a minute passes between exchanges.

“That sucks, and the eggs, did they also….”, the word was to final for him to utter.

“Maybe you want to speak to Grandma about dinosaurs”, I calmed the mood.

“Why her?  What does she know about them?”, he enquired.

“She lived with them; I think she still has a recipe for a dino egg.”  I offered.

He pondered my response for about five minutes, searching his young mind for historic time frames.  His eyes registered the gravity of the words as they lit up.  “Then she must be millions of years old”, he finally dared.

The temptation was strong to confirm my mother-in-law’s age, but I enjoyed the direction this was going, so 

I offered, “I never said she lived with them on this earth, did I?”

This was a completely unexpected twist, and he considered it.  Finally he stated the obvious dilemma, “Then she is an alien, and Mom, she is an alien.  Me and Sis too, we are aliens.”

“Calm down that is not completely true”, then I offered a crude explanation of genetic dilution.  “If Grandma is an alien, and Grandpa not, that would make your mom half an alien.  As I am certainly not an alien, the same dilution will make you a quarter alien and three-quarters human.  Do you get this?”

“Yes, this is very good, I cannot wait to tell my friends at school”, he said relieved.

“That is not a good idea”, I offered.

“Why not?”, he asked slowly.

“Do you not think that the government will cut open Grandma for tests?  And then there is your mother”, I said.

“What about Mom?”, came his enquiry.

“Half alien, you remember, maybe they want to cut her open too.  I am not too stressed about you and Sis, I think you are OK, but I take no chances.  You have to keep this secret.”, I responded.

He confirmed, “OK, I will tell no-one, only my sister”.

“No”, I protested, “do not tell her, I’ll tell her as soon as she can understand the importance of the secret”.

He confirmed agreement with a simple, “OK”, fuelled by his superior understanding due to alien heritage.

I was glad about this discussion as it took more than an hour, and we were now entering Johannesburg.  Traffic there made me forget about the distance still to go, and the other people in the car started waking up.  The mood in the car turned violent again with protection of every millimetre of space by each occupant, and a bombardment of wishes that the coast is closer to home.

Finally we arrived home, 1734 kilometres completed.  In the next weeks my prior conversation drifted away into the fog of daily schedules, to become a hidden trap.

Three weeks later mother-in-law came visiting in Middelburg.  Arrival greetings were lively and quick as arrival coincided with dinner.  I noticed my son keeping a distance of his grandma, but made nothing off it as kids at that age are still figuring out their position in society.  Then he came up to her, and circled her about 3 times, properly checking out the frail lady.  Then, without warning he looked up at her and announced, “My dad says that you are an alien”.

There were firm stares in my direction from my mother-in-law, and to complete the stereo effect, from my wife too.  “What a nice cosy corner did I get myself in” I though to myself as my son came running to me, away from the aliens, to the safety of human hands.

Wednesday 5 June, 2013

No Respect for an Upset Stomach

When I woke up, I ran to the toilet once more, not entirely sure which side to point at the porcelain.  I had the stomach bug for four days now, and whilst the sudden weight loss was appreciated on my side, the fun in this was exhausted.  I told my wife, "I am sick and tired of this upset stomach; we need to sort this today.”  After quite a long pause, managing my condition and feeling sorry for myself, I continued, “Let’s go to the oyster festival at Brightwater Commons”.  Her reply was, "Adventurous solution, I would love to see the outcome of this".

Upon arrival at the oyster festival, the adverting boards took no prisoners, "32,000 oysters consumed yesterday, only 12,000 left over, get them early".  We did as told and bailed for the area close to the stage where the oysters are sold.  On the way there I lost my wife, but soon was reminded via omnipresent cellphone that I am not alone on vacation today.

The atmosphere was vibrant and refreshing.  The oyster bar was open, so we got 20 little friends for good measure.  Then we went scouting for a seat.  Amasing how many people are invisible at events like these.  You walk up to an empty seat at a beer bench and just as you want to sit down someone will point to the invisible occupant in the seat and say "Someone is sitting there".  You wonder, "Am I loosing eyesight?  I didn't see him then, and still not see him now?"  As I had no intention of spending my afternoon on someone else's lap, visible or invisible, I kept looking for another seat.  All the time oysters are warming up.  Eventually we found 2 seats with no invisible people on them.

"We can't eat this with no wine", my wife said with a frown on her face.  I disappeared into the tent behind our seats, found a bottle of wine and some cheese - I just love cheese.  Upon returning to our seats I found my wife protecting our seats like an ostrich protecting her eggs.  Finally, we were set to eat.

The wine was an excellent selection as it had a screw top, and corkscrews were not readily available.  The oysters were molten by then, but as this was an oyster feast we had them anyway, with the cheese.  The oysters were too hot, and they were seemingly opened with a hammer as small shards of shells were omnipresent.  The cheese was a bit disappointing, the one had a good strong flavour, with a bit of a sting to the top left of the mouth, but the second one was effectively a yellow eraser with no taste at all.  We ate the strong one and bagged the eraser in the camera bag.  This made no work of gobbling down the bottle of wine, whilst we were commenting on the other people also enjoying their spoils.  Main aim done and stomach still intact we decided on a bit of wandering around; tasting sample wines and delicatessens would be the main event from here on.

By now the place was packed with people and all of them seemed to have the same ideals us.  This made moving around feel more like being washed down a river of people, and swimming up stream was not going to happen.  Visiting specific tables were near impossible.  What actually happened was that the tide would wash you out at some point; you'd have a quick taste of what was presented in front of you, and then dive back into the stream, anxious to see where you wash out again.  We did this for some time, had several wines, dried meats, sweets and cheeses.  It was great fun, participating in the festivities, and I lost all concern over my frail stomach.

Then we washed up on the shore with a man selling grappa.  He offered some, I had Pintotage and my wife had Muskadel.  An elderly lady behind us tugged on a man and said in an Irish accent, "Have some of this, it will take your head off".  At first the concoction did not taste too strong, but as soon as I got back into the stream it hit me straight between the eyes; I knew the lady was right.  Things started to turn hazy then, and I had to get out.  I bought coffee beans for good measure and asked the lady to grind it for me.  She came back and said, "Put it in the freezer at home".  I replied, "Do you not mean the coffee machine?"  She smiled, and my wife slapped me.  I took this as a sign to get out of this maize.

We tried for about half an hour to sober up with more wine tasting, but then realized we are chasing a pipe dream.  I then bought a bottle of red wine and a cheese platter, to attempt this as cure for our condition.  We were back looking for a seat.  Our eyesight improved a lot.  The first seats we saw had not invisibles on them.  Maybe the defenders of those seats realized early on that there would be no point arguing with these two.

We sat right in front of the stage.  The band was an all girls crowd, She-band, was their name.  “What a hint”, I told my wife.  They were quite good playing oldies music form our era, well late 80’s music, we’re not ancient yet.  We were eating and drinking, and made friends with the people sharing the table with us.  There were three women, in their forties if I could guess, and a boy, obviously the blonde's son of about 20.  After some time, the youngster then got up, embraced his mother and gave her a kiss that made me realize this is a very close family.

I could swear that I know some of them from somewhere.  When I enquired, I was waived off by the blonde, and got a slap from my wife as acknowledgement of my stupidity.  Pointing to the blonde, my wife said, "She used to play on Egoli, you ass".  She finished off my education by telling me, "The lot of them are playing in a bunch of TV soapies now."  How was I supposed to know that anyway, I do not watch those?  In any case, I got the idea they loved not being molested by another fan, but liked being handled like normal people.

We were having a ball; the singing and dancing for some hours did wonders for our condition.  Then our friends wanted to leave.  We said our goodbyes, and then one of them said, "Come over to my place", and she gave the street name and number.  We pondered the dying party around us and then decided to go.

When we arrived at the party house, the people did not look very familiar.  I checked the number on the gate, asked for the street name and compared with my memory bank.  All was checking out, but these people were not the lot from the oyster festival.  I enquired about their red-wine stocks in the house, but they claimed to have run out.  I thought, "Then there is no point in staying anyway", and then said so.  My wife agreed; my argument was rock solid.  The lady then said, "You know, there is a street with the same name in a different suburb, very close to here".  Escaping from this wine-less nightmare we went there.

Upon arrival, we saw familiar faces, and they were glad to see us too.  We went in and had some wine and Champaign.  Chicken wings were on offer, and despite me loving it, I refused to have any.  I suddenly was concerned about my stomach and focused on a liquid diet.  A very relaxed communion followed with lots of laughter and talking, music in the background.  After quite some time, the wings were reduced to bones and the big male German-Shepherd came in to give everyone a good sniff.  When he got hold of a chicken bone, the owner kindly asked me, "Can you get that out of his mouth".  I am brave, but not stupid and I pointed this out to the lady.  There was a time to come, and a time to leave, and our time to leave, came.  We said our goodbyes, for good this time, and headed home.

My wife gave a quick rundown of what we consumed for the day, “Hectic wasn’t it?”, she said.  “It was a busy day”, I confirmed.  She then enquired about the state on my stomach.  “My stomach survived the day and was in the best condition it was for the entire past week.  The bug must have left.  Show it no respect, and it is gone”, I told her.  “Or you’re going to have the mother of all explosions through the night”, my wife offered.  “You better sleep behind my back, not me behind yours, just to be safe”, was the final wisdom she offered.

Tuesday 4 June, 2013

Dulcie and Cubano

My wife developed an obsession with cooking since our move to Johannesburg.  I am not always home to taste her growing repertoire, but she is not the type of girl who will allow lack of audience to interfere with ambition.  Today, she did not face that obstacle as I was at home.  The latest addition to the cooking frenzy exploded into development of a food blog.  She has an information technology background and thus made easy work of putting together the layout on computer, and announced the deadline for the first publication would be Sunday.  Today was Saturday, we were going to have fun.  Now there was a final hurdle to clear - we needed photographs.  Strangely, you need to make the stuff before visual mortification can follow.  Shortly after sunrise she wowed that chicken pie would be available for dinner, and if I do not invite enough friends, tomorrow too.

I got up and enquired about my involvement to this episode.  She assured me that would be limited to small assistance related endeavours, and then disappeared to find the camera.  She found the camera, and to my surprise produced a small shopping list, shoved me into the shower and set me off to Spar.  I loaded two unsuspecting chickens and rolls of pastry for her creation into the basket, "that is all I need" was her departing message.  Well trained fellow that I am in household ergonomics, I bought only that.

Upon arrival she shoved the unsuspecting birds into a pot, gave them a wash of measured water and fired up the stove.  That done, out came some spices, neatly arranged on a plate.  Camera fun would start then.  “Where to photograph this?” she asked me.  She carried this plate around the house looking for the best spot of light.  My suggestion of and aged tabletop in the kitchen was immediately dismissed.  She walked around some more, and then I commandeered the plate and camera.  I took the photos where I suggested.  Understanding that she might want to have a selection, I took several shots using different settings, then she could decide later which one to use.  This happened with loads of commentary about my angle and ability.  Most of the criticism was valid, but at least we got proceedings started.  When I was done, the plate again started it's travel through the house, but this time photos were taken, everywhere.  Upon return to the kitchen these spices went visiting the chickens.

"I need carrots", came the cry from the kitchen.  So much for "all I need", I thought, but overseeing carrots was a minor sin if considering the task here endeavoured.  I offered to walk with to Spar, and bought the carrots, some rice and a clove of garlic.  Carrots and garlic went into the pot, and there was time to rest.

Then the birds were done and required stripping off.  She took out a knife and started sharpening it, I said only nice things as I noticed her long blonde hair flicking back in perfect rhythm to the strokes; she likes sharpening that thing, I knew.  Most Roman legionaries were sent to battle less armed than she was right then.  As she started stripping away at the birds, my son entered the scene.  He decided this was the opportune moment to start kicking an empty plastic bag around the kitchen as background music.  This impromptu ambiance was not appreciated and fortunately mom had the clear-headedness to lay down her weapon before attacking him.  She then asked me "how would I describe her cooking".  As she already picked up the piece again, I was not going to say something stupid like "aggressive", or "violent".  Over the years I learned not to provoke a mother after a child warmed her up for action.  And this lot of mine, they have the ability to work her up to explosion point, and then disappear, this was no exception.  I am glad about this understanding as she had the two birds disassembled in no time as a display of her skill.

My answer was "enthusiastic", and she accepted the single word as a full explanation.  She had never started a project without this, and I think this is one of her best attributes.  Due to this, life turns to be very emotional, and I like it.  I cannot imagine life with a half dead woman who accepts success and failure, and the range in between, with a modest stride.  The roller coaster ride is sometimes difficult to handle, but at least there is life inside her.

Separating the herbs and spices for the remaining ingredients annoyed her, "next time I have to put this into a bag this is taking too long and is a shit job", she mumbled to herself.  She added more stuff to the growing mixture of meat, carrots, and others.  This looked very good, and had to be digitized.  The length of tour through the house was getting shorter now, and I quietly thought that soon she would be at my original position only.

Thickening the stock was the last miracle to perform before the pastry would be prepared.  This occurred within minutes, and all was done.  She uttered those romantic words of love then, "I said puff pastry you idiot, not shortbread, but I suppose I have to make do with this".  I got a bit nervous when the other torture device, a rolling pin came out after her expressing gratitude in me buying the wrong pastry.  Fortunately, application of the roller to the pastry was all the violent outlet she required to calm her down and the top of my head received no attention.  The only threats came when I tried to assist with the decorative pastry bits on the top, but by now I know when to pull back with clever suggestions.  Then she popped the entire dish into the oven after another photo shoot.

Watching this procedure unfold through two and a half hours gave me a lot of respect for the humble chicken pie.  “Not such a humble dish after all”, I said to her.  The skill in making this is also far superior to my abilities and attention span.  This was my account of the unfolding event.  I am sure my angels' write-up will be much more technical and procedural, and that is how things ought to be.  Each vantage point should allow a new perspective on the same task., an fresh angle so to say.

When the pie was done and photographed one last time, I was glad I forgot to arrange for extras.  I would have more on Sunday, and further more there was a promise that the spice that had to go into a bag, thus we would have to do this again for that photo.

I also know that all those foodies that are blogging so eagerly are doing one hell of a job, perfecting their recipes and presentation to the world.

Enjoy your journey, "Dulcie and Cubano", my love!

Saturday 1 June, 2013

I know what you did!

A trip down to Durban gave me the impression that our society ran out of names for things.  Gone are the days where we build a travel device, lie under a tree with a pie, and proudly announce half an hour later, "this is a car".  This is way too much trouble, as it requires thinking, so we string words together at random to identify new inventions.  Picture this scene...

Upon arrival, I glanced around the deck, familiarizing myself with the establishment and opportunities presented.  I then walked over to the Rasta-man in the dark corner and kindly asked, "I really fancy a Cherry Hooker?"  He developed a partial grin to the left corner of his mouth and replied, "That is not possible tonight".  I reconsidered my options and announced, "Sex on the Deck then?"  He scanned the deck, intensely studying the people scattered around, and then replied "I'll recommend Sex on the Beach, it will suit you better?"  I agreed to this.

If I would cut the story here and present to my wife for proof reading, I'd be sure all hell would break loose.  She would go on for some seconds about this type of behaviour, after only one night stay in Durban, before she kicked me out.  The consequences would be even worse of she were in the kitchen, armed with a meat cleaver.  But she would be wrong.

I had no intention of giving in to feeble behaviour; these are all cocktails in a seaside bar called Joe Cool.  An innocent discussion to quench a thirst, overheard by the wrong person, could have me starring up to a dimming moon out of my, not very comfortable, shallow grave.

Since I only had the one drink, my analysis of the drink to find the link between appearance, taste and name was limited.  There were none.  I struggled half way through the drink just figuring out how to conduct the evaluation and even that was impossible.

Then I summonsed over Rasta-man.  I figured, as the creator of these exotic items, he would hold the keys to their meaning.  I asked him about the name and drink, and waited for the explanation.  He was stunned at the question, and in an instant I could see it did not make sense to him either.  The smile took 30 seconds to drain from his face, and then twisted his nose into a question mark - that was quite an achievement.  Later in my room I tried to do the same, but realized that this must be a special skill taught at level 3 in Rasta school.  My thinning mane however, will ensure that I do not make the cut for entry.  Thus realizing I am damned with underdeveloped nasal ability, I will return to the main story here.  Rasta-man said, “I got this from a book, the name, ingredients, presentation method and all”.  He offered no further intellectual material to ponder over, only this bland statement.  I was obviously glad that he could read, but thought telling him so much would not help my situation.  My gaze went from his face down to the drink, and then a thought struck me.

Parents all over the world face the same problem.  What to call the fresh bundle of joy upon arrival?  It does need to be called something when you need to draw their attention; it is also a helpful reference if you need to fill in a form.  However, what qualifies your screaming pink foot to be called John, Graeme, or Ann?  Surely there are simple rules governed by sex, of the child, but even these get distorted nowadays.  What character traits need to be identified, and that most of the time prior to birth, before a proper name be bestowed on the helpless child?  This is impossible!  The only conclusion - call the child some recognizable arrangement of letters which is not too difficult to announce, with no regard of the child's ability or ambition.  Name and traits completely unrelated.

With cocktails there is the stray chance however that two bartenders in different locations have the same name for something with the same ingredients because they use the same recipe as reference.  With a bit of luck both Rasta-man and his ghost counterpart exhibited the discipline and attention span to follow the recipe, thus created the same taste and visual experience.  My cry is thus incorrectly directed to the bartender, it should be to the person writing up the recipes to have some discretion in concocting the name.  I am sure no one will have the foggiest idea how Sex on the Beach contained in glass relates to the suggested activity based on visual analysis or taste.  Why then this name?  Is it the last reminder of a historic even from an originator?  Now all of us can be exited, walking up to an unsuspecting bartender and force a smile with a simple request.

Lost to time is the name of the originator of the experience, but I am sure I know what he did, and what he drank.

Friday 31 May, 2013