Not so long ago, I received an email from a correspondent unknown to me in which I was sternly taken to task for the cavalier title of this blog.
The gist?:
Unemployed at last? What kind of spoilt ninny would so blithely, so irresponsibly trumpet such a statement? Who seeks to be unemployed? And what gross insensitivity to the plight of those seeking employment and yet unable to find it! You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady, etc, etc.
Who and what indeed!
(Heaves a heaving sigh)
The words ‘Unemployed at last!’ open the novel Such is Life by Tom Collins (or Joseph Furphy, as you will). Over coffee in Darlinghurst in early 2007, the line ‘Unemployed at last!’ was, within my hearing, designated the greatest first line in Australian literature by a storied sage who travels as the Don. This not being the first time I had plundered the Don’s ample stores of wit and classificatory nous, I borrowed the line so stamped with the imprimatur of great authority with little compunction. The slightly obnoxious bent of the title is thus, I hope, utterly redeemed by its exemplary lineage: Ozlit, the Don, Daaaahlinghurst.
It must be added that my departure from the bonds of a career which was whittling my robust and merry spirit into something bitter and dusty is not so distant; the spry tone of the exclamation does capture, almost perfectly, my ongoing glee at finding myself unleashed from a lifetime of despair up there in the tower.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Juice wars
I was flabbergasted by pomegranate juice in Istanbul. The squeeze didn’t stop there.
a) Seedy
There are many things I am missing about Sydney, well, Australia, at the moment. One of the less obvious is Spring Valley Orange and Passionfruit Juice. It’s worthy of capitalisation, this daily juice, this emergency repair fluid, and has wrenched me out of many a physiological and psychological pit. And then there are the liddle facts.
Anyway, fresh strained passionfruit juice surpasses the SV Orange and Pash by several degrees. It’s usually a combination of yellow and black passionfruit (one of which is sweeter), slightly sweetened and chilled. It’s embarrassingly cheap and divinely wonderful. I attempted to drink my body weight in passion juice (yes, sorry) on Lamu, being concerned that I might never sup the nectar again. Happily I find passion juice to be widely available all the way down the East African coast.
I drank this one at Buni Café in Zanzibar. My Peace Corps contact told me that in many parts of Tanzania, passion juice is the only available fresh juice. It is an excellent substitute for Spring Valley. Now I need to find a stand in for Darrell Lea liquorice.
b) Slimy
I like avocados almost as much as I like passionfruit. My fierce love for fresh avocado with any combination of lemon/lime/Tabasco/garlic/tomato/onion/toast/chilli/wasabi mayonnaise/soy is only undermined by my furious loathing for any kind of cooked or over-processed avocado. The avocado which regularly appears in the vegetable tempura bowl at Don Don on Oxford St is a blight on the good name of that fine institution. I have no hestitation about shifting to the imperative here: Avocados should be cut in half, chopped, or mashed. Avocados shouldn’t be put anywhere near heat and they shouldn’t be put in a juicer.
Avocado juice is advertised on most juice menus I’ve seen since arriving in Africa. I’ve not experienced an iota of curiosity about avocado juice. Avocados shouldn’t be put in a juicer and that’s that.
I’m staying at a guesthouse in Zanzibar which provides breakfast. Breakfast starts with a plate of fruit and a glass of fresh juice. Yesterday a glass of pale green juice was placed before me. Um, what is it, I asked somewhat timorously. Avocado juice with lime, madame. Everything OK? Yes, yes, yes.
On the grounds that any principle worth rattling on about warrants testing, I decided to swallow my doubts and taste the juice. My prudence was possibly addled by the earliness of the hour. Icy crystals of very sweet lime juice baffled my expectations as to the texture of avocado juice. This glassful was very sweet, a little bit slimy, quite creamy, and not particularly flavoursome. If I’d been told that it was soursop or custard apple juice, I might have been able to drink the whole glassful. Somehow though, the knowledge that it was avocado juice acted upon my swallowing reflexes and I barely got through half a glass. I see no reason to vary the dictum: Avocados (wonderful fruit that they are) should never be put in a juicer.
By way of conclusion, to vindicate the triumph of one juice over another, here’s a sunset more passionfruit than avocado.
The rubbish on the beach is clearly a reminder that we live in a fallen world, a world in which avocados are put in juicers, a world in which neither fresh passion juice nor Spring Valley juices are universally available.
a) Seedy
There are many things I am missing about Sydney, well, Australia, at the moment. One of the less obvious is Spring Valley Orange and Passionfruit Juice. It’s worthy of capitalisation, this daily juice, this emergency repair fluid, and has wrenched me out of many a physiological and psychological pit. And then there are the liddle facts.
Anyway, fresh strained passionfruit juice surpasses the SV Orange and Pash by several degrees. It’s usually a combination of yellow and black passionfruit (one of which is sweeter), slightly sweetened and chilled. It’s embarrassingly cheap and divinely wonderful. I attempted to drink my body weight in passion juice (yes, sorry) on Lamu, being concerned that I might never sup the nectar again. Happily I find passion juice to be widely available all the way down the East African coast.
I drank this one at Buni Café in Zanzibar. My Peace Corps contact told me that in many parts of Tanzania, passion juice is the only available fresh juice. It is an excellent substitute for Spring Valley. Now I need to find a stand in for Darrell Lea liquorice.b) Slimy
I like avocados almost as much as I like passionfruit. My fierce love for fresh avocado with any combination of lemon/lime/Tabasco/garlic/tomato/onion/toast/chilli/wasabi mayonnaise/soy is only undermined by my furious loathing for any kind of cooked or over-processed avocado. The avocado which regularly appears in the vegetable tempura bowl at Don Don on Oxford St is a blight on the good name of that fine institution. I have no hestitation about shifting to the imperative here: Avocados should be cut in half, chopped, or mashed. Avocados shouldn’t be put anywhere near heat and they shouldn’t be put in a juicer.
Avocado juice is advertised on most juice menus I’ve seen since arriving in Africa. I’ve not experienced an iota of curiosity about avocado juice. Avocados shouldn’t be put in a juicer and that’s that.
I’m staying at a guesthouse in Zanzibar which provides breakfast. Breakfast starts with a plate of fruit and a glass of fresh juice. Yesterday a glass of pale green juice was placed before me. Um, what is it, I asked somewhat timorously. Avocado juice with lime, madame. Everything OK? Yes, yes, yes.
On the grounds that any principle worth rattling on about warrants testing, I decided to swallow my doubts and taste the juice. My prudence was possibly addled by the earliness of the hour. Icy crystals of very sweet lime juice baffled my expectations as to the texture of avocado juice. This glassful was very sweet, a little bit slimy, quite creamy, and not particularly flavoursome. If I’d been told that it was soursop or custard apple juice, I might have been able to drink the whole glassful. Somehow though, the knowledge that it was avocado juice acted upon my swallowing reflexes and I barely got through half a glass. I see no reason to vary the dictum: Avocados (wonderful fruit that they are) should never be put in a juicer.By way of conclusion, to vindicate the triumph of one juice over another, here’s a sunset more passionfruit than avocado.
The rubbish on the beach is clearly a reminder that we live in a fallen world, a world in which avocados are put in juicers, a world in which neither fresh passion juice nor Spring Valley juices are universally available.
I am the Great Pretender
Q. Who is Zanzibar’s most famous glam-rockin’ son?
A. Freddie Mercury.
Yep, it was news to me too. Throughout this very conservative town are scattered proud monuments to Freddie and to Queen, including a restaurant called Mercury’s. The house where Freddie grew up is now home to a souvenir shop which trumpets its Mercury lineage triumphantly.
A. Freddie Mercury.
Yep, it was news to me too. Throughout this very conservative town are scattered proud monuments to Freddie and to Queen, including a restaurant called Mercury’s. The house where Freddie grew up is now home to a souvenir shop which trumpets its Mercury lineage triumphantly.Proof of a Protean Planet
1. White pants
There are certain things that certain types of people don’t do. One of the things that people like me – messy, grumpy, domestically deficient, clumsy, slouchy, would-be urbane and bohemian people – don’t do is wear white pants, let alone white linen pants, not even in the tropics. My injunction on pale clothing was only very recently and reluctantly released and, proof of the slippery slope theory if nothing else, I’m the Owner of a pair of WHITE PANTS.
Those are my legs, my feet, my balcony. Those are my white pants. Soon I take a walk along the beach. I might even dare to eat a peach.
To add that they’re actually cream shouldn’t destigmatise them or me. Yes, they’re airy and comfortable, no, they don’t offend the Muslim population on Zanzibar or the conservative Christians on the mainland, and hurrah, no one in their right mind will mistake me for a prostitute or loose woman wearing them. Whilst I’m still dubious, I’m also unconvinced that they will stay cream or white or whatever for too long.
2. John Malkovich no longer reigns
I’ve been captivated by John Malkovich for years and years. The sadistic, debonair, savvy charm that he brings to his roles, those long dismissive stares, that too-clipped enunciation and painfully slow physicality: long live the über-rational bald dandy! Valmont, Ripley, I’ve been utterly unable to resist John Malkovich’s screen personae. I watched Jane Campion’s Portrait of A Lady and the nasty schtick was exactly the same. His interpretation of Osborne adheres perfectly to the formula he established, being John Malkovich, if you will, and yet I found myself utterly horrified by the cruelty which inhabits this, and every one of his performances. That my shudders were shudders of repulsion might be a higher homage to the big M’s thesp prowess or, alternatively might testify to some worrying resistance to morally questionable characters. Funny though, I bought the white pants just before watching Portrait. Causal nexus?
‘Time passes.’ (V. Woolf.) Vide Thoreau (H.D.), things change. We do, semioticians, greenhorns and others alike, people a strange and fluxient universe, do we not? Am I going soft in the head? Is travel broadening my horizons? Is the heat poaching my good judgment? Are the anti-malarials that I’ve started to take again sending me bonkers? Do I have malaria?
Not all is awry. The beach, fortunately, is still quite appealing.
There are certain things that certain types of people don’t do. One of the things that people like me – messy, grumpy, domestically deficient, clumsy, slouchy, would-be urbane and bohemian people – don’t do is wear white pants, let alone white linen pants, not even in the tropics. My injunction on pale clothing was only very recently and reluctantly released and, proof of the slippery slope theory if nothing else, I’m the Owner of a pair of WHITE PANTS.
Those are my legs, my feet, my balcony. Those are my white pants. Soon I take a walk along the beach. I might even dare to eat a peach.To add that they’re actually cream shouldn’t destigmatise them or me. Yes, they’re airy and comfortable, no, they don’t offend the Muslim population on Zanzibar or the conservative Christians on the mainland, and hurrah, no one in their right mind will mistake me for a prostitute or loose woman wearing them. Whilst I’m still dubious, I’m also unconvinced that they will stay cream or white or whatever for too long.
2. John Malkovich no longer reigns
I’ve been captivated by John Malkovich for years and years. The sadistic, debonair, savvy charm that he brings to his roles, those long dismissive stares, that too-clipped enunciation and painfully slow physicality: long live the über-rational bald dandy! Valmont, Ripley, I’ve been utterly unable to resist John Malkovich’s screen personae. I watched Jane Campion’s Portrait of A Lady and the nasty schtick was exactly the same. His interpretation of Osborne adheres perfectly to the formula he established, being John Malkovich, if you will, and yet I found myself utterly horrified by the cruelty which inhabits this, and every one of his performances. That my shudders were shudders of repulsion might be a higher homage to the big M’s thesp prowess or, alternatively might testify to some worrying resistance to morally questionable characters. Funny though, I bought the white pants just before watching Portrait. Causal nexus?
‘Time passes.’ (V. Woolf.) Vide Thoreau (H.D.), things change. We do, semioticians, greenhorns and others alike, people a strange and fluxient universe, do we not? Am I going soft in the head? Is travel broadening my horizons? Is the heat poaching my good judgment? Are the anti-malarials that I’ve started to take again sending me bonkers? Do I have malaria?
Not all is awry. The beach, fortunately, is still quite appealing.
Spice Grrl
Although I more frequently eschew organised group activities in favour of low rent Garbo posturing, there was no way I was going to miss out on a spice tour of Zanzibar. Having previously had no idea where most spices come from, I am now a walking repository of superficial knowledge on the cultivation of kitchen spices. On encountering clove trees and such like for the first time, I got over-excited and took it upon myself to taste all these spices in their fresh, unripe, unprocessed and unwashed state. I am pleased to announce that I am suffering no ill effects from such foolhardy spontaneity. Following is an extremely abridged field report.
Cinnamon
I had inferred that the term cinnamon bark wasn’t a figurative one; Michael Ondaatje’s beautiful poem, ‘The Cinnamon Peeler’ had prodded this inference along and added to my arsenal of cinnamon related fact that the bark was procured by means of peeling. This unprepossessing tree is a cinnamon tree.
Peel away some bark, and voilà: cinnamon.
The bark just regenerates on each peeling. Presumably a skilled peeler can coax fragrant quills from the trees with facility.
Cardamom
Cardamom pods and seeds and powders aren’t just vital spices, they are orchid by-products!
Apparently too they are a cure for seasickness. My voyage to Zanzibar from Dar Es Salaam, aboard the dubiously named Flying Horse, was calm enough but I am pocketing a handful of pods for the return trip.
Vanilla
Vanilla pods, vanilla beans, vanilla, vanilla, vanilla, another noble orchidaceous by-product. The pods in the photo are not yet fully grown, ripe only with possibility.
The half dried beans for sale elsewhere fairly oozed a sticky mass of seeds and a tremendous thick perfume like no version of vanilla I’ve previously encountered. My hands and head plump with vanilla, I swooned and entertained visions of vanilla quinces and crème anglaise and a bottle of Absolut infested with vanilla beans and all sorts of custard until pragmatism, of course, intervened and I realised the pointlessness of trailing a stash of vanilla pods across the continent with me. It’s not like I’m travelling with a whisk or anything. I note that I did not dally long with the notion of vanilla essence.
Clove
Where do cloves come from? Clove trees! The clove tree! Thrilled am I to discover that such a species exists.
Unripe cloves look just like ripe, undried cloves and taste not dissimilar either.
Nutmeg
Without nutmeg, where would spinach, and, for that matter, scrambled eggs, be?
Once upon a time the Anarchist’s Cookbook instructed the hopeful to smoke nutmeg for fun. This was possibly irresponsible information but no more so than the bomb-making instructions. My Zanzibar sources tell me that high-octane nutmeg tea is effective an aphrodisiac when served to women and as a sedative when served to men. So there you go.
Good old multipurpose nutmeg is the pip of a fruit which looks like a pale plum and hangs abundantly from enormous trees like these.
The pips only take five days to dry! If my sample dries as it should, I am sure it will bring me great luck to carry a nutmeg with me, along with my first of spring chestnut charm, collected in Milan.
I am chuffed almost beyond measure to have peered at these spices in situ. Without vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, and cloves, my quality of life would be markedly lower.
Cinnamon
I had inferred that the term cinnamon bark wasn’t a figurative one; Michael Ondaatje’s beautiful poem, ‘The Cinnamon Peeler’ had prodded this inference along and added to my arsenal of cinnamon related fact that the bark was procured by means of peeling. This unprepossessing tree is a cinnamon tree.
Peel away some bark, and voilà: cinnamon. The bark just regenerates on each peeling. Presumably a skilled peeler can coax fragrant quills from the trees with facility.Cardamom
Cardamom pods and seeds and powders aren’t just vital spices, they are orchid by-products!
Apparently too they are a cure for seasickness. My voyage to Zanzibar from Dar Es Salaam, aboard the dubiously named Flying Horse, was calm enough but I am pocketing a handful of pods for the return trip.Vanilla
Vanilla pods, vanilla beans, vanilla, vanilla, vanilla, another noble orchidaceous by-product. The pods in the photo are not yet fully grown, ripe only with possibility.
The half dried beans for sale elsewhere fairly oozed a sticky mass of seeds and a tremendous thick perfume like no version of vanilla I’ve previously encountered. My hands and head plump with vanilla, I swooned and entertained visions of vanilla quinces and crème anglaise and a bottle of Absolut infested with vanilla beans and all sorts of custard until pragmatism, of course, intervened and I realised the pointlessness of trailing a stash of vanilla pods across the continent with me. It’s not like I’m travelling with a whisk or anything. I note that I did not dally long with the notion of vanilla essence.Clove
Where do cloves come from? Clove trees! The clove tree! Thrilled am I to discover that such a species exists.
Unripe cloves look just like ripe, undried cloves and taste not dissimilar either.
Nutmeg
Without nutmeg, where would spinach, and, for that matter, scrambled eggs, be?
Once upon a time the Anarchist’s Cookbook instructed the hopeful to smoke nutmeg for fun. This was possibly irresponsible information but no more so than the bomb-making instructions. My Zanzibar sources tell me that high-octane nutmeg tea is effective an aphrodisiac when served to women and as a sedative when served to men. So there you go.
Good old multipurpose nutmeg is the pip of a fruit which looks like a pale plum and hangs abundantly from enormous trees like these.
The pips only take five days to dry! If my sample dries as it should, I am sure it will bring me great luck to carry a nutmeg with me, along with my first of spring chestnut charm, collected in Milan.I am chuffed almost beyond measure to have peered at these spices in situ. Without vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, and cloves, my quality of life would be markedly lower.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
About last night
How hot is it in the hold under a Kenyan bus? Terrifyingly, it’s probably hotter than in the passenger area. It’s hot enough to melt a tub of shea butter, that’s for sure.
At some ungodly hour this morning, I boarded a bus direct from Mombasa to Dar Es Salaam. The hour was ungodly, I’m well known to be damned, but the bus, like most of the buses leaving Mombasa, was holy, the words ‘Gospel Runner’ being painted on the back window. The cushy foreigner friendly buses with airconditioning and legroom that I’d counted on catching don’t run from Mombasa to Dar. Instead of bussing back to Nairobi and then down to Dar, adding at least a day’s travel and a night in big bad Nairobi, I opted for the bone-rattling dust buggy and somehow, eleven hours later, I’ve made it to Dar. Thank the Lord.
Being occasionally prone to such fripperies, I’d purchased a tub of shea butter in Nairobi adulterated only by that truly splendid fragrance, ylang ylang oil. Shea butter is like the pawpaw ointment/tiger balm/echinaecea/snake oil of the Rift Valley – with messianic fervour, its adherents allege it a remedy for everything from mozzie bites and stretch marks to sunburn, old age, and unhappiness. It contains anti-oxidants. My thinking was that shea butter is soft and my elbows, heels and fly-pocked feet are hard. The ylang ylangified version was produced by some Sudanese wimmin’s collective. Bingo. How could a bleeding heart like me say no?
Anyway, the ride from Mombasa liquefied the once solid shea butter and, typical bloody shonky NGO production values, the tub leaked. I’ve now got the best smelling pack in East Africa, not to mention the most moist and supple. Most of my underwear is now dual purpose too: it will attract mosquitos thanks to the ylang ylang and cure any bites and stings thanks to the shea butter.
I’m staying in a hostel called Luther House near the port run by a the church and hymns are being sung nearby. Hallelujah. Outside my window, an American pastor is making loud and grandiose statements about Strategy. Closer by, on the floor next to my bed, a herd of raucous cockroaches are mucking about. There’s a mozzie net over my bed but I’m tossing up whether or not to eat my last mango and trick the roaches away from my soon-to-be sleeping self by means of the skins and pips. Everything smells of ylang ylang. It’s all looking pretty funny from this side of the screen.
In the morning, I’ll hit the port to arrange a ferry ride to Zanzibar. If all goes to plan, tomorrow night, I’ll be floating off to another set of fragrant dreams in the Spice Islands.
At some ungodly hour this morning, I boarded a bus direct from Mombasa to Dar Es Salaam. The hour was ungodly, I’m well known to be damned, but the bus, like most of the buses leaving Mombasa, was holy, the words ‘Gospel Runner’ being painted on the back window. The cushy foreigner friendly buses with airconditioning and legroom that I’d counted on catching don’t run from Mombasa to Dar. Instead of bussing back to Nairobi and then down to Dar, adding at least a day’s travel and a night in big bad Nairobi, I opted for the bone-rattling dust buggy and somehow, eleven hours later, I’ve made it to Dar. Thank the Lord.
Being occasionally prone to such fripperies, I’d purchased a tub of shea butter in Nairobi adulterated only by that truly splendid fragrance, ylang ylang oil. Shea butter is like the pawpaw ointment/tiger balm/echinaecea/snake oil of the Rift Valley – with messianic fervour, its adherents allege it a remedy for everything from mozzie bites and stretch marks to sunburn, old age, and unhappiness. It contains anti-oxidants. My thinking was that shea butter is soft and my elbows, heels and fly-pocked feet are hard. The ylang ylangified version was produced by some Sudanese wimmin’s collective. Bingo. How could a bleeding heart like me say no?
Anyway, the ride from Mombasa liquefied the once solid shea butter and, typical bloody shonky NGO production values, the tub leaked. I’ve now got the best smelling pack in East Africa, not to mention the most moist and supple. Most of my underwear is now dual purpose too: it will attract mosquitos thanks to the ylang ylang and cure any bites and stings thanks to the shea butter.
I’m staying in a hostel called Luther House near the port run by a the church and hymns are being sung nearby. Hallelujah. Outside my window, an American pastor is making loud and grandiose statements about Strategy. Closer by, on the floor next to my bed, a herd of raucous cockroaches are mucking about. There’s a mozzie net over my bed but I’m tossing up whether or not to eat my last mango and trick the roaches away from my soon-to-be sleeping self by means of the skins and pips. Everything smells of ylang ylang. It’s all looking pretty funny from this side of the screen.
In the morning, I’ll hit the port to arrange a ferry ride to Zanzibar. If all goes to plan, tomorrow night, I’ll be floating off to another set of fragrant dreams in the Spice Islands.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Postess with the Mostess
Maybe someone will lodge a postal vote against Howard from Pai, aka Hippiesville, North Thailand.
I’ve been charged with an overdose of affection for virtual modes of communications. I’ll plead guilty if the choice is between the electronic and telephonic, favouring always an email over a coup de fil. That said, I wrote a PhD which, inter alia, defended printed books and first editions against facsimile and digital editions. Of course I’m a fan of the post! Poste Restante in Lamu was such a roaring and delightful success (thank youse all!) that I’d be foolish not to nominate a further destination. I’ll be able to pick up mail which arrives in Addis Ababa before Christmas at the following address:
Catriona Menzies-Pike
Poste Restante
Main Post Office
Churchill Road
Addis Ababa
ETHIOPIA
I’ve been charged with an overdose of affection for virtual modes of communications. I’ll plead guilty if the choice is between the electronic and telephonic, favouring always an email over a coup de fil. That said, I wrote a PhD which, inter alia, defended printed books and first editions against facsimile and digital editions. Of course I’m a fan of the post! Poste Restante in Lamu was such a roaring and delightful success (thank youse all!) that I’d be foolish not to nominate a further destination. I’ll be able to pick up mail which arrives in Addis Ababa before Christmas at the following address:Catriona Menzies-Pike
Poste Restante
Main Post Office
Churchill Road
Addis Ababa
ETHIOPIA
Animals strike curious poses
I’m in Mombasa now, far away from the safari lands. Flicking through the zillions of animal photographs I have taken, I realise that I have a follow up the Great Vegetables of the World Slide night: Wild Animals in the Wild. If I go gorilla-crazy in Uganda, there might even be scope for a sequel: Wilder Animals in the Wild. If I lose my marbles, I can make a PowerPoint presentation and add a voice over and wacky speech bubbles (It’s a hippo’s life!) and uplifting self help slogans (Sometimes we all need a little love!) and a soundtrack in which synthetic panpipes are mixed seamlessly into soaring violins. What nights we shall spend in front of a big screen, my friends, what laughs. I’ve been squirreling away plenty of safari factoids and anecdotes to add to the fun. Who knows the lifespan of an elephant? What about those thieving baboons? And who wants to hear about the rhino and the crazy wazungu?
Anyway. This is all an excuse to post a few more gratuitous safari shots.
Safari: this is how it’s done. You drive, you spot, you point, you look. A wise woman of my recent acquaintance declined the opportunity to go on safari on the grounds that she wasn’t much of a giraffe pointer. If the world is to be divided into stay-at-homes and giraffe pointers, Sorcha falls into the latter category, demonstrating the art of giraffe pointing with finesse.
Elephants. They eat.
See the wildebeest as they retreat! What noise does a wildebeest make? Book your seats now and you’ll find out!
The buffalo: a beast of mystery and surprising charisma.
I am a deeply sincere and spiritual woman. I appreciate sunsets and I have the photos to prove it. I do, really.
Truly miraculous it is that we may look out to the natural world and find ourselves there reflected.
But wait, there’s more! Zebra and gazelles and warthogs and baboons and monkeys and lizards and eagles and flamingos and rhinos and lions and cheetahs and hippos and crocs and moody grasses and wonky skyscapes and all sorts of sketchy shots taken from a moving vehicle…
Anyway. This is all an excuse to post a few more gratuitous safari shots.
Safari: this is how it’s done. You drive, you spot, you point, you look. A wise woman of my recent acquaintance declined the opportunity to go on safari on the grounds that she wasn’t much of a giraffe pointer. If the world is to be divided into stay-at-homes and giraffe pointers, Sorcha falls into the latter category, demonstrating the art of giraffe pointing with finesse.
Elephants. They eat.
See the wildebeest as they retreat! What noise does a wildebeest make? Book your seats now and you’ll find out!
The buffalo: a beast of mystery and surprising charisma.
I am a deeply sincere and spiritual woman. I appreciate sunsets and I have the photos to prove it. I do, really.
Truly miraculous it is that we may look out to the natural world and find ourselves there reflected.
But wait, there’s more! Zebra and gazelles and warthogs and baboons and monkeys and lizards and eagles and flamingos and rhinos and lions and cheetahs and hippos and crocs and moody grasses and wonky skyscapes and all sorts of sketchy shots taken from a moving vehicle…
Lacking only the fruit of the tinkle-tinkle tree
The Giraffe,
On the Masai Mara
The Pelly,
Many pelicans actually, and a bunch of flamingos on the shores of Lake Nakuru late in the day.
And Me.
And the rest of the safari crew looking very safari, again on the shores of Lake Nakuru.
There’s nought to this post save the nostalgic pleasure of being able to reconstruct the title of one of my favourite Roald Dahl books.
On the Masai MaraThe Pelly,
Many pelicans actually, and a bunch of flamingos on the shores of Lake Nakuru late in the day.And Me.
And the rest of the safari crew looking very safari, again on the shores of Lake Nakuru.There’s nought to this post save the nostalgic pleasure of being able to reconstruct the title of one of my favourite Roald Dahl books.
Cluck cluck, cluck cluck, cute
It happens not infrequently when I coo at infants that someone makes noises about biological clocks and maternal instincts. I rarely welcome this turn in the conversation. On the savannah, however, I was able to gaze at baby animals with impunity, the rugrats in question being heavier than me.
Aah! Noble Young Tusk!
We saw plenty of baby elephants on the Masai Mara but this tuskless chap was the smallest. He looked like a shrivelled little alien and was still being nourished at the breast of his mother. Being nourished, I might add, by means of the juvenile trunk. When he grows up, he can look forward to eating for seventeen hours a day in order to maintain his body weight.
Ooh! Baby Tenderhorn!
Baby rhinos gambol! Mama rhino strolled, baby rhino skipped off. Mama rhino caught up reluctantly, baby rhino whizzed around. Ah, the games. And that pink streak in the background is pure flamingo.
Aah! Little Clawmonger!
First, we spied the lioness and then we made out the figure of the lion in the scrub and then and then we followed the path of the lioness into another scrubby outpost and gurgled as one as she nosed around her four little cubs. For some reason, this scamp was taken to visit Dad across the way. I acknowledge that a lion cub is not, strictly speaking, smaller than me but defy anyone to charge me with the desire to bear a lion in my womb.
Cute, cute, cute: such blasphemy on my world weary edge. I would be a far less cynical person were I confronted with such appealing young innocents on a regular basis. For this reason, I count it a blessing that I do not live within ooh-ah of a safari park.
Aah! Noble Young Tusk!
We saw plenty of baby elephants on the Masai Mara but this tuskless chap was the smallest. He looked like a shrivelled little alien and was still being nourished at the breast of his mother. Being nourished, I might add, by means of the juvenile trunk. When he grows up, he can look forward to eating for seventeen hours a day in order to maintain his body weight.
Ooh! Baby Tenderhorn!
Baby rhinos gambol! Mama rhino strolled, baby rhino skipped off. Mama rhino caught up reluctantly, baby rhino whizzed around. Ah, the games. And that pink streak in the background is pure flamingo.Aah! Little Clawmonger!
First, we spied the lioness and then we made out the figure of the lion in the scrub and then and then we followed the path of the lioness into another scrubby outpost and gurgled as one as she nosed around her four little cubs. For some reason, this scamp was taken to visit Dad across the way. I acknowledge that a lion cub is not, strictly speaking, smaller than me but defy anyone to charge me with the desire to bear a lion in my womb.
Cute, cute, cute: such blasphemy on my world weary edge. I would be a far less cynical person were I confronted with such appealing young innocents on a regular basis. For this reason, I count it a blessing that I do not live within ooh-ah of a safari park.
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