Beware the trouser ants.
I remember as a child my parents taking us on holiday and one day we were particularly excited to find out that they were taking us to Burnham Beaches.
My brother and I were chatting about whether the beaches would be the same as they were in our beloved Cornwall, would they be sandy and long like Hayle or pebbly and steep shelving.
As it turned out we were sorely disappointed when we found out that they were made of wood The beaches in question were beech trees.
We were gutted and the day only got worse as we had to go on a long walk. No buckets and spades no ice creams, just trees leaves and walking. Could this day get any worse?
Yes it could, whist walking along in my sandals (ideal beach wear, not so good for wood walking) I managed to get a piece of twig wedged in between my foot and the shoe. In an effort to dislodge the twig and hence alleviate the immediate discomfort I sat down on a very convenient two foot high mound that was neatly situated directly beside the path.
It was a lot more cushioning than I expected for a soil mound, and then the reason why became startlingly apparent.
I had just parked my bottom on a red ants nest, whist the ants were probably more than a little surprised that a ten year old boy had decided to sit on their beautifully made nest they were also a bit annoyed, and whist they invited me in, it was not for tea and biscuits it was more for a main meal. Theirs.
My parents duly hauled me out in floods of tears and brushed off as many of the hungry critters as they as they could.
Unfortunately it took a full humiliating undressing in the middle of the woods to get rid of all the ants that had decided to explore the inner sanctums of my clothing.
This was my first experience of ants at odds with me.
When we moved to Africa, insects were one of my wife’s biggest bugbears. (no pun intended)
But in reality when you have good friends around you who are keen to share their knowledge it does not take long to learn what to take a close look at and what to steer well clear of.
We moved from Zimbabwe to Zambia in 2006 and had a nice place in the bush.
It was basic but had all the main amenities as well as a large garden.
We tended to live outside on the veranda most of the time and often walked around the garden in the evenings.
One particular evening in January 2007 I was walking in the garden and stopped to take in the beauty of the whole place, in the half light as night is coming in fast there is much to see in the way of bird life and spectacular sunsets.
As the final rays reflect of the thunder clouds that are themselves exploding and glowing with internal electricity.
I probably stood there for about five minutes. When an incredibly excruciating pain burst forth from all around the tops of my legs and my nethers.
Because of the darkness I could see nothing to give clue to what could be causing this pain, so I started to walk to the house. The pain immediately increased, so I stated to run, the pain intensified again.
I started to rip off my trousers and looking down realised the cause of all this fuss.
There were about three hundred 1 - 1.5cm long, large headed and even larger pincered ants attacking my legs and bits.
Sharon wondered what on earth I was doing. Never before in our 15 years of marriage had she seen me get my kit off quite so quickly, let alone do it at a full sprint.
Once relieved of my garments I started to brush them off, but they just don’t let go, they would rather relinquish the grip on their heads than they would on me and my bits.
By this time I was in the kitchen, Sharon had realised that this was not some strange new courtship I had developed but was in fact in pain, and it was not going away, so she came to help. (Albeit in fits of laughter) You can imagine the scene (it’s not a pretty one) Sharon and I having to prize off the remaining ants and heads by dislodging their pincers, it took a while but we got there in the end.
We subsequently found out that these are fire ants, or soldier ants and I am sure they have many other names too, I thought of quite a few that night.
They leave there nests to move or to hunt for food, They travel in huge columns miles long and about 8 cm wide and they are unstoppable. If you stand in their path they don’t bother to go round you they go through you.
They have been known to devour an entire chicken house full of birds in one night.
They will travel through a house clearing out any living thing in it, any scraps or molecules of food they may come across. When they attack humans you don’t feel them coming either.
They don’t just bite your ankles, they are very fleet of foot, and rush up your legs to where it gets warm, wait till there is a good couple of hundred of them there, knives and forks at the ready, then send a signal, and all dive in, in unison.
The next encounter we had with these was when we were camping up at Ndubuluba in the North of Zambia. It was early morning and the sun had not yet raised it’s head above the horizon and Sharon stepped out of the tent stretched and took in the beauty of the morning. A couple of minutes later, off came the clothes and amid a mass of flapping brushing off and swearing, I realised exactly what had happened and went to help.
The reason I thought of this story now is that the little blighters got me again last night as I was standing at the bar. Luckily these were smaller ones and not so many, but still not good.
Whilst they are not pleasant to be on the receiving end of they are fascinating creatures. We have since come to know them as trouser ants, because if you suddenly see someone ripping off their strides for no apparent reason, there is a pretty good chance that they have got a whole host of trouser ants tucking into their nethers. (You will have to find another reason if you see someone doing that in Cornwall though.)
Denzil Bark.
Tuesday 29 December 2009
Thursday 24 December 2009
Cornishman in Africa: Christmas Boerboels.
Before coming to Africa they were something that I had never heard of.
The closest I could think was Glass balls one hung on the Christmas tree in December.
They would always get knocked off during some raucous game and smash into millions of tiny pieces, only ninety nine percent of which would be picked up by the Hoover, the rest would later get stuck in the soles of your feet because you were running around the house with nothing on your feet, even though you had been told by mother that you should wear your slippers around the house at all times.
Boerboel. A name that strikes fear into many Africans, black or white.
To others they are the epitome of the perfect family pet. (apart from the terrible wind)
When I first went to Zimbabwe for the interview I stayed with a family who had one called Zulu, he was a good sized dog. Maybe I should describe a boerboel. They are similar to an English Mastiff but with a longer snout, they are apparently a mix of a Mastiff (spookily enough) and a long legged bullterrier, whatever that is when it is at home.(some say also great dane and Rottweiler, but I have my doubts) The truth of the matter is that nobody really knows what has gone into them apart from the English mastiff bit.
They were bread to protect families on the great African migration and later to protect Mines, families and homesteads. As such they are unlike most guard dogs in that they are very good family dogs. So they are smart and catch on very quickly, if you are excepted into the house they will protect you also. This is what happened to me on my first visit. Zulu befriended me and stayed with me the whole time I was there. Of course I fell in love with the breed and when we all moved out there it seemed like the logical choice. Not least because Arthur was petrified of big dogs having been snapped at on two previous occasions by large hounds.
So we bought Willow and Mulberry, two beautiful pedigree Boerboels eight weeks old and already weighing seven kgs (and that was just their paws)
They were pampered, petted, prodded, poked and most of all loved to pieces.
They came everywhere with us stayed in the back of the double cab when we went shopping and were always there when we came back. Nothing was ever missing from the back in fact on a few occasions we even found some extras in there. (fingers, hats gloves)
These dogs grew up big and strong and were known throughout the neighbourhood as the lions, they stood about 75cm to the shoulder and weighed about 75kgs, they were huge. They were also very obedient. If you whistled or said, no (loudly) they would stop in their tracks and just stand.
We often went walking in the bush at the weekends with the dogs through our land.
The land was criss crossed with tracks leading between small villages and homesteads, so there were often people wandering across the land which was fine. Just occasionally the dogs would see someone before we would, and go careering off through the bush. It was a game to them and it made it all the more fun if their prey ran. It invariably did. If they only stood still the dogs had no interest what so ever. Children also bore no interest for the dogs whatsoever which was lucky really.
On one occasion we were walking up the drive and there were three young men walking towards us, they did not see the dogs to start with and they swaggered on up our drive in a fairly arrogant fashion.
The dogs shot out of an adjacent field at that moment onto the drive from a field and saw the three, and the three saw the dogs (lions) the three guys turned and ran so fast they left two shoes behind. It did not take them long, about three seconds, until they realised they were not going to outrun the dogs so headed for the trees, unfortunately the only trees within two miles were small saplings about 4 metres tall and 10 cm across the trunk.
The three young men shot up the trees to the top and the inevitable happened, the trees just bent down to the ground with the three occupants just at nose level to the dogs who had caught up buy now. The poor guys were absolutely petrified and could not move, which was just as well really as the dogs just lost interest as they were not running any more.
We released the guys from the trees and introduced them to the dogs and explained that they were just family pets and had not as yet killed too many people. I don’t think they were very reassured, and they left pretty quickly. We never saw them again and the reputation of the lions grew. Many of our friends were burgled or attacked at their properties, funny enough we never had any bother. We always kept the dogs inside at night though so no one could poison them, then break in.
A couple of years later we bread Mulberry with a Large Brindle male and on the 21st December 2006 she had 9 strong healthy puppies, which she reared fantastically even letting the family handle them right from the start.
We fell in love with all those puppies and hated it when it was time for them to go. We were going to keep one which we chose as it was the runt, well it looked it for the first three minutes until it started eating and within a week was by far and away the largest this was Boris. The other one we also wanted to keep was lighter than the rest so we called him Zippo and the name has stuck to this day.
So if you ever have to choose a dog and want a bundle of fun, and you have a huge garden, enjoy walking a lot, oh you will also need a good sense of humour and deep pockets when it comes to feed bills. I can whole heartedly recommend a Boerboel.
This was when we discovered the true meaning of Christmas Boerboels.
Denzil Bark.
The closest I could think was Glass balls one hung on the Christmas tree in December.
They would always get knocked off during some raucous game and smash into millions of tiny pieces, only ninety nine percent of which would be picked up by the Hoover, the rest would later get stuck in the soles of your feet because you were running around the house with nothing on your feet, even though you had been told by mother that you should wear your slippers around the house at all times.
Boerboel. A name that strikes fear into many Africans, black or white.
To others they are the epitome of the perfect family pet. (apart from the terrible wind)
When I first went to Zimbabwe for the interview I stayed with a family who had one called Zulu, he was a good sized dog. Maybe I should describe a boerboel. They are similar to an English Mastiff but with a longer snout, they are apparently a mix of a Mastiff (spookily enough) and a long legged bullterrier, whatever that is when it is at home.(some say also great dane and Rottweiler, but I have my doubts) The truth of the matter is that nobody really knows what has gone into them apart from the English mastiff bit.
They were bread to protect families on the great African migration and later to protect Mines, families and homesteads. As such they are unlike most guard dogs in that they are very good family dogs. So they are smart and catch on very quickly, if you are excepted into the house they will protect you also. This is what happened to me on my first visit. Zulu befriended me and stayed with me the whole time I was there. Of course I fell in love with the breed and when we all moved out there it seemed like the logical choice. Not least because Arthur was petrified of big dogs having been snapped at on two previous occasions by large hounds.
So we bought Willow and Mulberry, two beautiful pedigree Boerboels eight weeks old and already weighing seven kgs (and that was just their paws)
They were pampered, petted, prodded, poked and most of all loved to pieces.
They came everywhere with us stayed in the back of the double cab when we went shopping and were always there when we came back. Nothing was ever missing from the back in fact on a few occasions we even found some extras in there. (fingers, hats gloves)
These dogs grew up big and strong and were known throughout the neighbourhood as the lions, they stood about 75cm to the shoulder and weighed about 75kgs, they were huge. They were also very obedient. If you whistled or said, no (loudly) they would stop in their tracks and just stand.
We often went walking in the bush at the weekends with the dogs through our land.
The land was criss crossed with tracks leading between small villages and homesteads, so there were often people wandering across the land which was fine. Just occasionally the dogs would see someone before we would, and go careering off through the bush. It was a game to them and it made it all the more fun if their prey ran. It invariably did. If they only stood still the dogs had no interest what so ever. Children also bore no interest for the dogs whatsoever which was lucky really.
On one occasion we were walking up the drive and there were three young men walking towards us, they did not see the dogs to start with and they swaggered on up our drive in a fairly arrogant fashion.
The dogs shot out of an adjacent field at that moment onto the drive from a field and saw the three, and the three saw the dogs (lions) the three guys turned and ran so fast they left two shoes behind. It did not take them long, about three seconds, until they realised they were not going to outrun the dogs so headed for the trees, unfortunately the only trees within two miles were small saplings about 4 metres tall and 10 cm across the trunk.
The three young men shot up the trees to the top and the inevitable happened, the trees just bent down to the ground with the three occupants just at nose level to the dogs who had caught up buy now. The poor guys were absolutely petrified and could not move, which was just as well really as the dogs just lost interest as they were not running any more.
We released the guys from the trees and introduced them to the dogs and explained that they were just family pets and had not as yet killed too many people. I don’t think they were very reassured, and they left pretty quickly. We never saw them again and the reputation of the lions grew. Many of our friends were burgled or attacked at their properties, funny enough we never had any bother. We always kept the dogs inside at night though so no one could poison them, then break in.
A couple of years later we bread Mulberry with a Large Brindle male and on the 21st December 2006 she had 9 strong healthy puppies, which she reared fantastically even letting the family handle them right from the start.
We fell in love with all those puppies and hated it when it was time for them to go. We were going to keep one which we chose as it was the runt, well it looked it for the first three minutes until it started eating and within a week was by far and away the largest this was Boris. The other one we also wanted to keep was lighter than the rest so we called him Zippo and the name has stuck to this day.
So if you ever have to choose a dog and want a bundle of fun, and you have a huge garden, enjoy walking a lot, oh you will also need a good sense of humour and deep pockets when it comes to feed bills. I can whole heartedly recommend a Boerboel.
This was when we discovered the true meaning of Christmas Boerboels.
Denzil Bark.
Corrnishman in Africa: Christmas Shopping.
I have not seen my family for 10 weeks now and it hurts. I am going to see them over Christmas for two weeks when I leave the sun baked lands of Africa to return to the windswept and probably cold and damp land of Cornwall. But boy am I looking forward to seeing them all again.
I decided this weekend to start my Christmas shopping. The decorations are going up in the shops and the Christmas style special offer barkers are up in the shops with pictures of bells, baubles, holly and SNOW! Yes snow. It’s about 36 degrees here and yes whilst we have had our first rains, I would be prepared to bet my left ear that we will not have snow here in Zambia this festive season, and that has nothing to do with global warming. It just isn’t going to happen. ITS SUMMER HERE. I guess it’s just one of the hang ups that has been inherited from our colonial forefather’s memories of Christmas. And that’s probably why they left the UK in the first place because it’s so bloomin cold and wet.
We are not doing any big presents in our household this Christmas, just small and thoughtful. So I decided to go to the craft market at Arcades, as that is usually a good place to get something reminiscent of Zambia without breaking the bank.
I arrived early and had a brief scout around before popping into Spar to pick up some essentials that I had forgotten to get yesterday and to collect my thoughts, without being hassled by overzealous store holders. I dropped those back to the car and started Christmas shopping in earnest.
There are some genuinely nice pieces at the craft market and there is also some tat. You have to walk up and down the avenues a couple of times to distinguish the different qualities of similar products and once that is done you get in and start haggling.
Now haggling is something I enjoy and find it hard to get out of the habit of when I get back to Cornwall. You get some really odd looks in Tesco when you are at the checkout with a rather large queue behind you, when you are going through every item trying to beat the poor till operator down in price on each one. It seldom works and usually results in a supervisor being called and you being asked to either by at the price or leave the store. Where’s their sense of adventure.
Haggling here, I always feel you want to be fair and firm if it is too much walk away, don’t screw the guys too much, they need to make a living too. If you are happy to pay so much, go that far, then no further. If you find it cheaper later on, on another stall, well you have just learned.
Ear rings, necklaces, bracelets, bangles, purses, bowls, key rings, pictures for Sharon, Kate and George’s girlfriend Jade.
Animal statues, woolly hats, key rings, bangles, semi precious rocks and pictures for Henry Arthur and George.
I got a number of other trinkets for the whole family. What I like about buying from this sort of place is each of these things are a little different from the bits and pieces that you can pick up in the UK and for a fraction of the cost, whist putting a bit of money into the pockets of the craftsmen that make them. And don’t worry I am not under the illusion that it is only the craftsmen that are selling at the craft market. Most of them are traders who have bought from the craftsmen, but they need to eat too.
Its quite an intense experience purchasing in this type of environment as there is always someone trying to grab your attention and cajole or guilt trip you into purchasing from them, even though there isn’t anything on their stand that you really want.
If the young and disenchanted of the UK had the get up and go, that a lot of these guys have over here have. a) they could make a lot of money and b) they could learn a lot about self respect and making things happen for themselves.
I came away feeling quite happy with what I had purchased, comfortable in the fact that I have probably got half my Christmas shopping sorted and not so happy that I will more than likely have to pay excess baggage on the way back to Cornwall.
Denzil Bark.
I decided this weekend to start my Christmas shopping. The decorations are going up in the shops and the Christmas style special offer barkers are up in the shops with pictures of bells, baubles, holly and SNOW! Yes snow. It’s about 36 degrees here and yes whilst we have had our first rains, I would be prepared to bet my left ear that we will not have snow here in Zambia this festive season, and that has nothing to do with global warming. It just isn’t going to happen. ITS SUMMER HERE. I guess it’s just one of the hang ups that has been inherited from our colonial forefather’s memories of Christmas. And that’s probably why they left the UK in the first place because it’s so bloomin cold and wet.
We are not doing any big presents in our household this Christmas, just small and thoughtful. So I decided to go to the craft market at Arcades, as that is usually a good place to get something reminiscent of Zambia without breaking the bank.
I arrived early and had a brief scout around before popping into Spar to pick up some essentials that I had forgotten to get yesterday and to collect my thoughts, without being hassled by overzealous store holders. I dropped those back to the car and started Christmas shopping in earnest.
There are some genuinely nice pieces at the craft market and there is also some tat. You have to walk up and down the avenues a couple of times to distinguish the different qualities of similar products and once that is done you get in and start haggling.
Now haggling is something I enjoy and find it hard to get out of the habit of when I get back to Cornwall. You get some really odd looks in Tesco when you are at the checkout with a rather large queue behind you, when you are going through every item trying to beat the poor till operator down in price on each one. It seldom works and usually results in a supervisor being called and you being asked to either by at the price or leave the store. Where’s their sense of adventure.
Haggling here, I always feel you want to be fair and firm if it is too much walk away, don’t screw the guys too much, they need to make a living too. If you are happy to pay so much, go that far, then no further. If you find it cheaper later on, on another stall, well you have just learned.
Ear rings, necklaces, bracelets, bangles, purses, bowls, key rings, pictures for Sharon, Kate and George’s girlfriend Jade.
Animal statues, woolly hats, key rings, bangles, semi precious rocks and pictures for Henry Arthur and George.
I got a number of other trinkets for the whole family. What I like about buying from this sort of place is each of these things are a little different from the bits and pieces that you can pick up in the UK and for a fraction of the cost, whist putting a bit of money into the pockets of the craftsmen that make them. And don’t worry I am not under the illusion that it is only the craftsmen that are selling at the craft market. Most of them are traders who have bought from the craftsmen, but they need to eat too.
Its quite an intense experience purchasing in this type of environment as there is always someone trying to grab your attention and cajole or guilt trip you into purchasing from them, even though there isn’t anything on their stand that you really want.
If the young and disenchanted of the UK had the get up and go, that a lot of these guys have over here have. a) they could make a lot of money and b) they could learn a lot about self respect and making things happen for themselves.
I came away feeling quite happy with what I had purchased, comfortable in the fact that I have probably got half my Christmas shopping sorted and not so happy that I will more than likely have to pay excess baggage on the way back to Cornwall.
Denzil Bark.
Sunday 20 December 2009
A Cornishman in Africa: Paying to be fit.
When I first came to Africa I found the whole driving thing quite similar to that of Cornwall, just a little more erratic.(and a bit more scary) Though the one thing that did spook me a bit was the road blocks, it’s one thing being flagged down at a road block, but being flagged down by a man with a gun is another thing. People just don’t carry guns around in Cornwall, there is no need.
I must tell you there is one road block I go through every day on the way to and from work where there is a policeman who wears a very posh jacket, High visibility and blue, I did not pay much attention to it to start off with then I realised that I recognised it. Next time I went through I took a more careful look. Bold as brass across the back and the front was the motif “Royal Mail”. Very nice and I am sure it keeps the chill out!
Anyway back to the road blocks, I have got totally used to them now and don’t bat an eyelid when I come to them, just be polite and courteous and you usually get straight through without a second glance. This having been said, there are instances where the occasional Plod may be either a little hard up, having a bad day, takes umbrage to your appearance, or just wants to be awkward. Then you get the slow, walk around the car, the testing of the lights, the request to see your metal warning Triangles (and they have to be metal, they can’t be the far superior plastic highly reflective reflecting triangles) I have also been asked to prove that I have a fire extinguisher in the car, as apparently that too is a legal requirement. Then of course there is the Driving Licence. Now the driving licence is a real bone of contention. I used my UK driving licence when I first came out and did so for about a year, but having been stopped at numerous road blocks, I was told on a couple of occasions that this was only valid for 6 months then I had to get a Zambian one. Which apparently seeing as I already have a UK one is just a matter of transferring the information onto the Zambian Licence.
So seeing as I had been here six months this trip I decided to do the decent thing and get one. So I filled out the forms, paid the money and did the first part. Then I was told that I would have to have a full medical. I did not see this as being a problem as I consider myself to be in fairly good shape. Now this medical took the form of a four part test. Hearing, Mental agility, Sight and finally the Physical.
Once we got to the medical centre having rung ahead to make sure the doctor was there, we got right down to the medical and things started to become apparent.
HEARING. This would be the bit where he told me how much he was going to charge me to write out the medical report.
MENTAL AGILITY. This was where I had to decide if I was going down this route and if I could afford it. (As it turned out there was no other route)
SIGHT. Looking deep into the depths of my wallet in the dingy office, to see if I had enough money there.
PHYSICAL. Standing up, money in hand, leaning over the desk to the fine doctor, to hand him the money.
If you manage to pass all four tests to the required standard you are deemed medically fit to drive on the roads of Zambia.
OK, so that is the tricky medical bit done so I went back to the traffic offices only to be told that I would in fact have to sit a driving test and pass a spoken test on the Zambian Highway code. That’s fine I thought it will be interesting to be tested again. The same day I went over to the testing centre. Here I came across a door with the sign Chief Road Traffic Officer. I could not resist it, I knocked and went in.
The gentleman in charge is a very nice, polite, well informed Zambian who told me that I did not in fact have to have a Zambian Driving Licence and was quite legally entitled to drive on my UK licence in Zambia for the duration of my stay. Only if I took up permanent residency might I need one, then I would also have to surrender my UK licence, as you are not allowed to carry two. I thought this all a little odd but thanked him for his time and left his office.
Outside, my examiner had arrived. I thought well, I have come this far I might just as well go the whole hog and finish it off.
We pulled out into the traffic and off down the road, we had not gone 20metres when he said, you have passed Mr Bark, if you can take the next left and park up in the car park on the left under the tree, I have some paperwork to complete then we can return to the office in about half an hour. I really thought he was joking but oh, no this is driving test Zambia style.
So true to his word, when we got back to his office he furnished me with the piece of paper showing that I had officially passed. Then back across town to have my photo taken for the actual licence and that was it. A six week wait and I picked up my full Zambian driving licence.
It does not surprise me now that the standard of driving is what it is in Africa, if this is what it takes to get the licence. (Just pure determination and about 100,000 Kwacha)
Denzil Bark.
I must tell you there is one road block I go through every day on the way to and from work where there is a policeman who wears a very posh jacket, High visibility and blue, I did not pay much attention to it to start off with then I realised that I recognised it. Next time I went through I took a more careful look. Bold as brass across the back and the front was the motif “Royal Mail”. Very nice and I am sure it keeps the chill out!
Anyway back to the road blocks, I have got totally used to them now and don’t bat an eyelid when I come to them, just be polite and courteous and you usually get straight through without a second glance. This having been said, there are instances where the occasional Plod may be either a little hard up, having a bad day, takes umbrage to your appearance, or just wants to be awkward. Then you get the slow, walk around the car, the testing of the lights, the request to see your metal warning Triangles (and they have to be metal, they can’t be the far superior plastic highly reflective reflecting triangles) I have also been asked to prove that I have a fire extinguisher in the car, as apparently that too is a legal requirement. Then of course there is the Driving Licence. Now the driving licence is a real bone of contention. I used my UK driving licence when I first came out and did so for about a year, but having been stopped at numerous road blocks, I was told on a couple of occasions that this was only valid for 6 months then I had to get a Zambian one. Which apparently seeing as I already have a UK one is just a matter of transferring the information onto the Zambian Licence.
So seeing as I had been here six months this trip I decided to do the decent thing and get one. So I filled out the forms, paid the money and did the first part. Then I was told that I would have to have a full medical. I did not see this as being a problem as I consider myself to be in fairly good shape. Now this medical took the form of a four part test. Hearing, Mental agility, Sight and finally the Physical.
Once we got to the medical centre having rung ahead to make sure the doctor was there, we got right down to the medical and things started to become apparent.
HEARING. This would be the bit where he told me how much he was going to charge me to write out the medical report.
MENTAL AGILITY. This was where I had to decide if I was going down this route and if I could afford it. (As it turned out there was no other route)
SIGHT. Looking deep into the depths of my wallet in the dingy office, to see if I had enough money there.
PHYSICAL. Standing up, money in hand, leaning over the desk to the fine doctor, to hand him the money.
If you manage to pass all four tests to the required standard you are deemed medically fit to drive on the roads of Zambia.
OK, so that is the tricky medical bit done so I went back to the traffic offices only to be told that I would in fact have to sit a driving test and pass a spoken test on the Zambian Highway code. That’s fine I thought it will be interesting to be tested again. The same day I went over to the testing centre. Here I came across a door with the sign Chief Road Traffic Officer. I could not resist it, I knocked and went in.
The gentleman in charge is a very nice, polite, well informed Zambian who told me that I did not in fact have to have a Zambian Driving Licence and was quite legally entitled to drive on my UK licence in Zambia for the duration of my stay. Only if I took up permanent residency might I need one, then I would also have to surrender my UK licence, as you are not allowed to carry two. I thought this all a little odd but thanked him for his time and left his office.
Outside, my examiner had arrived. I thought well, I have come this far I might just as well go the whole hog and finish it off.
We pulled out into the traffic and off down the road, we had not gone 20metres when he said, you have passed Mr Bark, if you can take the next left and park up in the car park on the left under the tree, I have some paperwork to complete then we can return to the office in about half an hour. I really thought he was joking but oh, no this is driving test Zambia style.
So true to his word, when we got back to his office he furnished me with the piece of paper showing that I had officially passed. Then back across town to have my photo taken for the actual licence and that was it. A six week wait and I picked up my full Zambian driving licence.
It does not surprise me now that the standard of driving is what it is in Africa, if this is what it takes to get the licence. (Just pure determination and about 100,000 Kwacha)
Denzil Bark.
Thursday 17 December 2009
A Cornishman in Africa: An interesting night in Mansa.
Now I don’t mind roughing it a bit and have spent more than a few nights under the stars, with nothing between me, the ground and sky but the clothes I fell over in. I mean laid down in. I have made shelters out of branches, leaves, grass and moss, and slept quite comfortably in them.
One thing that really gets me, is a dirty hotel room. I don’t know if it is the fact that you are paying for it or just the fact that someone has slept there before you and part of them is still there. If it’s not clean it’s not nice.
I recently found the Guest house from hell. I was in the position of being in a small town in the far extremities of Zambia, with very little fuel, as the fuel stations in town had just run out that day, so I did not know how long my stay was to be. I only had a limited amount of money and knew that, when the fuel did arrive, I had to be sure there was enough money left to buy the fuel for the return journey. So I was on a budget, a tight budget. In Mansa there are basically two places to stay, one up market Hotel and one down market guest house. Up market was mega bucks and would have swallowed all my money in just one night, down market I could afforded to stay for 5 nights.
I opted for down market, big mistake. I should have seen the writing on the wall (but I couldn’t because they were textured and filthy) when there was a pair of worn out flip flops on the floor of the bedroom, that the cleaners (I use the term loosely) seemed to have inadvertently overlooked. These were evicted into the yard where they stayed until the next morning when I left. Then there was the bathroom. Now I have seen some pretty ropy tiling in my life but I have never seen it done in brail with mud for grout. The taps were interesting too, I can only assume that they were decorations, because they were certainly no use for the function that I was hoping they might perform. There was a towel on the back of the door which resembled the type of attire a sumo wrestler might wear and it looked a little like he may have been wearing it for a fortnight during some very strenuous bouts.
The mirror was set in a plastic surround, the type you may have found in a tip in the UK in the 1970’s. It had also been used by a good number of the previous occupants of the room as an ashtray, so it was part melted with brown burns and stains on all the flat surfaces. The plastic cup had grooves where cigarettes had melted the rim and retained within it were three spent matches, I suppose I should be grateful that there were no cigarette buts in there to keep the matches company.
The bedding however (I only checked the sheets and threw the rest off) seemed clean, though it is difficult to tell when they have a fern pattern and they are shades of mid to dark brown.
When I checked in I took the liberty of ordering dinner. T’ Bone steak and chips, I thought it would be hard to get that wrong. I asked to have it at 18.30 when the service started. 18.30 duly arrived and I made my way to the dining room and they bought out my meal. They delivered it fully clingwrapped, over cooked and cold. Dumped on the table unceremoniously, leaving me to unwrap the condensation covered offering. I have never had a meal served in such a fashion so I had to see what it tasted like in case it was a local delicacy. You could say I was brave, or stupid (the latter in retrospect). The meal did not disappoint, it tasted just like it looked, diabolical. I took it back to the kitchen and inserted it where I thought it would feel most at home, then suggested to the kitchen staff that they did not charge me for it.
Totally dejected and hungry I went to my room and drank one of the warm beers from my warm fridge that I had been bought earlier.
At this point I must explain that I was not alone in this fine establishment, there was a group of church stewards staying there for a seminar, though it sounded more like a canned laughter convention in overdrive. Every five to ten minutes there was an explosion of forced raucous laughter, which went on till about midnight. These guys also had a really weird habit of walking up and down outside the rooms ringing a hand bell every half hour. The first time I heard it I thought that it was a fire alarm and dashed out into the car park in my underpants. I stood there on my own for a couple of minutes feeling rather foolish, then went back to my room.
I decided then to go to bed and read.
The mosquitoes from the entire north east of the country decided to come and join me for a goodnight story, so I dropped the Mozi net and tried to tuck myself in. The holes in the net were as numerous as they were large, and the net hung with the remains of splatted bugs that a previous occupant had seen fit to eradicate.
The areal barrage continued but was only to be out done by one that came up through the mattress. I am not sure whether it was fleas, bed bugs or some legendary African beast, but about an hour in I finally gave up on sleep. I went to the bathroom to find I had come up in red welts up my legs over my body and up my arms to my fingers. 97 to be as exact as I can be, without having got someone else to count the ones out of sight.
I decided to have a bath and try to feel clean. This meant trying to cajole the ornamental lumps of metal on the end of the bath into relinquishing some of their brown sludge. It took an hour and 23 minutes to run enough water for me to at least dampen myself.
I decided to drip dry rather than using the thing hanging on the door.
I sat on what appeared to be the cleanest thing in the room, a chair and finally nodded off to sleep about 03.30 with the whining of the mosies to serenade me.
At 04.30 there was that bloody bloke with the bell again outside my room.
Breakfast at 06.30, should I? Or should I not? Well I suppose I have paid for it, I might just as well have a look at it. It was described as a full English breakfast. A frankfurter, a piece of boiled pig, I think he called that bacon. An egg that had been laid by a budgie, then left in the sun to solidify. The orange juice came from one of those nice machines with the glass tops and a paddle inside that you help yourself from. That was strong, warm, orange squash. I chased my breakfast around the plate for five minutes and ate half the frankfurter.
I went to reception to pay, explained politely that it was not the best night I had spent in a Guest house, packed my bags and left I did not care if I had to sleep in the truck I was not going back.
I am not generally a moaning bastard, but this place took the biscuit.
If asked would I go there again, the answer would have to be yes, on the condition that I could take Gordon Ramsey with me, just to see if he could manage a whole night. And not swear!!!!!!!!
Denzil Bark.
One thing that really gets me, is a dirty hotel room. I don’t know if it is the fact that you are paying for it or just the fact that someone has slept there before you and part of them is still there. If it’s not clean it’s not nice.
I recently found the Guest house from hell. I was in the position of being in a small town in the far extremities of Zambia, with very little fuel, as the fuel stations in town had just run out that day, so I did not know how long my stay was to be. I only had a limited amount of money and knew that, when the fuel did arrive, I had to be sure there was enough money left to buy the fuel for the return journey. So I was on a budget, a tight budget. In Mansa there are basically two places to stay, one up market Hotel and one down market guest house. Up market was mega bucks and would have swallowed all my money in just one night, down market I could afforded to stay for 5 nights.
I opted for down market, big mistake. I should have seen the writing on the wall (but I couldn’t because they were textured and filthy) when there was a pair of worn out flip flops on the floor of the bedroom, that the cleaners (I use the term loosely) seemed to have inadvertently overlooked. These were evicted into the yard where they stayed until the next morning when I left. Then there was the bathroom. Now I have seen some pretty ropy tiling in my life but I have never seen it done in brail with mud for grout. The taps were interesting too, I can only assume that they were decorations, because they were certainly no use for the function that I was hoping they might perform. There was a towel on the back of the door which resembled the type of attire a sumo wrestler might wear and it looked a little like he may have been wearing it for a fortnight during some very strenuous bouts.
The mirror was set in a plastic surround, the type you may have found in a tip in the UK in the 1970’s. It had also been used by a good number of the previous occupants of the room as an ashtray, so it was part melted with brown burns and stains on all the flat surfaces. The plastic cup had grooves where cigarettes had melted the rim and retained within it were three spent matches, I suppose I should be grateful that there were no cigarette buts in there to keep the matches company.
The bedding however (I only checked the sheets and threw the rest off) seemed clean, though it is difficult to tell when they have a fern pattern and they are shades of mid to dark brown.
When I checked in I took the liberty of ordering dinner. T’ Bone steak and chips, I thought it would be hard to get that wrong. I asked to have it at 18.30 when the service started. 18.30 duly arrived and I made my way to the dining room and they bought out my meal. They delivered it fully clingwrapped, over cooked and cold. Dumped on the table unceremoniously, leaving me to unwrap the condensation covered offering. I have never had a meal served in such a fashion so I had to see what it tasted like in case it was a local delicacy. You could say I was brave, or stupid (the latter in retrospect). The meal did not disappoint, it tasted just like it looked, diabolical. I took it back to the kitchen and inserted it where I thought it would feel most at home, then suggested to the kitchen staff that they did not charge me for it.
Totally dejected and hungry I went to my room and drank one of the warm beers from my warm fridge that I had been bought earlier.
At this point I must explain that I was not alone in this fine establishment, there was a group of church stewards staying there for a seminar, though it sounded more like a canned laughter convention in overdrive. Every five to ten minutes there was an explosion of forced raucous laughter, which went on till about midnight. These guys also had a really weird habit of walking up and down outside the rooms ringing a hand bell every half hour. The first time I heard it I thought that it was a fire alarm and dashed out into the car park in my underpants. I stood there on my own for a couple of minutes feeling rather foolish, then went back to my room.
I decided then to go to bed and read.
The mosquitoes from the entire north east of the country decided to come and join me for a goodnight story, so I dropped the Mozi net and tried to tuck myself in. The holes in the net were as numerous as they were large, and the net hung with the remains of splatted bugs that a previous occupant had seen fit to eradicate.
The areal barrage continued but was only to be out done by one that came up through the mattress. I am not sure whether it was fleas, bed bugs or some legendary African beast, but about an hour in I finally gave up on sleep. I went to the bathroom to find I had come up in red welts up my legs over my body and up my arms to my fingers. 97 to be as exact as I can be, without having got someone else to count the ones out of sight.
I decided to have a bath and try to feel clean. This meant trying to cajole the ornamental lumps of metal on the end of the bath into relinquishing some of their brown sludge. It took an hour and 23 minutes to run enough water for me to at least dampen myself.
I decided to drip dry rather than using the thing hanging on the door.
I sat on what appeared to be the cleanest thing in the room, a chair and finally nodded off to sleep about 03.30 with the whining of the mosies to serenade me.
At 04.30 there was that bloody bloke with the bell again outside my room.
Breakfast at 06.30, should I? Or should I not? Well I suppose I have paid for it, I might just as well have a look at it. It was described as a full English breakfast. A frankfurter, a piece of boiled pig, I think he called that bacon. An egg that had been laid by a budgie, then left in the sun to solidify. The orange juice came from one of those nice machines with the glass tops and a paddle inside that you help yourself from. That was strong, warm, orange squash. I chased my breakfast around the plate for five minutes and ate half the frankfurter.
I went to reception to pay, explained politely that it was not the best night I had spent in a Guest house, packed my bags and left I did not care if I had to sleep in the truck I was not going back.
I am not generally a moaning bastard, but this place took the biscuit.
If asked would I go there again, the answer would have to be yes, on the condition that I could take Gordon Ramsey with me, just to see if he could manage a whole night. And not swear!!!!!!!!
Denzil Bark.
A Cornishman in Africa: Monkey Bites Mother
One of my best friends in the world, whilst having the most ridiculously frustrating African day, came out with what I thought to be a truly wonderful saying. “It’s enough to make a Monkey bite his mother.”
I think it really sums up true frustration in an African Context. I have tried use it as little as possible, so as not to over use it and cheapen it.
Today however I have used it twice, and I fear before this trip is over, I may well have used it a few more times.
On Thursday, I was asked if I would like to accompany a shipment of 2 tons of water analysis equipment on a 1700km round trip across Zambia. Of course I jumped at the opportunity, and started to make preparations.
As with any long road trip the success or failure of the venture depends on planning. Fortunately for me the planning for this trip had already been done by a seasoned campaigner who had been moving medical equipment around Africa for years.
There were however a few grey areas, the first being the fact that we were to be travelling in a brand new truck (A Tata) with only 48 km on the clock, now given the choice of a new one with 12 or an old one with 200,000 I would go for the old one every time.
The second problem is the new Lorry needed markings on the door to state who it belongs to and what all the company details are. We had not got them yet, but it was OK because they were coming at 08.30.
Thirdly. The fact that we have just got over a chronic fuel shortage which thankfully now seems to be over.
At this stage let me point out the plan for this trip was quite straight forward. We leave at 09.00 drive through to Mansa stopping only for fuel, (We had rung ahead to make sure there was fuel available) picking up lunch on the way, eat it on the hoof, switching drivers as necessary. Arrive Mansa somewhere around 19.00. Stay the night. Unload Saturday morning at 07.00 leave at 08.00 and return to Lusaka for about 18.00. Itsounds straight forward doesn’t it. Well the sticker man arrived at 09.00 with the stickers but the details on them were wrong. Oh joy. So off he went and said he would be back in an hour with the right ones. At 12.00 and after about 23 phone calls he returned and the details were perfect. Unfortunately he had just brought the proof and the real ones had not even gone into production. So the best option was to drive the lorry to the factory, wait for them to produce the stickers, apply them to the side of the vehicle so that we may be on our way.
By 14:00 we were on our way.
The journey went smoothly with Mr Phiri at the wheel. A real gentleman of some sixty odd years, but solid as a rock. We reached Kapiri Maposhi, our first fuelling point by 17:00 only to find that none of the four fuel stations had any diesel. Bother I thought. (I did not think that at all actually) So in true Zimbabwean fashion we had to make a plan. In Africa when there is a crisis there is always someone nearby ready to lend a hand. (as long as he or she can make at least one hundred per cent profit) Sure enough it was not long before we had found someone to help. We were careful not to get a local mix of 50/50 diesel paraffin mix. We managed to secure 40 litres of diesel. Whilst filling up the tank, a bit of a cufuffle broke out amongst the young entrepreneurs about who’s customer we were, and who was to get the money. During this Mr Phiri got jostled a bit but no harm was done. We filled our tank and were on our way again. By the time we left, the last vestiges of the sun had fled the sky and darkness was setting in fast.
At this point Mr Phiri pulled over and said that I could take over the driving. Now since leaving Lusaka I had, had a couple of trouser browning moments, which is not unusual on Zambian roads but I had started to recognise a pattern. Mr Phiri it seems has excellent eyesight but unfortunately it only seems to venture as far as the end of the bonnet. Which even more unfortunately for me and the other road users, on a Tata 173S is about 14cm in front of the steering wheel. So when darkness sets in it is reduced further.
I drove for 60 km and we pulled into a very nice lodge (The Forrest Inn) just outside Mukushi. It was by now just after 19:00, they had one Chalet free but at least it had three beds. We ate, had a drink and turned in for the night. It was at this stage Mr Phiri realised that he had been relieved of all of his money, we assumed that it had been during the cafuffel at the fuel stop. You have to be constantly on your guard in any environment.
I was woken at three to the sound of a striking Match and the room illuminated, then the lit match went winging across the room and landed on the floor. (Luckily stone floor) It turned out that Mr Phiri was checking the time. He obviously has no luminescence on his watch. I do wish he had just asked.
At 04.50 Mr Phiri left the chalet and I thought thank heavens for that at least now I can get some sleep and stop worrying about being burnt to a crisp in my sleep. Oh no, two minutes later I heard the Tata start (an unmistakable clatter) then it revved and revved until the airbrakes realised then I heard it driving around the site. Bear in mind this is a beautiful, quiet, secluded, very high class site where people go to get away. The sound got louder until I realised that Mr Phiri was going to park the lorry next to his bed. And he did, with the wonderful deafening, (at that time in the morning) sound of the air brakes explosively hissing as they were applied. The night was officially over, I got up and showered grumpy.
Breakfast at 06:30 lightened my mood as it was excellent, Eggs, sausage, tomatoes, bacon, beans and chips for some reason. All this with a selection of fruit juices and toast. Cooked to perfection. Brilliant.
We were on the road again by 07:00 Mr Phiri driving of course. I offered to take over but he vehemently refused, he is the driver so he must drive.
We reached Serenji our next opportunity to take on fuel, we pulled into the fuel station and to our surprise they had diesel so we said fill her up.
Oh no sir, we can only let you have 50 pin (50,000 Kwacha about $10.00) which is 8.3 litres. Great that is going to get us about 42 km not as far as the next town. After haggling to no avail, we found out where the owner of the garage lived, drove out to see him and after some negotiation he ended up giving us a letter to say that we could have another twenty litres. (every little helps) We stopped for a nature break about two hours on so I took the opportunity to dive into the driver’s seat, having by now had my nose planted squarely upon the inside of the windscreen about twelve times, disappeared off the roads 4 times to miss oncoming trucks, and had my neck broken by random gear selections.
I managed to keep control of the helm until we reached the longest bridge in Zambia. Where a particularly friendly Police officer wanted to tell me his, the regions and the bridges life story. This involved going for a walk across, underneath and beside the bridge, by the time I had, completed the tour and been cajoled into dropping Plods brother back to his village, Mr Phiri was firmly back in the driving seat.
Things went OK as there were no other vehicles on this stretch of the road, and then the reason became suddenly clear. Not only had the other lorries disappeared but so had the road only to be replaced by something resembling the surface of the moon.
Pot holes! Now you may remember I mentioned these once before, but these are different, this is a tar road not a dirt road. Dirt road potholes are bigger but do not have shear sides normally. These ones have sharp edges, when your wheel drops into one, it forgets not only what it is and what its purpose in life is, but also what direction it is travelling in.
Add to this the fact that the chances of these potholes actually being seen before it is way too late and you may begin to imagine what the last 134 km of my journey was like.
The cargo that was so beautifully loaded to give perfect weight distribution, ended up in my ear. I have concussion from the number of times my head was bounced off the roof, and my spine is now 3 inches shorter and has more kinks in it than a sixties rock band.
I don’t think an F1 car can change direction so quickly even on preheated tires, let alone brake so suddenly, and still manage to drive into all but three of these remarkable potholes on a 134 km stretch of road.
We finally reached the client at 16.30, shaken and stirred. We unloaded the cargo then went to find accommodation for the night. (but that’s another story)
And you know what really gets me.
We have to do the whole journey back again tomorrow!
Denzil Bark.
I think it really sums up true frustration in an African Context. I have tried use it as little as possible, so as not to over use it and cheapen it.
Today however I have used it twice, and I fear before this trip is over, I may well have used it a few more times.
On Thursday, I was asked if I would like to accompany a shipment of 2 tons of water analysis equipment on a 1700km round trip across Zambia. Of course I jumped at the opportunity, and started to make preparations.
As with any long road trip the success or failure of the venture depends on planning. Fortunately for me the planning for this trip had already been done by a seasoned campaigner who had been moving medical equipment around Africa for years.
There were however a few grey areas, the first being the fact that we were to be travelling in a brand new truck (A Tata) with only 48 km on the clock, now given the choice of a new one with 12 or an old one with 200,000 I would go for the old one every time.
The second problem is the new Lorry needed markings on the door to state who it belongs to and what all the company details are. We had not got them yet, but it was OK because they were coming at 08.30.
Thirdly. The fact that we have just got over a chronic fuel shortage which thankfully now seems to be over.
At this stage let me point out the plan for this trip was quite straight forward. We leave at 09.00 drive through to Mansa stopping only for fuel, (We had rung ahead to make sure there was fuel available) picking up lunch on the way, eat it on the hoof, switching drivers as necessary. Arrive Mansa somewhere around 19.00. Stay the night. Unload Saturday morning at 07.00 leave at 08.00 and return to Lusaka for about 18.00. Itsounds straight forward doesn’t it. Well the sticker man arrived at 09.00 with the stickers but the details on them were wrong. Oh joy. So off he went and said he would be back in an hour with the right ones. At 12.00 and after about 23 phone calls he returned and the details were perfect. Unfortunately he had just brought the proof and the real ones had not even gone into production. So the best option was to drive the lorry to the factory, wait for them to produce the stickers, apply them to the side of the vehicle so that we may be on our way.
By 14:00 we were on our way.
The journey went smoothly with Mr Phiri at the wheel. A real gentleman of some sixty odd years, but solid as a rock. We reached Kapiri Maposhi, our first fuelling point by 17:00 only to find that none of the four fuel stations had any diesel. Bother I thought. (I did not think that at all actually) So in true Zimbabwean fashion we had to make a plan. In Africa when there is a crisis there is always someone nearby ready to lend a hand. (as long as he or she can make at least one hundred per cent profit) Sure enough it was not long before we had found someone to help. We were careful not to get a local mix of 50/50 diesel paraffin mix. We managed to secure 40 litres of diesel. Whilst filling up the tank, a bit of a cufuffle broke out amongst the young entrepreneurs about who’s customer we were, and who was to get the money. During this Mr Phiri got jostled a bit but no harm was done. We filled our tank and were on our way again. By the time we left, the last vestiges of the sun had fled the sky and darkness was setting in fast.
At this point Mr Phiri pulled over and said that I could take over the driving. Now since leaving Lusaka I had, had a couple of trouser browning moments, which is not unusual on Zambian roads but I had started to recognise a pattern. Mr Phiri it seems has excellent eyesight but unfortunately it only seems to venture as far as the end of the bonnet. Which even more unfortunately for me and the other road users, on a Tata 173S is about 14cm in front of the steering wheel. So when darkness sets in it is reduced further.
I drove for 60 km and we pulled into a very nice lodge (The Forrest Inn) just outside Mukushi. It was by now just after 19:00, they had one Chalet free but at least it had three beds. We ate, had a drink and turned in for the night. It was at this stage Mr Phiri realised that he had been relieved of all of his money, we assumed that it had been during the cafuffel at the fuel stop. You have to be constantly on your guard in any environment.
I was woken at three to the sound of a striking Match and the room illuminated, then the lit match went winging across the room and landed on the floor. (Luckily stone floor) It turned out that Mr Phiri was checking the time. He obviously has no luminescence on his watch. I do wish he had just asked.
At 04.50 Mr Phiri left the chalet and I thought thank heavens for that at least now I can get some sleep and stop worrying about being burnt to a crisp in my sleep. Oh no, two minutes later I heard the Tata start (an unmistakable clatter) then it revved and revved until the airbrakes realised then I heard it driving around the site. Bear in mind this is a beautiful, quiet, secluded, very high class site where people go to get away. The sound got louder until I realised that Mr Phiri was going to park the lorry next to his bed. And he did, with the wonderful deafening, (at that time in the morning) sound of the air brakes explosively hissing as they were applied. The night was officially over, I got up and showered grumpy.
Breakfast at 06:30 lightened my mood as it was excellent, Eggs, sausage, tomatoes, bacon, beans and chips for some reason. All this with a selection of fruit juices and toast. Cooked to perfection. Brilliant.
We were on the road again by 07:00 Mr Phiri driving of course. I offered to take over but he vehemently refused, he is the driver so he must drive.
We reached Serenji our next opportunity to take on fuel, we pulled into the fuel station and to our surprise they had diesel so we said fill her up.
Oh no sir, we can only let you have 50 pin (50,000 Kwacha about $10.00) which is 8.3 litres. Great that is going to get us about 42 km not as far as the next town. After haggling to no avail, we found out where the owner of the garage lived, drove out to see him and after some negotiation he ended up giving us a letter to say that we could have another twenty litres. (every little helps) We stopped for a nature break about two hours on so I took the opportunity to dive into the driver’s seat, having by now had my nose planted squarely upon the inside of the windscreen about twelve times, disappeared off the roads 4 times to miss oncoming trucks, and had my neck broken by random gear selections.
I managed to keep control of the helm until we reached the longest bridge in Zambia. Where a particularly friendly Police officer wanted to tell me his, the regions and the bridges life story. This involved going for a walk across, underneath and beside the bridge, by the time I had, completed the tour and been cajoled into dropping Plods brother back to his village, Mr Phiri was firmly back in the driving seat.
Things went OK as there were no other vehicles on this stretch of the road, and then the reason became suddenly clear. Not only had the other lorries disappeared but so had the road only to be replaced by something resembling the surface of the moon.
Pot holes! Now you may remember I mentioned these once before, but these are different, this is a tar road not a dirt road. Dirt road potholes are bigger but do not have shear sides normally. These ones have sharp edges, when your wheel drops into one, it forgets not only what it is and what its purpose in life is, but also what direction it is travelling in.
Add to this the fact that the chances of these potholes actually being seen before it is way too late and you may begin to imagine what the last 134 km of my journey was like.
The cargo that was so beautifully loaded to give perfect weight distribution, ended up in my ear. I have concussion from the number of times my head was bounced off the roof, and my spine is now 3 inches shorter and has more kinks in it than a sixties rock band.
I don’t think an F1 car can change direction so quickly even on preheated tires, let alone brake so suddenly, and still manage to drive into all but three of these remarkable potholes on a 134 km stretch of road.
We finally reached the client at 16.30, shaken and stirred. We unloaded the cargo then went to find accommodation for the night. (but that’s another story)
And you know what really gets me.
We have to do the whole journey back again tomorrow!
Denzil Bark.
Tuesday 8 December 2009
Cornishman in Africa: Friendly Fire?
The 21st of December is our longest day out here, whilst the lengths of the days do vary it is nothing like the variation you see in Cornwall. Where for you it can be dark in the evening at 16:30 in the winter and yet in the summer it will stay light till nearly 22:00 and a similar variation at the other end of the day. Here the variation in hours of daylight is only about one hour, half an hour at each end of the day, so without fear of contradiction you can say it is going to get dark around 18:00.
It gets dark quickly here too, you don’t get the lingering hours of dusk and half light. All of this shattered the illusions that I had before I moved out here of sitting on the veranda drinking a gin and tonic and watching the sun go down at about 21:00. In reality by the time you have left work, fought your way through the traffic, down the tracks to home it is just about dark before you get there. So we have fire. Which we cook on warm our water with and sit around in the evenings to either keep warm or just gaze into.
We have fire, then we have fire. I don’t know if you have ever flown over Africa, but if you have and you have gazed down at the beauty of this fantastic continent, you may have noticed that there is always a part of it burning. This has its upside and down sides, the upside being that, as a broad sweeping generalisation the Africans are not up there with the Japanese when it comes to litter consciousness and as such. Africa is a bit covered in litter, but once a year this gets cleared up by the big hot Hoover that comes along clearing all in its way. When this happens every year it is not too bad as the grasses and the bushes take a bit of a kicking but in general the bigger trees tend not to be too put out by this.
It’s when there has been no fire for years and the bush has grown up tall and dense, there is leaf litter and Human litter piled up deep and dry. Then life gets interesting.
Last Sunday I was on my own at the cottages, apart from Mutonga who’s turn it was to work that day. He was out and about watering the plants and grass, using up the water we have to use so we don’t blow the pipes up. I was leisurely going about my work and cooking the meat for my lunches for the week which I do outside on my braai along with all my cooking.
All of a sudden the sun went out, it was uncanny, I know in Cornwall it sometimes happens that the sun may go behind a cloud for a while, (like three months) but over here it is very rare, and add to this that it cast a brown eerie hew over everything, it was very odd. Anyway I looked up and saw the sky was obscured by smoke. Seeing the direction it was coming from I grabbed my phone, (Unfortunately it’s the only camera I have currently.) and ran to the best vantage point, that happened to be the bar.
It was not more than a couple of minutes before Mutonga had joined me. It was quite impressive a huge plume of smoke and at its base a wall of fire about 75m wide and rising into the air a good twenty metres as it engulfed trees in its path.
The wind direction was taking the fire towards the dam and away from the cottages which was a blessing so we stood and watched it in awe. It swept through the trees and bush at the edge of the dam and onto the grass then crept right up to the water’s edge engulfing the reeds along the shore as if it was coming down for a drink. When the fire reached the end of the dam the wind changed, first dropping so the flames died a little, we thought that it might peter out.
Then to our horror and amazement the wind turned around fanned the flames back into life and propelled them down the next bank towards us and the bar. Mutonga went immediately to get help from as many people as he could muster in the immediate vicinity. I got hacking the grass and reeds down that were nearest to the bar, then went and got the hosepipe from behind. It took about 5 minutes to roar up that side of the dam and reach me, the heat hits you like a sledgehammer. Luckily the fire was now in the shorter grass and had lost a lot of its ferocity. Mutonga was back with his friends and we set to work beating and dousing the flames. That limb of the fire was brought under control fairly quickly, but we had noticed that with the change of wind, the fire was going back towards the cottages, and all around were huge trees and very thick bush.
With the fire by the bar now out, we left one person there to keep an eye on that and the rest of us now numbering four, went to tackle the bigger blaze.
Where the fire had come out of the bush and into the long grass it was not too difficult to gain control, just choking and burning hot, our biggest worry was that there was no break in the trees between the fire and the houses. We set about cutting a fire break, we just had to get about 30m through thick bush, trees up to 5 inches thick and a bamboo forest. Unfortunately the only tools we had were 2 shovels a slasher and my bush knife. The next four hours I probably lost more weight that I would have done if both my legs had fallen off. This constant hacking and dragging was interspersed with having to run back and beat the fire out where it was trying to get across the vlei again into the trees on the other side.
My head and face was burning my throat was dry, hands were bleeding so I could hardly keep hold of the knife, the blisters on them had gone through both layers of skin and were settling into the muscle. Where you cut through the bamboo it is so dense you are forever slicing your hands on the bough you have just cut as you go to cut the next.
At 18:00 we had cut a 5m swathe through the bush, it was not really enough but the fire was within 20m of us, the wind had dropped a bit and had enabled us to back burn to give us a little more breathing space.
At 19:00 we had won, and what a battle it had been. I went to shower looked at myself in the mirror, it was not a pretty sight. My hands were a mass of blood, the hair on my arms was gone the hair on my head was all singed and my clothes had more burn holes than I could count. On retrospect I wish I had taken a picture. It was not the relaxing Sunday afternoon that I had envisaged. But my God it was fun.
We all met at the bar and replaced a lot of those lost fluids with Castle.
We did not light the fire that night.
Denzil Bark.
It gets dark quickly here too, you don’t get the lingering hours of dusk and half light. All of this shattered the illusions that I had before I moved out here of sitting on the veranda drinking a gin and tonic and watching the sun go down at about 21:00. In reality by the time you have left work, fought your way through the traffic, down the tracks to home it is just about dark before you get there. So we have fire. Which we cook on warm our water with and sit around in the evenings to either keep warm or just gaze into.
We have fire, then we have fire. I don’t know if you have ever flown over Africa, but if you have and you have gazed down at the beauty of this fantastic continent, you may have noticed that there is always a part of it burning. This has its upside and down sides, the upside being that, as a broad sweeping generalisation the Africans are not up there with the Japanese when it comes to litter consciousness and as such. Africa is a bit covered in litter, but once a year this gets cleared up by the big hot Hoover that comes along clearing all in its way. When this happens every year it is not too bad as the grasses and the bushes take a bit of a kicking but in general the bigger trees tend not to be too put out by this.
It’s when there has been no fire for years and the bush has grown up tall and dense, there is leaf litter and Human litter piled up deep and dry. Then life gets interesting.
Last Sunday I was on my own at the cottages, apart from Mutonga who’s turn it was to work that day. He was out and about watering the plants and grass, using up the water we have to use so we don’t blow the pipes up. I was leisurely going about my work and cooking the meat for my lunches for the week which I do outside on my braai along with all my cooking.
All of a sudden the sun went out, it was uncanny, I know in Cornwall it sometimes happens that the sun may go behind a cloud for a while, (like three months) but over here it is very rare, and add to this that it cast a brown eerie hew over everything, it was very odd. Anyway I looked up and saw the sky was obscured by smoke. Seeing the direction it was coming from I grabbed my phone, (Unfortunately it’s the only camera I have currently.) and ran to the best vantage point, that happened to be the bar.
It was not more than a couple of minutes before Mutonga had joined me. It was quite impressive a huge plume of smoke and at its base a wall of fire about 75m wide and rising into the air a good twenty metres as it engulfed trees in its path.
The wind direction was taking the fire towards the dam and away from the cottages which was a blessing so we stood and watched it in awe. It swept through the trees and bush at the edge of the dam and onto the grass then crept right up to the water’s edge engulfing the reeds along the shore as if it was coming down for a drink. When the fire reached the end of the dam the wind changed, first dropping so the flames died a little, we thought that it might peter out.
Then to our horror and amazement the wind turned around fanned the flames back into life and propelled them down the next bank towards us and the bar. Mutonga went immediately to get help from as many people as he could muster in the immediate vicinity. I got hacking the grass and reeds down that were nearest to the bar, then went and got the hosepipe from behind. It took about 5 minutes to roar up that side of the dam and reach me, the heat hits you like a sledgehammer. Luckily the fire was now in the shorter grass and had lost a lot of its ferocity. Mutonga was back with his friends and we set to work beating and dousing the flames. That limb of the fire was brought under control fairly quickly, but we had noticed that with the change of wind, the fire was going back towards the cottages, and all around were huge trees and very thick bush.
With the fire by the bar now out, we left one person there to keep an eye on that and the rest of us now numbering four, went to tackle the bigger blaze.
Where the fire had come out of the bush and into the long grass it was not too difficult to gain control, just choking and burning hot, our biggest worry was that there was no break in the trees between the fire and the houses. We set about cutting a fire break, we just had to get about 30m through thick bush, trees up to 5 inches thick and a bamboo forest. Unfortunately the only tools we had were 2 shovels a slasher and my bush knife. The next four hours I probably lost more weight that I would have done if both my legs had fallen off. This constant hacking and dragging was interspersed with having to run back and beat the fire out where it was trying to get across the vlei again into the trees on the other side.
My head and face was burning my throat was dry, hands were bleeding so I could hardly keep hold of the knife, the blisters on them had gone through both layers of skin and were settling into the muscle. Where you cut through the bamboo it is so dense you are forever slicing your hands on the bough you have just cut as you go to cut the next.
At 18:00 we had cut a 5m swathe through the bush, it was not really enough but the fire was within 20m of us, the wind had dropped a bit and had enabled us to back burn to give us a little more breathing space.
At 19:00 we had won, and what a battle it had been. I went to shower looked at myself in the mirror, it was not a pretty sight. My hands were a mass of blood, the hair on my arms was gone the hair on my head was all singed and my clothes had more burn holes than I could count. On retrospect I wish I had taken a picture. It was not the relaxing Sunday afternoon that I had envisaged. But my God it was fun.
We all met at the bar and replaced a lot of those lost fluids with Castle.
We did not light the fire that night.
Denzil Bark.
Sunday 6 December 2009
Cornishman in Africa: African Curved Ball
The flow of life in Africa has its own special pace and direction, things will happen, but no matter what you as an outsider to do try and influence this, it will continue to wind on down its own course at its own pace.
You may believe that you have made a breakthrough and the project that you are working on has taken on a new lease of life and in fact you are going to complete ahead of schedule. Then Wham! Something that you thought was set in stone, totally guaranteed, turns around and smacks you in the face. It lets you down so spectacularly you are now going to finish two months late at best.
It’s what a very good friend of mine described as the African curved ball.
But that is life in Africa and if you cannot deal with it you should not be here. You just do all you can to deliver your part of the deal, to the best of your ability on time, then deal with the rest, without exploding.
There is a new water main going in where I stay to serve all the cottages. The old one was put in when there was just one house here and has been added to ad hoc as new cottages have been built. So the half inch pipe is not really adequate when eight people all want to shower at the same time. (not all in the same room I hasten to add)
So a master plan was devised, the trenches dug. (This was another great thing that Rolf got a lot of stick for.) and the pipework and fittings bought. The main pipe was going to be quite a large expense so as a money saving measure an old 3 inch plastic irrigation pipe was used. This would be fine but this pipe had half inch holes every meter. But never mind, lots of glue was bought and lots of patches were made. It was at this point that I realised there was just a slight chance that there was room here for the old African factor to creep in there and turn this good idea into a disaster.
The job was to take a week and it was all going to start on Monday. We were informed that there was a chance that we may experience some disruption to our water supply. (African understatement) Well Monday came and went. Unlike the plumber. On Tuesday he pitched up and started making connections. The guys who work here had dug all the trenches, laid all the pipework in said trenches. They were now feverishly sticking patches on the seven million holes along the length of the main pipe.
The water was to be turned off at 07:00 each morning then back on again at 17:00 which is fine as I get up early have a shower and am gone to work by that time in the morning and back after that in the evening. All the other residents have similar routines with no one being here during the day, giving the plumber and his team a clear run at the day.
The progress of the work was steady (Polite for slow.) and at the end of the first week the first cottage was nearly ready to be connected, unfortunately not with water, just the pipework.
After returning from work each and every night to no water and much bemoaning of this fact, we were each given a hosepipe to connect our houses with water and we managed like this. The colour of the water was interesting. And the fact that whatever had chosen to seek refuge in the hose pipe over night often came back to join you on your toothbrush in the morning. Which is always interesting when you are half asleep and thrust a tired bedraggled exotic African insect into your mouth first thing in the morning it makes for a steep waking curve.
After three weeks all the houses that are occupied were connected, the trenches were gone, all backfilled over the new pipework. The place was looking almost back to normal. It had been a long hard three weeks and the plumber and his merry team just wanted to go home. It was 17:30 on Friday afternoon, the final connections were made at the base of the fifty foot water tower and the water turned on.
Now I have never been to any of the American national parks but my brother Adrian, tells me that Yellowstone is particularly impressive. Huge gouts of water bursting from beneath the earth’s surface throwing thousands of gallons of water hundreds of feet in the air. (You know exactly where this is going don’t you)
Spectacular does not begin to scratch the surface of beginning to describe the spectacle that unfolded before our eyes.
As often on Fridays after work we were gathered at the bar beside the dam. We could hear it coming, not comprehending exactly what it was at first, then realisation dawned upon us and we all went to investigate.
The plumber had probably opened one tap somewhere as a token gesture to vent the system, then dropped the contents of a ten thousand litre tank down a three inch main, from fifty foot. The hissing of air came first as it was compressed, then pops and cracks as the air had nowhere to go and was being hotly pursued down the pipe by the angry water. Then it came, water erupted from the ground in spouts every twenty meters or so, exploding into the air in a selection of gushes squirts and fountains depending on the size of the orifice it had burst forth from. The amount of topsoil that was moved down the hill, in its self would have been a major feet of engineering on any normal day.
The plumber worked till midnight to get our hosepipes reconnected so we had water again.
Another two weeks have since elapsed, the holes and cracks in the main have been fixed and all the houses are connected up to the new main line.
Now here’s the irony of this whole thing. This work started because there was not enough water pressure, guess what, there is still not enough water pressure. They have to keep at least four taps running constantly watering the gardens so the main pipe does not burst again.
So when your next water bill comes through from South west water, don’t feel quite so bad about it. Or I’ll send my plumber round.
Denzil Bark.
You may believe that you have made a breakthrough and the project that you are working on has taken on a new lease of life and in fact you are going to complete ahead of schedule. Then Wham! Something that you thought was set in stone, totally guaranteed, turns around and smacks you in the face. It lets you down so spectacularly you are now going to finish two months late at best.
It’s what a very good friend of mine described as the African curved ball.
But that is life in Africa and if you cannot deal with it you should not be here. You just do all you can to deliver your part of the deal, to the best of your ability on time, then deal with the rest, without exploding.
There is a new water main going in where I stay to serve all the cottages. The old one was put in when there was just one house here and has been added to ad hoc as new cottages have been built. So the half inch pipe is not really adequate when eight people all want to shower at the same time. (not all in the same room I hasten to add)
So a master plan was devised, the trenches dug. (This was another great thing that Rolf got a lot of stick for.) and the pipework and fittings bought. The main pipe was going to be quite a large expense so as a money saving measure an old 3 inch plastic irrigation pipe was used. This would be fine but this pipe had half inch holes every meter. But never mind, lots of glue was bought and lots of patches were made. It was at this point that I realised there was just a slight chance that there was room here for the old African factor to creep in there and turn this good idea into a disaster.
The job was to take a week and it was all going to start on Monday. We were informed that there was a chance that we may experience some disruption to our water supply. (African understatement) Well Monday came and went. Unlike the plumber. On Tuesday he pitched up and started making connections. The guys who work here had dug all the trenches, laid all the pipework in said trenches. They were now feverishly sticking patches on the seven million holes along the length of the main pipe.
The water was to be turned off at 07:00 each morning then back on again at 17:00 which is fine as I get up early have a shower and am gone to work by that time in the morning and back after that in the evening. All the other residents have similar routines with no one being here during the day, giving the plumber and his team a clear run at the day.
The progress of the work was steady (Polite for slow.) and at the end of the first week the first cottage was nearly ready to be connected, unfortunately not with water, just the pipework.
After returning from work each and every night to no water and much bemoaning of this fact, we were each given a hosepipe to connect our houses with water and we managed like this. The colour of the water was interesting. And the fact that whatever had chosen to seek refuge in the hose pipe over night often came back to join you on your toothbrush in the morning. Which is always interesting when you are half asleep and thrust a tired bedraggled exotic African insect into your mouth first thing in the morning it makes for a steep waking curve.
After three weeks all the houses that are occupied were connected, the trenches were gone, all backfilled over the new pipework. The place was looking almost back to normal. It had been a long hard three weeks and the plumber and his merry team just wanted to go home. It was 17:30 on Friday afternoon, the final connections were made at the base of the fifty foot water tower and the water turned on.
Now I have never been to any of the American national parks but my brother Adrian, tells me that Yellowstone is particularly impressive. Huge gouts of water bursting from beneath the earth’s surface throwing thousands of gallons of water hundreds of feet in the air. (You know exactly where this is going don’t you)
Spectacular does not begin to scratch the surface of beginning to describe the spectacle that unfolded before our eyes.
As often on Fridays after work we were gathered at the bar beside the dam. We could hear it coming, not comprehending exactly what it was at first, then realisation dawned upon us and we all went to investigate.
The plumber had probably opened one tap somewhere as a token gesture to vent the system, then dropped the contents of a ten thousand litre tank down a three inch main, from fifty foot. The hissing of air came first as it was compressed, then pops and cracks as the air had nowhere to go and was being hotly pursued down the pipe by the angry water. Then it came, water erupted from the ground in spouts every twenty meters or so, exploding into the air in a selection of gushes squirts and fountains depending on the size of the orifice it had burst forth from. The amount of topsoil that was moved down the hill, in its self would have been a major feet of engineering on any normal day.
The plumber worked till midnight to get our hosepipes reconnected so we had water again.
Another two weeks have since elapsed, the holes and cracks in the main have been fixed and all the houses are connected up to the new main line.
Now here’s the irony of this whole thing. This work started because there was not enough water pressure, guess what, there is still not enough water pressure. They have to keep at least four taps running constantly watering the gardens so the main pipe does not burst again.
So when your next water bill comes through from South west water, don’t feel quite so bad about it. Or I’ll send my plumber round.
Denzil Bark.
Wednesday 2 December 2009
A Cornishman in Africa: Hungrier zan zer Heurl
You may remember me mentioning my friend and neighbour Rolf. He is the one with the odd looking dogs that bark a lot and don’t like apples. I have known Rolf for about 3 years, he has been a very good friend to me and my family. Rolf is German and speaks very good English but he does put his own unique and wonderful twist on the language. He has a tremendous sense of humour and is one of the most politically incorrect people I know.
One of his favourite phrases is zan zer Heurl. Someone may be hungrier zan zer heurl, hornier zan zer heurl, tierder zan ze heurl more drunken zan zer heurl the uses of zan zer heurl are almost limitless and I think Rolf found most of them.
Where I live there are eight cottages on a twenty hectare site. These cottages, most thatched are nestled in the trees on the banks of a dam (small manmade lake). Up till recently these dwellings were occupied by four pilots from a local charter company myself and Rolf. There is also a bar there, I say bar, it is a small thatched round building with a kitchen and a bar inside, there are no drinks or no barman. Outside there is a bamboo shaded area with a large wooden picnic style table, and an organic patio heater. This pleasant spot is the general meeting place where those staying in the cottages tend to congregate. We sit around, talk and sometimes have a drink or two. At 19:00 our main man Joseph serves up his culinary delights. Such well known dishes, as bangers and Mash with grated cucumber. Roasted chicken and fish. And Spaghetti bolognaise with extra carrots, and green tomato chutney, and of course cabbage on chips.
Invariably after the meal we relax and chat until 21:00 then trundle off to our appropriate homes and get our heads down for the night.
It was on one of these quiet evenings when we were sitting around chatting, that my curiosity finally got the better of me and I had to find out the answer to a question that had been puzzling me for three years, what is zan zer heurl? is it a German Mythical creature? is it an exclamation of such magnitude that there is no translation into English? Is it a German military officer from history with a vivacious appetite. I had often speculated as to the meaning of this wonderful German phrase.
So I asked. Big mistake. The reply went something like this.
“So, what is it, are you stupid, vhy for not you don’t understand your own language, you know zan zer heurl, you know vere ze devil lives.
Hotter than hell, hungrier than hell hornier than hell, it all fell into place and we all fell about laughing.
We have shared many laughs around that table and I am sure we will share many more, but unfortunately not with the same group of friends who were there that night. Three of the pilots who were there have gone back home, one to Australia, one to South Africa and the other to England.
And probably saddest of all Rolf just disappeared.
The Friday night Rolf, Herman (The last remaining Pilot) and myself were sitting at the bar around the table chatting our usual non sensical twaddle as we sometimes do on a Friday evening. All was normal, if anything in retrospect Rolf may have been a bit quiet but by the end of the evening we were all laughing and hooting and generally taking the piss out of one another.
The next morning I joined Rolf for coffee at the bar at 06.30, again all was normal and I went off to work at about 07.30 and he went into town after giving Joseph a chicken to do something inventive with for supper, saying that he would be back for the meal that evening.
They found his car at the airport on Sunday and we have since found out he was on the morning SAA flight to Johannesburg the day before, on Saturday.
Why, he left so suddenly and did not tell his closest friends, his girlfriend or his employer we will probably never know. It has been the topic of much conversation and speculation around the table at the bar. But what could drive him to just up and go, leaving his weird dogs behind.
All I know is that we miss him zan zer heurl.
Denzil Bark.
One of his favourite phrases is zan zer Heurl. Someone may be hungrier zan zer heurl, hornier zan zer heurl, tierder zan ze heurl more drunken zan zer heurl the uses of zan zer heurl are almost limitless and I think Rolf found most of them.
Where I live there are eight cottages on a twenty hectare site. These cottages, most thatched are nestled in the trees on the banks of a dam (small manmade lake). Up till recently these dwellings were occupied by four pilots from a local charter company myself and Rolf. There is also a bar there, I say bar, it is a small thatched round building with a kitchen and a bar inside, there are no drinks or no barman. Outside there is a bamboo shaded area with a large wooden picnic style table, and an organic patio heater. This pleasant spot is the general meeting place where those staying in the cottages tend to congregate. We sit around, talk and sometimes have a drink or two. At 19:00 our main man Joseph serves up his culinary delights. Such well known dishes, as bangers and Mash with grated cucumber. Roasted chicken and fish. And Spaghetti bolognaise with extra carrots, and green tomato chutney, and of course cabbage on chips.
Invariably after the meal we relax and chat until 21:00 then trundle off to our appropriate homes and get our heads down for the night.
It was on one of these quiet evenings when we were sitting around chatting, that my curiosity finally got the better of me and I had to find out the answer to a question that had been puzzling me for three years, what is zan zer heurl? is it a German Mythical creature? is it an exclamation of such magnitude that there is no translation into English? Is it a German military officer from history with a vivacious appetite. I had often speculated as to the meaning of this wonderful German phrase.
So I asked. Big mistake. The reply went something like this.
“So, what is it, are you stupid, vhy for not you don’t understand your own language, you know zan zer heurl, you know vere ze devil lives.
Hotter than hell, hungrier than hell hornier than hell, it all fell into place and we all fell about laughing.
We have shared many laughs around that table and I am sure we will share many more, but unfortunately not with the same group of friends who were there that night. Three of the pilots who were there have gone back home, one to Australia, one to South Africa and the other to England.
And probably saddest of all Rolf just disappeared.
The Friday night Rolf, Herman (The last remaining Pilot) and myself were sitting at the bar around the table chatting our usual non sensical twaddle as we sometimes do on a Friday evening. All was normal, if anything in retrospect Rolf may have been a bit quiet but by the end of the evening we were all laughing and hooting and generally taking the piss out of one another.
The next morning I joined Rolf for coffee at the bar at 06.30, again all was normal and I went off to work at about 07.30 and he went into town after giving Joseph a chicken to do something inventive with for supper, saying that he would be back for the meal that evening.
They found his car at the airport on Sunday and we have since found out he was on the morning SAA flight to Johannesburg the day before, on Saturday.
Why, he left so suddenly and did not tell his closest friends, his girlfriend or his employer we will probably never know. It has been the topic of much conversation and speculation around the table at the bar. But what could drive him to just up and go, leaving his weird dogs behind.
All I know is that we miss him zan zer heurl.
Denzil Bark.
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