Egypt and the Owl House – What is the Connection?

 Ever since I was young, I’ve had a deep, abiding fascination with the Owl House, the creation of Outsider Artist Helen Martins who lived in the tiny Karoo town of Nieu Bethesda in South Africa until she tragically ended her own life in 1976. If you’ve never heard the term “Outsider Art” before, in a nutshell, according to the Tate Gallery: “Outsider art is used to describe art that has a naïve quality, often produced by people who have not trained as artists or worked within the conventions of traditional art production”. (1)

This places Helen’s work under the umbrella shared by the likes of the Palais Idéal by Ferdinand Cheval (Hauterives, France, 1836-1924), Nek Chand Saini’s Rock Garden (Chandigarh, India, 1924-2015), and Veijo Rönkkönen Sculpture Garden by Veijo Rönkkönen (Parikkala, Finland, 1944-2010), among many others – these are all well worth a Google if you wish for a wonderful way to explore paths that are quite extraordinary. Outsider Art can therefore be considered a lively global phenomenon that transcends cultures and often crops up in unexpected locations. In addition to regular art materials, it can incorporate found materials in unconventional ways. Outsider Art never fails to elicit strong responses from people who encounter it for the first time. Like it or hate it, there’s no denying that in all its diverse forms, Outsider Art is certainly memorable.

Helen Martins’ Owl House is unforgettable.

From the outside, her home appears as a typical, unassuming Karoo dwelling, but a second glance will draw your gaze to the cement owl sculptures on the stoep enclosed in a wire mesh ‘cage’. If you then peek over the stone wall, you’ll catch your first glimpse of the fantastic Camel Yard – the property’s entire garden has been transformed with hundreds of cement-and-glass statues of camels, pilgrims, mermaids, bottle-skirted hostesses, and other, assorted figures that feed into the rich imagination of their creator.

The interior of the home has also been transformed – its walls painted bright colours and encrusted with crushed glass. Strategically placed mirrors, cut into suns and moons, and other shapes, reflect light, and while Helen was still alive, she would light a multitude of candles and lamps after sunset. If you consider that Nieu Bethesda was only connected to the national electricity grid in the early 1990s, you’ll understand exactly how dark the interior of a home could be back then. And, for those of us currently dealing with load shedding, who have not had the wherewithal to go solar or purchase an inverter, you’ll have an all-too-intimate understanding of exactly how suffocating and tangible the darkness becomes once the sun sets.

But what, I’m sure you’re asking now, does any of this have to do with Egypt?

Some of the themes prevalent in Helen’s work resulted in a synthesis of her own personal cosmology involving light and darkness, with strong solar and lunar themes, but also drew upon Western, Near Eastern, and biblical themes, blending them all in an unrestrained expression of creativity made concrete with cement, wire, glass, and found objects.

And, once you wander past the throngs of pilgrims, camels, bottle-skirted hostesses, owls, and mermaids, you will find a spot of ‘Egypt’ in the Camel Yard, complete with sphinxes and 15 pyramids constructed out of cement over wire armatures. Now Helen herself never visited Egypt, so most of her image sources would have included the humble Lion matchbox with its iconic red lion and other found items, such as postcards. 

Art historian Susan Imrie Ross further elucidates:

In Helen’s house is a well-worn, beautifully tooled leather writing case containing old family photographs and letters. Among the many Egyptians scenes depicted on it are lions, ibises, camels, the sun, Egyptian gods, and birds which appear to have the body of an owl and the face of a human. It is interesting to see the variety of objects on the writing case which could have inspired her, but which she did not choose to use. Subjects such as bulls, the Egyptian half-man half-animal gods, boats to the underworld, chariots, and bowmen obviously did not strike chords with her. (2)

Of course, those who know Egypt’s monuments well, need not have it explained that a sphinx is traditionally depicted as a lion with a human head. (If you’re a mythology buff, you’ll know that variations do exist in Egypt and other cultures.) The sphinx itself, if you run with the ancient Egyptian iteration of this mythological beastie, would be associated with the lion – a solar symbol. We can debate that it possibly further ties in with the lion as it appears in Helen’s cosmology, where it is associated with her father, with whom she had a troubled relationship. To further support this theory, another lion encountered in the Camel Yard has motorcar headlights for eyes (perhaps suggestive of its ability to see in the dark). It is located near the outside room where Helen’s father was banished in his later years. The room was painted black and named ‘The Lion’s Den’.

As for the pyramids, they add to the monumental nature of the Camel Yard in general. Of course, we can only surmise what Helen truly intended them to represent – as symbols, they are powerful reminders of the belief in transcending death, of being able to attain a good afterlife, if one takes into consideration the intentions of the original tomb builders of ancient Egypt.

Perhaps, in a way, it can be conjectured that these creations were Helen’s own attempt at having her name spoken long after her passing, so that in a way, too, she might attain a sort of immortality.

Even if in life, she was somewhat of a social pariah – through her own actions and/or through the regard of her fellow villagers – her creation has in recent years provided a vital lifeline of tourism for this sleepy little Eastern Cape village that it might ordinarily not have experienced. Every year, thousands of tourists take that turnoff from the N9 to visit Helen Martins’ legacy. Whether they stay for a few hours, have a meal, and buy a few curios or linger for days to soak in the sedate ambience, Nieu Betheda arguably casts a magnificent spell on visitors.

If you do find your route winding along near Graaff-Reinet, do consider making a detour to Nieu Bethesda and reckon on spending at least half a day, if not more. It’s also a great place to overnight if you’re breaking up your road trip. Not only will you encounter a community filled with warmth and creativity, but you will have a chance to experience the magical legacy of Helen Martins that will no doubt be spoken of for many more years.

References

1. “Tate.” Art Term: Outside Art. www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/o/outsider-art. Website accessed 18 Jan. 2023

2. Imrie Ross. (1997). This is my world: The life of Helen Martins, Creator of the Owl House (1st ed.). Oxford University Press Southern Africa.

Stuarts' Field Guide to National Parks & Game Reserves - Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Zambia & Malawi by Chris Stuart, Mathilde Stuart

Not so long ago I was given the opportunity to get a peek at Stuarts' Field Guide to National Parks & Game Reserves of Namibia | Botswana | Zimbabwe | Zambia | Malawi, which I reviewed for FMR. This handy guide was written by Chris and Mathilde Stuart, who clearly have a great passion for our continent's wild places.

The guide is brimful of detailed maps and content that show how many wonderful parks and conservation areas these countries have, and will prove useful to anyone planning a trip. Many diverse, contrasting environments are to be found here, from coastlines to desert, and river deltas to savanna grasslands. Great pictures too, to give a teaser of what sorts of wildlife and vegetation you can expect. Many well-known areas such as Etosha, Chobe, Mana Pools, Victoria Falls, and more are featured. 

This guide highlights the fact that conservation walks a tightrope between land usage – we must consider that people have been using natural resources for thousands of years – and also touches on how we need to mitigate the damage we cause now, with poaching being a very serious issue, as well as illegal timber harvesting, overgrazing and encroachment of human habitation – all these can have devastating, long-term effects on the environment. It's tricky to balance consumption with conservation – and these are challenges of land usage that will always need to be addressed. 

The book is divided into two sections: one part dealing with the natural history, and the second providing an image gallery of some of the commonly occurring wildlife and vegetation – which is great for a quick identification. This latter part is divided into mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians and trees. Handy sidebars in the first part of the guide offer tips and further commentary, and also warn if the reserve you wish to visit falls within a malaria or tsetse fly area or whether rabies might even be an issue. Warnings are also for the lack of cellphone reception in remote areas – connectivity often being something we city dwellers take for granted. 

The wilds of Africa are offer a harsh, unforgiving landscape, yet one also filled with incredible, awe-inspiring beauty. Here be lions, quite literally – so if you wish to explore truly wild areas, it's best to be prepared and be aware of what's going on around you at all times. I found the natural history information particularly fascinating, and feel it will most certainly inform travellers, especially when it comes to selecting routes and deciding on which accommodation options will be suitable – whether you wish to tough it out or rather stay in a luxury tented camp. 

The authors also give an indication of some of the plants and wildlife you'll most commonly see in particular areas. Equally important is information and advice about the road conditions, but also to take note when the dry or rainy seasons are, as these may also affect your mobility in whichever destination you visit. What I loved the best about this book is that it gives an introduction to parts of southern Africa that I don't know well, and I most certainly wish to visit before I shuffle off this mortal coil. With such a wealth of natural beauty, it's very tempting to forego overseas travel entirely and stay local – there's far too much to see and do in a single lifetime.

Travel: Klein Karoo breakaway

I'm mixing up the usual bookish stuff with one of my first loves: travel writing. I think with the whole pandemic many of us have been suffering severe cabin fever. All through 2019, one of my greatest wishes was to see the Karoo again, where my dad was born and grew up. I can't help but feel a bit misty-eyed when I listen to my mom's stories about when they lived in De Aar, and also remember my dad's stories about what it was like to grow up in sleepy little dorpies like Hanover and Aberdeen. Damn, I miss the old guy.

Me? Well, I grew up on the Atlantic seaboard in a sleepy little seaside village called Hout Bay. My grandfather was a fisherman and a farmer, and my mom eventually met my father in the Overberg town of Caledon, where they were both teaching during the late 1950s. 

So for me to revisit these places it's often with a strong dose of bittersweet nostalgia – I was what we affectionately call a laatlammetjie (late lamb) – more an afterthought when my parents were already in their 40s. So they'd lived a whole life before me. As much as I have the Atlantic Ocean in my blood, I have an equal yearning for the big sky country of the Karoo, for this ancient sea bed now raised high above sea level, where during the past the therapsids roamed (our ancestors who were the bridge between dinosaur and mammal).

I'm in my happy place

In particular, I've had an itch to revisit the old volstruispaleis (ostrich palace) Wolverfontein (wolf fountain?), situated just next to the abandoned railway siding Plathuis (flat house). Currently under the ownership of Andre Hagan and Ashley Brownlee, there's accommodation available in the converted Waenhuis (wagon house) and Zara Cottage (where the old headmaster used to live). The former is perfect for couples, while the latter sleeps six and is ideal for families or close-knit friends who want to have a long weekend of kuier (visiting/chilling). 

Since we live in the far south peninsula, our route takes us along the coastal R310, past Strandfontein and Khayelitsha, then onto the N2 via Somerset West and over the breathtaking Sir Louwry's pass, which gives you the last glimpse of the sleeping giant of Table Mountain across the Cape Flats.

Then you enter apple country, of Elgin/Grabouw, and it's as if you've slipped into the Shire, where it wouldn't be inconceivable to encounter hobbits living in their holes. (Nice holes, mind you.) We sometimes stop at The Orchard farm stall (they have excellent pies) but this time we shot through to Swellendam in one fell swoop as we needed to collect my mum. 

Then, to one of my favourite mountain passes – we could take the road to Ashton and thence on to Montagu, but we prefer to take the picturesque Tradouwpas (Women's Pass in the old Khoisan language) that winds its way over the Langeberge and spits you right out by Barrydale. The contrast between Barrydale and Swellendam couldn't be more stark. Swellendam receives a remarkable amount of orographic rain thanks to its mountain range with its deep, folded kloofs where patches of Afromontane forest persist between the endemic fynbos. But by Barrydale, the fynbos of the mountain peaks gives over to Karoo scrub and succulents, where Aloe mitroformis create occasional flame-like inflorescences. A canny plant spotter can spend hours identifying all manner of succulents, including mesembryanthemums, asclepiads, euphorbia, and crassulacea. I've forgotten so much of what used to roll off the tip of my tongue.

This is a land of mesas, and folded sandstone heights. Keep your eye open and you might see graceful springbok pronking alongside the road. Steppe buzzards, pale chanting and gabar goshawk, white-necked ravens, and other corvids, and not to forget the countless LBJs (little brown jobs) flitting away. I did have a glimpse of a Karoo robin and many mossies (sparrows). Occasionally I even spotted majestic Verreaux's eagles soaring on the thermals. There is so much life here, if you know where to look.

The rivers here in the Klein Karoo rarely run, and stock farming has largely been replaced with game farms and private game reserves – which is good. It gives the veld a chance to recover from the unnatural disaster inflicted by domestic livestock.

Me and mum

After lunch at the deliciously eclectic Diesel and Crème on the R62 in Barrydale (where at every occasion my husband tries to induce a diabetic coma with their insanely decadent milkshakes) we hit the last stretch, blew past the infamous Ronnie's Sex Shop / Pompstasie (hurr-hurr), and took the Plathuis turnoff to the left just across the Touwrivier bridge. It's easy to miss, so don't be in too much of a rush. Here the tarmac gives way to a well-graded gravel road, and you drive for about 10 or so minutes until you pass Touwberg Private Game Reserve on your right and almost immediately after on your left you'll see the sign for Wolverfontein. The first thing you'll see is the signature orange gables of the old farm house, and you enter by typical aluminium plaashekke (farm gates) which you must asseblief close behind you.

The property is tucked behind a koppie, just beneath the remains of the largely abandoned Plathuis community (there are a few residents, but most of the properties are clearly holiday homes, if that).

Wolverfontein offers a typical Karoo view across the alluvial plain of the Touw River, and nature's colour palette here is a combination of rust, blond grass, blue skies and olive greenery. During the height of summer, it's almost a wasteland, and yet the stark beauty has a way of crawling into your soul. This time, the area had seen a bit of rain, and the difference in appearance couldn't be more different. So green – for the Karoo, that is.

The accommodation is wonderfully kitsch and colourful, with a Tretchikoff in almost every room, with vintage clocks, furnishings and a to-die-for braai area out back with a raised fire pit. Perfect for klippies en coke (or in our case, homemade ginger beer and Jim Beam for those who still drink booze). I must add a disclaimer, that the only time my poor husband ever braais is when we're on holiday. He's not half bad at it. 

The first night we slept like the dead. Literally. Because we only woke at nine-thirty the next morning. Which is understandable considering how stressed out of our brackets we are currently with work. But we got our slow start, had a slow breakie, then headed out to Ladismith for the day so we could go have lunch. I suspect most of this weekend was spent eating. But that's what breakaways are about, aren't they?

There is no cellphone reception in the dip where we stayed, but our hosts, helpfully provided their WiFi passwords which we could then access the web if we wander up to the volstruispaleis – an activity we embarked upon several times a day so we could post pictures and check up on our housesitter (dogs were fine, thank goodness). 

Mom and I did the typical thing to see who was buried in the small cemetery, and predictably there was at least one or two there who might be distant relations (small gene pool of our ancestors spread out in this area). What was particularly heartbreaking was seeing all the children's graves, and even one where the woman (age 30) clearly died in childbirth, with her unnamed 'en baba' (and baby) buried with her. There's a sorrowful tale there. The small headstones with the tiny piles of rocks, unmarked, and now decades later unremembered. Cue my usual existential angst, but hey, that's what I thrive on. I don't want to be buried. I'd rather have my ashes scattered to the wind somewhere in the Karoo.

Before our trip, I went and downloaded the Sasol eBirds 5th edition app and probably drove everyone crazy playing bird calls. It's a rad app, especially considering that I didn't feel like lugging my old Robert's Bird Book from the late 1980s along. It's horribly out of date and not half as user friendly as the app. I positively identified a resident pair of (almost as noisy as Egyptian geese) shelduck.

A word on the water – the water from the taps is so brak (salty) that it's like brushing your teeth with seawater. It's fine for doing the dishes and showering, but our hosts provide a big covered container for our drinking water, which is sweeter than rain.

The kitchen has everything you need and a super sized fridge. Just bring your food – they even have a coffee plunger. Beds are super comfortable, and though there was a nip in the air already, with it being May, we weren't absolutely freezing. (I'm sure that's still coming with winter.) Wood is provided, though we eschewed the firelighters to rather use fynhoutjies (fine wood) collected in the veld. A bit more of a challenge to start a fire, but it feels more authentic.

We weren't visiting long enough to borrow the spare mountain bikes, but for MTB enthusiasts, there are numerous amazeballs trails in the neighbouring Touwsberg reserve. You may even luck out and see the eight resident giraffe, or gemsbok and kudu, if you're lucky. We just saw lots of LBJs, and although the dirt roads were well graded, my husband was still a bit wary about driving our Ford Fiesta so far into the wilderness without us having access to cellphone signal in case of emergency. We saw not a soul. Absolute splendid isolation. 

What I like about Wolverfontein is that it's far enough away from Cape Town to make you feel like you're in the veld. We didn't have the stamina to do the picturesque Seweweekspoort drive, but that is well worth the adventure. Ladismith is a good place to buy your groceries and scratch that itch if you want to go out for lunch, and you can use Wolverfontein as a base of operations for the many activities and routes available in the area. 

A word on our hosts – Ashley and Andre are wonderful, attentive, and make sure you have everything you need. And they also give you your space, which is fantastic. This is seriously one of those places where you can determine what you want to do and when, with minimal fuss – so reminiscent of the kinds of holidays I had as a child when we regularly visited the Cederberg. Although I daresay the Plathuis area is a bit more isolated now than what the Cederberg used to be. You'll also get to meet the resident Ridgeback dogs who come to visit and find out if you've left any treats lying around (don't feed them). 

This has been our second visit, and it won't be our last. I'm determined to experience part of a Karoo winter here later this year. The rates are so super reasonable I'm tempted to say it's a steal, but for the best rates, book through Wolverfontein's website and ask for a discount. You'll want to stay a minimum of two nights, but if you can take an entire week off, I promise you, you will not regret it.

Into the leafy greenwood...

Thinking back now, I'm not quite sure how or when I first heard about Platbos forest, but when I took the time to read up about it, I knew it was one of those places I was dying to see. Even better, it's situated within driving distance of home – on the road between Stanford and Gansbaai. As much as I'd have loved to have gone to stay over in the location's accommodation, this was a feasible day trip for us as well.

Special note: Taking a drive through the Overberg during mid- to late-August is always a treat because the flowering canola fields are *spectacular*. This day's colour palette was a combination of shocking canary yellow splashes against vivid green and aquamarine sky filled with wispy clouds. Take the back roads between Caledon and Napier, and you'll miss the worst of the traffic (don't be tempted to take a short cut through Hermanus – it's going to take longer for all the twists and turns).

So, what makes this forest special? Well, apart from it being a secret world tucked away in the heart of the fynbos biome, it is its own unique ecosystem. Though none of the trees are comparable to some of the giants you'd find further east at Knysna, some of them are positively *ancient* like the milkwood at the heart of Platbos that is said to be more than 1000 years old. Yep. that's pretty darn old. 

Platbos is a bird-lover's paradise. I have a feeling if we'd come specifically to get some twitching done, we'd have seen a lot more, but I did spot southern boubou, sombre greenbul and Cape batis. Granted, I see these chaps nearly daily at my own home, but it's nice to point them out elsewhere.

The moment you step out of the car and tread upon the forest path, you are immersed in another world. Bird calls. But also a kind of watchful silence as your soles press down into a thick carpet of leaf litter. Low-hanging boughs are furred in moss and lichen, and twisted lianas festoon branches. Ferns flourish in nooks and hollows, and if you look carefully, you may find mushrooms. Occasionally there are picnic tables that invite you to sit down and enjoy refreshments, but there's also a scaffold that will allow you a view over the canopy. A secret labyrinth made from old alikreukel shells also beckons you to follow the twisting path.

This is the kind of lost world that beckons you to stay. If you hadn't been told that Platbos exists, you might drive past it every day without even knowing it's there, for it is not a large forest, nor are the trees tall. Because it is cupped between the rolling hills of the Overberg, it is easy to mistake it for merely brushwood that you pass on your way elsewhere. That is, until you take a closer look.

Apart from this being a lovely excursion for day visitors who're exploring the region, Platbos also offers a range of rustic accommodation. And by rustic, I mean, don't expect to be plugged into any of your devices. Pack them away. Perhaps bring art supplies, board games, physical books to read. Go for walks in the forest, relax in your private area. You have no idea how tempting this is for me – so I will be back – and this time I'll stay overnight.

So yeah, I've mentioned the birds, but there are other critters here too, ranging from baboons and bushbuck, all the way to genets and caracals (red lynx) ... and even the rather retiring Cape leopard. I am beyond excited about the latter, knowing that these big cats still roam the Overberg despite it being so agriculturally developed. Which reminds me I have seen one of these kitties many years ago, crossing the big road between Napier and Bredasdorp, but that is another story for another time.

NB: The cost per adult is R50, per child R20 – look out for the honesty box at the information cabin.

Take a moment to appreciate the beautiful scenery

The trouble started when we reached Wellington, and the Dear Husband (DH) handed over his iPhone to show me the supposed map of Bainskloof where our final destination lay. He’d told me we were driving to Bainskloof for almost a week. Bainskloof had already worn a rut in my brain. Instead the squiggly hand-drawn map gave directions to Du Toitskloof. (Cue a massive facepalm moment right there.)

Thank goodness Bainskloof is kind of adjacent to Du Toitskloof. All we needed to do was take the turn-off and follow the not-so-scenic route through to Paarl and back to the N1. Right. Deep breath.

Our lives were made more entertaining by the fact that this day happened to be January 1, with festive hangovers in full swing in soaring maximum temperatures on the wrong side of 35ºC.

And, of course, another small detail: we needed to buy ice. On New Year’s Day. Shortly past lunchtime. In Paarl.

According to the DH, our continued existence as we knew it depended on finding ice. For the martinis. And don’t forget the olives.

At this point, after several hours trapped in a car set at slow broil, I didn’t feel it was worth my health to argue. And the “D” in DH was rapidly standing for “Dreadful” and not “Dear”.

Especially not after considering how he had the car’s steering-wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. Ice it was. And olives. Oh, and don’t forget the eggs. And Styrofoam cups.

With each fruitless halt at assorted Paarl retail outlets, the shopping list grew longer, and the DH’s temper shorter. Believe me when I say you do not want to see what Paarl’s Shoprite looks like on New Year’s Day. An overturned ant nest is an apt description which doesn’t quite do it justice.

This is the part where it’s better for wifey to start laughing. A lot. And quietly on the inside without allowing the crazy smile to creep onto her lips. Because, really, that was the only way I could keep myself from somehow finding a way to cheerfully sedate my DH. (Throttling would have done in a pinch, but I exercised self-restraint that day.) Do you think Pick n Pay would be open? Think again. We missed the closing by a mere 10 minutes.

And thank goodness for Spar, and random corner cafés that are open on public holidays. That is all. We couldn’t leave Paarl fast enough.

As for Du Toitskloof… I forget how lovely it is. So often we drive South Africa’s big roads without sparing a thought for our beautiful country’s less obvious pleasures, such as small farms just off the beaten track. Our final destination was one such, offering no luxury lodge or tented camp, but rather a humble cabin sans electricity or cellphone signal.

Suffice to say, the DH’s disposition improved after he sipped his first ice-cold martini (shaken, not stirred), and his mates were terribly impressed, so maybe the effort to find ice and olives hadn’t gone to waste after all. For them, at least.

Maybe I could find it in my heart to call him “Dear” or “Darling” again.

Me?

I retreated to a pleasant shady spot with my mineral water and book, and dabbled my feet in the ice-cold river. The barest shiver of a breeze stirred the wild almonds and sunlight flashed off the blue gums’ leaves. Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. The constant saw of cicadas told me exactly how hot it was beyond the shelter of shade, but that was okay. Rather focus on the sound of the rushing stream babbling over rocks.

It took me all of half an hour to forget about the shimmering heat mirage on the N1 tarmac, the sullen cashiers at the stores and the pointless, frantic scurrying after stupid olives and ice, for crying out loud.

Above us on the mountain slope, cars, trucks and motorcycles roared along, their drivers completely oblivious to the small wonder world tucked away in this hidden river valley. And I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them ever give pause to wonder what lies at the end of those little windy dirt roads they thunder past on their mad hunt after the things we only think we need.

This Shooting the Breeze column appeared in the Sunday Independent Life supplement on January 27, 2013

Synergy much? #travel #entertainment

Under normal circumstances, the DH and I *don’t* do music festivals. Beyond the expected glut of inebriated youngsters, dust, excessive UV radiation, lack of civilised ablution facilities and typhoid-inducing food, we’re also not great fans of roughing it in a tent. The list goes on…

But on Saturday, December 1, we were tempted from the comfort of the Treehaus and indulged in a mini road trip to Theewaterskloof Dam to attend part of Synergy. Of course it helped that we had VIP media pass status thanks to the fact that we were, technically, working. (Or at least the DH was – put to work filming Th’Damned Crows perform on the LMG stage early that evening.)

Me? I went along for the ride. It’d been more than a decade since I’d last attended any sort of big live music festival (not since Wingerdstok 1997, if my half-addled brain serves to correctly inform me).

Very happy to reach Strandfontein intersection... 

Since we live in the far south Cape Peninsula, we felt we’d do the sensible thing and take our usual route along the False Bay coast. This way takes a bit longer than the N2 National Road, but it’s definitely prettier, with much of it passing through the Wolfgat Nature Reserve.

But first, the detour…

The southeaster, our wonderful summery prevailing wind, was howling. This meant that half the beach on the False Bay Coast was crawling across our intended route. The result: road closed. The way the husband figured it, we had two options: backtrack up along the M5 north then join the notorious N2 where the two intersect or… Google Maps! Yay! And uncharted territory for us through the Cape Flats.

The main stage at Synergy

Big-ass disclaimer: what you see on Google Maps is in no way a guarantee that your eventual arrival at your destination will be a) on time or b) go smoothly. Please also take cognisance of the fact that we were aiming to traverse a densely populated suburb on a Saturday afternoon shortly after payday. Everyone was a) either going to the beach or b) going home after a hard morning’s shopping.

The logical wifely suggestion was: “Dear, it might be a longer route to go via the M5 but it’s a highway, and we’ll be on the National Road soon enough, and then we can drive like all the demons of hell want to drink our blood quite happily.”

The DH knew better, of course. So in the time that it took us to sit in the traffic *trying* to get into Fifth Avenue from the M5 (where we could already have made it to the N2) we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic through Grassy Park’s CBD… Then in the detoured traffic trying to get into Strandfontein. A word to those who try the same: the outlying areas outside Strandfontein are still agricultural. They farm onions and cabbage, and fertilise with pig shit (or human shit). Either way, it was 36ºC outside, we didn’t have aircon, and we sat in congested traffic next to these wonderfully fragrant fields… For a long, long time.

These guys had the greasy food vibe totally pegged

Needless to say, I was very, very happy when we rejoined the R310 at Strandfontein (while a little voice in the back of my head said that if we’d followed my route, we’d have been ascending Sir Lowry’s pass by now). For the sake of marital relations, I bit my tongue. Hard.

Anyhoo, we took the scenic route via Grabouw, through apple country and into the Hottentots-Holland mountains. [Cue the soundtrack to the Lord of the Rings films.] Yes. It’s that pretty. Try to contrive a visit here during spring when the orchards are in blossom.

Of course the weather wasn’t really playing along. Though iGoogle lied and said we’d have thunderstorms, the Cape weather said it’d only go halfway, so we had messy, bruised clouds and a howling southeaster which whipped up dust and was hell on my sinuses. Husband and I parked the car and ventured forth, obscenely glad we were not camping because hell, it was broiling hot.

Theewaterskloof Dam looking suitably gloomy

Synergy is one of those festivals that’s got a little bit of everything. This year the big act everyone was working themselves into a frothy about was The Prodigy. But they played on the Friday night and we honestly couldn’t be arsed to mission through for that. But if you’re looking for a way to dip into a large variety of local acts, some new, some old, then you’d be spoiled for choice due to the main stage and the smaller tent. Also, there was comedy (apparently) and they sensibly kept the dance/electro DJs very far away from the live music.


Apparently the ablution facilities were aces (which was a big improvement on past festival experiences for me), and there were loads of vendors supplying all manner of culinary treats. The DH and I had calamari burgers from the one, and were impressed by the size of the portions, and also the price (student fare, if you ask me). I noted that the vendor also sold painkillers and coffee (reckon he’d cornered the market). Lots of greasy, greasy food to make up for that morning after the night before, hey.

The LMG tent with The Dollfins on stage

On Saturday everyone was gaaning aan about watching Jack Parow, which was apparently the big act for the evening (or at least the one I kept hearing about) but yeah, as stated before, we were there for our mates Th’Damned Crows who were performing in the LMG tent. Happy little goth that I am, I was glad we were in a tent. Have to keep my ghastly pallor out of the African sun. And I bounced around screaming and hollering, and instigating the well-aimed tossing of underwear (thanks for lending us your shocking pink bra, Marie). For those who don’t know Th’Damned Crows, they’re a rockabilly band from Cape Town, with a mean, voodoo-blues edge courtesy of their harp-man, Zoltan. And Liam really does illegal things to that upright bass. All in all they are consummate showman and all are seasoned musicians who know exactly how to entertain.

I must make mention of my new discovery, The Dollfins, a three-piece female-fronted punk band from Cape Town. I’d love to see them again and was glad to make their acquaintance. They played before Th’Damned Crows and got the crowd all worked up.

The marketplace... Lots to buy

Overall my experiences at Synergy were good. If I get the opportunity to go again, I will, though this time I’ll look at booking into a B&B in the area instead of camping. As always, I found myself trying to avoid being pawed by drunk teenage boys, who conveniently ignored the fact that I had a husband hovering nearby. Oh, and watch where you walk because there are often bodies sprawled at inconvenient spots. I expect these are the kids who couldn’t afford to drive up to Plett to celebrate the end of their school daze. Some things never change. Lots of people smoking weed quite openly. Don’t think there’s any way for a ban on *that* to be enforced. One thing that has changed since those early Wingerdstok festivals is the amount of brands setting up their own tented vibes. Indoctrination much? Also, since I don’t drink booze, I was annoyed that SAB dominated the bar, which meant no non-alcoholic beer. Also, courtesy of Red Bull there was lots of that horrid energy drink, and at half the price one’d normally pay… Yuck. So no prizes guessing what I drank. What was left of my poor liver nearly died but on the plus side I was nominally alert to help the DH on the drive back.

Zoltan, Liam and Ronnie showing some muscle.

 At 9pm, the DH and I said our farewells. Our friends all looked a bit dusty and frayed around the edges by then and, although we had a two-hour drive back to the far south Cape Peninsula, we were more than happy to take to the road. Rather two hours’ drive than a night listening to our neighbours brag about how much they’d been drinking/smoking and where they’d puked. We’d stayed long enough to enjoy ourselves and be glad that we were able to go home before we turned into pumpkins. And I was certain there’d be hundreds of pumpkins on Sunday morning.

#travel A Whole Lot of Blarney

The sight that greets visitors as they approach the castle

Set in verdant grounds, Blarney Castle is every bit the tumbledown picture-book castle I'd imagined as a child. And I was so going to kiss the Blarney Stone - even though my husband evinced his disgust when I'd told him that was one of my goals during my visit to Ireland late last year. Hell, I needed some eloquence. In my 11 years of marriage I've yet to win an argument with the man.

As the name suggests, the castle is situated in Blarney, near Cork, and was built as a fortress about 600 years ago by Cormac Laidir McCarthy, Lord of Muscry. Apart from seeing ruined tower houses scattered throughout the Irish landscape, this was my first exploration of a castle other than the Castle of Good Hope back in Cape Town.

We approached through Blarney Castle's park-like grounds and crossed a clear stream. Here, past visitors had stood on the bridge to toss coins and, ostensibly, make wishes. This was just the start of the sense that we were on to something almost magical and out of a fairy tale. Blarney Castle itself rose from the land ahead of us, a towering edifice of grey stone that contrasted vividly with the surrounding trees' foliage. I couldn't help a small lurch of excitement as I approached the ruins. I'd always known castles were big, but, yikes, so tall? I craned my neck to stare up at the sky, and experienced a brief spot of vertigo as I saw the clouds seemingly tattered on the crenellations.

Later during my visit I'd get a chance to see the fully restored Castle Bunratty, which is similar in design to Blarney, but for now I had to use my imagination. Perhaps it was a product of having read far too many fantasy novels as a child, but a real European castle was nothing like I'd imagined it.

For one, it was actually pretty darn cramped if I had to consider how many people must have lived together. And it was difficult to visualise quite how the castle must have been hundreds of years ago because of the ruinous state.

It's easy to get a sense of vertigo looking up

I also tried to picture what the area surrounding the castle would have been like. Would I have heard the ring of steel from a blacksmith's anvil, smelt the unmistakable tang of peat smoke and seen the proud Irish, some on horseback, some on foot, coming and going on their daily errands?

But my musings on ancient times aside, of course I had to climb to the top of the actual castle. After all, I hadn't flown halfway across the globe to not complete my little adventure. But oh, going up was definitely not as easy as it sounds - and not only was this exercise vertiginous, but slightly claustrophobic as well. The stairs leading to the battlements where the Blarney Stone is situated are narrow and I'm convinced the people who built the castle were a helluva lot shorter than me. There were a few moments where I needed to duck my head, and I had to watch where I put my foot each time as I climbed the worn spiral stairs.

I had a peek into what would have been a bedroom and visualised how the rough stone walls would have been covered in tapestries and I had to wonder if these measures could take away some of the chill the stones no doubt carried during winter.

The view from the top, of course, is nothing short of amazing - green fields and trees as far as the eye can see - and even if you elect not to kiss the Blarney Stone for the gift of eloquence, it's well worth the mission just for where your gaze can roam.

According to history, the Blarney Stone is said to be half of the Stone of Scone from Scotland, upon which the Scottish kings were crowned.

It was given to Cormac McCarthy by Robert the Bruce in 1314. Later, when a certain Cormac Teige McCarthy gave Queen Elizabeth uphill, it's reported that she said that the man gave her "a whole lot of Blarney" - hence the origin of the term that's still in use.

My actual kissing of the stone was a bit of an anticlimax, but perhaps that's a good thing because before that, oh my... You have to lie down on your back, hold on to the iron railings while one of the assistants clings to your legs and... swing yourself head first under the battlements of the castle to reach the stone. And yes, you are horribly, awfully aware of that plunge on to the stony ground, many, many storeys below. People down there look teeny-tiny. Photographs are taken of you in this ungainly posture, but I opted not to pay the about R100 for my picture, content merely with the memory of the cold stone against my lips.

As for whether my wish came true, that would be telling now, wouldn't it?

Blarney Castle's verdant grounds

Unfortunately the day grew a bit cold and miserable, and our schedule was tight, so we tarried only a little in the grounds surrounding the castle.

Of particular interest to me was The Poison Garden filled with all manner of deadly plants, and a woodland walk that led to a brief investigation of nearby caves below the castle.



If we'd had more time, we would have visited the historical Blarney House itself, as well as had more time to fully explore more of the beautifully laid out gardens, the arboretum and The Rock Close. You need an entire afternoon here, definitely. When I eventually get my posterior back to Ireland, I'll pay a second visit to the castle with the stone that's been pressed to many, many lips.

This article appeared in the Sunday Independent Life supplement on July 15, 2012. All pictures by the writer. Nerine Dorman was a guest of Tourism Ireland. For further information about Blarney Castle, see www.blarneycastle.ie and for additional information about planning a visit to Ireland, see www.discoverireland.com/za

The Emerald Isle--day two

No surprises, it was raining when we woke on Sunday morning. I totally overslept due to completely not setting my alarm properly. But that was okay at the end of the day. Danny, Sheldon and Helen were still having breakfast so I gulped down copious amounts of tea and assorted yoghurts, nuts, croissant, eggs and toast--then we braved the cold.

To be honest, it isn't that much more cold than Cape Town during winter, so the weather didn't really bother me. We walked a bit to where we could catch the Dublin Bus Tours, which is the hop-on, hop-off bus that drives a circuit through the city to the majority of its sights. And it's worth every euro for this. If you're here, DO invest in a ticket. It's going to save your life--and your feet. Plus, if you're lucky, you'll get a smart-mouthed bus driver who'll tell dirty jokes.

We first drove the circuit and got an idea of where everything was situated. Then we went to the Guinness Storehouse where we climbed all the way to the top to have our pint. The Gravity Bar gives an awesome, fantastic view of the entire city. And I had my first proper pint of Guinness, which is rather nice.

Plainly put, the Guinness brewery is huge. I cannot remember how many millions of pints it puts out daily but the amount is staggering. It makes our little SAB brewery in Newlands look like a baby. But ja, if you're a fan of the "black nectar" as it is called, the Guinness Storehouse is a cathedral devoted to the liquid. For me it was just a total treat to see the panoramic views of the city from the top.

What I love about Dublin is its architecture, which combines everything from the gorgeous Gothic styles of its cathedrals and churches, to the many Georgian-era buildings. Window boxes and hanging baskets are filled with colourful flowers this time of the year. And there is not a scrap of litter to be seen. The locals are super-friendly and if they see gormless tourists looking lost, they're quick to ask where you want to be and to give directions.

Lunch we had at one of the restaurants at the Storehouse, a surprisingly good buffet with poached salmon and a selection of fresh salads. Salmon is very common in Irish menus, so for folks like me, who don't see all that much of it in South Africa, it was a treat. I've been eating fish pretty much my entire time here.

Afterward, Danny and I (the two sub-editors/crazy ladies) eventually decided to see the Dublin Writers Museum--the whole being a wordsmith thing. The exhibits were just enough to whet my appetite to delve into Irish literature, which is very much tied in with the history of the country. We didn't see the whole museum as it was closing time and we were in need of a bath, so we waited for the bus then headed back to the hotel.

Feeling much fresher, we caught a taxi later to the Temple Bar in the Arlington Hotel, to take in a show and a meal. The crowd was mostly tourists, from countries such as France, Ukraine and a lot from the US. To think that a few years ago we'd never admit to being South African! How much has changed.

The Irish band that played was very slick and, while I would have loved to have heard more traditional reels, they took requests from the audience. Don't laugh. Someone requested Molly Malone (and yes, I died a little). After the band came the dancers, who were, likewise, also slick--delivering a lovely Riverdance-styled show. Very energetic and very rousing.

We were quite merry by the time we returned to the hotel but gosh, was I tired. All in all, I didn't realise how quickly the time would pass. I'd have loved to have gone to more of the destinations in the city, to its numerous museums and art galleries, but there simply wasn't time.

Dublin is a magical city with many wonderful places to spend time exploring. You need at least a week here and you will still only have scratched the surface. Thank you to Tourism Ireland for giving me the opportunity for this small taster.

We plunge into the countryside next.

The Emerald Isle--day one

It was with some trepidation last night that I boarded the KLM flight to Amsterdam. How the hell was I going to survive 12 hours in the air? I needn't have worried. The cabin crew made sure that even economy class wanted for nothing. And can I say it? Oh my, smoked almonds.

Even better, I didn't have any snorers and I did sleep a little.

Schipol is BIG. Then again, I am a South African who's on her first trip to the northern hemisphere. Everyone was very friendly and I found the rest of my group (they'd flown up separately from Jozi) and what did we do? We ended up in an Irish pub in Amsterdam. Go figure.

And that first 500ml Crossbow cider went down mighty fine.

One highlight of the airport (not that airports by their very nature have highlights) was that I saw the Schipol Rijksmuseum that had an exhibit of Dutch girls. Now I understand why the Dutch were considered the masters of portraiture and landscapes during the 17th century. And while I've seen a few masterpieces in South African art galleries, this small taster of what can be found in Amsterdam proper makes me fiend for the day I can haul the DH to Europe with me on one of these trips.

Our flight to Dublin, courtesy of Aer Lingus, was uneventful. I was a bit concerned at the strong winds we had upon landing, but kudos to the pilot. He did a bloody good job. And this is the Capetonian who's blase about the southeaster perking up about wind.

I watched some of the other planes land and they looked a bit like drunk geese caught in strong cross-winds.

It looks like what's happening in Cape Town's CBD is happening in Dublin too. A LOT of revitalisation of the CBD with more public-friendly amenities. Public transport here rocks. South Africans who visit will probably have their eyes pop out of their skulls when they see how much everything costs--food and drink is quite expensive in the big hotels and restaurants.

But it's all worth it. I'm looking forward to tomorrow when we do our first tour of the city. Tonight we're just chilling out, going out for dinner in an hour or so and I'm heartily glad I've had my bath. I have cosy room in Jurys Inn, and it even has a slightly psychedelic carpet in the hallway outside my room.

Even better, I have wifi. I'm so not watching telly tonight when we get back. I may well edit. Yes, yes, I know I'm supposed to be on holiday but I can't help myself.

Accommodation review: The Monarch

THERE is an astounding difference between bustling Rosebank – with the upheaval of Gautrain construction in full swing outside – and the foyer of the Mantis Group’s Monarch Hotel.

Stepping over the threshold one exchanges the rumble of traffic for utter quiet and something almost indefinable – an aura of stateliness pervades this piece of heritage that has patiently endured Joburg’s ever-changing scenery.

Constructed in the 1930s, the building the Monarch Hotel now occupies operated for many years as the Saxonwold post office, its classic façade a refined contrast to the contemporary architecture surrounding it.

It exists in a time capsule of sorts, whisking us away into another era down the long, high-ceilinged passages to our suite.

It is hard to imagine what it must have been like when this was a busy post office but it must have involved leather-soled shoes floating down passages accompanied by the murmur of voices long gone.

Whereas so many hotels choose to adorn their walls with what I term “Mac-art”, this is not the case at the Monarch. Original prints and intensely decorative ceramic creations abound, offering constant reasons to pause and admire. Truly unusual items can be found, like the very Germanic hat stand in the smoking lounge, carved in the shape a tree, complete with mama bear and two baby bears.

The anachronistic creative within me leapt for joy at the blending of old and new, hallways with a floral motif down a long passage, matched with subtly-patterned rugs, brass finishes and ornamental light fittings.

Every room is suffused with that sense of privacy and quiet. Despite whatever activity occurred outside, we felt instantly at ease and pampered to within an inch of our lives, whether it be relaxing on the bed to taking a breather before dinner or indulging in a shower.

Really indulge. Not only was I blessed with a super-sized shower head from above but four nozzles from the sides. As much as the Victorian tub beckoned, the shower won hands down. Heaven.

Dinner in the restaurant was a study in à la carte dining. My partner enjoyed seared salmon while I opted for a melt-in-the-mouth artichoke dish complemented by a Warwick Chardonnay.
It was almost a sin that we couldn’t retire straight to our room afterward, since we’d promised friends we’d meet them for drinks.

A word on the hotel’s location: it’s a hop, skip and a jump away from Rosebank Mall, so we took a short walk to the shopping centre for a chilled-out nightcap, although I must admit the establishments there seem overly keen to close their doors quite early on weekends.

It’s the second time now we’ve been chased out before 11pm. And Joburgers like to call Cape Town Slaapstad?

Goodbyes to old friends said, we chose a DVD from the Monarch’s collection to watch on the plasma screen in our suite. The hotel may not have oodles of titles but the selection gained our approval in seconds and, with a copy of Black Cat, White Cat in hand, we slipped into our room, content that we were cocooned from the world outside, safe in the embrace of an elegant hideaway. The Mantis Group’s Monarch Hotel offers elegance and discreet luxury that is worth experiencing, even just once in your life. But, be warned, you may well be tempted to return for a second or third taste.

For reservations, call 041 407 1000, e-mail reservations@mantiscollection.com or see www.mantiscollection.com.

Nerine Dorman was hosted by the Monarch Hotel
(First published in the Sunday Independent Life section, December 5, 2010.)

On the banks of the Great Zambezi

I have to admit it, when our 1time flight started the descent and we flew over the Victoria Falls, I got a bit teary-eyed. I'm in Africa now, I couldn't help but think, though that's a bit rich coming from me since I'm an African. Cape Town seems to exist in its own bubble and I've always maintained the Mother City isn't Africa.

At time of blogging, we've just had breakfast on the deck of the Royal Chundu Zambezi River Lodge. We look out over the mighty river, its waters a ochre-cobalt, for lack of better description, at the riverine acacia forests in Zimbabwe across the way. Last night we went on a river cruise, not expecting to see much but our sightings included about a dozen elephant, countless birds (including endangered African skimmers, open-billed storks, African fish eagles, giant kingfishers, giant egrets and more). A lazy crocodile basked with his maw gaping. A monitor crawled with his peculiar reptilian sway through the long grass. Broad-billed rollers scolded in the waterberries.

Warthogs came down to graze on the flood plain where the grass is greenest, chacma baboons keeping out a sharp eye for predators while bushbuck warily picked their way to the water's edge. Kudu, the grey ghosts of the bushveld, remained in the thorny thickets... The lodge doesn't bill its activities as Big Five adventures but hell, this place is teaming with wildlife.

Life of the insect kind is in abundance. Lodge manager Werner told me the kamakazi hawk moths are called pismotte (too rude for me to translate into English) but after the nth moth tried to adhere to my hair or vanish down the front of my top, I stated losing interest in this phenomenon and started seeing the insects for their nuisance value.

The tree frog that had staked out the top of a picture frame in the large, open-air lounge was a cause for fascination. He stared at me with his bug-eyes and gulped wetly, obviously on the lookout for mozzies.

Ah, yes... the mozzies. Stocked up on anti-Malaria pills (yay for nausea) we were nonetheless grateful for the mosquito net covering our bed.

This morning while enjoying my coffee on the deck, I found a huge, delicate moth that looks like a dried leaf when its wings are closed.

Bulbuls scolded me this morning while I walked to the lounge area. Saw yellowbellied bulbuls as well as the black-eyed kind. Birdwatcher's paradise indeed.

Last night during the boma dinner, some of the orphaned kids from the neighbouring village performed their dances for us. Much less aggressive (and far more sensual) than South African Zulu or Xhosa dancing, these youngsters almost made me blush. But mutual love seems a bigger item on the agenda between Zambia's many tribes, who appear to do a better job of getting on with each other than the South Africans. We could take a leaf from their book.

Just to make you jealous, our activities for today include a visit to the local village, a canoeing expedition down the Zambezi rapids (I'm crazy but I'm going to do this thing) and a fishing trip. I'm planning on catching a feared tiger fish.

A nice touch last night was the huge bunch of roses that appeared in our chalet. Thomas and I are celebrating our 10th anniversary and as luck would have this visit happening at the same time. Another small touch that made me smile was that management found me a tiny bone carving of Nyami-Nyami, the ancient Zambezi river god, who has a head like a fish and the body of a snake.

It's doubtful whether we'll have internet connection before we return to SA as tonight we're sleeping at a private island covered in baobabs and ancient jackalberry trees. For now I'm just smiling and enjoying the breeze cooling the air off the mighty Zambezi.

New review for Khepera Rising

What a nice way to start my brief bit of time off: a four-tombstone review for Khepera Rising at Bitten by Books.

The reviewer had this to say: Jamie is the anti-hero: he’s rude, crude, obnoxious and yet the whole time I was reading this story I was cheering for this guy because for every nasty act he committed, he would demonstrate some kindly deed, sometimes for people he knew well but more often for others he either hardly knew or despised.

Read the full review here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=23785

Other than that, I'm enjoying my Halloween immensely. Today is a Type O Negative day in memory of Peter Steele, so I'm driving my poor husband a bit nuts going through my playlist but hell, if he constantly makes me listen to Foetus, Steroid Maximus and Manorexia, I can have a bit of my own back sometimes. Tonight I shall lift a glass of red wine in memory to the Green Man.

Last night we were hanging out with the Vesparados at their clubhouse in Culemborg. They're awesome, a Vespa scooter club who make the Hell's Angels look like a pack of sissies. Besides, how many Hell's Angels will ramp their choppers through a ring of fire? Some of the BlackMilk crew were there and we were messing around filming zombie attacks for a short film they're putting together. I donned the corpse paint and joined in the fun. This seems to be the only role I end up taking in the films they make. Says something about me, doesn't it?

Other than that, I'm off to Zambia for a few days to review a game lodge near Livingstone. This is very exciting as it's been about a year since I last travelled out of the country. And, it's one of the few benefits of working in a demanding newspaper publishing environment. Although I won't have access to the internet, I will prepare some blogs to share the adventure.

I've been thinking long and hard about my role as fiction editor. I see that the local editors sometimes get a bit of a raw deal with the publishers not paying on time or just not paying enough. Which makes me think about my position as content editor for a small press in the US. I work for royalties, so if my author does well, so do I. Which kind of puts the pressure on for me to acquire authors who'll sell within the epublishing situation.

I edit fiction because I enjoy seeing authors gain confidence within their chosen genres. Even better is when those four- and five-star reviews start piling up, and this past week has seen a number of my authors gain stellar reviews with well-known review sites. This is the best thank you for me. Even better is when my authors submit their next work for consideration and I can see a visible improvement in their work. Although it's nice seeing that royalty statement at the end of each month, reader feedback is often the most tangible evidence that we're getting something right.

So, what sells? Romance and erotica. Horror and science fiction are taking a bit of a raw deal at the moment but the only advice I have for authors in these genres is to carry on writing and getting published through the platforms that are available. This also means a helluva lot more shameless self-promotion.

My first published novels fall within the horror genre but I'm now looking at rather restructuring my writing to market through the urban fantasy genre, which does sell better. This does mean upping the romantic/erotic content but, since I've started doing this anyway about a year or so ago, it's not really an issue for me.

Another option open to authors who are epublished is to hold onto their printing rights then self-publish through programmes such as Amazon's CreateSpace. The benefit of this is that your books are available in print and electronic versions, and it's a bit better than having self-published a work in its entirety, since you have the credits of releasing first electronically through an established press.

Goths in Paradise, day one

The Avis chauffer was supposed to pick me up at 5am, or so the itinerary led me to believe. My driver, bless his little cotton socks, cruised over to collect me at 4.10am. Luckily for him, I'd packed the night before and had already stumbled out of bed at 4am. I must admit there was something singularly incongruous about seeing a large silver Mercedes pull up in front of our treehaus. Ah hell, it couldn't hurt to get through to Cape Town International Airport a little earlier.

Cape Town International Airport has been described as "the only construction site with its own airport". It's still a mess but is considerably better than when they first started with the improvements. Our dinky little airport is supposed to cater for all the soccer hooligans descending upon us for the World Cup. Joy. If Airports Company South Africa (Acsa) can get its rear into gear, that is.

I bought a killer cuppaccino after checking in my bag then meandered to the marquee doubling as the domestic departures. I'd hate to know how this flimsy structure has been holding up in the wind. There I joined hundreds of bleary-eyed commuters heading for other parts of the country. I met up with Audrey, our airlines writer, who was also being packed off to Mauritius. We couldn't figure out who Sarah was, tho' we had an inkling as to her identity. Ah, the joy of knowing people from phone and email only. Our little jaunt was to be a small team-building exercise as well.

We flew up to Jozi courtesy of 1Time. I managed to sleep through most of those two hours, having spent most of the previous night editing and trying to tie up loose ends. Arriving at OR Tambo Airport I was very glad to discover none of my check-in luggage had been stolen. This is a regular occurence at this airport but I also didn't feel like plastic-wrapping my suitcase at R50 a pop.

Finally we met up with Sarah then moseyed along to meet the rest of our group of journos at the Air Mauritius check-in, where we were ushered along to the Air Mauritius business lounge, where we were indulged with Bloody Marys and as many snacks we could eat. Om nom nom nom nom...

I somehow managed to sleep through most of the Air Mauritius flight as well, lulled into sleep by the soporific effect dealt by the advertorial on my TV screen detailing the island's wonderful attributes, that would only really appeal to people who earn what I do each day, as opposed to once a month.

But the Air Mauritius staff were very nice and also made sure I had plenty of food and wine, so I really can't complain about the Asian gentleman in the row in front of me who snored.

We arrived at Mauritius's Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam Airport (SSR for short). Try to say that fast, while sober... after 7pm, going forward in time by two hours. Night falls early this far up. Nothing like Cape Town's lingering sunsets lasting until well after 8pm. The first thing that struck me was the humidity. Just like Durban. Breathing here's like breathing in syrup.

The next thing is that everyone speaks French. Very soon I was "bonjouring" and "merci-ing". Of course I understood very little unless I could read the words with a handy English translation nearby but I kept thinking of Amy... Damn, girl, you would have loved this little trip.

We travelled by road to Le Touessrok, in a minibus. The roads are very narrow and curvy, and when you enter villages, the houses open their doors right onto the road. No pavements in sight. Hindus are the dominant sector, so many of the homes have little shrines out front to honour their chief deities, all lit up with red lights. Very festive.

Many of the houses aren't complete because the Mauritian government makes people pay less tax if a) the roof isn't complete, or b) the house isn't painted. Consequently, driving through the poorer sections of Mauritius is like driving through a half-finished construction site.

Oh, and a word on the driving on this island. I gain the impression that there isn't much of a traffic department. When a car stops in the road... or parks, there is no place to stop but that lane, so you kind of have to keep your eyes open for random obstructions while you drive. Also, many of the locals ride bicycles or scooters, so that's an added menace.

A giant banyan tree stands sentinel at Le Touessrok's front entrance. Giant bird cages hanging from the branches contain lights, so it's all very pretty and fairytale. I looked up as I climbed out, and saw my first-ever fruitbat. Kinda freaky. It's cat-sized and flaps about in a rather ungainly fashion.

We had supper at Barlen's, a beachside restaurant... And I got to try curried jack fruit (tastes somewhat like a combination of mango and aubergine) as well as palm hearts (also known as the millionaire's salad).

Then, to bed. My room overlooked the sea and when I stood on the balcony, I could smell the salt-sweet air. It was very warm and I went to sleep with the slop and wash of small waves on the resort's volcanic rock foundations.