A Miserable weekend on the West Coast

Sitting at my laptop on this miserable weekend in Jozie I am reminded of one such weekend when living in Langebaan on the West Coast of South Africa a good few years ago.

My sister Veronica and I set out on a blustery miserable spring weekend to see the flowers of the West Coast. The West Coast is renowned for its floral splendour in the spring when the winter rain has been good. Oh we hummed and ha-heed but in the end the picnic basket was packed and we were off, taking the coastal road to Elandsbaai or Elands Bay. (The Eland is the largest antelope in Africa and Baai is the Afrikaans name for Bay.)

Grey clouds accompanied us along wet roads with every flower hiding its light under a bushel. However we were intrepid in our search for a pleasant spot to drink a glass or two and eat our picnic and parked near the harbour at Elandsbaai awed by the fury of the waves crashing against the rocks.

Imagine our delight when a seal caught a wave, and, landing safely, promptly fell into his afternoon slumber. Just then a Kombi pulled up next to us and we became acquainted with our neighbour who owned Muisbosskerm, the outdoor eating restaurant on the beach near Lamberts Bay. We pointed the seal out to him and in no time we were into a heated discussion on the pros and cons of shooting seals for their supposed decimation of fish stocks.

Veronica and I took the stance that they had their place in the eco-system and nobody could say without any doubt that they were responsible for the demise of the fish stocks as there were a lot of factors involved. Our neighbour disagreed and a lively discussion ensued washed down with another glass of wine and friendly farewells.

We then made our way to the Elandsbaai Hotel where we were expected and made ourselves comfortable on the table and chairs outside braving the weak sunshine. These South African country hotels are few and far between but such good value where you can always find co-travelers to swap a tale or two with.

Later a walk on the beach found us chatting to some surfers in wet suits in pursuit of the right hand break that Elandsbaai is famous for. The cold Benguela current that hugs the West Coast does not deter these keen surfers.

Wandering back to the hotel we were told that there was just 10 minutes before their famous seafood platter was put before us. It was a feast to be remembered with the crumbed crayfish the star! We stayed the night listening to the sound of the crashing waves beneath cozy duvets.

Next morning we wandered out to the Sonskyn Kafee (Sunshine café) waiting for the sun to come out and tempt the flowers to open. Here we found a magnificent military type jacket bedecked with medals swinging from one of the beams. Mevrou, the owner, told us that it was her husband’s uniform when he was in the Eastonian Air Force. She had a book exchange and we picked up some reading matter.

Rounding the corner we came upon an old gentleman and his Jack Russel dog. He leant on his spade and regaled us with his grievances against the government taking his taxes whilst he had to clear the pavement of weeds himself!

Onwards on the coast road the flowers began to peep out. A woolly sheep gave us a thoughtful stare as her hoofs stood deep in the magical purple carpet of blooms.

Through Lamberts Bay where we could see the Cape Gannets in their white plumage with yellow heads and black marked beaks taking off and landing from the island. We drove past Graafwater (meaning water from a spade) with the sky clearing affording a magnificent view of the dam at Clanwilliam as we crested the last hill into the bustling town where stalls were everywhere and the info desk busy pointing out the vest viewing sites on the map.

After tea and lemon meringue pie in the gardens that were now at their magnificent best in orange, crimson, magenta and white we meandered off along the dam’s western shore stopping every now and then to gasp again at the pallet of colours nature had in her paint box.

We stopped at Citrusdal with the scent of orange blossoms in the hot still air where we bought fresh dates especially for Jamie Oliver’s sticky toffee pudding and a new cultivar of orange/naartjie (mandarin) that we were persuaded to try as it peeled easily, finding it delicious enough to buy a bagful.

As we rounded the corner on the Piketberg/Veldrif road the rain swept down again but we had enjoyed a marvelous two days that had paid off our eternal optimism, the unexpected highlight being the friendliness of the West Coast locals and the characters that we had met.

 

My new Book, Bring Me a Dream, will soon be available on KINDLE and AMAZON …

The Humerus Epistle

Here’s how it happened. I was walking the dogs at the dam and fell onto my right shoulder, breaking the neck of the humerus  – for those who don’t know it is the large bone in the upper arm.  Ambulance and Mill Park Hospital for one night whilst the family assessed the financial implications and then home to await a place in Dr. A>D> Bhutt’s operation list.

Susan took me in at 12noon four days later and after a long afternoon – no food since early am – I was operated on. And then the fun started. I was terrified of putting my back out when they moved me but wait for it – they put me in a sheet or something and swung me around like a sack of mealies landing in the right place but the bed was the wrong way round. So another swing and I landed in the right place with the very beautiful Cuban lady anaethetist smilingly putting me to sleep.

I suffer from an underlying heart complaint called Prince Metal. I call him the Prince of Darkness as he lurks somewhere near my aorta and when the time is right he pounces and squeezes my aorta into spasms. It has taken years, countless medical personnel and lots and lots of money that my son Mick has provided to find this out and it was only the King of Hearts, Dr. Roux of Panorama Hospital that tumbled to his presence! I can never thank Mick enough for everything he has done.

Unbeknown to me, the attending physician, Dr. Sadat had instructed the staff to give me my chronic medication whereas I had been told to bring it with me.  Enter a young Zulu night sister who, when I asked her what the pill was, told me it was a pain pill. Then I took my Zilden (the appropriate medication to defeat the Prince.)

The next morning at 5am as usual in hospitals, I was given another of these white pills by the same neat sister and again queried it – again being told that it was for pain. Meanwhile there was pain medication dripping into my veins! Again I took my Zilden. Then I clicked – I had been well and truly overdosed! I went into panic mode, convinced the Prince would appear and of course he did with glee!  Now, he disappears when faced with morphine but there was none to be had as I was patted on the head and told that I was being hysterical. The Prince  giggled and squeezed with much abandon and I did not grin to bear it but somehow got through with my imagination bringing forth the memory of that beautiful lioness in Etosha that we saw hunting and had to leave as we would be late for the gates. The dying sun captured the shining silk of her coat and her gaze was focused on the grazing springbok. She is engraved upon my memory for these occasions of pain and always brings me through. Faced with this image, the Prince eventually retreated and I was left limp and exhausted.

Then the Prince of Bones , Dr. Bhutt- and he truly deserves that name for he put pins and screws and possibly the kitchen sink to, into my brittle humurus, quietly reassuring  me that the operation had been a success. I predict that he is shortly to be promoted to the King of Bones!

He visited me and we told him the sorry story.  He politely listened and hid his skepticism of the whole story and of the underlying Prince of Darkness. A friendly helper whispered that the Night nurse, being a Zulu was stubborn – “They all are, my dear.”

The Prince of Bones had obviously had a quiet word to the Night Sister who addressed me, adamantly insisting that she had been told to give the medication and she had done what she was told. She was within her rights but would not give me any further chronic medication. I poured oil on the waters and said – well the solution would have been to listen to me and call senior medical staff to rectify the matter.  As she stood there, so upright and determined, I could see the Zulu Impis of yore on the hills of Zululand, stamping their feet , the dust billowing into the future that has brought this young woman to hold her ground! Brit and Zulu were always well matched adversaries and the battle could well have continued in this ward had not I backed down and smiled! The correct dosage of Zilden was now working and I was confident that the Prince would not return for some time although with equal certainty he would await his moment to kick me out of this world!

Now the Knight of Medicine, who was a skeptical Dr. Sadat, possibly impatiently,  pulled a large medical tome from his shelf. There on page 835 he found the Prince!  He issued his instructions. Aha! We had better do another ECG! A larger model was brought but that was broken. Eventually the fourth machine later, the ECG was done and of course, as Susan and I well knew, the Prince hid even deeper when he sensed the machine and guess what, nothing could be seen!

Meanwhile the Prince of Bones had bumped into a Prince of Hearts, or so I think, who told him not to underestimate the Prince of Darkness and so he came to my bedside and persuaded me to stay another night for yet another ECG, smiling indulgently when Susan and I told him that it would not show anything. What did these two lay women know of medicine?

We could have told him of rushed trips to hospitals all over the country, of facing that fierce Head Physician at Universitas Hospital in Bloemfontein, that Heart Surgeon in Cape Town who did an angiogram and lost his way to the renal artery!

“Behave yourself Molly, this is nothing!”

”Oh yes, have you ever had one?”

Of bumping along a track in the Lower Zambezi Park in Zambia, passing old Clarence, the mangiest lion you’d ever see, but who was the darling of the lionesses in this area; glimpsing a leopard before going aboard the medical rescue plane and flying to Harare with the whole population blocking the streets, or so it looked, here for the election! Oh what a wonderful clinic that was with what superb doctors, one of whom warned me that my stomach must be investigated when back in Cape Town. He was truly the Gastric Prince for his words came true.  Alas that clinic has fallen into disarray under Uncle Bob.

So the Prince of Bones insisted on another ECG, being a thorough professional, and as it was clear the next day, gave permission for me to go home. A long wait and the final blood pressure was being taken by a lovely Xhosa maiden. Dreamily I could see her ancestors standing on the other side of the Fish River, haranguing my ancestors standing on the other bank, for having accepted a gift of cows, and failing to understand that their first calves should be given in return.  The blood that flowed was forgotten now for the top line on the machine was 111.

“ Aiee..!

She exclaimed, “1 is my Fah Fee number and I am going to take it three times!”

“My Fah Fee number is 35!”

One day in Port Elizabeth that number saved my bacon as I was going to the races and did not have the Jockey fees. The China-man’s messenger arrived with my winnings that I put on my filly and took a number of place accumulators, winning a good sum of money. As my old jockey Domingo de Allende used to say when we had a winner, “All good things to eat!”

So, here we stand, swopping Fah Fee numbers, history well behind us, for when all is said and done China rules the world!