Babies

    Well, the other half was away for over two weeks the other day, and took his "girls" with him to keep him company - Kita and Jessie. 

    Their return was really quite sweet. I wasn't 100% sure what time they would be arriving, so had taken the other three for a walk up the mountain. We were standing on top when they arrived, and I'm not sure Bear, Coda or Cady realised who it was, as they didn't show much interest.

    I could see Kita and Jessie running around and inspecting everything, as they do, and waited until Kita was at the front and called her. 

    She stopped dead in her tracks, looking for me. 

    I opened the gate and called her again. 

   Now Kita's a big, forty-kg girl, and with a bit of arthritis in her front legs, takes life a lot slower these days. That day was not such a day. 

    She realised where I was, and came at a gallop. 

   The poor thing, I couldn't let her bail all the way up the mountain on her stiff joints, and started down to meet her. Bear, Coda and Cady followed, as they do when they decide to be good. 

   They all saw each other at a similar time and stopped, assessing the situation and who this was, then ran for each other. 

    The joy that these doggies displayed in their greeting of each other after being separated for two weeks was something very, very special. Kita of course growled and moaned and whooed in turn, while Bear, Cady and even Coda got up in her face, licking her, smelling her, bouncing around excitedly, and with tails wagging like fans. 

    She also struggled to get to me because the others were making such a fuss. They all didn't know which way to turn. When the greetings were over and we headed home, little Cady who normally runs on ahead, stuck to Kita's side like she was attached. 

    Jessie, who hadn't made the run up the mountain, likely due to her nerves, greeted us excitedly just outside the gate, but as usual was way happier to see Kita, her living security blanket, than any of the dogs. She did spend a large amount of time jumping all over me though.

    It showed me just how much these animals feel for us and each other, and Kita, as the matriarch of our bunch, is very special and very important to them all, even Coda, who doesn't show much emotion. Their joy at being reunited was one of the most special things I've seen. 

    And who can tell me that these animals don't feel anything?

The Bike and the Mountain

The Bike and the Mountain

            As some of you may know, we live (by my terms anyway) on a mountain. We also own the mountain next to us, which is actually higher than the residential mountain.

            So, on lazy days, instead of using leg power to walk the dogs, I trundle up the hill on my Yamaha 350 quad bike.

            Wednesday was such a day. Work had been crazy, and my neck had been giving me trouble. I thought, instead of pounding up the mountain and hurting myself more, I’d take a gentle, slow ride on my bike.

            Well, my bike had no petrol in it, and none to be found (probably because darling Wilbard had nicked it for his own bike, the skelm), so I used Pio’s. His is a little different from mine. It’s a small Grizzly, like a 100cc, and is an automatic and not a manual like my monster.

            Pio bought it for me, and I hated it – much preferring the raw, brute strength of my own. I got to keep the big one.

            Anyway … off I went up the hill on the sewing machine, the dogs in front and behind, running, smelling, and in Kita’s case, walking very slowly. She’s getting on in years, and weighs a good forty kg’s, bless her, which is quite a bit of weight to carry up the mountain. I stop and wait her every so often.

            Once on the top of the mountain, we have seriously impressive views, and can see forever. It’s stunning. I’m sorry to use such a boring word, Richard and Jo-Anne! Because of my lack of lyricism, here’s a photo for you:

            So once on top of the lovely mountain, which my iPhone says is the equivalent of about twenty flights of stairs, I stopped the sewing machine on a flat bit at the top and waited for the dogs.

            Then I felt very lazy. I had to at least do something, so I thought I would walk across the top of the mountain to our farthest fence line, and at least get a little exercise in.

            I put the bike in neutral and hopped off. I turned to call the dogs, and gather all five together so I at least knew where they all were.

            I turned around. Why, I don’t know. To my horror, the stupid sewing machine had decided to take itself for a walk.

            I charged after it as rolled towards the edge of the mountain, gaining momentum. I leapt rocks, dodged dogs, and must have looked like a marathon relay-sprinter on crack, with my eyes falling out of my head, trying to grab madly at the back end of the bike.

            Alas, it was not possible. It’s likely the fastest the useless thing has ever gone.

            It missed a bloody tree that would have halted it in its tracks, ramped over a large outcrop of rock, and disappeared. I slid to a halt. I had no idea what to do. I’m pretty damn sure my mouth was hanging open, my eyes still as big as saucers, and my hands waving madly.

            There was silence. For a second, anyway. Then there was a thunderous crash. Silence. Another thunderous crash. I put my hands over my mouth.

            Pio was going to kill me. This was undoubtedly the stupidest thing I had ever done.

            The dogs had gathered around me, clearly confused as to why I wasn’t on the bike as it plunged over the edge. They charged after it – which, to be fair, that’s what they normally do. I’m just on it, in most cases.

            There was another crash. It was no doubt going off yet more of the large outcroppings. More silence.

            Please God, make it stop. I was in major trouble.

            Another thunderous crash echoed through the valley.

            Eventually, it did. I shrieked into my phone, the recipient being Sharon. “I walked away for two seconds and the bike rolled off the mountain!”

I peeked over the edge of the large outcropping of rock, but couldn’t see the bike. I could however, very easily follow the trail of destruction it had left as it went 4x4’ing on its own. Grass was flattened, whole trees ripped from the ground (I still feel bad for them), and rocks smashed, literally. They also had liberal coverings of blue plastic.

Photo of large outcropping of rock that bike ramped off of, dogs included: (there’s a large drop)

It was slow going. The dogs cleared the space with ease, probably three or four times, before I could make it down to where the bike lay. It’s hectically steep. I used the slow-going time to phone the hubby.

“The bike went off the mountain.”

“What?”

“Yes. It went off the mountain. Like, on its own.”

I can’t really remember the rest of the conversation, but he was not happy.

On reaching the bike, I was almost too terrified to look. Surprisingly, it was on its wheels, but judging by the amount of blue plastic on the rocks, it had definitely gone over a number of times. I think it ramped off yet another massive rock, smashed a tree out of the ground roots ’n all, flipped, and skidded for at least a good ten meters, before coming to rest on its tyres.

The steel here and there was battered and bent. The key was gone. One tyre was off its rim entirely, the rim scratched and dinged.

I phoned the hubby again.

“What if it bursts into flames?”

“It won’t. Disconnect the battery.”

“We must get it out.”

Husband was not impressed. I gave up.

I gingerly disconnected the battery. My neck was killing me. There was no way hubby was going to come fetch me. It took another twenty minutes to bundu-bash home through very thick bush, down and then up a very steep mountain.

It’s now a week later, and the poor bike is still there! Thus far, we can’t get it out. Hubby is not enamoured with my idea of tying it to the big bike and pulling it out with force. He’d rather drive it out.

Moral of the story: HANDBRAKES ARE THERE FOR A REASON!!!

                    Bike in bottom right corner! From top of mountain!!!

       

 

The "OhGod" of Days

    The above comes form watching Terry Pratchett's Hogfather, and his OhGod of hangovers, whom I just love. Makes me laugh every time. 

    Yesterday went just fine, until about five-thirty pm, when TN Mobile cut out internet due to non-payment. This is of course bullshit, as I have never missed a payment, and actually just spent eight months fighting with them about allocations. This happens every month. I pay, they don't capture it, refuse to acknowledge receipt of the confirmation, ignore emails, and then cut us off. 

    But I mean really, at five-thirty on a Friday, when no one in the accounts department is at work?? I expect they do it because of those clients that really don't pay - then you have to suffer a whole weekend without Facebook or Netflix. But me? I pay. 

    I lost my shit. To add to this, Pio also lost his, as we have many internet lines running to our mail server, but they were down due to Telecom having technical problems and all our service providers here using the same towers, and the last one was cut for no good reason. We can NEVER have no internet in our business. 

    From there, the evening steadily got worse - even though Pio tracked down some random manager at TN and made them connect us again. 

    Trying to feed Cady, as she is so fussy, is always a nightmare. Then, Coda and Kita hang over her waiting for her to walk away, so they can steal her food. They glare into the back of her head so hard that I'm sure she feels it and lands up running for her life. So after she walked away for the third time, I picked up her bowl (Coda is grossly overweight and is not allowed to thieve extra food) and as I put it next to me on the couch, I somehow caught the side of it somewhere and it all landed facedown on my couch. All sticky and wet ... I almost threw the bowl across the room. 

    We decided to get dinner on. Pio wanted potato bake. I precooked the potatoes, and on assembling it all, thought the cream smelled funny. I'm freaky about this sort of thing, but Pio said it was fine. I then asked him to turn the oven on, as our long fire lighter thingy had died and we have to use a lighter, which means I always burn myself. He ignored me. I tried to light the stove myself, and managed to squash my finger in something, which led to another outbreak of vloeking and skeling. 

    Then, we tried to go sit outside, but by now it was almost dark, so the evening could not be appreciated. To add to it, the wind was pumping so hard I could only hear whistling in my ears. I tried to water the lawn, and discovered that Jessie and chewed the sprinkler and Wilbard had disappeared the fitting on the end to spray normally, so I got a cramp in my hand trying to water evenly - in the dark. I also had to dodge dog poo and Jessie's odd collection of everything she chews on a daily basis. 

    Thereafter, I attempted to sit at the braai and talk normally. Pio was a few glasses of wine ahead of me, and I just found him annoying. He tried to cheer me up by kissing and cuddling me, to which I found that his stubble literally rubbed my face raw, so I told him to f off. The wind was still howling, blowing my hair in my face and whipping words away, as well as forcing my cigarette smoke back down my throat every time I tried to exhale. 

    I popped inside to check on my potato bake, which was still raw, as I had put the stove way too low, apparently. I returned outside, to have Jessie run past me with a cigarette coal attached to her head, still glowing red in the dark. Admittedly, it's a great way to keep an eye on her, but WTF had Pio done? I charged after her in terror, thinking it was going to burn its way into the back of her skull. She ran away in terror, and I had to stop, and call her for cuddles - in her fear at being chased by a terrified me, she was terrified. I eventually got hold of her and got the coal off. That led to yet another bout of vloeking and skelling at Pio for accidentally almost setting my dog on fire. 

    By that point, I said to Pio, I just want to eat and get into bed and be done. He tried to finish as quickly as possible, and we went inside. The potato bake was raw, and I told him I would wait. He then tried to hand feed me, which got him told to f off again. He then flatly ignored me and ate - raw potato bake and all. I tried - it was all gross. I gave up, and decided I would have leftovers from the night before and my pork sausages for breakfast instead. 

    He had zealously put the salad away, in an effort to help, while I was trying to still eat, and when I took it out the fridge, I have no idea what happened, but I dropped it - a very short fall, mind you. It hit the edge of the fridge and shattered. There was glass and coleslaw in the fridge, down the front of the fridge, and all over the floor. I also somehow managed to cut myself. 

    The dogs decided this was a great treat, and I had to scream at them to f off, as there were tiny shards of glass in everything. We eventually got that cleaned up, with the dogs looking at me like I had beaten them. No apologies fixed this. 

    I eventually dished up my second dinner, and sulking, went and sat in bed with it, and turned the TV on. Because of the internet failure, nothing would work or connect. I tried to read on my phone, and it died on me as well. I almost threw that across the room, but luckily the thought of how I would explain that to the insurance, stopped me. 

    Pio, probably feeling quite mean towards me with the amount of f off's that had followed him that evening, left me to my dilemma, while he calmly brushed his teeth and did a million other things before even trying to fix the TV. 

    My dinner wasn't quite what I had in mind, and I landed up giving the last half of it to the dogs. I lay in bed, watching the TV that finally worked ... only to have Pio moan about everything I put on. He got told to f off for the umpteenth time. He then tried to cuddle. I refused. He tried again, trying to be nice and affectionate and hold my hand. He very nearly got slapped. 

     Eventually, I found something for him to watch, only to have him fall asleep not even five minutes in. I could have smothered him with his pillow at that point. 

The Haarskeerder

    We have loads of these every summer, as soon as the first rains have come, and normally Pio deals with them, as I shrivel up and have a heart attack in the corner. But ... he was away. I was tucked up in bed watching TV, Cady in bed beside me and Kita on her bed at the foot.

    I suddenly saw movement out the corner of my eye, and realised a bloody haarskeerder was slowly climbing the wall towards the window. They don't choose to climb, as from what I've seen, they can only climb using their front two icky legs, dragging their big fat bodies behind them. 

    My heart stopped. I was alone, with no man to protect me.

   Bear in mind, I tackle four meter pythons and warthogs with no second though. But these things make me go cold. 

    I didn't see a slop anywhere in sight, so bolted off my bed to find one. On return, he fell off the wall and was heading for the corner by Pio's bedside table. I tried to hit him with the slop, but even on this close encounter, I screamed like a polecat and jumped up and down on the bed with revulsion and a pounding heart.

    These things are incredibly fast. They move like lightning on speed. 

    He disappeared under the bed. I stood there for a moment, contemplating. There would be no sleep for me tonight, unless he was dead. My bed is against the wall, he can climb, and I also have one of those bloody mattress covers that I am sure he could latch onto with his evil, creepy, sticky feet. My pepper spray was in Swakop. I'd probably kill myself with a ricochet if I brought the shotgun out. 

    Now, I know Doom doesn't kill these buggers, but I'm sure if I finished the can on him, it would do the trick enough to be able to plant him with a plakkie. 

    I headed for the kitchen. 

    On return, armed with the can of Doom, I picked up the torch and inspected my bedroom with wide eyes. He had to be here somewhere. Which meant I had to look under the bed. The bedroom is really badly lit, hence the torch. 

    I crouched down, using the torch to look under the bed, Doom at the ready, to see if I could spot him hiding in a corner. 

    It was then I felt something on my arm. 

    I'm sure I had a heart attack. 

    The bastard was stuck to my arm, obviously having run up me. I was stupidly wearing long pyjama pants and a t-shirt, giving him ample grip - until he hit my arm. 

    I shrieked like an eight-year-old girl and started jumping around like a gymnast on speed. The doom went flying, hit the floor, and the plastic top broke into pieces. The torch went in the other direction. I slapped him frantically, suffering a nip in the process, but got him off me. I was still screaming. 

    The bugger came at me again, those legs working like a steam train. I continued screaming and ran into the bathroom. He followed, running for my feet. I did something that looked like a cross between a rain dance and an epileptic fit, and launched myself into the bath. 

    He scuttled around the edges of the bath, while I stood there, heart pounding, with nothing to hit him with. He disappeared back into the bedroom. I remained in the bath, contemplating my next move. There was none, really. My Doom can was in pieces and I had no other weapons. 

    I gingerly exited the bath and approached my bedroom. Our bath is particularly tiny - I don't really fit in it (when I met the woman that built the house, I realised why. She's a midget.) so that wasn't an option to sleep in, although I did consider it. 

     I phoned Pio, shrieking down the phone at him. He laughed at me. "They can't bite," he said. Bull. They bloody do. 

    I retrieved the can of Doom and the pieces of its top, and managed to squish one part of the top back on enough to make it spray in a general direction of where I wanted to. I sprayed everything. 

    He didn't reappear. The dogs were looking at me like I was insane.

    I mean, our house is dark. Four years later and I still haven't fixed the lights properly. This was my idea of hell. 

    I tried lying on the bed, my only vantage point to view the entire room from on high, pushing my feet against the wall to try and move it into the middle of the room. It didn't budge. Its rather large. That meant I had to put my feet on the ground and move the thing away from the wall, hopefully giving this spawn of the devil less accessibility. 

    I had to put my feet back on the ground to move it. I then decided to change from long pyjama bottoms to shorts, which I did. But then, I'd left them lying on the side of the bath. I spent another ten minutes shaking everything out, and once sure that there was nothing in them, I put them on. I then inspected myself in the mirror, wandering if he was on me again - but this was difficult as I was eyeing the floor to see if he would come at me again. 

    Bed in the middle of the room, I sat there, looking around me for another half an hour. Jessie, my killer dog, had decided that outside was best this evening, and wouldn't come inside. Cady and Kita had watched my antics with amusement, and had done nothing when the bloody thing practically ran over them. 

    He never reappeared. Which means he's still in the house. I slept with the light on, and my broken Doom, a torch, and two plakkies next to me. I freaked every time a bug flew into me, looking for light. And now, in the rather hot light of day, I'm still too scared to sit with my feet on the ground or move to clean in case he reappears ... 

Plot Life - Me and My Bike Again

    It was just the other day, where I was out there again on my own. I was bundu-bashing for a reason this time. I was also having trouble walking or I would have gone on foot, because I'd recently fallen over and sprained my ankle so badly, it took over six months to heal and still niggles me. 

    Bear had come home head held high, the previous day, with a butchered kudu leg in his mouth. I was horrified. These assholes were poaching on my plot again, and I was in a royal rage. I'd found snares on the plot before, for kudu and warthog. I hated it. 

    So, with this in mind, and a wonky ankle, I had taken the bike and gone looking for snares or a butchered kudu. I was proper bundu-bashing, off the road, wherever I could go. Right on front of the house, just over the road we were industriously building, there is yet again a steep downhill into a valley. Bear had come from that general area, but it was really rough, so I was struggling on the bike. 

    I'd gone off our little bike road to the right, and had investigated as much as I could. I'd walked a few steps, as far as possible, to see if I could smell or spot anything. I then had to make my way back to the very steep, slippery road, to head further down. 

    Of course, I got to a very rough spot, and decided that instead of tackling it on the bike, what I would do is walk next to it, and just clutch in so it would roll forward.  I would be out of the way if it flipped, and not break myself again. 

    I got over the first part. I then got semi-stuck under a tree, as usual, but managed to get out of it successfully. We were almost at the road, and I thought right, I just need a few more steps and I would be able to get back on and take it down. 

    Well, I clutched in and it rolled down the incline. I let the clutch go, thinking it would stop, but by this time it was already on the mess of small rocks and on the bad incline. The wheels locked and it slid. With eyes nearly falling out of my head, I just stood there and watched it. I had learnt my lesson, and wasn't about to go try grab it, as I probably would have done previously. 

    It stopped about two meters down, but now it was off the road on the opposite side. With my nerves on edge, I tried again to clutch it and turn the wheels back to the road. Well - bad move. This time, I sat down and watched it as it slid down the rest of the mountain, gaining speed, and hit a tree. Always a damn tree. 

    I sat there for a while longer, eyeing this situation out. I had no signal on my phone, my ankle was sore already from walking, and I was no closer to finding the bloody kudu.

    Eventually, I slid down the hill myself, and looked at the situation up close. We have very small trees on the plot, due to lack of water and rocky conditions. The bike had slid straight into one of the bigger ones, that had found less rocky soil, and was close to the "riverbed" at the bottom in the valley. It was deeply immersed in the evergreen branches, while all the other trees around it were dead and had no leaves. 

    Fighting off branches and tickling leaves, I got on, and tried to reverse it out - no luck, it just spun. I tried slow and steady, and then just planted it, kicking up loads of dust and stones. No luck. I sighed. Seriously. Always a tree. I tried picking up the back and shifting it, but it was so deep in the tree, I expected that more turning would have it rolling down the mountain again. I gave up. 

    I made my way back up the mountain on foot, losing my footing once and landing hard on my knee. I brushed off and kept going, looking for signal. I got hold of Pio, and then sat waiting, trying to find my dogs and bring them back together. Bless them, they'd watched all of this with cocked heads and a laugh in their eyes, before buggering off to sniff things.

    It took Pio ages to come rescue me. I wandered around, trying again to spot the poor kudu. I fell over again, not fully twisting the bloody ankle but twinging it. I eventually gave up, sat under a tree nursing my wounds, and waited. Kita sat with me, bless her. 

    When he eventually got to us, it took some tugging and wangling, trimming the tree back slightly, and then he got it out. Typical. I hated needing a mans help, as I always got laughed at. 

    He took it back up the mountain, and I had to walk, on wonky foot and knee. More bruises and scratches to add to my collection. 

Plot Life - Me and My Bike

    So, when we moved out here, we brought the bikes with us. Prior to that, I had only really ridden my quad on the beach in Swakop, and not ever in Windhoek. The beach is very different to the mountains that we have here on the plot. 

    Nevertheless, it was great. We often went bundu-bashing with them, up and down the mountains, creating little roads for ourselves so we could check fences and walk the dogs. I frequently got myself into kak on the bike, as I explored alone often. There's no signal at the back of the mountain, so when I got stuck there, I had no choice but to get myself out, in whatever way I could. 

    With the first run-in with the warthogs, they charged me. At that point, I knew better than to get off my  bike, and had ben trying to fend the dogs off of them with the bike itself. When they turned on me, I had to pick my legs up, whilst still trying to control the damn bike, and planted it into a tree. Thereafter the episode happened, resulting in me being bitten by the piggy, and I had to climb the mountain on foot to find signal and get Pio to come help me. 

     There was the other time, bundu-bashing in my own, where I got stuck in a ditch. I couldn't reverse as wheels just spun and as usual, the front of the bike was stuck in a tree - my signature move. I couldn't call Pio, as I think he was away - or I was just determined to do it myself. I tried picking the thing up. Bear in mind, this is a big Yamaha 350. I can barely get it off the ground, and can only shift it a couple of centimetres at a time. 

    I shift, packed rocks under the tyres, and got myself out, with great pride. 

    The worst that I ever did, happened the day before I flew to England to see my family. We normally did a roundabout circut, up to the top of the hill past the old ruins, swung to the left and went down to the bottom. We then would head along the fence line to the dar right corner of the plot, pause on that little hill so the dogs could run and sniff. We would then head down through the river and up a very steep mountain to the top, back long the top of the mountain and down past the ruins home again. 

    For some strange reason, on this very steep hill at the back of the mountain, Pio's bike failed and wouldn't start. Navigating up this mountain is hectic and not for the faint-hearted. There are big rocks, as well as millions of small ones, and over time, we'd worn a road. On this road, you had to really gun it because all the grip had been worn away and the bikes slipped and slid out on the small rocks. The nose often picked up as well on the incline, and you had to lean forward, dodging trees and heaven only knows what else at the same time. 

    I was sitting at the top of the mountain, waiting for him. Eventually, when he didn't come, I headed back down to see what was going on. 

    I was over-confident. I thought I knew my bike. 

    Reality check, incoming. 

    As I got to him, he was sitting in the middle of the road on a particularly steep bit. I had to turn, so took the first opportunity I could and swung the bike left to point the back of it at him. I was figuring I could just reverse, then head straight back up, starting on the grass that gave me grip, so I could get up enough speed to clear the mountain. 

    It all happened in slow motion. The bike began to tip to the right, and Pio screamed at me to get off. 

     I jumped, but as the bike was already tipping, I couldn't get off the high side and had to go into its path. How I managed it, I don't know. I was off and out of its way, as it slowly tipped over and rolled down the mountain, side over side. 

    I sprained my ankle in the process, slipping on a rock, and was almost in tears with pain, watching my poor bike do some bundu-bashing of its own. Pio, between laughing, told me, "You NEVER turn on a mountain!" Apparently this was logic - I didn't know that. everyone had always said, "You can't roll a quad." I took that quite literally apparently. 

    We then had to slide down the mountain ourselves and get the bike back on all fours, wonky ankle and all. We limped home, my nerves in tatters. From riding in Swakop in the dunes, we'd seen and heard many horror stories of people going up the dunes and falling backwards due to the incline. The bike would then fall on them, and with that weight, do serious damage. Guys had broken backs and necks in the dunes. 

    It was my first reality check with the bike. It also took months for me to be able to navigate any sort of incline on the bike again, and I still have a niggle in the back of my head when the going gets steep or I'm sideways on an incline. 

Plot Life - The Road

    "Well," they said, "you'll never be able to afford living on a plot."

    "I'll make a plan," was my response.

    And boy, did we. 

    At first, we enjoyed the dirt road, in all its glory, that most people were afraid to tackle without 4x4. I drove Beasty at that time, a beat up old Toyota 2.7 petrol manual double cab. And wow, did she have a suspension that could carry the world. However, there came a point when I said to Pio, "If I have to carry on driving this thing, you're going to have to cough up for a boob job."

    He laughed at me. I ad to say it a couple of times, eventually saying, "If this road isn't fixed, I'm getting a boob job!" 

    So we started working on the road. We're a good six or eight kilometres from the main tar road, and the grader, although its a public access road, doesn't grade past our gate. Buggers. I still need to take up that fight with them, actually. 

    But never mind, onwards and upwards, I would do it myself. By this time I had acquired a new double cab 4x4, with much softer suspension, and as it was automatic, I could drive with one hand and clutch my poor boobs with the other. But then, I began to feel for the poor thing, as I floored it up and over the mountains, with scant regard for it, but just wanting to get past the worst of the road. 

    James, our darling builder, and Wilbard, my lovely fix-it-all guy that had been with me for years, started tackling the road. At first, we dug out sand from our mountain top, and drive it down the road, filling holes and levelling.  

    One day, in old Beasty, I had a good ton of sand on the back, and four guys in the car with me, that had been recruited from the plots around us to help with the road. As we were coming off the top of the mountain, around a sharp corner that led to an even steeper downhill, with practically a cliff on the right, the bakkie slid out. 

    I hit the brakes, that were pretty much non-existent at best, but hey, what could you do. Beasty carried on going, straight off the road and down this very steel hill, that to this day gives people the heebies as a driver or passenger. 

    The four black guys, in the back of the double cab and in the passenger seat, literally turned a pasty shade of grey. They began to shriek in panic, throwing open the doors and preparing to jump. I jsut sat on the brakes and prayed.

    We slid about two meters down this hill. The guys bailed - and only poor Wilbard has gotten in a car with me since.

    Eventually, Beasty stopped. I kept my foot on the brake, and tightened the handbrake, which also never really worked. At that point, with kak brakes and an even kakker handbrake, and the guys shrieking and awwing, I managed to get Beasty into 4x4, then low range, then into reverse, and to start backing up - all without stalling. 

    Thank goodness the old thing is as strong as an Ironman. I got her out. Slowly, but I did. 

    We all stood around and shook for a bit, then headed down the road. The guys walked. 

    Anyway. After our decision to start fixing this lethal road, we did a lot of research. I wanted to do solid concrete blocks of about two meters square, straight down the road. Pio moaned at me. Too expensive. Takes too long. We have to buy concrete hardener as well, as because with the terrain, there was no way to drive around the road we had thrown, while waiting for it to dry. Plotted and planned, and eventually started. 

    We decided to do two strips of road, one for each tyre. We measured out chassis's on the cars, from a small car to a truck, and went for something in the middle. But sod that, anyway, I thought to myself, and gave the instruction to pave in between the two tracks as well. This later did me good, as I kept falling off the two tracks before the paving, and cringed at the cost of the tyres I was damaging. 

    James, my darling James, went ahead like a steam train. We made moulds for the straight sections, and used bendy steel (don't ask me what its called) to create the placing for the corners. This way we would have a beautiful road, nicely laid out, and perfect. My OCD does not like imperfections. 

    Well. We came to the first straight, and it was particularly busy at work. Now, James is brilliant, but he needs guidance, and I just didn't get there. By the time they'd thrown a good fifty meters of road and I could drive on it, I realised it was about five centimetres higher than it should be. Therefore, one strip would me higher than the other. 

    My fragile temper cracked. I threw my toys out of the cot. James drives, so at one point I remember asking him at what point has he driven on a road like this? Poor guy. It was too expensive, however, to rip up and do again. 

    Now, whenever I drive it, my poor car hanging to the right, I have to laugh. I also then contemplate how long its going to be before I do get them to rip it out and do it again. 

Write Write Write

    So, in 2013, Frankie introduced me to All About Writing, and I did the Creative Writing Course. It took a few months if I remember correctly, and was great fun - after the panic of criticism had subsided. The mentors were lovely; gently critical and full of advice and explanations, and giving credit where credit was due. They built our confidence as we went. 

    Then, I decided to join the mentoring. I'd written a lot from a young age, but never tried to publish - apart from submitting a disaster to Pan Macmillan in 2011. I can clearly see now why they never read it :). With the mentoring, we submitted a word count each month, and our delightful mentors critted and advised. 

    The first book I worked through with them was the story of Aiden, a young druggie whose girlfriend dumped two kinds on him and disappeared. The story of his youth suddenly taken away, his reform, and growing to love these two little girls as his own, grew massively as we worked through it. It changed multiple times. Then, the girlfriend re-appears and takes his girls from him, and how his life falls apart again. 

    It took me almost three years to work through this one, as we navigated legalities, opinions, characters, and disasters. It was wonderful - although by almost the end of the second draft, I was so gatvol of it, I wanted to throw it in the bin. I persevered, and finished it. I still feel I want to throw it in the bin - but I think that this comes from TOO MUCH of it. Too much reading, writing, and editing of the same thing and characters. I got bored of the, basically.

    But to explain the trials and tribulations of writing and being criticised ... not easy. Frankie and I would read the feedback and rant. How dare they say I must remove that - it's an integral part of the book (how Aiden went out, got smashed, and crashed his truck). Devastation, and then the slow realisation that it really didn't take the story forward. 

    How DARE they not like that beautiful sentence ... so much time was taken with it. So much feeling. And then again, the realisation that it was pretty pointless, and I'd phrased the same thing slightly differently in another paragraph earlier or later on.

    Then, with time, we learned to see what they saw. And we loved it. We couldn't wait for our feedback, or for comments from the other mentees on the group. It was fabulous - my fix, after a coffee and a cigarette. 

    I shelved it after the end of the second draft. 

    Then, out of the blue, one of my mentors emailed me and said she had referred me and a couple of others to Jacana, who were looking for new, South African writers with potential. Panic stations. Totally. 

    I waited and waited, and eventually they contacted me. After having my nerves calm slightly with the wait, panic rose again. I still struggle to talk about my work, and generally avoid it. If someone asks me about it, I say, "Read it." Only in the last two weeks did I actually tell someone what it was about, in a single sentence ... and then redirected the conversation sharply lol. So what would I do with a publisher that needed to know the deeper aspects of the book? 

    Well, in short, we set up a Skype, and then they had a work emergency and couldn't do it that day :(. What a let down .... 

    But, if its meant to be it will be. I'll wait. If I find somewhere else that I fancy submitting to, I will. If not, then I won't. I'm not in a hurry. Aiden can sit on the shelf for a time, until I'm ready to do a third draft. Life happens when its meant to. 

    And for the moment, I have yet another book written while I was a teenager (for many reasons, I stopped writing. Creativity dried up.) and will continue with that one. I have submitted the first three chapters already, and have gotten positive feedback from my mentors and fellow writers, so it has hope.

    And for the moment, I'll just WRITE. With no pressure and no expectations, but just for the joy of it.