Animal talk

Those of us who share an abode with a furry companion (no, the dust bunnies under your bed doesn't count) or perhaps more correctly, serve as staff for an animal companion will know all about animal communication.

I don't mean crystal-channeling, incense-inhaling channeling of your familiar. Rather, that collection of dqueaks, grumbles, sighs, claws and stinky-breathed yawns that make up the more usual repertoire of non-human communication.

Over the past few years I have become quite fluent in tri-colour cat-speak - a specialty discipline where the feline in question's mood ranges from miffed to 'bemoerd' (an Afrikaans term that finds a rather lackluster cousin in the English 'F'd off') and all the shades in between, much like their coats. Savannah also has the added weaponry of her infamous yellow-glare; known to give spine-chills at a distance 10 paces or more. Tri-colours are known to be among the more verbal moggies around, and any owner will very soon learn the difference between 'nice-to-see-you-where's-my-food' and 'oh-what-is-this-before-me-an-empty-bowl-I-am-starving-ergh-ergh-ergh' accompanied by dramatics that would put the Royal Shakespearean Company to shame. Said tri-colour is by no means starving (stop dialling the SPCA number!) as evidenced by her rather rotund shape which she still manages to tuck away somehow when doing her starving-kitty impression. Said tri-colour is the brains of my little feline tribe; if you look carefully at those scenes where the evil genius is stroking a white cat, there's a tri-colour in the background trying to hide the puppet-strings attached to her claws.

Last night I arrived home to find yet another expression of cat dissatisfaction. It'd been a long day away from home, and with the encroaching darkness, howling winds and icy rain the cats had no doubt decided that dinner was going to be late. Unacceptably late, regardless of whether mom might be lying in a ditch next to the road somewhere. So the tabby huntress of my little tribe decided to send out for food; I arrived just in time to see her crouched on the rim of the bath-tub - a sure sign that something rather interesting was lurking at the bottom. Step 1, evict all cats from the bathroom and close the door firmly. Step 2, gingerly lift the cooler-bag that was left in the tub for cleaning to discover.... a rodent! A nice plump one at that; and I can't help but wonder whether she was going to give it a quick rinse before serving it up.

The dog also has her say, usually leaving me paw-printed notes in the garden in the shape of holes you can hide a horse in. The number and depth of holes can be directly related to how badly she feels in need of a walk outside the yard.

Then again.... maybe fat-cat has bribed her into body-disposal duty, and I just happened to come along at the wrong time.

Hmmm.....

On the trail again....

Of what you wonder... an escaped criminal, a missing particle? Common Sense?
None of those - it is simply my wrangling of the Willie Nelson 'On the road again' title; and the theme of a recent hiking expedition in the Tsitsikamma area.

"And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again"

I've always been interested in experiencing a proper multi-day hike, and also slightly terrified of the distance and the whole tortoise approach to being outside. I had visions of cheerfully strapping on my backpack and then keeling over slowly in cinematographic slowness.
Then I heard a word which gave me hope, parting the heavens to let a beam of light shine through and highlight the forested hills of Knysna .... 'slackpacking'!

Let me explain while we wait for the jeers of serious hikers to die down. With slackpacking you pay for porterage of baggage / food that you don't want to slog along every day. In our case, this meant that your sleeping bags, extra clothes and daily food (stored in a fridge until use) was delivered to your destination hut every afternoon. Which leaves you to carry only the essentials - warm and rain-gear, food for a day and as much curiosity as you can manage.

Our intrepid little group set off all bright-eyed, equipped with enough cameras to make a tour group envious, stocked with what we thought was a day's rations but could probably feed a small country for a week. Cresting the first rise we whipped out our official hike map to take a look at what glorious peak we'd conquered .... it was a hill. It was barely away from the hut. And that was our first introduction to quantum-distances.

Yep, the mapmakers were either very nasty or very clever; distances, landmarks and path-contours did not seem to match up with our experiences. Hills seemed higher, gentle-descents more like sheer cliff-faces and river's sneakily playing peek-a-boo with thirsty wanderers. And then we discovered creepy-kilometers; they are sneaky those creatures, and masters of deception. The first three of every day seemed to zoot past, leaving you with the impression of a shady glen, a gurgling stream or a blossoming hillside. The next few blurred into rolling walks broken only by your stomach announcing something akin to lunchtime. And then the last 6 or so....just....dragged....on....
The signposts were no help either, either with distances helpfully blanked out or offering misleading indications - never have I encountered a mere 1.5 km that lasted so bloody long! Speculation began as to whether the signs were actually counting up at one stage. Trying to match map with signpost just led to frown-induced headaches, and our group soon adapted a very zen-like approach: When we get to the hut, we stop.

And perhaps that was the whole purpose of the trail after all. You've done all the preparation you can, now just relax and enjoy the experience. And that we did. We wandered from forest to glade, up hills and down ravines, baking in the sun and soaking tired feet in icy streams, marveling at the sheer scale and beauty of this corner of Africa.


"Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again."

Why scientists are crazy

Or at least my version of the story; which may be a wave, a particle, neither or both. Ask Schrodinger's cat.

My particular brand of madness reached new heights shortly after a final full-stop on a research report. Or perhaps it is rather a symptom of ScAD - Science Affective Disorder. That empty and slightly lost feeling you get after completing a specific research task.

You spend so much time preparing the experiment, collecting data, making feverish promises to the scientific deities of GoodData and NonInstrumentFailure while hoping for the best. And then you have it - endless streams of alpha-numerics that form an overwhelming mass threatening to drown even the most determined swimmer in scientific waters. The time for alchemy has arrived, turning that heap of information into nuggets of knowledge. You sift, discard, cleanse and apply the dark magic of statistical analysis to emerge triumphantly with....
.....
.....
two measly little tables, barely filling half a page.

All your effort, hours of wrist-breaking mouse work, swearing at the vagaries of software that suddenly refuse to plot a simple time-series graph as it has done a thousand times before.... everything is condensed in those two little blocks.

But listen closely, and you might hear those blocks talk. They whisper of trends, possible futures and .... wait.... yes....

'more data is required'!

Adamastor Writers' Guild: February 2012 meeting

Adamastor Writers' Guild: February 2012 meeting: The Adamastor Writers' Guild will be hosting an open writers' workshop for folks wishing to touch base with Cape Town-based authors of F/SF...

Bumps and scrapes

As one gets more advanced in age - or shall we call it becoming 'youthfully challenged' - one does start to take a rather close look at ones parents. Not only are they your progenitors, but also a glimpse into a possible future. You start taking note of what aches, pains and complaints they have, and study yourself to find indications of those same symptoms.

And somehow injuries seem to happen more frequently, and take longer to heal. No longer can you party until the wee hours and bounce out of bed for work the next morning. Perhaps we travel the full cycle, coming back to the idea of school nights where you have to be home and in bed well before pumpkin time.

Alas, being a natural adept at clumsiness as myself, does not make the road to aging any smoother.

This week I managed to hurt a joint in my wrist while doing the dishes. Yes, you read it right, I said 'doing the dishes'. I wish I could say it was done whilest rock-climbing, making a match-winning catch or fending off a lion. But no, I was swishing the spunge around the inside of a glass when something went pop... and no weasel in sight. At least the physio got a good laugh out of it while she taped my wrist.

And again: earlier this year I did my impression of a cartoon character falling down the stairs. Yes, there was the inevitable slip, the pinwheeling of arms, the yelp followed by the thud, thud thud
all...
the.....
way.....
to.....
the bottom.
Luckily I did not take the head over heels approach, but slid very ungraciously down the stairs on my butt. Needless to say, this resulted in severe bruising - and not just the ego - along with a sore back and legs. But injuries, I have now found, can be rather sneaky. As the bruising fades some aches linger, and only then do you find out what you really hurt.

After a few weeks of trying out the 'it should heal by itself' approach, I finally gave in and visited a physio and a chiro. Spasmed muscles were convinced to release and kneecaps realligned; and it worked so well that now my dance instructor threatens to send me for a few sessions before every performance. In fact, I won't put it past her to accidentally twist me into knots as motivation - she's a physio and would know exact pressure points to trigger ;-)

But, alas, things don't last as well as they did in my youth - a statement I now make sitting on my stoep complaining about the young people of today, the government and everything else wrong with the world. My knee kept aching - in fair weather and foul, so no win there - and I was advised that it was a physical manifestation of my fear of moving forward in life.

What? No! I'm trying to move forward, that's my point, and my knee ... won't... what, really?!

Yes people, apparently one's own body can turn on you when and where you least expect it. Not only is that little hamster in the wheel running useless laps in your head, but it's also found some interesting buttons to push. I wonder what other buttons are lurking up there...

Country roads

I could sing about those roads, taking you home. But I won't. And they didn't, but they sure made for a wonderful alternative to commuter-crushed highways and byways of the city.

Every so often I head out into nowhere just to get away from it all - sounds like the lyrics of a whiny song, I know, but it's true.

My most recent venture into the country took me to Bonnievale and McGregor, two smallish towns tucked in the folds between the Lange- and Riversonderend Mountains of the Western Cape.

Looking at my car pre-departure, it was easy to think that I was leaving for good. Call me a chick, but I do not travel light when going away, even if it is only for a few days. It's a running joke among those who've ventured out into the wilds with me that I do pack everything, including the kitchen zink. Laugh they will, but thank me they do too when I whip out almost anything from a small hand-axe to a colander. And this trip was no different. The car was stacked to the ceiling with all the usual suspects, including my mountain bike and the new addition - my guitar.
As a relatively newcomer to guitar-dom, I suffer no illusions of campfire singalongs, especially if it's only me. But playing out there in the middle of nowhere where no dogs could try to sing along or cats give me criticizing glances sounded just about right.

My first stop was an extremely picturesque farm in the shadow of the Langeberg; and I do not throw the word picturesque around lightly. I swear if you open an illustrated dictionary and look the word up, you'll find several pictures of this farm in it. Gently rolling hills covered in impossibly crayon-green grass lead up to the imposing blue-purple heights of the mountains. Fruit orchards, vineyards and pasture alternate in patchwork fashion, with photogenic cattle forming points of reference to the roving eye. Ducks, geese and chickens add an authentic aural air to the area, and two horses - one white, one black - adds that final cherry on top.
A series of converted workers cottages are dotted around one pasture area, where no electricity, wi-fi or cell signal can find the weary wanderer. Bliss.

I always find it amazing how one's routine changes when you are forced to fit in with nature's time-table. Up at sunrise, I lazed around in bed and simply enjoyed a cup of tea, courtesy of the gas stove. After that it was a choice of hiking, biking, lazing about or simply taking deep breaths of fresh air until sunset and time to make fire.Yes, yes, I may be considered a not-so-closet pyromaniac, but that act of primal defiance of the dark is still a good one, even after all the ages of 'civilization'. So there I was, carefully stacking my sacrificial altar, a bit concerned that the free wood at the cottage was a little damp. I say damp, but if you squeezed the logs hard enough, you'd probably be able to extract enough moisture for several cups of tea.

But I stepped up to the challenge, placed strategic parafin-soaked teabags (ye olde newfangled firestarters) and lit the match. Instead of watching this carefully orchestrated structure go up in flames, I watched smoke, and lots of it. I huffed, I puffed, I added more small twigs and flamable-teabags, and eventually I got some semblance of a fire going. But it was a whimper rather than a roaring one, and in all honesty, I probably steamed my food rather than 'braai' it, but woman made fire and by the flame she'll eat whatever comes off it.
The next day's fire wasn't much better, even after I spread the logs out in the baking sun. but I was so tired from all the hiking, biking and breathing, that a quick fire and meal was actually welcome.

My next stay was actually in the town of McGregor itself - not quite what I'd envisioned, but that's the fun of exploring new places - to have your preconceptions challenged and horizons broadened.

I purposefully chose backroads to drive from Bonnievale to McGregor, enjoying seeing the sights that most travelers never even know of. Part of the area's charm, I believe, is the names of places. Where else could you find a 'Agter Vinkrivier' or a 'Steenboks vlakte'? They roll off the tongue and over the soul, with reality matching the musical syllables. Everywhere it seemed that Spring was more than ready to do just that, fields and orchards adding riots of colour to the alternating background greens and reds. I even discovered a small mountain pass called 'Strykhoogte' that I dare even Google to find on a map!

McGregor charmed the kilt off me, from the small-town feel, the personalised little wine-cellars to the retirement farm for mules - 'Eseltjiesrus'. I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time the church steeple rang out the hour; when last has anyone of us city-slickers heard time measured out in more than hoots and sirens? This is definitely the spot where one can slow down, listen to the noise of your own breath, and luxuriate in the simplest of activities. Like distance guessing...
See, that small space under the kitchen zink in my car was meant for the distance gadget that slots onto my mountain bike. But instead of the gadget, I only packed air, and was left to guess distances while out cycling. This led to rather interesting cycle routes, and probably not quite as the guides intended - 'cycle 4.5 km, then turn right into a road that angles off at 45 degrees'. I can now attest that there are quite a few roads angling off like that anywhere between 3 and 6 km of that particular spot, and it feels like I cycled them all. But the view was worth it!

I am sorely tempted to return there whenever I next can
... but another part of me wonders what other wonderful discoveries lurk in the rest of South Africa.
Perhaps it's true, "not all who wander are lost."

Scowling at Adamastor

((here's a little trip into the bizarre....
And a big thank you to the Adamastor Writer's Guild of Cape Town, who've smashed through illusions and shown me what real magic should look like.
Adamastor is a mythic figure, set to be the Guardian of the Cape ... g'on, google it.))

Where does the mountain end and the myth begin.

I'm not sure, but as I march up the back side of Table Mountain, what seemed incongruous bumps and lumps along a rocky slope turns out to be the stony frame of the guardian. The great Adamastor reclines against the mountainside, one foot idly flicking waves in Camps Bay while his arms are carelessly hooked over the top of Table Mountain. With one flick of a finger he could send the upper cable station shooting off into the distance.

I march up to where I think his ribs would be, driven by anger more than rational thought.
"It's all your fault."
My poking accusation only earns me a painfully bruised finger.
They stormy clouds around his head swirl in interesting fractal patterns as he turns to look down at me.
"You heard me. I blame you." I fold my arms in a defiant posture, trying to hide some of the shaking. But I'm here, and I'm going to let him have it.
"You and the guild. I blame you. Before I set off on this quest for knowledge life was simple. I could look at any wordsmith's work and easily lose myself in their creations. But not now, oh no., now that I've been shown what to look for."
I start to pace on the mountain side, kicking at loose pebbles to vent my feelings.
"Now I have 'opinions'; no more will I seriously consider a wordsmith's work unless I catch sight of the Lesser Spotted POV-hopping birdie. Instead, the moment I catch so much as a glimpse of it's raucous cousin hovering around the smith's domain, I hightail it out of there. "
I shake my head; to think that once upon a time I wasn't even aware that there was such a thing as a POV-hopper, never mind the brightly coloured PingPong Ricochet-er. The sight of that painfully colourful birdie bouncing madly between characters in a single scene can drive even the most ardent fan to distraction, trying to figure out who is thinking what, who felt that and where da heck did the Furred Plotbeastie shove off to in the confusion.
"And this, can you believe this!" I lift a hank of hair, showing him the tiny 'goggas' that have taken up residence; small, multi-legged and wielding mining implements, I have managed to build up quite a collection of Crit-Ticks.
"I mean, how can a wordsmith ask me to buy into their creation if there's no logic or consistency? If they go to all the trouble of telling me how a character is dressed all in black, then how on earth can wipe his hands on it and stain it red? And how does he manage to fall forwards into a cavern after digging through a man-made obstruction, only to emerge and rebuild the wall...did he lug all those stones back up? And also happened to be an expert in dry-stone building? I mean, really. And there should be a quota set to curb the over-use of exclamation marks and italics, and..."
I gather another lungful of air to continue my tirade, only to pause mid-breath as Adamastor moves. The giant shrugs his shoulders, setting pebbles and boulders tumbling down the mountainside.
"Use what you learn."
He breathes in again, and I learn forward expectantly, only to be flung through the air as he puffs his cheeks and blows out a stream of icy air.
His dismissal sends me skidding to a halt on the southern hook-shaped shore of an unreal bay.
"What? That's it?!"

A flock of Letters scuttle past, and inevitably I find myself drawn along in their wake. Who knows, maybe this time it'll lead to a really worthwhile read.