What I did on my holiday...

Not the most creative title, I agree, but hey... as Barney would say: "true story"!
The significant other and I headed out to the Cederberg Mountains this weekend for some much needed R&R away from civilization, cellphone calls and cats. Even us dedicated pet staffers go a bit foamy at the mouth after being bounced on for the hundredth time at 3 am in the morning, or yowled at because said cats feel bored / hungry / annoyed / playful / nauseous etc etc etc.

Anyhoo. Considering the trip in retrospect, I feel a bit like Frodo or Samwise Gamgee after their famous journey, including the chance to shout "Here come the Eagles!". Scoff if you want, but our trip included treacherous mountain ascents, wizard-like staffs and, yes, eagles!

Our destination was Kromrivier - a haven for any world-weary wanderer tucked away in the folds of the Cederberg Mountains, an area known for its strange rock formations and world-class hiking / climbing routes. With the rainy winter season in full swing, we arrived at the major river crossing to find it, ahahahaha, flooded. And then some. With some backtracking and creative navigation we arrived safely at our cottage, if slightly later than planned. But visions of the Lord of the Rings soon turned into the Three Little Pigs as we set to huffing and puffing to get our darn fire to burn properly! Perseverance paid off though, and by bedtime our cottage was a cozy haven where weary travelers dozed before a blazing hearth. With an outside bathroom, trips were made on a pressing-need-only basis, and rather quickly at that.

Well after daybreak we set off to scale a local feature that promised good exercise and a fantastic view. Unfortunately it came with some hidden terms and conditions that we discovered the hard way. Just getting to the start of our ascent included a lot more bushwhacking than anticipated. I ended up with prickly leaves and thorns in mentionable places that made me say a few unmentionable words. With names like Umbrella Thorn (Hak & Steek) and Climber's Friend (officially Cliffortia Ruscifolia, but once you've grabbed a handful, it's known by more colorful phrases), the journey may sounds almost cheerful. It wasn't.
Fighting our way through these menacing shrubs, we climbed higher, finding our path littered with interesting flakes of newly exposed rock, some rock dust, areas that looked newly-plown and some new-looking boulders. All very interesting geologically speaking; all VERY nerve-wracking when you realized you're walking right along the path of a recent rockfall. Like Gandalf's brave company, this climb was not successful - we did not make it to the top, and returned to camp scratched, sore and out of sorts.

But, like all good stories, the journey was not over yet, and hope remained. The next day we set off to meet with Megan - she who follows the airy trails of the local Black Eagles (Verreaux Eagles for those in the know, "Witkruisarend" for the rest of us). As part of her PhD studies she monitors the Eagles during their breeding season, and Significant Other had volunteered his services to rig an abseil to place a camera above a nest.

We hiked up the mountain around the corner from the nest site, popping over a saddle before descending to the overhang above their nest. Unlike yesterday's brushy ordeal, this hike was an absolute pleasure. I'd also unpacked my trekking poles, and oh my word: 8th wonder of the world. The dramatic cut-down on flailing about and making ground-level inspections of pebbles was almost magical. Then a shadow swooped over us, and I got my first close-up look at ::drumroll: the Eagles. With a wingspan of 2 metres, even the most daring human feels that inner mammal giving a very alarmed 'squeak!' at the sight these hunters.

As there were eggs in the nest already, our job was to get in, get the job done, and get out with as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. Sitting at my belay station on top, I watched as the eagles flew past every now and again, and yes, I admit it, I enjoyed it thoroughly being able to say "Here come the eagles!"
With camera set in place, we left the area as quickly as possible and I'm happy to report that by the time we reached the the valley floor, the Eagles were settling in on the eggs again.

That evening we sat around a roaring fire, happy smiles and tired bodies celebrating the indescribable wonder of being 'out there'. It may not always be a smooth journey, but the rewards are beyond measure.

P.s. For more info on the Black Eagle project, see https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Black-Eagle-Project/166520386739894

Relativity in non-time travel

Sounds intellectual, eh? Well, don't be afraid... step a little closer... that's right. The title is about as intellectual as this ramble will get.

Having recently become an international traveler, I now find myself contemplating the relativity of time during sub-light travel. Oh wait, lapsed there... Let me put it another way. Time seems a bit more elastic than usual when one is out and about in the world. Possibly with an added algorithm that includes the distance away from home. Darnit, another lapse. Right, maybe I should stop fighting it and just go with it.

First off, there's the airport black hole phenomena. No, no, I don't mean the one where your luggage disappears into a logistical black hole. Although, come to think of it, it may just be further proof of my theory. Just think: there's this huge rush to get to the airport on time... but once inside, time slows to a crawl as you stand in queues, then get herded into the plane to wait some more. Once you leave the ground it's like you've entered another dimension. Far, far below people are going about their daily business, totally unaware of your brief flight through their lives - you pass by, catching glimpses that pass too fast for you to make sense of the bigger picture. Upon arrival you are integrated back into real-time, albeit through another time slow-down known as baggage reclaim.

Another phenomenon is that of distorted time brought about by distance separation; a trick of time that is perhaps second cousin to near light-speed time distortion. If you are the one away from home, time seems to fly - you're seeing new things, experiencing different conditions, your senses are continually assaulted by new and different inputs. You look at the calender after a few days, surprised at how much time as actually elapsed. For those at home, the reverse is true. Days drag past as you wonder what the other person is doing, how they're feeling, if they think of you as much as you do of them. When you talk, they seem surprised at your different experience of what is supposedly the same amount of time.

And with that I'm off to contemplate some more of this wonderful flexible resource... preferably in a comfy spot where I can watch the night sky wheel past overhead.

Ode to Soekie... or maybe just some ramblings

"I'm afraid it's not good news."
Those are the words anyone who shares their life with animals dread. It signals the inevitable parting of ways, often with hard but unavoidable choices to be made.
I heard those words last Friday, and it meant the end of my journey with Soekiekat (Southern Comfort or Soco on the books, but seriously, what pet ever has just one name?).
It was just before Christmas about 6 years ago when I met a vet-friend for coffee. Of course the discussion turned to animals and she asked how my furry family was doing. I admitted that I missed Mouse...ahem, I mean Sterling tabbycat, and that it had been an interesting dynamic with 3 cats and a big dog in one household. My memory now paints her response in coy colours: "well, there just so happens to be a kitty at the office looking for a home."
Yep, she could sure spot a sucker! The image of a lonely cat, crouched in a metal cage spending Christmas all alone in the cold vet offices broke my heart, and opened a door for Soco to walk into our lives.
The small tabby with the spiral markings on her side and a nick out of her tongue hopped out of the cat-carrier, glided through the house, and then promptly settled for a snooze on the back-rest of the couch. I stood there, mouth agape, all over-prepared for an anxious cat that needed to be settled into her environment. Instead I got a cat that ran a quick inspection and then gave me the "yes, I can work with this "-look, placing her pawprints firmly in our territory and hearts.
I often wandered about the owners that were forced to abandon her as they emigrated. And after her death, I do so again.  I want to tell them what a blessing she was, that she found a happy home, that she had a good life with more spirit than her small body could ever carry and that I learnt oh so very much from her.

Soekie's rules for life:
1. Never underestimate the importance of sleep - one of her nicknames was "narcoleptic kitty". She spent quality time on her couch-back spot, right there where the first rays of the morning sun entered the house. I would walk past several times a day, observing the changes in sleeping posture, the ridiculous facial expressions of a blissful cat while in turn getting at most one green eye opening halfway or a jaw-cracking yawn.
2. Play! I was witness to many a wrestling match between Soekie and Sammi (also known as Scaredy-cat), games of chase that made it sound as if a herd of buffalo were stampeding through the house, and Soekie's dangerous "poke the lion" game where she'd sniff Savannah's (a.k.a. Fatcat) bum and then get involved in a swatting match.
3. Enjoy the outdoors. To the extent that the outdoors often found its way indoors, and it was my job to return the efforts from the "catch & release" programme back into the wild. Often at 2 am, armed with a towel or dustpan and dressed in a hastily grabbed night-gown. I could write a detailed catalogue of the catchable-sized wildlife in my area. Gardening was enjoyed by both of us, affording her a time to show off her tree-climbing, garden-ambush and surprise-attack skills.
4. Push your luck.... and be prepared to compromise. The dining room table was our most hotly contested issue. It was perfectly positioned to catch the late afternoon sun and offered a spectacular view of sunset. Also, a lovely sunning spot where you could watch the comings & goings of practically the whole lower floor. I lost count of the number of times I turfed her from the table, only to see her boomerang back. So we compromised... I placed a special kitty blanket on the table, and she graciously only sat on that one spot of the table, and never when guests were around.
5. Be bold! Whenever there was a strange noise outside or the sound of another cat, it was always interesting to observe the results in my house. Scaredy-cat would make a bee-line for indoors, and usually his hiding spot under the bed; whereas Soco would lead the charge outside, closely followed by Fatcat, to see who needed beating up on her territory.
6. Everyone is a potential friend. And I observed the most unlikely friendship forming between my adopted and reportedly cat-eating dog (well, she does have them for dinner, but as companions, not a course) and Soco. She would wind between the dog's legs, leaning in for a rough sniff and a quick lick from her large canine friend. They'd often sleep together on the dog-bed in winter, two warm bodies snuggled under the blanket.
7. Expect the unexpected. When I went to pick her up 6 years ago, I had no idea how she'd fit into the household or my heart. But she quickly worked her way deep into both, and I'm thankful for every day we had together. Her illness came just as suddenly, and our forced goodbye, reminding me of her final lesson...
8. Live fully in every moment

Until we meet again Soekie... the scratches you left in the plum tree's bark won't outlast the tracks you left in my heart.

And now for a real ode....

Ode to Spot - by Data (originally by Clay Dale)

Felis catus is your taxonomic nomenclature,

An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature;

Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses

Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,

A singular development of cat communications

That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection

For a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;

You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.

And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion,

It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

O Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display

Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.

And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,

I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

Moving on

The end of 2012 brought not so much the end of the world, but rather the end of an era. And this post contains no added Mayans... well, ok, maybe one little reference. But the rest of it is guaranteed Mayan-free. I hope.

It started off with a quiet weekend in the mountains that ended up in one rather sparkly rock being offered to me. After making sure the man wasn't joking or delirious, I accepted with a very happy heart. When we got home I heard that the job I'd applied for before we left was available to me, and the ball really started rolling. Suffice to say, by the end of 2012 I'm engaged, looking forward to starting a new job and in the process of moving house. It is ending on a note of wonder, terror, excitement with a quiet counterpoint of nostalgia.

The last few days I have tackled the messiest room in the house; packing that which needs to go into temporary storage, setting aside that which needs to go with to the temporary accommodation with fiancee, and that which must be discarded. It's a surprising and nostalgic journey, going through all the drawers, folders and boxes that somehow accumulated in between the book cases and desk. I found everything from grade school books to saved giftwrapping. Maps of places I've been and brochures of those I intended to visit. I kept reminding myself to be ruthless in this spring-cleaning process - don't hold on to old notes written in class, but don't throw them away either before reading them one more time. Somehow you revisit your life by reading little scraps of paper with odd notes, finding photos used as bookmarks and forgotten in between the pages, trying to decipher cryptic scribbles in your own handwriting. It's a flashback journey, little windows into your own history filled with glimpses of forgotten moments.

And sifting through it, I decide what to keep and what to let go of; sometimes much more than just a secret note or a long-forgotten address. Saying goodbye has never been easy for me, and some letters were not let go without a teardrop stamp. But they are not let go of lightly; they were held, read, and purposefully let go; sometimes with a fond farewell, at other times with regret. But it's time to move on, and it's more easily done with a lighter load.

With the new year lurking in the wings, perhaps it's a good time to clean the unused and unwanted things off the stage, setting it up for new memories and experiences that will complement the good that has already happened.

The stage is a but a world...

... where we strut, fret, rouge and ruffle. And that is but the top of the iceberg.

Which, perhaps, is a great likeness for any stage production. What the audience sees is but the top of a floating behemoth, dragging with it tons and tons of hidden mass in the shape of preparations and backstage action. The audience may never appreciate the blood, sweat and tears - and that's just the costume sewing - that goes into a production. Of course the actual execution carries a whole other dimension of work.

Even now, two days before the actual show, there's enough backstage nerves to power our country for a month. But now is the time! If you want to worry, do so now. If you want to fuss with your costume, there's no better moment than now. Because on the evening this giant is going to move along it's inevitable course, whether you're ready or not. And yes, everything will not run exactly as you'd planned; the art lies is in active and calm crisis management. Like a swan gliding along, furious feet activity hidden beneath the waterline, a show is not so much run as managed, held together by a good stage manager, the determination to survive, safety pins and glitter.

Glitter?! Yep, glitter, at least in this case as it involves a bellydance extravaganza. Which also means it has an added dimension of terror ... beads & sequins. Scoff if you want, but have you ever stepped on a bead with your bare feet? Not to mention the drama that could ensue with a costume malfunction - the polite way of saying you bared more than your soul to the audience and possibly pushed up the show's age restriction in one go. As our teacher sagely advised us: "If you're going to fall of the stage, remember - legs straight, tits out and smile as if that was exactly what you planned."

Why do we put ourselves through this?
Because of love
We love what we do, we love the people who share our passion, and we'd like to show those we love what we get up to in class.


So let the games begin.
Lights.... glitter.... and action!

Survivor... icecave!

Whether they like to admit it or not, everyone develops a life-motto somewhere along their journey. To date, mine goes something like this: "I will try almost anything at least once."
Not very snappy, nor does it roll easily off the tongue, but there you have it. It's a philosophy that's served me well, and certainly applies to my latest adventure.

As someone who appreciates the great outdoors and finds herself lucky enough to be dating someone who also shares that love of nature, it seemed inevitable that at some stage or another I would have to experience genuine hiking. I'm not talking about a meander up a nearby mountain, a spot of tea at the top and then a stroll down. Oh no, not this time. It was to be a 4-day trip into the Cederberg mountains, with cave-camping and VERY au naturel ablution activities.

Part of me was very excited, and a slightly larger part was a bit apprehensive. Cold was going to be an issue to me, that's a given, but would I cope with the (for me) heavy backpack? Would I hold the rest of the group back and earn their resentment while I crawled up the track? Did I pack enough food? Did I leave my last will and testament in an obvious place?

As my significant other put it upon our arrival at the start of the trail: "Is your trepid a bit acious?"
It was. In large, super-sized scoops.
But the scenery was gorgeous; winter-streams gurgled down a rock-strewn 'kloof', ancient ceder-trees giving a welcoming nod to passer's by. A grassy plateau followed, then some more rock-strewn uphills with a final boulder and scree-strewn slope before we reached the cave that would serve as home for the next few days.

And now for a word from our sponsors.... or at least a grateful acknowledgement to them. Trekking poles rock! They are great for balancing backpack-heavy hikers. And those pocket-heaters: rip packet, expose to air and *poof* a treasured little source of heat for up to 24 hours. Ah... bliss!

And now back to the action...

It was with great relief that I undid the backpack once we reached the cave. The hike up had pushed my limits for sure, but it did deliver that personal sense of accomplishment nothing else can manage. These trips also brings with them a sense of simplicity - you cease to worry about all the vagaries of modern life, and instead focus on the smaller, essential things. Your day now breaks down into waking up, first cup of tea, morning ablutions (finding a quiet spot and, ahem, contemplating nature), exploring, breathing, sharing....

Of course it wasn't all moonlight and roses.
It was cold. I gained a lot of experience by being told what I should've done just after I'd done something. More cold. Sense of humor loss. And cold again.

There was also a death-defying trip to the top of another mountain named Tafelberg, featuring great gaping chasms filled with roiling lava and the scaling of a soap-smoothed vertical cliff.
Well, ok, maybe not quite that bad, but it certainly seemed that way to an inexperienced hiker as myself.
But with supporting friends (quite literal at times) we all made it to the top and safely back down again.

As I sit here now, cup of tea in hand and modern life blaring away around me, I start to remember it with a lot more fondness. The views were spectacular; the full moon cresting the saddle as the sun sank in the west, the fantastic patterns of ice sheets, water trickling down the rock behind it. The simple joys of warm food and good company.

Will I do it again? Probably . . . but not just yet.
The memories of fear and anxiety need to fade a bit more, to be balanced by the richer colors and warm fuzzies inspired by the good moments.
Oh, and the swelling on my twisted ankle needs to go down as well.Who thought I'd return from a weekend of freezing my extremities off only to snuggle up to an icepack back home.

Ah yes, that's the great outdoors.




 

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.....