What a bureaucratic fuckup...

but at least it's over... Now all I have to do is pack my case and get my hairy Scots butt to the airport on time tomorrow. I'm flying off to Luxembourg, for a week, on business. Unfortunately, I have to fly Air Porra and will have a 9-hour stopover in Lisbon airport before I get to the comfort of a warm bed in my Luxembourg hotel. I'm off to help the guys in Europe on a project involving a large bank and an outsourcing deal we made with them. The project team is investigating the recovery status of the systems and processes (ok, I know you're bored already, but bare with me a bit) as we (IBM) will be responsible for recovering their systems in the event of a disaster. For us to do the recovery effectively, we need to know how critical their processes and systems are before the bank starts losing money, as well as what systems they have in place so that we can build a recovery strategy around the requirements. I'll be in Luxembourg from Sunday afternoon until next Friday, when I'll be flying out at around 14h00. The fuckup mentioned earlier revolved around the process we have to follow and the approvals we have to gain before we can actually book our flights. Believe me, you never want to have to go through this lot. My final approval came through at 16h30 this afternoon, also partly due to another fuckup with my AmEx card (that's another long story altogether). Luckily the travel agents we use are pretty good in these situations so I got my ticket issued just after 17h00. So for the next few days, I'll be swapping cold, rainy weather for more really cold, rainy weather if the Luxembourg weather report is anything to go by. Take care, y'all...speak to you soon... PS...look out for the Air Porra plane flying overhead...you'll recognise it by the hair under the wings...

Thursday 2nd March...More rain and power cuts...followed by serious sunburn...

Guess what? It's raining when we wake up and it's been raining for most of the night...It doesn't last long though, and by 09h00 the sun is out and we decide to go for a walk on the beach. We hit the sand and decide to turn right, which will take us down towards the long headland that runs west to east. It's actually part of the Robberg Nature Reserve and takes us the better part of an hour to walk the estimated 3km until we can't go any further. The sea literally cuts you off from climbing the rock face and going into the reserve, so there is actually little need for the "Keep Out" signs anchored on the rockfaces every 50m or so. The weather, although there was a howling south-westerly wind blowing that blasted our legs with whipped-up sand, was quite warm and we were walking without shirts on. I was in my boardshorts and Steph in her nice two-piece bikini. We sat down on a rock ledge and watched all the other people on the beach, arriving at the end of the walk with expressions reading something like "Ok, there's a dirty great piece of cliff in front of me. What do I do now?" We must have sat there for a good half hour, baking, not thinking about the heat. I eventually said to Steph that we should go for a swim. It was wonderful. I love swimming in the Indian Ocean, as it is warm but cool enough to ensure you only stay in for about 20mins. Steph stayed in for about half of that, then went back to baking on the rock ledge. While I'm in the water, a Sassenach wades in up to his knees and nervously asked me if there were any sharks about. "Probably", I said, which I don't think eased his fears any, even though he joined me swimming up to chest depth. He was continually looking around, scanning for the tell-tale dorsal fin of a Great White Shark. We Scots just love fuckin' with the Sassenach's minds... I decided I'd had enough and my big brave English shadow followed me out of the water, proclaiming to his fellow sausage-munchers that it was great and they should have joined us. Another ten minutes on the rock ledge and we decided to walk back to the flat, for a shower and a nice cold drink. Halfway back, I decided it was time to put on my shirt, but as I found out later that afternoon, it was already too late. As the day wore on, I turned a darker shade of pink, on all areas that had been exposed to the rays. By the time bedtime came, I could hardly move without some discomfort to my creasing skin. We sat in for the rest of the afternoon, reading, and I not only finished Catch-22, but also got halfway through another shortish book about fly fishing, both of which I'll dedicate a posting to, for varying reasons. It's a little early for dinner, so we'll just have a glass of wine or twenty and, when the fancy takes us, will cook the box of queen prawns we picked up at the Robberg Fishery the other day. The problem is, we don't know if and when the power is going to go off again, and for how long each time. Friday 3rd March Yup, at 20h24 last night, the power went out. Right in the middle of me cooking up the second batch of prawns as there were too many to go into the pan first time round. Not that I minded too much to be honest. I had enough prawns on the first batch to satisfy my hunger,and along with the spicy rice that Steph made, accompanied by a couple of glasses of a good red Cabernet Sauvignon (which could probably use another year or two in the bottle to bring it to its best), it was a fine meal. "Red wine and prawns?" I hear you enquire, incredulously. But anyone who says that you have to have red wine with red meat and white wine with white meat or fish, gets my classic answer. "Fuck off". It's all about complimenting each of the tastes with the other. If I think I'd enjoy a crisp, wooded Chardonnay with a lean, rare, beef fillet, so be it. They're my taste buds and anyone who wants to try and tell me otherwise should remember the classic answer. If you want to follow the media hype about wines or the "experts", do it in your own time and leave me to mine. I sat up reading by candlelight untill 22h30 when the power came back on, and then read for another hour until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. It was a book about fishing (surprise!!) called "A Mean-mouthed, Hook-jawed, Bad-news, Son-of-a-fish!", written by a South African Ghillie (fishing guide) called Wolf Avni. He writes regularly for one of the local fly fishing tabloids and I'd seen the book mentioned before, but now that we found it in the flat, I took the opportunity to read it. And what a pleasure it is to read too...a must for any fisherman, but also great reading for anyone who wants a completely different view on a number of things piscatorial. I'll compose a posting dedicated to the book so that if you're not into fishing, you can skip it. Anyway...it's now just after midday and the power has only been back on for about ten minutes, long enough to boil the kettle for a cup of tea and for Steph to get a curry going with the rest of last night's prawns, and some crabsticks for added flavour. The power's been off since thirteen seconds past 8am, indicating that Eskom still haven't sorted out their ineptitude problems. Luckily Steph had been up early and put on a pot of coffee that kept us going until power was restored. Both of us are having problems moving this morning. It wasn't caused by anything strenuous and exciting, I hasten to add. Rather the stiffness was caused by an excess of sun yesterday. I look like one of the prawns I so lovingly cooked last night, a bright rosy red colour, all over my chest and the part of my left leg which had been sticking out of my shorts. What's worse is when you try to bend or crease some part of the red skin and then try and stretch it back to its original position. It feels like it's being stretched using a hot iron like you would do witrh one of those iron-on transfers for the kids' t-shirts. You'd also think that, being in the country for as long as I have, I would have realised I was getting cremated. Actually, I did on the walk back along the beach but the damage had already been caused by then. Ah well, live and learn...it'll all be okay in a day or two and then I'll look like a scaly lizard for a day. We made a reservation for dinner at a restaurant called "Emily's Moon", for 19h00 tonight. Now why would anyone name a restaurant after some old tart's bare backside, I asked myself? Actually, I have no idea who Emily is/was/could be, but the Moon is the oxbow-shaped piece of riverfront that the restaurant's deck looks down over. The setting is fantastic with all the doorframes imported from India, as well as some of the decorative pieces adorning the walls. The only thing I didn't like about the decor was the wall dedicated to dead reindeer and buck species. There must have been at least 20 sets of horns covering every available space on the wall. The horns, I'm sure you'll agree, would have looked better on live deer running around in the wild. We at least have a prime seating, right in front of the log-burning fireplace and going by the rapidly-cooling air temperature as we sit on the deck having a glass of 2003 Langvallei Pinotage (translates to Long Valley), it's going to be the best seat in the house. The food is a bit "noveau cuisine" (read: tiny portions for big bucks), but it's tasty and the two bottles of wine we get through are good too, so it's worth the night out and the bill of R600. A double espresso and a grappa finishes it off quite nicely, then it's back to the flat and a nightcap. Stan had hidden a bottle of 10-year old Ardbeg single malt at the back of his drinks cupboard, but I sniffed it out and had a shot. Gotta get me some of that stuff, man. As malty as a witch's hairy armpit (I imagine) but nice and heavily wooded...just the way I like it. Steph does her usual hypoglycemic party-trick and nods off on the couch, so I finish the drink in silence and then wake her up and we toddle off to grab some uncomfortable sleep. Have you tried seeping with second-degree sunburn? Not fuckin' nice, I tell you...

Wednesday 1st March....what's that big yellow disc in the sky?

Hurray!!! The sun's come out...for a while anyway. Woke up at 07h00 to the brightest blue sky in a while and made sure Steph felt me move around in the bed. Mind you, it's that fuckin' big that I had to just about jump on her side to make her feel anything. She was also glad to see the sun and we decided to get up and out before it went behind the clouds again. By about 07h30 we're out the door to go find a spot to fish and walk along the beach, our first opportunity since arriving in Plett. We take the car as the estuary is quite a way from the flat, and park it next to a pub that looks inviting but we'll come back there sometime in the near future, I'm sure. Get all the gear out the back, and it's onto the sand. A short walk around a point at the estuary mouth and I can see the water is flowing fast, seawards on the outgoing tide. Not a good sign as I'd rather have it on the slack or incoming tide (slack tide is the 20mins before and after the tide changes direction). We walk a bit up the sand and I tie on a spoon for Steph to cast on the little rod I bought her recently (so that she doesn't feel left out when I go off fishing). Her first couple of casts are a bit dodgy so I move out of her way in fear of losing an eye, or the jewels. While she's practising, I get my saltwater fly kit set up and tie on a popper, but it's too light and I battle in the slight breeze. I resort instead to move into the channel as the water has dropped so quickly that we can now walk out about 50m where just a few minutes ago there had been a strong flow of water seawards. From where I'm standing, I can see Steph's getting the hang of casting and call her to join me and cast into the main current. It's still flowing fast and there's a lot of loose weed that entangles itself onto our hooks and generally makes the fishing unpleasant. So we decide to pack it up and go and sit on the beach and have a sandwich and iced tea. A tacky substitute for a breakfast, but we're out in the sun, enjoying the warmth for a change so who cares? After a while we decide to move back to the flat and get showered. The power's still on, which is a bonus and we have some fresh coffee and an omelette. Once we're showered, the clouds start moving in again, and I can just tell it's going to rain later. We go for a short drive and look around some of the houses in the neighbourhood. Man, there's some serious money around here. And 99% of the houses are all boarded or locked up, nothing more than holiday places in rich man's land. The size of some of these mansions, sitting quiet for 11 months or so out of the year, is quite sickening. Some people have just too fuckin' much of it... We head out onto the highway, back towards Knysna where we'd seen a couple of roadside stalls that looked interesting, selling all kinds of "indigenous" wares. First stop is a lumber yard and farm store called The Heath, but there's not much to see in the wood section except for some lovely furniture that's way out of our league (someone should tell these people we want to buy their stuff, not pay the month's fuckin' rent). The food section, on the other hand, has a mediocre coffee and a great ostrich sausage roll (for me) and a piece of carrot cake and coffee (for Steph). The ostrich pie tasted a little like haggis, but it's probably just the way they minced the meat and added spices to flavour. Steph has more of my pie than her own cake, and we take the cake with us. The knick-knack shop has some interesting stuff and I find a nice salad server set and cheese and butter knives, with all the handles made of pewter. After that, we head back on the highway again and stop off at a wine cellar...bad move. We come out with a case of wine (about R450 worth), mostly from the Orange River Valley. Really good wines, but we can't usually find them up beside us and when we do, the prices are ridiculous. Our next stop was another lumber yard and these guys had some nice pieces of timber. The piece we both fancied was an Ironwood, lovely veins and some knots which added to the character of the piece. The fact that they weren't cut to square added to the feature of the piece as well. Only problem was...all the Ironwood had been hit by borer worm and there was holes from the worm visible on the surfaces. At least they'd been honest enough to leave them visible, as in Joburg they would have tried to cover them up with wood filler to seal them off. The decision was made that, because of the borer, we wouldn't buy the piece of lumber...such a pity, it was only R1,400, a really good price. There was also a one inch thick piece of Knysna Yellowwood, but I wanted a thicker piece of lumber, so we didn't take that either. Our last stop was at The Potter and yes, they make pottery there. Steph ended up buying what is actually a water jug, as a holder to stand her kitchen utensils in (spatulas, whisk, etc) and a couple of small pieces for her sister's bathroom as a present. She's always buying stuff for her sister when we go on holiday. I don't discourage her from doing this, but it would be nice if her sister reciprocated once in a while. While at The Potter, I noticed a sign on the door, reading "Lift Wanted to Sandton Area for small package. Enquire Rudy - The Potter". Intrigued, I had visions of smuggling diamonds or drugs in a brown-wrapped parcel to Joburg, running from the cops as they chased me down the highway and dirt roads (no fuckin' way I'd be able to escape them on the highway in the van). When I asked Rudy what the game was and did he still want a "runner", he said yes, he was still looking for someone, and when would I be able to deliver his two, five kilogram buckets of olives to Sandton? Huh...big fuckin' let down. Deliver yer own fuckin' olives Rudy. What kind of name is Rudy for a drug dealer anyway? Probably a poofter to boot as well... Anyway...back towards Plett and we stop in to look at a little restaurant called Emily's Moon, which we'd heard about. A charming little place, funky decor, with door frames and artifacts imported from India. We book for dinner on Friday night and head back to the flat. I stop off to see if there's anywhere I can park the car closer to an area of the estuary where the fishing might be easier than this morning and find a couple of promising spots. Must try them sometime. On the way back to the highway, Steph spots two horses in a field, one of them chasing after the car and then rolling on its back in the grass. She says she has an apple for them and we stop. I cut it in half with my trusty, ever-at-hand, Swiss Army knife and one of the beasts just about takes her left hand off when she doesn't feed it with her hand stretched out flat with the apple in her palm. Luckily it misses the apple on its first bite and I manage to shout to her to open her hand, while I shove the camera batteries in and take couple of photos before the horses run off. Back in the flat, it's copying more music (26 albums so far) and a couple of glasses of 2004 Merlot from the wine cellar of Savannah (I never heard of it before either, but it's a tasty wine). Dinner is coming up shortly, roast chicken, potatoes and veggies...mmmmmmmm... No doubt, we'll have a power cut later and have to sit in candlelight to read...or go to bed early for a change...

Tuesday 28th Feb...and so the power cuts begin...

Up at 09h30, thinking of a cup of Java's finest, but guess what? It's still fuckin' raining and there's no fuckin' power in the flat... Eskom is the local, privatised, power supplier to the entire country - basically another monopoly, like the phone company, Telkom - who, according to the local radio station news, "apparently" had a little bit of sabotage at their Koeberg Atomic Energy power plant just outside Cape Town. In their wisdom, and to somehow cover up their own ineptitude in not having a contingency plan, the powers that be have decided to punish the rest of the country by having what they call "load sharing" and shutting down various towns and cities along the coast at various intervals as determined by them, and giving their power to Cape Town. Note that it's called "load sharing" and not "power sharing", as I'm sure the ANC would take exception to that, seeing as they don't want to share power with anyone. Anyway, the power's off and we're not having any coffee. Chances are that the entire Plett's going to be out...which, as we find out later, it is. At about 11h30, we decide to go through to Knysna and see if the power's on there. Thankfully, it is, and we have a great coffee followed by a mediocre lunch of Angel Fish, Calamari and Chips (for me) and Butternut Soup and Health Bread (for Steph). Lunch is had at a place called "Paquita's" on the Knysna Heads, which is the entrance to the natural harbour that is responsible for Knysna's popularity. The Paquita was an old 19th century barque that came in carrying coal, but as she was leaving harbour a couple of months later after taking on some ballast for the return journey to the UK, floundered on the eastern side of the heads and sank. It was speculated that she was sunk on purpose by her Master, as a direct order from the owners to commit an insurance scam due to the age of the old girl. We drive around Knysna for a couple of hours, stopping off at a stall alongside the highway renowned for their cheeses, and pick up some Gorgonzola and some-or-other Italian gouda-type stinky stuff. The Gorgonzola is the best ever...creamy and delicious, just great to take a bite out of and let it melt in your mouth... We also stopped off at a lookout point on the western side of the Heads to take some pictures of the cliffs and just stand around enjoying the scenery. On the way back to Plett we stop off at a timber yard to have a look at the various types of wood they sell to the public. We see a beautiful piece of Cape Beech, speckled like a thrush's breast and the colour of tanned leather. At a price of R2,500 for a three inch think, two metre length, we decide it can stay there a while longer. I wanted it for a bar counter at home, but at least I know how much I should be prepared to pay for a decent slab. Coming into Plett, we decide to look for a little restaurant we were told about by Stan, but in the end we can't find it and, instead, stop off at a pub/restaurant on the shoreline where we see a pod of about fifty dolphins buggering about in the water, splashing their tails and jumping out the back of the waves they've just ridden. As with a woman who commented behind me, I can't get enough of seeing them playing around like that...anyone who has seen them in their natural environment will know what I'm talking about. After a couple of the local "Bosun's Bitter" pale ales for me, and a couple of glasses of Chardonnay for Steph, we head back to the flat where, by now, the power has returned to normal. At least then we were able to cook dinner...a pasta dish with egg tagliatelle noodles, and a parma ham, mushroom and cream sauce to go with it. Another glass of Chard and it's time to write another episode of our holiday for you lot...and copy some more music and have a single-malt or two... With Dave Matthews on the CD player, life is beautiful in Plett...

Tttthhhhhaaaannnnkkksssss Mmmaaaxxxxx......

A little old lady, well into her eighties, slowly enters the front door of a sex shop. Obviously very unstable on her feet, she wobbles the few feet across the store to the counter. Finally arriving at the counter and grabbing it for support, stuttering she asks the sales clerk: "Dddooo youuuu hhhave dddddiilllldosss?" The clerk, politely trying not to burst out laughing, replies: "Yes we do have dildos. Actually we carry many different models." The old woman then asks: "Dddddoooo yyyouuuu ccaarrryy aaa pppinkk onnee, tttenn inchessss lllong aaandd aabboutt ttwoo inchesss ththiickk...aaand rrunns by bbaatteries ? The clerk responds, "Yes we do." " Ddddooo yyoooouuuu kknnnoooww hhhowww tttooo ttturrrnnn ttthe ssunoooffabbitch offffff?" Great joke, bro...

Monday 27th Feb...Plettenberg Bay, playground of the Rich and Famous (and now Steven and Steph too)

Awake at 07h30, wondering what time it was and feeling like I'd only been out for about ten minutes, I turned over and shut my eyes again. That was the best thing I could have done, as I woke again at 10h30 feeling great. I got up and put on the coffee percolator, opened the sliding door to the large patio and breathed in the sea air. The beach is about five minutes walk from the flat and I could hear the smallish waves breaking onto the sand. I put on a CD (more of the music in another posting) and heard a knock at the door. "Fuckit, the maid's here", I thought, and answered the door. In a typical Cape Colored tone of voice, she asks "Where are you?". I felt like answering her in a typical Scots tone of voice, thinking to say "Right fuckin' here, in front o' ye, ya daft cow", but settled on "We were sleeping. It's a long drive from Jo'burg". Avoiding further explanations I disappeared for a cup of beans. Apparently the maid had been knocking on the door since about 08h00 and, getting no response, had gone to chat to one of her chums in between occasionally trying to wake us. I took Steph a cup of coffee and left her to sleep a little longer, had a shower and went back to the lounge to have a look at Stan's music collection. What a fantastic, almost eccentric, taste in music he has. Similar to mine in some ways, but also vastly different in others. So much so, that I'm going to dedicate an entire posting to the music I will have heard (and copied) by the time we leave here. Some of the music is a "must have" for you lot...take notes... Anyway, Steph surfaces and showers at about 11h30 and we go into town for a little shopping, have a look around at some of the beach where I will probably go and throw a fly line to see what happens. There's a fantastic estuary here which looks like it could give up a few nice catches on the incoming tide. Back to the house for a light lunch, copy some more music and get my fly gear ready for tomorrow, weather permitting. It's been raining on and off the whole day and I've vowed that if it doesn't clear up pretty damn quick I'm not coming back to Plett as it's rained on all the previous occasions I've been here. "Come to sunny South Africa...bring yer fuckin' raincoat". A couple of beers on the patio, a great dinner of fresh hake, peas and chips, and it's time for the first single-malt of the day. Yummy... Bed at about 23h30, cos I was trying to get back into reading "Catch-22" again...a whole posting coming up on that one when I finish it...

A Mean-mouthed, Hook-jawed, Bad-news, Son-of-a-Fish...

is not your average book about fly fishing. Written by a Jewish South African, Wolf Avni, it gives you a personal insight into as much about what fly fishing is in SA today, to what it actually could be tomorrow, if the correct attention was given to the sport and the main players in it. The book starts off describing a monster-sized trout, lurking in the depths of one of Wolf's favourite fishing holes...his front garden in the Giants Cup Wilderness Reserve in the southern Drakensberg of SA. But then you only once ever hear about the fish again throughout the entire 160 pages and you wonder if he is not actually referring the title to himself instead of the fish. Certainly there are one or two instances in the book where Wolf uses expletives ("His only fishing rod was a fucked-up, no-name glass-fibre thing with neither spine nor class", or when describing different weight rods, "They both have their uses, and the 1-ounce would be out of place in a surfline, just as an 8-weight would be as useless as tits on a bull when waved around in the trickle of some mountain catchment"), but mostly the writing is about Wolf and his alter-ego "Salmo Nella" who, I believe, may also be based on an actual friend of his. As the cover expounds: "Whether you are a keen fly-fisherman or merely a collector of fine tales and piscatorial literature, Wolf Avni's collection of hilarious and irreverent fishing stories and superb photographs cannot fail to delight you. The sparkling anecdotes range from the factual to the myth of the mean, uncatchable monster with a cult following, after whom the book is named, to droll descriptions of a local hostelry decked out in 'drop-dead-tourist trout motif'. Fisherman's yarns abound, but are entwined with lyrical narrative describing the beautiful environs in which trout fishing streams occur. Leavened by a sizeable dose of self-deprecating humour, this collection of wonderfully written tales will provide hours of entertaining reading." For all you fly fishers out there, if you can get hold of a copy, do it. You'll read it in about six hours or so, but it's six hours well spent. It is published by Struik and the ISBN number is "ISBN 1-86872-098-5". I thought it a great, light-hearted read, as well as a well-aimed cast at some of the fishermen, as well as government and fishing bodies in SA, who might do well to sit up and listen to what the man has to say...

Sunday 26th Feb, Road Trip...

03h00 - Up at the call of the alarm on my new mobile phone, the Nokia 9300i - nice machine if you're into gadgets, which I am. We wanted to leave at 03h00 but by the time we'd finished packing and tidying up the night before, it was 23h00, so I figured we'd have an extra hour in bed. We'd need it and, instead, left at 04h00. We left home just as it started raining. A fine drizzle that would piss Duke off and soak Bonnie to the skin, but there was nothing we could do but show the dogs their beds under the thatch. We had a road to hit, and fourteen hundred-odd kilometres to cover in as little time as possible. A couple of hundred km's into the drive and there were one or two moments where I caught myself on the brink of dozing off into la-la land, but I steadied myself by popping another Liquorice Allsort into my mouth. Ever tried eating Allsorts at 8am? Talk about a sugar high, even though it only lasted a few minutes. One thing that amazed me the whole way down into the Orange Free State area was the rivers flowing strongly. Every single stream was flowing at full capacity, must be the first time in many years as I don't think I've ever seen it in all my time in SA. Somewhere between the 2nd and 3rd cup of coffee we had to stop. SA though, is not exactly geared up for long-distance tourism and we had to find a convenient bush in a layby. The Ford Ranger SuperCab must have been designed by a woman with SBS (Small Bladder Syndrome) as the doors open away from each other, unlike normal pickups that open in the same direction. Manoevering in next to the bush, Steph opened the doors, steadied herself on the running board and blew off some steam. The yellow gone from her blue eyes, we hit the road again. Stopped off just before Bloemfontein (Flower Fountain as a direct translation - not sure why, cos the only vegetation is the people who live there) for some fresh coffee and a stretch. Back in the car after 20mins and off to our next stop, passing over the Orange River into the Northern Cape. The Orange was also flowing strongly, indicating that the sleuces on the Gariep Dam had been opened to let some excess water into the river system. Letting water into a river? An interesting concept. Steph took a turn behind the wheel, giving me the chance to grab one hour, thirty nine minutes and seventeen seconds of uncomfortable sleep. Again, the car must have been designed by a woman, as the seats, when reclined as far back as possible, leave a hump in the small of your back ensuring that you don't sleep too long. Next time, they should make the hump poke you in the back in the upright position so that you don't ever fall asleep behind the wheel. It rained the whole way to Colesberg - about 700km worth of wet stuff. Sometimes cats and dogs, sometimes rats and mice, just enough of a drizzle to make the wipers squeak as they passed over the fine droplets. Colesberg came up just in time, judging by the amount of fuel the lackey put into the tank. Eighty-two-and-a-half litres to be exact. And on an eighty-five litre tank, we had cut it fine. I'd been sweating in my shorts for the last forty-odd km's when I saw the low fuel level light come on. As the needle was above empty I hadn't thought much about it, but this was our first long trip in the van and I didn't know how soon the needle would drop to the big "E" (for "empty", not "enough"). Now I know...almost as soon as the light comes on and you take your eyes off it. After the tank was filled to the big "F" (for "full", not "finished"), we got back on the road again for the next 320km to Beaufort West. Where the hell Beaufort East, North and South are, don't ask me, I don't have a clue. This was where we turned off the N1 highway and onto the N10. Maybe it was still the N1 and some wise-ass had chalked a "0" behind it, I dunno, but it actually felt like we'd turned onto the D666. The system of naming roads in SA is quite simple, as indicated below: - N - National highway - Normally good condition (but don't count on it) - M - Motorway (in cities) - Might be in good condition (but don't count on it) - R - Rural road - Really slim chance that it might be in good condition (but yep, don't count on it) - D - Dirt road - Don't even think about it being in any sort of a driveable condition (for once, you can count on it) There were a couple of annoying roadworks along the road while they tried to upgrade it to a "N" class road again. A right pain in the ass they were with stops for as long as ten minutes, just long enough for another fuckin' taxi to scream down the emergency lane, about two hundred pairs of arms waving out the windows and sixty pairs of Omo-white eyes and accompanying pearly whites flashing out the back window at you. Actually, there had been an ANC rally at one of the little dorpies just outside Beaufort West (we had a municipal election on the 1st of March) and, with everyone sufficiently pissed and proudly flashing off their t-shirts with our junkie State President on it (apparently Thabo has a cocaine addiction), they had all piled back into the taxis (which should have been called Volkswagens, but Hitler got there first) and headed off home for more merriment. Anyway...we headed into a mountain pass in the Groot Swartberge ("Big Black mountains"). Why the hell they're called "black" mountains I don't know, cos they're actually fuckin' brown. But the scenery was absolutely phenomenal. And me, like the daft bastard I can sometimes be, forgot to put the camera in the cab with us. I would equate the scenery with driving through the bottom of the Grand Canyon, except that I can't do that cos there's a dirty great big fuckin' river flowing through that (the Colorado, for all those who might ask). Regardless, it was a fantastic sight, and I'd gladly drive it again just to take some photos. This time, however, I just wanted to get to our destination, an ice cold beer and a nice warm bed. The weather from Beaufort West to just outside George had been brilliant sunshine, boiling hot coming through the pass. As we saw the mist coming over the Outeniqua Mountains (pronounced "Out-in-eek-wah"), we thought "Wow" and I lectured Steph how cool air from the sea, hitting the hot air from the mountains, caused the mist to form and roll over the peaks like a table cloth. How fuckin' wrong could I be? Well, actually, I was right but in this case it was also because the weather in George was shite. Fuckin' raining again...and we hadn't been able to see it cos it was hidden behind a mountain range. Coming through George I thought to myself that this was a little town that looked like I could live in it, but that was shortlived by Steph who commented on what a shithole it was. About twenty km's from George though, is one of the wonderful places on earth called "The Wilderness". Fantastic beaches, warm ocean, peace and quiet, are the order of the day. There are a few more houses gone up since I last went through there, but it still retains the charm I remember. Fifty-odd km's further on and you hit the oyster capital of SA...Knysna (pronounced "Nize-nah"). Most of the older houses here are built in quasi-Victorian style, lots of wood (sufficiently protected against the sea air), compact houses designed to keep out the night chill of a Cape winter's night. We'd both love to come and stay in Knysna, but house prices are ludicrous. Definately for the rich and famous only, which excludes us as we're only good looking. At some point through the holiday, we'll come back through here and Steph can have an oyster platter for lunch. Me, I'll have the calamari as, even at the best of times, I don't like the feel of post-nasal drip snot heading down my throat into my stomach...even with Tabasco Sauce and pepper. There's a couple of nice walks around Knysna too, as well as the possibility of doing some scuba diving. I did my first two diving courses here...typically, sixteen degrees water temperature with visibility about the length of your arm. If you can dive here, you can dive any shithole in the world. Nah, not really, some of the most amazing sea life is to be found off the the coastline around here. The last 20km's went off quite quickly and it was time to get out Stan's directions to the "flat" (more about that just now). Coming into Plettenberg Bay, we found the Piesang Valley turnoff (Banana Valley) and hit the long downhill into town. A short drive further and we finally arrived at our holiday home, destination for the next 8 or 9 days (after which we'll be heading up the coast to my folks - another long drive). We'd been on the road for almost exactly (insert oxymoron to the left of this space) fourteen hours, a total of 1,431 kilometres behind us at an average speed of 102.21428571428571428571428571429km per hour according to the 9300i's calculator. I had driven for over twelve of those hours and I was absolutely fuckin' knackered, so much so that the last hundred km's or so, I could hardly focus my eyes. After figuring out how to unlock the garage and carrying the luggage (only what we needed for now - the rest could wait for morning) up the fifteen (thousand) stairs, we sat down and had a quick cold beer (how sweet it was too) and then unpacked our clothing into the empty shelves in the cupboards. A quick shower later and I felt at least half human again, ready for dinner. We went up to a restaurant we'd been to a couple of times before on our last visit, Cornutti's, which as the name alludes to is a small Italian-style pizza joint. The food's good, but we decided there and then that it'd be our last meal there, partly due to the cost of the food, but also partly due to the medium-sized cockroach I'd found floating in my last drink (luckily before I'd taken a slurp). Back to the "flat" and a quick single-malt before hitting the sack. Now, I mention "flat", but that doesn't describe it accurately. Like just about everything Stan owns, this place ain't little. It's probably about a hundred square metres in size, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, small study, three patios (two of which overlook the valley in front of the large picture windows that are as wide as the lounge area) and a lounge/dining room/kitchen area the size of a small farm. The "flat" is bigger than the first house I owned, including its garden. And it's furnished tastefully, comfy lounge chairs and couch, soft lighting, a bed as big as my first house and a view that, alone, would cost a million bucks. After the single-malt had settled my stomach, it was time to grab some sleep. We had agreed that Monday would be a day of vegging out, nothing strenuous, maybe a little shopping for some groceries, read a bit, sleep a bit, listen to some music...that sort of stuff. And so it was to bed...

Honey, I'm home...

or at least, we are. Back in the land of milk and honey, Coca-Cola and jam, however you want to term it. Is it fuck...it's a shithole. We saw some beautiful pieces of countryside, of which I'm about to post a few pics throughout the recounting of our trip. So, as the bishop said to the nun, "Stand back dearie, I don't know how big this thing can get..."

Holiday is the time for new music...

and as I mentioned, Stan has an almost eccentric taste in music, but it is a collection of some of the most diverse, yet brilliant, artists you might ever listen to. From Country Rock to Electric Rock and everything in between, some of which I've heard before, some not. Some of it I even thought to myself "why haven't I got this in my collection?" It's always to good to get some new input, so here's the list of "new" music I've been listening to. Some titles have comments next to them, either if I was impressed with the album...or not. I encourage you to go out a nd have a listen to some of these titles...they're well worth it. In alphabetical order (Band/Artist Name - Album title): 1. Bad Company - Straight Shooter (a classic) 2. Bruce Cockburn - Nothing but a Burning Light (guitar work sounds familiar, but can't place him) 3. Calvin Russell - Sounds from the Fourth World (fuckin' brilliant Blues rock) 4. Climax Chicago Blues Band - A Whole Lot of Bottle (brilliant) 5. Concert for the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame - Various artists (John Mellencamp, Melissa Etheridge, Al Green, James Brown, John Foggerty, Iggy Pop, Soul Asylum, Lou Reed, Bruce Springsteen, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Allman Brothers, Slash, Boz Scaggs...) 6. Cowboy Junkies - Whites Off Earth Now!! 7. Dave Matthews Band - Crash (an old favourite of mine) 8. Free - Free (classic) 9. George Thorgood & The Destroyers - More of... 10. Joe Henry - Shuffletown 11. John Lee Hooker - Don't Look Back 12. John Mayall - A Banquet in Blues 13. Led Zeppelin - Remasters 14. Leonard Cohen - Greatest Hits (wanna slit your wrists? listen to this drivel) 15. Lindisfarne - On Tap 16. Little Feat - Time Loves a Hero 17. Little Village (Ry Cooder, John Hiatt, Jim Keltner & Nick Lowe) - Untitled 18. Lucinda Williams - Car Wheels on a Gravel Road 19. Lyle Lovett - I Love Everybody 20. Lynyrd Skynyrd - Pronounced Leh-nerd Skin-nerd 21. Mark Knopfler - Sailing to Philadelphia (never even knew this album existed - excellent) 22. MTV Unplugged 2 - Various artists (Sting, The Cranberries, Tori Amos, Seal, Bjork, Bob Dylan, Midnight Oil...) 23. Neil Young & Crazy Horse - Rust Never Sleeps (Neil should give up whining, I mean, singing...no, it is whining - no wonder I don't have any in my collection) 24. Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds - The Best of 25. Pat Mears - There goes the Rainbow 26. Rock Ballads - Various artists (Jefferson Airplane, Troggs, The Booze Brothers, Donovan, John Mayall, Jimi Hendrix, The Box Tops, Canned Heat...) 27. Rock Legends - Various artists (Queen, Wings, Peter Gabriel, Gary Moore, Status Quo, blondie, Marillion...) 28. Rory Gallagher - Original Masters 29. Ry Cooder & River Rescue - The Best of 30. Ry Cooder and Taj Mahal - Rising Sons 31. Sinead o'Connor - The Best of 32. Steve Earl and The Del McCoury Band - The Mountain (country music) 33. Sue Foley - Back to the Blues (great guitar work, but her singing is crap) 34. Talking Heads - Once in a Lifetime (classic Heads) 35. Ten Years After - Undead 36. Ten Years After - Ssssh 37. The Allman Brothers - Mycology: An Anthology (fuckin' brilliant rock) 38. The Band (With Bob Dylan) - The Basement Tapes 39. The Band (without Bob Dylan) - Islands 40. The Black Crowes - Shake your Moneymaker 41. Thin Lizzy - The Best of (classic) 42. Traffic - Mr Fantasy 43. U2 - How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb 44. U2 - The Joshua Tree 45. Van Morrison, Lonnie Donegan & Chris Barber - The Skiffle Sessions (Live in Belfast) 46. Van Morrison - Blowin' Your Mind 47. Van Morrison - What's Wrong with this Picture 48. Walter Trout Band - Tellin' Stories (fuckin' brilliant rock) 49. Whiskeytown - Faithless Street (country music) Incidentally, I've sent these last two postings while on holiday, via my new Nokia9300i phone. Simply infrared-ed them from the laptop to the phone, gone online via GPRS and downloaded the posting for your enjoyment. Ain't technology wunnerful? Wonder what my phonebill's gonna be like though?

Catch-22? More like Catch-8,000,000...

if you believe the number of books printed by the time this edition came out. Cuzzin Ross bought me a dog-eared copy of the book when he was out on holiday last May, after we'd been discussing what we'd read and he said that this was one of his all-time favourites. Personally people, I think it's the biggest load of shite I've ever laid eyes on!!! There is so much duplication of phrases and scenes, that if the book were written properly the first time round (or edited correctly), the first printed edition would have been one-third the size of the final manuscript. And if you want to believe that the duplication adds to the hilarity of the plot, sorry for you, it's nothing more than a waste of the reader's time. In actual fact, I ended up finishing the book purely so that I would be able to say to my Cuzzin "Thanks bro. It was an experience." I can also now say that I was one of the 8,000,000-odd suckers who endured Heller's inanity just to be able to say to fellow readers "Stay the hell away from it!!" In fairness though, I must hastily add that there were at least two moments through the book when I laughed. Sadly, they were in the last third of the book and, had there been more of the same humour in the first two-thirds, it would have made for a much more enjoyable read. The back outside cover sprouts praise from various American tabloids, who probably didn't even read it themselves or they might have changed their reviews. Take, for example, the review by The Los Angeles Mirror, which states "A triumph! A classic of our era!" Do me a fuckin' favour... And The New York Times wrote: "Wildly orignal, brutally gruesome, vulgarly, bitterly, savagely funny...It will not be forgotten by those who can take it!" Which fuckin' book were you reading, asshole? It certainly wasn't this one...there was more "brutally gruesome" and "savagely funny" in Sven Hassel's series of books about the Nazi tank crews in Russia during the offensive. Well, the Times got part of it right anyway...I won't forget the book. For those of you out there who have nothing better to do right before you throw yourself off a building, or slit your wrists in the bath, I suggest reading it in final defiance of the cruelty of one human being on the rest of the world. For the rest of the human race...stay the fuck away from this piece of crap lest you end up wanting to slit your wrists as well.