Monkey Bread & Ant Lions!

Hi. Outside our house, the ground’s frozen solid, but at least the sun’s coming up and for once it ain’t raining. Have a view of three or four miles across the valley, then the hills start; their top bits covered in pine forest and snow. Between the hills and me, a good sized river where we’ll take the dogs for a swim once the warm weather comes back.

Good place to write, but it never comes easy – not the quality stuff. So far so good though; I write what I think people will enjoy. What I enjoy – just stories, with a beginning, middle and satisfactory ending. There is no secret recipe, no mystical, magical way to writing success. Everything hangs on the readers, not the publishers’ ideas of what will be the ‘next big thing’.

If the writing’s good, the story entertaining and the cover catchy, then you, the reader, will part with hard-earned cash and give the book a home – sort of sells itself – that’s the way I like it. Hope your day is a good one.

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More of our day at The Falls – an extract:

After decimating the food supplies, the adults flopped into deck chairs with their beers, fags and burgeoning bellies; us kids, with our batteries recharged went off to do things that, by our parents, were looked upon as the sum of all their nightmares. Scorpion catching and feeding ant lions ranked as all time favourites, hunting for snot apples and monkey bread came in as a close second, both of which tasted crap, but we ate them anyway because they were free and our mothers told us not to.

Here’s a shot of our gang. The kids with bottle-on-string contraptions are water bug catchers – the Zambezi was full of them (bugs not kids). I’m the cool kid leaning against the tree.

Ant lions live at the bottom of cone-shaped death traps. From an insect’s point of view, once you step over the edge you’re history; no matter how many nippers or stings you’re packing, the creature waiting at the bottom will grab you, stick you with its ‘sticker things’ squirt you full of venom and then suck out your insides (a bit like the tax man). We, as delightful, well-balanced children spent many giggle-filled hours herding unsuspecting ants towards their cone of doom, poking them with grass stalks to hurry them up, urging them on to the more exciting, being eaten bits. From a more sensible, scientific view, ant lions are the larvae of a winged, damselfly type creature. Hatching from mother-bug eggs they excavate cone-shaped traps in sandy ground and wait for some poor sucker of an ant to fall in.  Once the insides are all sucked out the ant lion chucks the empty out of his hole and settles down to wait for the next ‘full one’. Almost forgot to mention; ant lions don’t have bum-holes. My mother in particular found this fact quite disturbing and dragged her chair to the other side of the table. However, scorpion hunting was an altogether different game...

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Monkey Business & Spam Sandwiches!

I’m amazed by how far across the world my good mornings have to travel. It’s a big thrill to see so many hits from Russia and I often wonder how and why, but count them up with great excitement; also from the Far East, Oz and New Zealand, not forgetting the Americas and an ever faithful South Africa – all great supporters and readers of Sons of Africa. My UK followers are superb; so many via Facebook, such genuine interest; and last, though by no means least, the rest of Europe. So to all who have been so kind and tolerant of my ramblings I wish you a wonderful, top-of-the-range start to your day – some of which are already back into night mode – don’t matter. Whichever part of the day you’re in – from the grumpiest git in the northern hemisphere – make it a good one!

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Another day in my life; an excerpt:

Standing close to the edge of the aptly named, Devil’s Cataract was an experience that both scared and enthralled me. In fact, when my dad took hold of my hand and towed me over for a closer look I nearly peed my pants. The Zambezi, as some devilish serpent slid into the abyss; sleek silk, green marble, but soft looking. At the bottom, as a mythical giant the river roared and frothed, trapped between those walls of black basalt it had become as its native name suggested, Mosi-oa-Tunya, the smoke that thunders. To our right hand, spray rose up from the gorge and, inset by the most vibrant of rainbows, as a moist veil fell back gently upon the greenest of forests. In all, it was a sight never to be forgotten. However, when my mother shouted over that her spam sandwiches were begging to be eaten, the devil and his cataract were quickly forgotten and I broke free, legging it back before the other kids had chance to get a look in. First in line, I manoeuvred round the trestle table and left with my plastic plate weighted down with spam butties, salads and pickled onions; and of course, hooked between my fingers, a customary bottle of coke from our cooler-bag. Then the monkeys found us.

Vervet monkeys, up to then, were by all us kids looked upon as friendly, furry cousins. Willingly we shared our spam and stuff and laughed out loud when a mother monkey mouthed a pickled onion – it sort of stuck out sideways, a lump in her cheek like a giant gumboil. They made ‘kak-kak’ noises if we weren’t quick enough with handouts so we ‘kak-kakked’ back and that’s when all hell broke loose. With my coke in one hand and spam butty in the other, that same mother monkey went up a tree like a rocket up a drain pipe; baby hanging on for dear life. The party exploded; kids fled in all directions, all of them spamless, cokeless and ingrained forever with a deep mistrust for furry creatures. We had found out the hard way that Mother Nature would often play the bitch.

From then on, food and kids only went together when adults were present. (picture left – December ’58, mother insisted on orderly feeding protocol – until she was mobbed; seconds after this shot was taken.)



The group photo is of most of us in the story – I’m the skinny kid with no shoes, standing next our beloved Morris Minor...

The Smoke That Thunders!

Made the fatal mistake of lifting the lid from a box of old photographs; three hours later... Anyway, I’ll scan a couple that were taken at Victoria Falls way back in the late fifties – will stick them in with my next blog.

Everything seemed simpler then, a world in black and white rather than one of contrived colours and air-brushed fakeries. Even the monkeys were better behaved. I swear the ape in one of my next week’s pictures said “please” – seconds before he snatched the packet and legged it back to his mates for his scam of the year award.

And yet another excerpt!

... On we trundled, four cars filled with crazy people, firmly joined at the hip by that same, die-hard British need to see beyond the next horizon. Directly behind ours, Ron and Hilda proudly showed off the sturdy, tank-like qualities of their trusty shooting brake. Ploughing through sand and pot-holes with happy disregard they would point and grin in a disparaging way at our tiny, though valiant Morris Minor. Sometimes my dad would hang his arm out of the window, showing Ron and Hilda two of his fingers whenever they came too close.

‘The African sign for mind-my-car,’ my dad said. As usual, I believed him and went back to looking out the window for Aunt Ann’s threatened waterfall. An hour later, Uncle Vince pulled everyone into the roadside and for the benefit of us fledgling pioneers, pointed out a wispy line of cloud struggling up from the jungle.

‘Victoria Falls,’ he announced proudly, then glowered at my dad for sniggering.

‘More steam from our kitchen sink,’ dad told him. I laughed as well and got loomed over by Aunt Ann. So, duly chastised and tempered by our own ignorance we assembled once more as the package tour from hell. Reluctantly, under a cloud of inter-family hostilities, we wobbled on, into a wild and winsome Zambezi Valley. Twenty minutes later, as a subdued congregation we stood and stared; every ounce of cynicism dispelled by what was definitely, one of the most captivating seven wonders of our world...

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A New and Exciting Year!

Only one resolution this year; lose a couple of kilo’s. The other ongoing battle is with my daily word count – must increase my output if I’m to finish Empress Gold round about the promised date – middle of this year (weak grin). Good intentions go awry, getting sick is never allowed for and eats up chunks of precious writing time. Try to hold off local lurgies by avoiding sneezers and snifflers – damn near impossible and, as winter moves into her annual share-out-the-bugs mode, most people expect a fair drubbing from colds and ‘flu. Anyway, time to soldier on and quit moaning; stock up on cough sweets and paracetamol. Smelling of Olbas Oil isn’t so bad, at least I can breathe.

One more thing... though based on fact, my last couple of blog entries might have come across as a little on the lewd side; for that I apologise. So no more frighteners, I promise – the story can only get better – to harness a famous quote: ‘Keep it simple, stupid!’

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A fresh look at, An English Boy’s Wanderings:

... Took a few days for mother to recover from her son’s premature, close encounter beneath the mango trees, but recover she did, and I think, by the onset of that following weekend, I had been forgiven. My dad just winked at me and grinned. Weeks rolled into more weeks and then into months; then mother fell out with Aunt Ann, sounding the death knell for our short though pleasant stay with Wankie Colliery.

Swept, shovelled and trashed, my cherished world was once again committed to the dustbin. My beloved mango trees and swimming pools were consigned to a world of ever growing remember-when’s and my reluctant father prepared our little Morris Minor for its first, great trans-Africa journey. Mother had demanded her own nest to bustle over, and why not? That universal, two-women-in-one-kitchen-doesn’t-work prophecy had sunk its teeth in. But first, before we waved goodbye and headed eastwards, we partook of one last, reconciliatory family outing – a day’s picnicking at Victoria Falls. So, with ten bob’s petrol in the Morris’s tank, Thermos flasks, folding chairs and a plethora of Spam sandwiches crammed in her boot we headed north, following in the steps of one intrepid, David Livingstone towards the great Zambezi River and the aptly named, Mosi-oa-Tunya, the smoke that thunders.

We travelled in convoy. Dad’s brother insisted on going in front; he’d been to The Falls before and for whatever reason was convinced that should we travel otherwise, might well perish along the way. The fact that there was only one, sixty mile stretch of road leading there, seemed to him of little relevance, so, as self-appointed lead scouts, he and Aunt Ann, by right of their earlier start in Africa claimed their place at the head of the wagon train. My dad huffed and puffed about it, but for the sake of a peaceful outing, gave in, still muttering brotherly obscenities under his breath and glaring daggers through our windscreen at the sprout-green, Vauxhall Victor trundling along in front. Mother didn’t care; happiness was a day’s outing to anywhere in any weather and she would smile at whatever presented itself to her view through the window. She had developed a habit of total detachment, riding with her bare feet spragged against the glove box she would stare out at Africa’s abundant hills and forests, content for her mind to drift wherever it pleased.

‘Such beautiful trees,’ she warbled and flicked her ash through her opened quarter window, happy as a sky lark; this was her Africa, her faultless paradise, a land of perpetual blue skies and warm sunshine. Behind our little car, three other families tagged along for an excuse to sit in the sun, pool their sandwiches and flood their innards with cold beer, all of them saddened by our imminent moving away from Wankie. However, back then jobs were plentiful and most agreed that in-laws were best regarded from a distance – I think my mother demanded a healthy buffer zone of at least three hundred miles...

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