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...