House for sale …. with contents of one closet ….

130906_SpiderHouse

Priv is busy packing some clothing into my cupboard.

She picks up a hangar with one of my {many and all the same} black shirts on it to add a jacket to the hangar.

Huge hairy spider crawls out of the sleeve.  Of the shirt inside the cupboard.  My shirt.  Inside my cupboard.

The short but highly anticipated mental “imaginary movie” of my arms slipping into a shirt, to discover a large hairy spider already lives there, has not stopped running through my head all day.

The image above is not of the actual spider found inside my shirt.  But you sort of get the point —

I fumigated the room.  I might have used too much because the wallpaper is peeling – clearly my natural cottons are not smelling so natural right now.

If, you have happen to see me all of next week in the same clothing I have got on today, just smile and wave.

I might never go back into my closet for the foreseeable future.

I don’t have credit to purchase an entirely new wardrobe, but I am thinking of just moving and leaving the contents of the wardrobe for who ever moves in here.

I hate spiders.  I know they are more scared of me than I am of them.  But I do not hide in the shirt sleeves of the spider and invade his dreams with my large hairy body.  Or freak everyone the freak out.  Well I do, but I do not hide in their clothing and scream surprise.  And have eight legs.

True story.

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No, seriously what the hell is in PRITT?

Is anyone else a bit shocked/outraged/ready to shit in their pants at the price of a tube of PRITT?

I did the usual buy-stationery-at-the-last-possible-moment stint this afternoon.

But, I love stationery, like in an unholy way.  I adore stationery shopping, so it is hardly a onerus task – I usually throw in a few pens for myself, for good measure, and as a thanks for being so damn awesome.

I am fine with paying R42.00 for a pack of Monami twister crayons.  I am okay with R12 for 3 HB Pencils, but the part that makes me throw up a little in my mouth is R45.00 for ONE tube of frik’n PRITT!

Which would almost be fine if my kids did not go through it like they were eating the stuff.  They must fkn love sticking, because I could be buying a tube every month, and this is after being nagged that they need PRITT for at least a week or more.

It is not the money, it is the value I connect to one tube of PRITT!

I mean seriously what the helvetica do they put into that stuff.  I am not sure whether to give it to my kids for school, or to tell them it is part of their birthday present.

Forty five frikn rand for a tube of PRITT!

But I bought it — but clearly with a touch of gall.  Does anyone know what is in it -I thought it was dead old horses, but clearly it is gold leaf or plutoniam.

Home sweet wine Home ….

Finally got home <I have been playing airport lounge since Sunday lunchtime, so I am pretty much done>

I had my bag — I have seldom been so happy to see something yellow on a carousel.  I have not seen that bag since Sunday morning, so I was pretty emotional about our reunion.

I am a guilty traveller.  I always assume I have done something bad and it is just a matter of time before a custom official with a latex glove finds out.

At Heathrow, travelling back, I had to get out of my boots and take my belt off – there were no drinks involved, or mutual sexual attraction – it was me and the nice customs official.  It is a challenge to hold your pants up and unpack your things out of the black plastic boxes, while trying to look nonchalant about the entire process.

My handbag = large really overpacked tote bag kept getting beeped, and they had to keep unpacking it.  Of course I was then convinced that there was something smuggled in there.  I started to look guilty.  I started to act guilty.  I started to sweat profusely.

They had also taken my deodorant can away, so really it was me and fast yellowing armpit shirt!

I get to the check in section and the man checking my passport directs me to a smaller-glassed-in-lounge away from the other passengers.

Me = sphincter a bit tighter than it was before.

I must confess I eventually begged ignorance and when my row was called for the flight I just stood up and walked out of the “holding area” and climbed on board.

I had a great seat.  I had all my bits and bobs – which is unusual for me.

I had sufficient overhead space to shove my stuff in to.

I did not have clean underwear, but I had washed the pair I was wearing and was now wearing wet underwear.  There were bright orange flight socks, which I was so excited to get in to – just so I could get my boots off and my no-longer-white-socks off my feet.

Ah the happiness.  Really the happiness.

I was seriously stoked.

Flight was pretty good.

My best part was that Nicole the flight attendant who was serving my side, appears to be straight out of Mitchells Plain accent wise.  I could not get enough of her.  It was so disarming in comparison to the rather “british accents” I had been hearing for the past few days.

She also had no qualms about serving me repeatedly with little bottles of wine.  Bless her.

It really was a good flight.  Thanks SAA.

Got to carousel, security had two Beagles who hung around my baggage.  The handler kept going: “Find it, find it!”

Me = very very tight sphincter ….

It appears Beagles do not find it.

I got my stuff and skipped through the “nothing to declare” section – they pulled over the two people in front of me for a quick “hey lets see what you got then.”

I might have squeaked in relief.

I got home.  Finally.

Had a cuddle with Isabelle, a bath and then a nap – I would like to say it was a little nap, but it resembled a coma victim who had lost all control of their salivary glands.  Pepe had to come and wake me up so I could go and fetch kids from school.

It was really great being away, but it is even better being back.

Dear BA … please get me the fk home!

I got off the plane at Heathrow.

I knew my Cape Town flight was long gone, so I joined the queue at the help desk at BA.  Got to the front, and was told the next flight was Monday night.

I am in London, little to no money, no SIM card, and way-way too much hand luggage, that is really heavy.

I also have no access to my baggage i.e. clean clothes and other comforts, and no way to know where those bags actually are.

I had to venture out to Section E in the land of where-the-fk-am-I-of-Heathrow to get to the “client services” desk of British Airways.

I thought I was special and would get oh-god-we-are-so-sorry-for-the-inconvenience-and-what-can-we-do-to-make-this-really-shitty-situation-any-better-for-you.

I joined a queue that was about three hours long, and filled with nearly every nationality and it appeared I was no longer as special and unique as I had thought, and clearly my problem was pretty minor based on the rather haggared and over worked faces of the “client services” staff.

I was one of several dozen/hundred people who had been dropped by BA into the nether lands of all-things-wrong-with-travel.

Fortunately I was on a BA flight, that was delayed, and it was BA’s fault.

Fortunately the connecting flight was a BA flight.  Fortunately I had both check-in vouchers so I could prove I was there and available.  This is a total BA problem.

There were few things to hold on to and take comfort from, but this was definitely one of them.

Basically BA has had a shocking day and there were phrases about fog and other weather issues thrown around.

I stood in this queue that just did not go anywhere.

Eventually (=three hours later) a very nice customer representative started working her way through the queue and sorting out people.  People who looked like they were ready to drop.

The 4 behind me had been delayed on the Paddington>Heathrow Express train and had missed their flight to Paris as the Express train was experiencing some problems.

After more than three hours in the queue, they were told that their problem was not BA’s problem, so sorry for you, but no hotel, no vouchers, but come and stand in a corner while we all speak in raised voices and try to sort this out.

Total humour failure.  Glad I was not them.  I decided to remain in the queue, rather than walking vaguely around after a person with a hotel voucher.

Jenny – the BA person – I told I could get onto a Wednesday flight!  W.H.AT.? I might have severely cussed at this point. But there is a sign in CAPS LOCK saying you are not allowed to verbally abuse the staff.  I think if you write anything in UPPER CASE it must be pretty serious.  It is not as bad as UPPER CASE WITH BOLD AND ITALICS.

Wednesday – seriously??  I really wanted to poo in my pants.  But good sense held me back as I knew I did not have a change of underwear or more jeans.

Good sense reined supreme here, and I tightened my sphincter, and rested my face in my hands for a moment.

Jenny spoke with a bit more determination to whom ever was at the other end of her cellphone.

I got onto a SAA flight for Monday night.  I was  given a voucher for a hotel and a bus, and then directed out of a large door into the general direction of …… I really had no idea.  It’s late.  I have too many heavy bags as hand luggage.  And I have seriously lost my good-humour-shine.

I sort of followed the signs to where I hoped would be a bus going to be hotel.

I sat there for about 60 minutes …. then the right bus came … two of them actually.  But it appears 300 people trying to squeeze onto 2 busses that really only take 100 people does not fit.  It wasn’t one of those 200. I don’t squeeze, I hang back and wait for a polite gap.

Needless to say, this was survival of the fittest and good rules and polite behaviour seemed to have been abandoned.

The buses left and I was still standing there.

At this point it was after 23h00 and I was getting a little tired of this jamboree festival I was starring in.  There was one more bus coming, but a ton of people had already started milling around.

I sensed we would repeat the cycle, and again I would not make it on to a bus.

I hooked up with two other people who looked equally despondent as I was as I was.  We were all going to the same hotel.  We grabbed a taxi and said “heigh-ho Silver” and off we went.

Because it was a fun night, we arrived at the hotel and yay, another queue to stand in to check in.  My brain was telling me there was a finite amount of rooms, and at some point, well things would get ugly.

On the bright side > we (the 3 who hopped in to the taxi) arrived before the bus carrying the rude people  who pushed in before me, so that was a bit of a moment that made me smile with glee and a bit of delight.

Eventually got a room.  On the plus side it was a really nice room.  It’s really a nice hotel.

I had a toothbrush and toothpaste, and well, pretty much nothing else.

I had a sleep, a shower in the morning.  Weighed up whether to wear the same underwear – but not really a wealth of choices available to me …..

I negotiated with the Eastern-European housemaid if she can clean two other rooms first and then I could have another 30 minutes sitting on the bed watching Jeremy Kyle Show on BBC (I think this is a British version of the Jerry Springer Show…..) and checking out.

I have found a corner of them hotel bar/lounge to sit in that has wi-fi, reasonably comfortable couches and annoying music …. this is what a cup of tea that costs £4.22 looks like … not dissimilar to one that costs R6.50 from the Wimpy it would seem …..

I also realised I do not have any pounds on me, I used it on the taxi last night … interesting little mystery how I am going to pay for the tea … I already ate the little muffin thing, so can’t send it back now …..

Reluctant Mom delayed in transit …..

I congratulated myself on being super organised today.

I booked my seats this morning (I am flying Glasgow > Heathrow > Cape Town) and booked seats on both flights.

I checked in on-line.  I was pretty sorted.

The only time I got nervous was when my brother opted for activities that had me away from the house and it was an under an hour until my taxi arrived.  We got to his home, and there was about 40 minutes for the taxi to get there.

40 minutes to me is cutting it fine.  40 minutes to my brother was “all the time in the world/loads of time.”

I ran around like a headless chicken and threw my bags down the stairs … literally I threw them down the stairs.  It was faster than dragging them down.

My brother has always been the <time relaxed> one, me, not so much.

I got to Glasgow airport with time to spare.  I found the terminal.

No problems.

I checked my rather large bag in and did not get charged for excess, though granted I was only a little over.  But I felt relieved that I was not paying a small fortune in excess charges.

All going pretty well.  Job well done I thought.

Just got to get my oversized Hamley’s bag onto the plane and then I am sorted.

The flight from Glasgow to Heathrow was delayed.  Then it was delayed a bit more.

Now it is late by more than two hours.  I have no SIM card and no way to let Kennith know.

I am presently at a computer terminal and dropping £1.00 coins into a slot <no really I am> for internet time.

In short I will miss my Heathrow connecting flight.  I have no idea what is going to happen when I arrive at Heathrow.

On the upside, I am flying with BA on both flights, so really it is their problem to sort out — thank goodness. If I was on EasyJet or something now, I would be well and truly stuffed.

So I do think there is a life lesson to learn about connecting flights — make sure they are the same airline!!

I am still sitting at Glasgow airport.  I have no idea when I will get home.

I am trying not to panic as this is totally against my <tick all the blocks> anal personality.

Right now I am waiting for a late flight for me to get on.

I will then get to Heathrow and have to <see> if I can get on a later flight from Heathrow to Cape Town.

I am not 100% sure where my baggage is – it was booked to go the whole way through.

So while you read this sipping on your tea or your coffee, I will be somewhere in transit hell.  No doubt sweaty, smelly, crabby and just slightly travel soiled.

It’s a bit different over here when the sun sets ….

I have not had that much free time while being in London.

I go to work.  Before i leave the hotel, I eat my body weight in bacon lathered in honey.  I sometimes throw in a croissant just to jazz it up a bit.

I am at work by 9am or before, and then I usually finish off and head back to the hotel.  I sometimes do a little walk around on the way to the hotel, sort of, but I am a bit nervous being alone. At night. Lost.

It starts getting dark around 6pm or so.

I am not sure how it works in your world, but in my world, when it gets dark you start thinking that you need to get inside and out of the city.  Well that is how it is in my normal life.

Cape Town is lovely.  Truly.  But there is a very slight chance I am going to walk around by myself.  At night.  And get lost. And keep pulling out a map book.

Seems unlikely, unless I want to get hit over the head with a giant stick and relieved of my possessions and normally some type A+ bodily fluid.

It is difficult to break this rather life-affirming habit.

The sun sets.  You quicken your step.  You head indoors where it is safe. (not dissimilar to the movie I am Legend!)

Kennith has assured me that London is a bit different and a girl on her own can wander around, map book in hand, getting herself lost without risk to limb or property.

Today after work, I headed to a museum.

Unfortunately I dawdled as you do, and wasted all my time on the crappy bits.

Museum closed, I had to get my arse out the door – because the friendly-polite-yet-exhausted looking staff aimed me to the door and in no uncertain terms told me to get my arse out.

As I shot to the “way out” sign I realised the museum had kept all the best stuff for the last 1/4 of the museum.  Sh*t I felt short-changed, and annoyed as it was too late to go to another museum, and my trip was nearly at an end.  (I adore looking at clothing and household items from the Tudor/Stewart period in history.)

Trying to make myself feel better, I decided that nothing cheers a girl up as much a little shopping in Oxford Street.

I shopped a bit. Shopped a bit more.  And then it was 21h00 and I really thought I had pushed the envelope of hanging around at night by myself long enough, and headed back to the hotel.

I got on a bus.  Had no real idea where it was going.  I sat with my mapbook and listened as the “bus announcer machine” kept telling me which road we were in, and reminding me which bus I was on and where it was going.

How clever is that?  Very.

The part that impressed/amazed me was that even though I was clearly much-in-need-of-a-map-book, and had no idea where I was, no one bothered me.  I did not have to shoo off beggars and small homeless people clinging to my leg and begging me to feed or comfort them.

If it was Cape Town, and I was a single woman ,alone, and lost, and holding a map book, at night, in the middle of the city, odds are I would be a crime statistic.

Sad but true.

 

<I really am impressed by how good the public system is.  That I can get from Point A to Point B reasonably easily.  No one seems to bother me.  And the weather has been jeans and t-shirt weather.  There is so much I would have loved to see, but time was not on my side.  But it has been way cool, and I have thoroughly enjoyed this week.>

Catch you on the flip side ….

We are off to Drakensberg to celebrate the wedding of John and Natalie.    We are so thrilled for them, and dead excited to be part of their wedding.

We fly to Durban in the morning.  Then we drive up to the Drakensberg (I have never been to the Drakensberg and my geography is pretty sketchy, so I am even sure I am 100% sure exactly where it is.  But Kennith seems to know and we have a GPS, so no doubt I can read my Kindle and not worry my pretty head about details like directions.)

The idea is to stay there and do what ever it is that people do in the Drakensberg, attend the fabulous wedding, and hang out with a group of friends who will be joining us there.

Next Friday we drive up to Johannesburg, and stay there a few days.  Seeing more friends and just hanging around sort of stuff.

On Sunday we get to squeeze into a stadium with a few thousand people screaming for Bono, The Edge, Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen.  Of course I am sure that Bono will stare into the crowd, and see me back in row 175 and seat 54. and pluck me from the crowd so he can sing me a personalized version of “With or Without You!”

Nothing like a bit of delusional ism to keep you going.

The thing about this trip is we are doing it sans kids.

Usually there would be a split about now in terms of reaction.

Some moms are going to go: “Fabulous, lucky you, wish I could get a break from my set!”

Then there is the second set who are dialing ChildLine as they read this and thinking: ”Who does this woman think she is abandoning her children to go gallivanting all over the country side.  The scandal.   The indignation!”

Then there is a third set which would usually gasp a bit and go: “I could never leave my junior, I couldn’t be away from them for that long.”

I usually am okay with some adult time away from our kids, but I am actually not okay with it right now.  It is also a long time.  We leave Friday and we are back Monday after next.

It is too long, and I have been stressed and anxious this entire week, and right now I actually do not want to go.  I miss Isabelle too much already and I have not even left the house, so this week is going to be torture.  I appear to have moved from the first set of moms to the third set.

I felt out of sorts yesterday, and last night and this morning I have been totally out of sorts.

I woke up around 2am this morning and just could not sleep.  I just felt anxious and stress, and wanted to wake Kennith up and tell him that I was fine to fly to the Drakensberg to attend the wedding, but then wanted to fly home, and then I would fly back to attend the concert, but I did not want to stay away that long.

But I didn’t as I knew he would probably freak his bean, and then we would have a huge fight.

It wasn’t like I had not known about this trip 4 months ago.  I had.  I just had not paid much attention to it.  But it is here now.

My bags are packed, but I am loathe to leave tomorrow morning, but there we go, I am leaving, and it is meant to be this great week, but I am dreading it.    Listen it is a great week that has been planned, and actually I have had to do nothing.  Kennith has organized everything, all I am doing is arriving, but the problem is that because I know how much I am going to miss the kids – and how bad I feel being away from them – I think will take a bit of the smile off this week.

So there we go, I am out of here for a week.  I am going to miss my kids crazy, and especially  Isabelle.  Just tying this is making me feel even sadder.

As my penance I am going for a full body wax at 7am.  I thought I would do it without taking a Syndol just as punishment for abandoning my kids.

<just as extra penance, I was so out of it this morning, I put this stuff called AO Sept – which is like acid for your contact lenses – directly into my right eye ball this morning.

It burnt like a m*therf*cker.  I can’t actually tell you how much it burnt without the aid of profanity.

I thought my cornea was being dislodged from my eyeball.  We are not talking mild discomfort, we are talking silent-scream-while-you-bang-your-feet-on-the-floor-and-claw-at-your-eyeball pain!   I actually called my optom friend because I thought clearly it would require an eyeball transplant or something.

I spent the day walking around with an eye that is so blood shot it looks like I am bleeding to death – I have just started a new job, so that looked totally fantastic.  It was agony and I was in mild to severe discomfort for the entire day.

It is still pretty red and feels pretty grim – oh joy, possibly it will hide my crying tomorrow morning…>

Camping with kids + wine bar fridge ….

There really is something bleak about coming home after a holiday.

I also got the irony that I managed to win a Best Parenting Blog at about the same time that I was drinking a Mojito in Zanzibar, whilst I had shipped the kids off to their grandparents, with the nanny in tow – I get the humour in it!

Running away from home is quite surreal and especially if you have opted to do it without kids.

One quickly reverts to your former single/time-before-your-uterus-squeezed-something-out self, where you just lie around reading, eating junk food and yours is the only bum you have to wipe – ah the joy of the small things in life!

I will confess that from about Wednesday last week, I was starting to pine, especially for the warm, squishy feel of Isabelle.

Kennith and I are really fortunate that we are able to go on holidays without the kids.

My mom has retired and lives about an hour up the coast from us.  She has a large house and an inability to think quickly on her feet.  This inability assists us, as she cannot say no when I ask her if she can look after the kids.  So every now and then we get to abandon them and head off to places undiscovered, and though I am wracked with guilt (strangely I am, even for all my bravado) it is still a delicious treat!

The kids enjoy being with their granny and oupa, and Kennith and I get the benefit of sleeping until we wake up – which in itself is such a rare treat.  I also get to see what it is like to go to the toilet without company!

This was the longest time that  have left Isabelle and that was a bit hard for me – there were several moments where I just wanted to call it a day and head back home, and pick up my mucus and drool soaked 16 month old for a cuddle, and to sniff in the warmth of her urine soaked nappy.

I did return from holiday and have been thinking that Kennith and I should start to holiday with the kids.  My concern is how much of a holiday will it be for us?

Kids are hard work.  Ask any mom (and dad) and they will admit that kids out of your house are much harder than kids in your own home.

I do not think I am quite ready to pack luggage and take kids on the plane, but I am definitely going to start hunting for some kid friendly holiday places nearby – partly to sooth my guilt for leaving them behind on this holiday and partly because I think it will be cool.

Whatever direction we head with the kids needs to include a small bar fridge for wine, and babysitting facilities for when Kennith and I look at each other and realise that taking kids on holiday is actually not a holiday.

I know several moms who would rather not holiday than holiday without their kids.   I respect that there is a parenting continuum, and they may be in a different place on the continuum than where I choose to be.  I am on the end sitting with the chilled glass of wine, and wondering what all the fuss is about!

I know when I tell people I am going away without my brood, they hit the speed dial number for child services and start removing me from any “mommy and toddler” playgroups.

I have always said I really love my kids, and I am willing to admit that I really like them as well – which is a subtle difference.  My kids are funny and clever, and sometimes when they manage to go an entire hour without someone spilling juice or complaining because “he/she is looking at me” I start thinking that maybe I should stop fantasizing about running away from home so often, as before I know it these warm summery days of their childhood will be over, and all I will have is too many bottles of Chenin Blanc to show for it.

Last week Kennith and I got to just sit like two amoebas with the highest functioning decision whether we were going to drink a beer or a cocktail.  I could lie and read my book – undisturbed – until the drool ran out of my mouth, and formed a sticky congealed pool outside my mouth on the beach chair as I drifted off to sleep.

While acting like I did not have a care in the world, I knew my kids were safe, well cared for and getting a dose of sunburn on a beach along the East Coast.

Holidaying without kids is like having your cake and eating it as well. You get all the blissful stuff of a break from reality, and a chance to remember why you enjoy parenting, and then you get to come home to sun burnt faces and warm hugs.

But now I am googling “camping with kids + wine bar fridge” and seeing what I can locate.

Jumbo, jumbo

Running away to Zanzibar was definitely a wonderful idea that maybe was lacking a bit in the application.

Unfortunately it did require two aeroplane flights, and then a drive from the airport at Zanzibar to our lodge.

Sounds quite idyllic …. lest one is mortally afraid of large metal man-made structures in the sky that can plummet to the ground at any time, and it would seem sometimes without warning.

Landing had us experiencing serious cross winds, it was bumpy and shaky.  (Have I mentioned how terrified I am of flying?)

I had begun to harbour serious doubts that the pilot may have obtained his licence via correspondence. I know I cannot fly a plane, but something about landing when your nose is facing directly into the tarmac, surely spells a problem.

Once we finally rammed our large plane into the tarmac with so much force that it loosened your fillings – and in my case made me bury my nails into Kennith’s leg. 

The brakes were then applied which sent us screeching forward on what can only be described as a very SHORT runway. We finally stopped.  I know I said something quite eloquent like “Thank FEK!” and I meant every word of it.

You know it has been a bit touch and go, when the passengers applaud after the plane comes to a standstill!

I can’t say we embarked as much as we fell out of the aeroplane – and then threw ourselves to the ground to give thanks for the safe ejection from the plane of death.

Unfortunately at this point I realised a few things (1) Zanzibar International Airport was a bit of an over-exaggeration for both the International and the Airport part (2) Luggage off the plane and to you, was really an optional and not guaranteed (3) The terminal is more of a fancied up shed than a terminal.

It was all a bit haphazard and chaotic and you sort of just fell into a line, and watched them pull a cart from the plane with what appeared to be your baggage. There was baggage, whether yours was on the cart was sort of where you started to rethink your wardrobe and how long you could actually wear the same pair of underwear for.

Once I absorbed the status quo, we found ourselves a queue – always the slowest moving one, and managed to spend the next 30 – 45 minutes standing up close and personal with a few dozen other sweaty people.

We finally got to the front, paid our $50.00 per person, which was slid into the custom official’s pocket. We sort of looked quizzically at each other and thought, well we are hardly going to stand there and argue with him, so we smiled and thanked him profusely for letting us into his country.

My bag arrived – hallelujah – trust me, this is not the norm for when I travel, so I am in my full rights to celebrate a little.

We made it out of the airport through the throngs of guides/pick up people who were waving boards.

Found a friendly gentleman waving a board with our name on it – I have not done anything for this trip, so the fact that Kennith had organised that we were collected from the airport made me really sigh with relief (the other option is to arrive and just sort out your own transport.)

Then a very helpful dame came along and handed us a facecloth – clean, wet and soaked in jasmine. Heaven!

I may have stepped over the (imagined) boundary of proprietary when I finished wiping my face and hands, and thought, what the hey, I will just freshen up my armpits a bit! I noticed a little frown cross her polite face, but I was on holiday, it was a facecloth and I was really sweaty!!

We found our taxi driver – I liked the look of him, the taxi was clean … but my joy was short lived.

We then proceeded to take the drive-from-hell from the airport to our resort which was about an hour or so.

He had no qualms about overtaking and driving directly into on-coming traffic – it was not like this was something he did now and then, it was more where his vehicle appeared to stay for the bulk of the journey.

It was a very narrow two way road, without any emergency lanes to move into if there was a problem.

The only option, should something go very wrong, was to just veer directly into the population which appeared to like nothing more than to stand on the shoulder of the road and watch the traffic go by.

Clearly the custom is that if you hit your hooter in rapid succession – and do it with a cheery smile on your mug – this clearly absolved you from responsibility and from impending death. It was totally chaotic and your brain kept telling your body to prepare for a rather gruesome death in East Africa.

Long road with bicycles, vespa scooters (always with more than one person on it), trucks packed, like totally packed with people, and people hanging out the side, goats on the side of the road, large cow type things that seemed to wander about without any limitations or restraint.

And there we are hurtling down the road.

While we are overtaking a large truck, another car will be trying to overtake us – all this into on-coming traffic.

Kennith kept suggesting I not look, and read instead. I can say without a doubt, that during the flight I had already started to prepare my goodbyes and hope that my children knew I loved them and how sad it would be for them to get a call from OneTime Airlines to say that they were very sorry, but pa and ma will not be home.

But the problem with this taxi was that when they scraped me off this dirt road, would anyone actually know where or who I was or be able to do some sort of a CSI analysis on me as they scraped my lady bits off a donkey?

As things do happen, one does not always die in the head on taxi car collision as one imagined and we made it to the resort.

We then proceeded to head with shaky legs to the nearest bar, order a pizza, a large bottle of beer and congratulate ourselves on surviving to see another day.

So here we are in Zanzibar ….

Afternoon delight, cocktails and moonlit nights …

I don’t know what is going on either, but Kennith just sent me an email about a bungalow in Zanzibar and that he is trying to book.

I don’t know when, I don’t know how.  I don’t know if he is trying to tell me he is running away to Zanzibar (he has pulled this move before … ) and leaving me with the kids, or we are both running away without the kids.

He had me at “…..do not forget the full body massages for $5 (R40) while you are lying on the beach…” Can I get a holler-holler!!?

Now I can’t stop singing this stupid song out of my head …

“Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go
Jamaica

Off the Florida Keys
There’s a place called Kokomo
That’s where you wanna go to get away from it all

Bodies in the sand
Tropical drink melting in your hand
We’ll be falling in love
To the rhythm of a steel drum band
Down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We’ll get there fast
And then we’ll take it slow
That’s where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

To Martinique, that Monserrat mystique

We’ll put out to sea
And we’ll perfect our chemistry
By and by we’ll defy a little bit of gravity

Afternoon delight
Cocktails and moonlit nights
That dreamy look in your eye
Give me a tropical contact high
Way down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We’ll get there fast
And then we’ll take it slow
That’s where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

Port Au Prince I wanna catch a glimpse (er maybe not so much ….)

Everybody knows
A little place like Kokomo
Now if you wanna go
And get away from it all
Go down to Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We’ll get there fast
And then we’ll take it slow
That’s where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo”

I know it is not the same place, but they never made cool songs about Zanzibar in the late 80’s, so you work with what you can get.