VILLA O’HIGGINS – THE FINAL FRONTIER
The pitiful meowing had started almost as soon as the ancient, creaking bus lurched forward on its long, bumpy journey. With animal activist instincts, I launched out of my grubby, sagging seat and quickly found the wriggling sack that had been slung to the back of the overhead shelf.
I wasn’t going to let the cat out of the bag. I just wanted to make a few holes in the rough sacking to allow the poor puss to breathe. I had only managed a tiny slit, releasing an angry, dangerous-looking claw, when a weathered, hairy hand reached up and stopped me.
It was attached to a short, stocky man who was peering steely-eyed from under two huge black, thick eyebrows. His face was the colour and texture of brown leather and was half covered by an unruly grey beard. He wore a coarse black jacket and his trousers were tucked into long black chaps. On his head was a traditional Chilean black beret. He looked like a garden gnome my Granny once had.
By now, I had the attention of the whole bus. Correctly measuring the militant mood of the mob, the Chilean figurine hauled the sack off the ledge without saying a word and sat, stony-faced and furious at the back of the bus. He dropped the bulging bag onto his lap, guarding it against any more interference. The wriggling had stopped but a low, mournful moan could still be heard.
Having said goodbye to Tineke in Cochrane the night before, our group of intrepid explorers had dwindled to Ulrike, Mavis, Lee-Anne, Henk and myself.
We were traveling along the final 224 km gravelly stretch of the Carretera Austral, from Cochrane to Villa O’Higgins – the gateway to the southern Patagonia ice field. The ‘rustic’ ambiance of the bus and the manic speed of the driver, as he turned 180 degrees to talk to a passenger behind him, and even the sheer drop on the other side of the window, were nearly forgotten, as we gazed over thick forests at the snow-capped mountains and waterfalls.
The journey included a 30-minute ferry ride from Puerto Yungay to Rio Bravo, which I spent trying to avoid my Chilean friend.
Ulrike and Mavis hid inside the cabin, while the ‘catnapper’ stalked me on deck, no doubt plotting how to throw me overboard.
It was a relief for all of us on the bus when, several hours later, he and his hapless pet were dropped off outside his farm.
Villa O’Higgins lies at the end of an arm of Lago San Martin, which in turn, straddles the Argentine border. A Chilean independence hero with a very un-Chilean name – Bernardo O’Higgins, founded it in 1966. There is something of a frontier feel about the town and for years it was only accessible by air.
Then, in 1999 the road was built and tourism happened. This seems to have taken the population of 500 by surprise. Originally, very little was done to embrace this modern phenomenon and what did exist was makeshift and hurried. But more recently, new wooden, double-story accommodation is starting to emerge among the squat, crude shacks, as the locals try to make the most of the world’s obsession with cycling and hiking holidays.
We stayed at El Mosco refugio and campsite, which was luxury accommodation, compared to some places we had already stayed. A large dining and kitchen area was kept cosy and warm by an ancient wood stove and when I saw the blanketed bunk beds in the dorms, I immediately deserted the campsite. The showers were clean and wonderfully hot and for the first time, the mirrors were not at my chest height.
Early the next morning, refreshed and clean, we strolled along the high banks of Lago O’Higgins. Our peace and quiet were suddenly disturbed by a loud clattering noise of hooves on loose stones and a Heumal appeared over the top of the bank and stood in front of us. It was difficult to determine who got the biggest fright – him or us. This is a beautiful endangered deer, native to the mountains of Chile and Argentina and is now, due to extreme poaching, very rare. We felt privileged to have this encounter and he seemed undeterred by our presence. He happily posed, while we behaved like paparazzi with our cameras.
We still hadn’t experienced a glacier. I had carried my crampons for nearly a month and I was determined to use them. There are a large number of icebergs around Lago O’Higgins, which have broken off the glaciers of the Campo de Hielo Sur to the west. We were told about Mosco Glacier, which is a six-hour hike from the town and has a deserted refugio nearby where we could spend the night. We were warned that the route might be ‘broken’ near the top because of heavy rains and mudslides.
We set off up the wooded hill behind the town and stopped at the ‘mirador’, a large wooden balcony, to enjoy the spectacular view of the little town below, nestled against the mountains and lakes.
For several hours we moved through a green canopy of native forest, jumping over tiny tributaries that flowed into the ice-blue stream, snaking alongside us.
Our refugio was a rickety, one-roomed wooden structure, with a deck and a large inside fire pit. It was dark and smelt of smoke, so we opened the creaking shutters to reveal the sleeping arrangements. These were cramped, slatted bunk beds that made third-class on the Titanic look appealing. Henk chose the floor as a better option. But I loved it. It was like something out of a fairy tale.
It was getting late, so we dropped our rucksacks and continued along the track to see how close we could get to the glacier. We soon arrived at the ‘broken’ bit, which was a messy tumble of rocks and driftwood that had come to a slithering halt across the path and into the ravine. Going any further was impossible. So we sat on a log in a dry, pebbly riverbed and looked at the tauntingly close, ice-blue lines of the glacier, fading in the evening light.
We returned to our Grimm’s fairytale house in the woods, to discover a Chilean young couple had arrived for the night. This made our sleeping arrangements even more ‘cosy’.
I fell asleep to the sound of a gentle breeze, stirring the surrounding woodland and felt like I was in my own Enid Blyton adventure.
It was still dark when the wind blew open the shutters and the rain started pummelling our clapboard cabin from every side. Soon water dripped from the roof onto our sleeping bags and trickled down the walls to puddle around our bags. We huddled patiently, dodging drips, until it became light, but there was no hint of the storm passing anytime soon. This was becoming more of a Roald Dahl novel.
After a wretched, watery breakfast, we waited. By mid-morning, we realised that we had no option but to brave the storm and start the long trek back to town. Within minutes we were soaked. The leafy lanes of yesterday were now ankle deep, muddy highways and the gentle stream we had followed, was a raging wall of brown soup. The trickling rivulets that we’d happily hopped over had become knee-deep estuaries.
All around us was the noise of water and the cracking sound of rocks and boulders colliding, as the current swept them along. We knew the power these storms had to bring mud and huge boulders down from the mountainside and as we waded across the frigorific water, we braced ourselves for impact.
Many miserable and scary hours later, we hobbled back into El Mosco. As our dripping clothes dried in front of the stove, we planned our next move. Getting our cramponed boots on to a glacier was now becoming an obsession. With several unsuccessful attempts, it was time to bring in the locals.
Matias Rivas was an excitable, bear-sized Che Guevara who worked for the tour operator, AltaVista, next door. He was extremely talkative but couldn’t speak a word of English. With Ulrike’s Spanish and some universal hand signs, we learned that for 45 000 Pesos, he would ensure that we bagged our glacier.
Which is why, the next morning, we found ourselves in a people carrier, traveling the 30 kilometres out of town to the beginning of the hike, that leads to the Glacier el Tigre. It was going to take two days to get there and back and our rucksacks were laden with tents and provisions. Matias’s looked worryingly light. We would soon learn why.
We started off in high spirits and bright sunshine. The going wasn’t great. It was steep and very muddy. The mosquitoes soon found us and followed like a black cloud. We reached a rocky ledge and looked down on to a valley of lakes. It was hard to believe that 12 000 years ago, everything below us was covered in ice and that the glacier we were yet to glimpse, once reached right down the mountainside.
We surprised Matias with being a fitter group of ladies (and Henk) than he thought and very soon we were over the first peak. There, in the distance, we got our first look at our glacier, stretched out on the grey mountainside like a sheepskin rug. Very quickly the clouds turned dark and we could feel the cold wind coming off the glacier.
After several hours of climbing and rock hopping, Matias stopped at a sheltered flat and grassy area, which we guessed was to be our campsite for the night. It was still early so, after dropping our backpacks and having a quick bite to eat, we set off for the nearest glacier, which was Tigre Sur. The terrain was a moonscape of dark rock and unforgiving shale. We had to take our boots off to cross a stony stream. The water was shockingly cold; it felt like piranhas were devouring my feet.
It was with relief that we finally reached the huge pearly cliff, rising above the dark, menacing rock. A glacier is very different up close. For a start, it’s blue. This is because the snow and ice above are so heavy that it compresses everything below it, forcing all the air out. It’s also not as smooth as you would expect. The alabaster surface is pockmarked with craters and cavities.
The light was fading and time was running out, so we quickly put on our crampons and stepped on to the glacier, with all the gravitas of the first moonwalk.
I now have the greatest respect for people who climb glaciers. It is hard work. You have to dig the spikes in really firmly to get a purchase and be fully committed to each step to stay upright.
We were delighted to finally be on a moving mass of ice and snow. We took photographs of each other in playful poses, until a bitterly cold wind forced us back down the mountain to our campsite.
It was far too cold to think of cooking anything imaginative, so supper was a hurried pot of two-minute noodles, before crawling into our tents and sleeping bags, wearing all the clothes we had with us.
Matias, however, calmly made a fire and when the coals were right he produced a tiny grid and braaied a slab of meat, which looked suspiciously like horse. He then climbed into a simple sleeping bag, lay by the dying embers and went to sleep.
It was a brutally cold night, but I eventually fell asleep to the sound of the waterfalls, rushing down the mountainside like several 747s taking off at once.
We set off early in the morning for the Holy Grail: the El Tigre Glacier. The famous Patagonian wind had softened slightly but it was still cold. Dark, ominous clouds could be seen marching towards us.
By mid-morning, we were very near to the top, but the drizzle had started and mist was descending around us. We agreed, reluctantly, that it was time to turn back. We posed with the glacier, tantalisingly close behind us and then silently trudged back to our campsite for lunch.
Our descent was mostly in the rain and my tired legs slipped often on the wet rocks and in the muddy pools. I was thinking that it couldn’t get any worse, when the mosquitoes returned. They covered our faces like black netting and invaded our eyes and ears. I was too scared to open my mouth to complain, in case I swallowed them.
Back at El Mosco, after a hot shower and a glass or two of Carmenére – a delicious local red wine, we soon cheered up. This was our final evening in Villa O’Higgins. Tomorrow we would return to Cochrane, to go our separate ways and spend the last few days doing different things. I had enjoyed the innocence of the town and the easy laughter of the locals. I was sorry to be leaving and could have happily stayed longer.
I looked out of the window. It was late, but still light. I watched one of the many stray dogs chase a sheep down the road – a typical tableau in these parts. And then, there he was. My Chilean farmer. Dressed the same as before, he strode on his short, stubby legs, peering inquisitively around him, as if he was looking for something – or someone.
Thoughts of extending my stay melted immediately. It was time to ‘get the hell out of Dodge’.
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
The Naukluft trail, one of the toughest in Africa, confronts your everyday fears: – heights, wild animals and getting lost – but there is so much more to this epic eight-day Namibian adventure.
“I don’t like the look of that,” sighed Heidi, recoiling back from the precipice. My legs buckled. I needed her to be fearless. Her calm mentoring over the last three days had helped me negotiate the grueling chains of the eight-day Naukluft trail. I could now “smear” and “edge” with the best of them, which Heidi certainly was, but I needed her to have a plan.
The Naukluft hiking trail is in southern Namibia, tucked into the eastern most corner of the Namib Naukluft Park. Naukluft means “narrow gorge”, so a lot of time was spent clambering up and down the sides of dry river beds. This proved to be tricky with a heavy rucksack and the effects of packet food and little sleep. On the more fiendish pitches – sometimes measuring up to 24 metres long – thick sausage-like chains had been thoughtfully anchored into the rock. Fine, if you have the upper body strength of a lumberjack and thrive on thirty metre sheer drops. After several slippery attempts, I happily accepted Heidi’s offer to take my pack each time. This is a hike that can only be overcome if you have a good team behind you. Sometimes, literally.
We had obtained a decent map from the Namibian Wildlife Resort office in Cape Town. The one provided at the Naukluft campsite wouldn’t get us out of the car park. Although there were white footprints, painted periodically along the trail, it was very easy to stride off at a tangent on to an animal track. If, after ten minutes of walking, we had not seen a comforting sole, we knew we were lost and retraced our steps.
“Keeping the group together is vitally important,” Erland von Maltzahn told me, a friend and veteran hiker, who has survived the Naukluft three times. “Especially on days two and three when you travel through black rhino territory,” He should know. He and his group once rounded a bend in a gorge and found themselves five paces away from a mother and calf. “Stay calm, quiet and move back slowly,” Erland advised us, should we have such an encounter. “They have notoriously bad eyesight and, although they will sense your presence, they won’t know exactly where you are.” After twenty long minutes, the mother was still blocking their way. Erland decided to bang two rocks together; the echo off the towering rocks disturbed her and the two trotted daintily away.
When it was our turn, we tiptoed in single file, straining to see through the camouflaging undergrowth like soldiers on maneuvers. We were lucky. However, had we confronted 500 kilograms of grey muscle, I would probably have been able to scramble up the sheer cliffs without the aid of a chain.
Our encounters with animals were less heart-stopping but no less exciting. The Hartmann’s mountain zebra is endemic to the area and could often be seen posing on the horizon. We also saw: oryx, kudu, steenbok, little posses of klipspringer and heard, rather than saw, chacma baboons, as they announced our arrival to the valleys. A leopard left a paw print in the fine orange sand but thankfully it was pointing in the opposite direction. Over 200 bird species have been documented. My favourite was the rosy-faced lovebirds, whose plumage contrasted vividly against the dusty, brown backdrop of the gorges.
Climbing to heights in excess of 1900 meters, we looked out over vast, rocky plateaus to the purple mountains beyond. It was easy to make believe we were the only people alive. Cathartic, but a problem if something went wrong. There was no medical or trauma support. There were a few escape routes but they were long – 15 to 20 kilometres.
The trick was to look after ourselves. “Don’t do this in trail shoes,” Erland advised us. Every step we took was on rock; blisters and sprains were a certainty without comfortable, strong boots.
Namibia is a geological smorgasbord. Grey, wrinkled and, aptly-named, “elephant” rock is strewn over huge limestone deposits, known as “tufa”. These have been thousands of years in the making and in the Naukluft area, have resulted in tantalising caves and pools.
Out of this harsh landscape grow unique and remarkable trees: The baobab-like phantom tree, with its ghostly white bark; the quiver tree, named by the locals as they carve containers out of them for bows and arrows; and the imposing Namaqua fig, found clinging to the sides of rocky ravines with their exposed, spreading roots in search of moisture.
Water was scarce during the day and what little we found was either muddy, or had a carcass floating in it. Carrying our daily water supply added weight to our packs, so it was vital that we did some intelligent preparation.
Today’s technology ensures that equipment is compact and ultra light – it’s the food that piles on the kilos. I was going to carry my home on my back for eight days. So I became like Scrooge, counting out his money. I meticulously weighed every last handful of rice and milk powder and decanted trail mix for the exact number of days. I borrowed a dehydrator and reduced a harvest of fruit and vegetables to desiccated lumps. In this way, I was able to keep my pack at a manageable weight. For me, this was 14 kilograms. Sadly, this meant little room for luxuries, but my knees were thanking me by day three, when we arrived at the infamous chains.
The hike covers 120 kilometres of undisturbed nature and a variety of terrain. Each day brought fresh challenges: climbing up steep hills covered in loose, ankle-twisting rocks; scrambling over massive boulders and fallen trees that blocked our way; with the ever-present red dust that decorated our faces and coated our tongues. The sight of our shelter for the night, as it teased us through the trees, was always a welcome sight and spurred on our scratched and aching bodies.
Every refuge was a structure of chest-high stonewalls with a gravel floor, topped with a pitched iron roof. There was a roughly hewn set of benches and a table, with the obligatory long drop toilet, thoughtfully positioned some distance away. Each camp had a variation of a water pump. One was a wheel contraption, which took 27 turns to elicit a meager one litre. There was no rinsing of underwear that evening.
“Dubbeltjies”, little devils, became a thorny issue. These were tiny spines that hid in the sandy floor. It only took one to render a mattress useless. On the first night, I suddenly experienced “a sinking feeling” on to the cold, unforgiving ground. My fellow hikers learned to use their bare feet to ferret out potential offenders.
Namibian summers are brutally hot, so the hike is only open to the public between 1 March and 31 October. Even then, winter daytime temperatures can reach up to 30 degrees Celcius.
Night time is very different. Every day, the never-ending blue sky and searing heat would dissolve into a puddle of sunset water-colours; the darkness and the cold followed quickly. We swopped our tee shirts for thermal pj’s and, even though it was only 6pm, scurried to our beds. I used a down feather sleeping bag – for zero degree conditions, with an inner blanket – and was still cold. The open-sided shelter was wonderful for lying awake and picking out starry constellations, but useless protection against the arctic-like wind. Towards the end of the hike, I was sleeping in all my clothes – including gloves and beanie.
I awoke on the last day and leopard crawled out of my warm cocoon. Outside, the sun shimmied up the prickly acacia trees and the morning sound of crickets changed shifts with the nocturnal yip of jackals. I sat on a rock, yet to be warmed by the day. Time to reflect. The Naukluft is hard and those pesky chains are not for the faint-hearted – so why do it?
Because it’s beautiful and desolate; because life is reduced to reaching the next river bend, mountain crest and sliver of shade for lunch; because the only sound is the humming of insects and the rattle of cotton bushes. It teaches how little is needed to survive, and how precious what you do have is. More importantly, it insists that you face what you fear the most.
For me, it was those indomitable chains. The one that Heidi particularly didn’t like was wedged into a ten metre, narrow chimney and stopped, about the height of a bar stool, above the ground. Even if we were able to squeeze down it with our packs, the jump on to the rocky ledge, with a weight on our backs, would surely end in tears.
However, Heidi had a plan. Tying together all available spare shoelaces, washing line and bits of rope, we were able to first lower our packs and descend and jump unencumbered. I landed uninjured and basked in my triumph over yet another chain. I could now relax and enjoy my surroundings – until the next one!
The universe has been trying to slow me down for a while with the odd fractured foot and occasional pulled nerve in my back. It’s because I like to get everything done in a day. This can only be achieved by going at warp factor five and working through any pain or hindrance that I choose to ignore.
It also means never noticing anything worthwhile around you or really listening to what friends and family are saying. I dislike the way I tune people out so I can pull up the “things to do” list in my brain and check where I am on it and what’s next. But I can’t stop my self. I believe that I will not be happy or able to comfortably rest until it’s all got a gleeful line through it or a tick. The reality is that I’m exhausted by the evening and grumpy if it hasn’t all gone according to plan.
And let’s be clear, we’re not talking about valuable, life changing chores. Pick up dry cleaning, buy more toilet paper is hardly going to make a difference at the homeless shelter or enrich the lives of my family. Well the toilet paper might. The point I’m making is that I put a great deal of time, effort and speed into getting it done in a day when it could be two days, a week, never or, dare I say it, delegated.
Wanting me to slow down and smell the roses and not able to get my attention with subtleties, my guardian angel rolled up her sleeves and thought big. I know “she’s” a “she” because of her warped, ironic sense of humour and use of violence. She allowed me to wander for a month all over the mountains and glaciers of southern Chile, wade knee high through raging streams, fall, and in one incident roll, down rocky slopes leaving me with only a couple of uninteresting bruises and a torn finger nail.
Two days back in Cape Town whilst at a dinner party, she pushed me off a 5 cm step and tore the ligaments that hold the foot onto the ankle. I didn’t know this at the time and being British I didn’t want to interrupt proceedings or make a fuss. So I forced back the nausea and continued down the stairs on my bottom to the dining table.
For 10 days I strapped up and iced the purple balloon that was now my ankle and crunched painkillers like Smarties. In this way I was able to get a lot of things done and even continued to ride albeit bare back as stirrups were not an option.
When the pain started to outweigh the joy of a completed list I finally conceded defeat and waved the white flag. After an ultrasound I went to see an ankle and foot specialist who was so darn good looking it was hard to concentrate on what he was saying. I adore my feet being tickled so by the time he had played with both of them I was in love.
I left his rooms modeling the latest style in moon boot and with a second date with the doctor in a month’s time. Unfortunately, not for supper and a movie but to decide whether I would need surgery.
The purpose of the boot or Jake as I call him, (from the now disgraced Rolf Harris’s “Jake the peg”) is to keep my ankle and foot at a 90 degree angle so that those torn tendons can leach out like the tendrils of a triffid and reconnect with the other side.
Jake has some interesting features. His exterior may be hard and unyielding but inside he’s soft and coddling like a seat in Business Class. There’s lots of lovely Velcro to play with and a dial with a button pump to inflate hidden stabilizing balloons on either side. It’s advisable not to get too carried away with this as your toes can start turning as blue as their “Midnight in Paris” nail polish.
I have to keep Jake on night and day so he comes to bed with me. Consequently, I kick my self every time I turn over and my preferred foetal position is not possible. Paradoxically, I’m sleeping better than ever. I’ve been widowed for awhile and maybe the presence of something large and hard is reassuring.
Driving is out of the question. Sitting like Miss Daisy in my own car while someone else drives adds insult to (ankle) injury. Does no one use gears to slow down anymore? Does it have to be All About The Brake?
Delegating does not come easily but I’ve been giving it a go. I think my daughter suffers from Vestiphobia. She refuses to use clothes pegs when hanging out the washing. Everything is draped perilously over the line. First sign of the south Easter and my underwear hangs from the trees like lambs’ tails and I have to ask the neighbours if I can have my nightie back.
I’m not supposed to rest too much weight on Jake, basically rendering me immobile. A thoughtful friend, knowing that this would result in me writing on the walls with my own excrement, lent me a pair of crutches. This allowed me to go on outings and I was soon able to reach impressive speeds, although stairs slowed me down a little. There were a few mishaps but I refused to slow down to a crippled crawl. The family have now confiscated them.
So here I sit, surrounded by things that need to be done and waiting for someone to do them. Where there was once not enough hours in a day there are now too many. But something strange is happening. I’m having proper conversations and retaining information so that for the first time for a long time I can remember what was discussed. Lunch is no longer an apple in the car between the hardware store and nursery. It’s planned and slowly savoured. I’m reading books properly and not just down the centre of the page. Where once the spontaneous arrival of a friend would be seen as a speed bump designed to slow me down, I now welcome like a life raft and cling to their every word.
I think all this is called “being in the moment”. Children and horses do it naturally. I lost the knack but I’ve got it back and I’m loving it.
Other than it’s an excuse to see the dishy doctor again, I’m dreading my next consultation. What if I’m healed and Jake is no longer in my life? I don’t want to go back to being a whirling dervish and I can’t rely on my Guardian Angel to kick me in the shins every time I start feverishly writing lists.
Well, I have a cunning plan. Next time I feel the need for speed I’m going to take Jake out of the cupboard, strap him on tightly, fully inflate and hobble myself. I’ll then make a cup of tea, take out the biscuits and phone a friend for a nice long chat.
(a term that refers to anyone who is ‘stupid in their ways’)
I’ve become a miserable, grumpy, old woman and it’s all your fault. There’s just too many of you. You choke up the shopping aisles, stomp all over my mountain till it looks like Adderley street on a Saturday morning and reduce highways to smoky, three-lane car parks.
And you’re so badly behaved. You make me chase you in the bicycle free green belt, lean on the hooter when you throw rubbish out of the car window and hopscotch around your dog’s poo.
What we need is another Noah’s Ark. Allocation of the golden tickets to ride the watery road to freedom from annoying and unnecessary human detritus will be based on usefulness and necessity for the human race to survive. This will immediately rule out politicians and put plumbers and baristas in first class. We’re going to need a few farmers and the guy at the Tokai organic market who never wears a shirt and has been working out.
I do see the fly in the ointment. The current drought is going to delay my cunning plan somewhat. It’s also given me another reason to be grumpy. Anyone caught using a hosepipe endures the vitriol of a fire-breathing housewife as she launches herself from the car like Boadicea going into battle, demanding to see their borehole credentials.
While we wait for the deluge from above, I think there should be a few temporary laws. Anyone who stops in the middle of the lane when turning right instead of along the middle line can lawfully have their wing mirror torn off by motorists trying to pass left and maintain the flow of traffic. Chewing gum in public should be outlawed and any shop assistant caught masticating while serving a customer should be publicly flogged, preferably by the said customer. The use of pick n pay aisles by Constantia housewives for coffee mornings should result in their blockading trollies being confiscated so they have to start all over again.
I have many more but I realize policing these new policies will require manpower and there is but only one of me. Furthermore, the trickle of pesky visitors into the Cape will soon become a torrent and the great unwashed and misbehaving masses will be more than I can bear. I have therefore decided to retreat to a remote area of Patagonia. For a month, the only thing I will have to worry about is on what piece of hard ground I pitch my tent for the night and where my next meal is coming from. I can’t wait.
While I’m gone please practice playing by the rules and consider your fellow man. Can you imagine the world where there is nothing to rant and rave and complain about? Wait a minute ………. that’s not going to work ……… I love a good grumble. Ok, as you were but keep the noise down.
There’s a new man in my life. Don’t judge me. I know it’s too soon. I didn’t go looking for it. He just happened. He’s the first person I think of in the morning and the last at night. We meet every day. Sometimes twice. We’re already comfortable enough with each other to bicker and argue. Sometimes we disagree strongly and that’s when I think I should walk away and end it. Then he will say something disarming like my hair looks good tied back and then I’m ready to relook the colour swatches.
He’s from Europe so he’s got a few annoying habits. When we meet he likes to kiss on both cheeks and again on the first one. This takes time and can be frustrating when I have something important to say.
We never run out of things to talk about. We can debate for hours about the size and shape of my kitchen or the positioning of my power points.
I know it can’t last for ever. Once he’s finished with me he’ll be off somewhere else developing and building a new relationship. In the meantime, my builder and I will continue to create the home of my dreams. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date to discuss seepage and drainage.
I’m moving. Stressful for anyone but for me it is catastrophic. My sister Ali and I moved around a lot as kids. Our Dad was ambitious which meant following the promotions around the UK. I counted 22 different homes, some of them as temporary as 6 months while we waited for the new house to be built, only to move again before the plaster was dry. My Dad says it wasn’t as many as that but even taking childish exaggeration into account, there were times when I thought we were on the run from the police.
Ali and I got really good at packing. We could reduce our bedrooms to boxes in several hours and to this day, no one packs the boot of the car for a family vacation like we do. Our husbands stopped trying to be manly about it ages ago.
With new homes came new schools. I went to three different high schools and the primary schools are just a blur. I have worn every colour and design of school uniform that any sadistic governing board could dream up, including pillbox hats and boaters. As the perennial new girl, I learnt the importance of a first impression. On my first day, when I would stand with the teacher in front of a sea of piranhas appraising fresh prey, she would introduce me and ask where I would like to sit. I would then plonk myself in the chair behind her desk. It always got a huge laugh and I was very popular come first break. However, my elevated status didn’t last long when they realized that I had a stutter and that my bottle top glasses weren’t a prop left over from Halloween.
I moved in to my present home from Jhb 26 years ago with my husband and daughter Amy who was then 18 months’ old. It was just before Nelson Mandela was released from prison and having just done 6 years in the then Transvaal, I knew a little of how he felt.
My house is not posh but it is special. It’s nearly a 100 years old and has the original fireplace, mahogany windows, high ceilings, arches and oregon pine floors.
I brought my second baby back here from the maternity hospital. I’ve watched the nursery morph into a shrine to the Spice Girls and later into a teenage pad which would make a South London squat look classy. My girls have ridden their bikes, with and without training wheels, in the back yard and been surprised with their first car in the driveway on their 18th birthday. I’ve slammed every door in anger and opened them all up for parties. I know where all the pets are buried – the dead ones obviously, although we did once have a parrot that liked to play possum. I’ve fed and watered every plant and watched the yellow wood grow to give shade. It’s given me the stability and security I craved as a child and in return I’ve loved and looked after it.
So why am I moving? Well, sometimes I come back from Pick and Pay and I see my husband on the edge of the couch eagerly cheering on the Boks. At night, I hear his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs to bed and his deep, throaty cough that took years of dedicated smoking to perfect. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem but Chris has been dead for 8 months.
Without the man that walked all those milestones with me I no longer feel at home. Instead, I rattle around within walls that once cradled me, while my girls come and go and the maintenance list grows longer.
And so I’m taking the giant leap of moving. Actually, it’s 930 little steps – I’ve counted. You see, I’m only moving around the corner into a town house complex. I feel a little silly but at least I won’t have to remember a new postcode.
It’s still being built and last week I strolled passed it on the way back from buying a newspaper. Ali and I have always loved building sites, mainly because we lived and played on a quite a few. On impulse, I walked the plank over a pile of cement, through the front door and in to a sunny, modern, open plan living area with wires sprouting out of bare walls, cement floors and kitchen cupboards piled on top of each other.
My first thought was to wonder where I’d put my slippers. So at home did I feel, that if there had been a kettle I would have switched it on for a cup of tea to do the morning crossword on the sun-dappled stoep. For the first time I got a glimpse of what the next half of my life could look like – not better or worse – just different and with newer appliances.
Serendipitously, Otto, the German builder/owner, was on site and he proudly showed me around and explained in broken English what it will eventually look like.
I asked him if I could have it and he said yes. The largest asset that I’ve ever been involved in buying was our patio furniture. Suddenly, I find myself in meetings, nodding sagely but none the wiser, about things like transfer costs, deposits, sole mandates and show houses. I was married to a man who made things happen and made it look effortless. I had no idea how much stress and pressure it took to look after our family and to maintain our financial security. Now it is my turn to have the sleepless nights and look preoccupied over supper. In order to secure my new home, I have agreed to pay, unconditionally, the full purchase price on completion in three months’ time which means that I have to sell my house by the first of December to a cash buyer who wants to move in immediately. Scary stuff but there is an old adage that anyone who was ever bullied at school will know – “that which does not kill us, makes us stronger”.
When your husband dies your girl friends worry about what you’re doing for money and how you’re getting the tops off jars. Your man friends wonder what you’re doing for sex.
Having sex with your long-term husband is a bit like owning a holiday home by the sea, a couple of hours out of Cape Town – you know it’s there and yours to use whenever you want and that it will be wonderful when you do.
Trouble is, by Friday you’re too tired to even think of going there and just the foreplay of packing the car seems to be an effort.
When your holiday house burns down you wish you’d gone there more often. Everything you’ve taken for granted disappears suddenly in a puff of smoke. It can be years before you feel like going on holiday again but if and when the desire rises from the ashes, where do you go?
You could occasionally do a one night or short-term let in different locations whenever you felt in the mood but then it’s not familiar and you don’t know where everything is and what places of interest to visit.
You could do a spot of self-catering or camping but it’s a lot of hard work and you need specialized equipment.
Maybe the day will come when you feel you are ready to emotionally invest in a new holiday home. It won’t be the same but slowly the memories of the fun and playfulness in the old one will dim and you’ll make new and different ones.
It’s been 7 months since my husband died and I’m not in need of a weekend away but oh my God what I would do for a hug. Not the friendly, pat on the back cuddle that you get when you’re saying goodbye or the long, hard one from relatives where they try to tell you whole sentences using body language. I want the one where the strong arm reaches out for you unexpectedly. Draws you into the soft, v-necked, golfing, cashmere sweater where your head empirically fits snugly under their chin. A hug that feels like sinking into a comfortable and well-loved, albeit a little saggy, armchair. Nestled there you can breath in the familiar aroma of sweat, aftershave and benson and hedges and allow yourself, after a long day, to feel really held, protected and secure from the problems of every day life. Then come the three words that women long to hear – “what’s for supper?”
Sitting in the back of the car on the way to the church on my wedding day, my father gently took my hand, looked lovingly in to my eyes and told me it wasn’t too late to change my mind. His last minute advice didn’t surprise me. No father dreams of his little girl marrying a newly divorced man, 18 years her senior and with four children.
What was disarming was his persistence. He had already spent hours explaining how at 23 I didn’t have the emotional maturity to take on a ready-made family. He reminded me how little I like children, how difficult I found running even a bachelor flat and that I had never cooked anything edible in my life.
Endearing stuff but I thought I had been able to reassure him with my youthful, optimistic daydreams. I would soon, I assured him, be like the mother in Cider with Rosie, lifting the little darlings up in my floury arms, with the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through our Little House on the Pirarie.
What was really worrying him was The Age Gap. A theme he later pursued in his Father of the Bride speech when he said he felt he wasn’t losing a daughter but gaining a brother. I may not see it as a problem now, he intoned, but as the years go by the gap will widen and I could find my self in an intolerable situation. I opened my mouth to speak but we had arrived at the church and a photographer was flashing away at my ashen face.
Fast forward by fifteen years. My parents’ marriage hasn’t survived the move to Cape Town. They have returned to the UK, one in the North and one in the South. After a brief re-enactment of the War of The Roses they are divorced and free to pursue other partners.
One day my father phoned me to say that he was coming to Cape Town to introduce us to a “significant other”. At the airport I met the lovely, wee Moira from bonny Scotland. My first thought was that dad had brought me a playmate. Over lunch and after some carefully constructed questions, I worked out that the age difference between my father and Moira was exactly 18 years. I looked into my father’s eyes. I expected a wry, embarrassed smile or maybe even a “sorry” shrug of the shoulders. Instead I saw a man in love, with the immoveable belief that his love would transcend any hurdle or upheaval that their relationship may have to endure.
I knew exactly how he felt.
Having a teenager that commits suicide quickly and unexpectedly is a torment that a parent never fully recovers from. Having a teenager that commits suicide slowly over a long period of time in front of your very eyes is a torture that the Spanish Inquisition could only dream of aspiring to.
The trouble with anorexics is that they like to dangle a morsel of hope which you eagerly grab with both hands. You want to believe that they had a huge lunch at college and that under that long, baggy sweater is a ripening adolescent body with all the right curves.
My daughter weighed 36 kilograms when I stopped hoping and dragged her screaming and kicking by her brittle, thinning hair to an eating disorder clinic.
Her family nickname is Frog as she was folded up in such a way in the womb that her legs splayed out like a frogs when she was put on her tummy in the incubator. She has embraced this name so resoundingly that she had a frog on a lily pad tattooed on the back of her neck on the morning she turned 18.
I hate tattoos. I have never seen one that I like and always mourn the loss of the smooth, unblemished landscape that the host was born with. As she lay in her hospital bed fearing the next mealtime, I felt I needed to give her a goal, a reason to swallow. Out of nowhere I heard my self promise to get a tattoo if she got through the next month and achieved her goal weight to healthiness. I saw a gleam in her sunken eyes and we shook on it.
Her recovery is a tale for another day but she did it and a deal’s a deal. But what blemish should I befoul my body with? I don’t ride motorbikes, desire women, sail the high seas or believe in Buddhism.
At the height of her illness, Frog would surreptitiously take my daily apple core from the bin and permit herself to finish it off. I started leaving more and more flesh on the core. It felt so good to finally feed my child.
The tattoo artist didn’t show any emotion when I explained that I wanted an apple core on my buttock. I think he was more concerned that this ancient housewife was going to faint or throw up with the pain of a soft tissue invasion. I came close to both but as I lay there and looked at my round, rosy-cheeked child smiling proudly at me, there was no torture on earth that felt as good!
What’s your favourite food? Mine is anything that I don’t have to share and can preferably eat in secret. I don’t know where this stems from. I didn’t grow up in a large family where every meal was a bun fight. In a restuarant with friends my heart sinks when I hear someone suggest getting a selection of tacos for the table. I’m not mean. I just know what I want and I’m not interested in trying out someone else’s preferences.
I adore certain sweets and have found that a family sized bag of wine gums is best consumed under the duvet with a good book and very convenient for when you eventually pass out from a sugar induced coma.
There are some foods which should by law be eaten in private. Ice cream on a cone is never pleasant to watch. All that licking and sucking and visible tongue is best left to the likes of Linda Lovelace.
I’m a hopeless romantic but I’ve never been able to do the one waffle, two spoons routine and the Lady and the Tramp spaghetti scene is torture to watch.
I’m told my vapid relationship with meals started in childhood. I didn’t like my food touching on the plate. This made having peas for supper difficult and gravy impossible.
I’ve ordered the same pizza topping combination for thirty years and almost every day I will have a tuna and avo salad for lunch.
It’s for a very simple reason. I know what I want and how I want it and would prefer to do it some where no one can watch or join in. And yes, I am still talking about eating.
It is no surprise to me that the Oscars happen so soon after Christmas. The amount of acting and subsequent drama that follows the unwrapping of presents should ensure that it has its own category. The “I Love It. No, I Really Do!” award.
Two of the UK’s biggest retailers have used this theme as part of their Christmas campaign. One of them, Currys PC World, even goes as far has having the actor Jeff Goldblum enter a private living room on Christmas Day, where a panicked wife is trying desperately to create the right facial expression over receiving what is clearly The Wrong Present. He then gives her acting tips to save the day.
Why do we go to such lengths to mask our true and instant emotions to an unveiled gift? Obviously, we don’t want to hurt the other person’s feelings and no small child wants to witness their mother hit their father over the head with a bottle of pistachio scented bath salts. But I think it goes deeper. To admit that your soulmate, with whom you’ve spent many intimate moments, got it so badly wrong is to admit that they don’t see you, know you or listen to you at all. That everything you believed in was fictitious and that the person who was supposed to “know you better than yourself” really hasn’t got a clue and that you are no different from all the other struggling, flawed couples out there.
My sister, Ali, is brilliant at choosing presents for people close to her. It doesn’t matter how small the budget, she intuitively finds the one thing you didn’t know you wanted more than anything. Reciprocating can be difficult. Her husband, Greg, gave her a coal bucket for their wedding anniversary one year. No hamming it up for her. She told him immediately in two words of one syllable what she thought. Technically he wasn’t wrong. Seven years’ of marriage is symbolized by copper but he went off to work wondering if his key would fit the lock when he got home. His come back was inspired and is legendary in our family. He had miniature coal bucket ear rings crafted out of gold. It is this honesty, humor and humility that makes them one of the strongest couples I know.
My husband loved me deeply and would spoil me when he could but I learnt early on in our marriage that he was shite at choosing presents. So I made the conscious decision to forfeit surprise in order to eliminate disappointment.
Every year, Chris and I would enact our own Christmas pantomime, where I would say we should buy something we need for the house instead of exchanging presents and that he really didn’t have to get me anything.
“Oh yes I will”
“Oh no you don’t”
“Oh yes I ….”
In Act Two, I would email my two daughters with a couple of suggestions, together with Google links, on what I would like to open up on Christmas Day. They would convey these to their Father in Casual Conversation, who would then hand over his credit card to them and consider it job done.
On the whole, this worked very well for both of us. I got something I really wanted and he got to watch a Meryl Streep performance, worthy of the award for “best leading actress in a comedy”. There were times when I truly expected a standing ovation.
Of course, things don’t always go according to plan. One Christmas he took me at my word and built a pergola in the garden. I didn’t speak to him until February.
So what advice would I give couples as they go forth on the crusade of finding the Holy Grail of the Perfect Present?
I’m currently starring as the Widow Twankey in my own pantomime and I’ve had time to reflect. I would suggest that the two of you give the gift of respect. Allow the other to get it horribly wrong.
You may have no idea why your man decided to get you crotchless panties or why the woman in your life thought your tool kit was crying out for a full set of Allan Keys.
Don’t do them the disservice of deceit. Instead, smile and say thank you. Tell them you love them and you love your imperfect life together. Remind yourself that it takes just as much thought and time to get it wrong as it does to get it right.
Then casually ask them if they’ve kept the receipt.
I’ve observed that people usually say that a woman has “lost her husband” but of a man they will say that his wife has “passed away”. I lost my husband some time during the early morning hours of 3rd April this year. I heard him get up. I heard him coughing worse than usual and I knew he’d been feeling under the weather. I usually get up and ask if he’s ok. This time I didn’t. I had hiked the day before. I was feeling lazy. I turned over and went back to sleep.
The next morning I found him slumped over on the spare bed. His eyes were open and from the feel of him he had been dead for a while. As a medical man’s daughter I knew what to do in the event of a heart attack. Had I got up I would have been able to administer CPR and have him sitting upright with an aspirin under his tongue while we waited for the paramedics.
I think it is generally assumed that a wife is in a better position to keep her husband alive than a husband is his wife. We mostly do the food shopping so we are able to make healthy meal choices, we can give them lots of sex to keep the prostate healthy and we can ask directions to make sure they don’t get lost.
My husband was a chronic smoker, had a family history of heart disease and had recently and suddenly lost a lot of weight. Family have argued that it’s a miracle I kept him alive as long as I did. It doesn’t help. We had been together for over thirty years and weathered all kinds of dramas but the one time he really needed me I wasn’t there.
I console myself with the thought that even if I build a time machine, get out of bed and stabilise him than the ambulance would crash or a student doctor would inject him with the wrong drug and I would lose him just the same.
The 3am bed tossing truth is that I was careless and I lost my husband and, unlike the car keys, he is not going to turn up where I least expect him.