The World According to The Flu

 

I haven’t had a glass of wine in a week! Up until this minute I haven’t even thought of wine. Or whisky. Or burgers or sushi or slap chips or shawarmas. My usual indulgences.

I’ve transitioned nicely between a grueling stomach flu – think food poisoning that lasts over a week, to a full on head cold/flu where some unseen bugs have invaded my soul, attacking every limb of my body. Making my neck too tired to hold up my head, and my throat ripped to shreds within. When I swallow, shards of glass scrape their way down. When I cough, there’s a mini explosion inside that leaves me momentarily crippled. So I lie as still as possible. Light hurts. I close my eyes to the walls that threaten to shrink this room into a cell. I squeeze my eyes closed and succumb to the flood of thoughts.

It’s amazing how a period of imposed starvation and suffering can help put your entire life in perspective.

Two weeks ago we were touring wine farms and gluttonously devouring eisbein with crackling (read pig’s knuckle with charred skin), and literally drinking mojitos on tap. Before that we drank goldfish bowls full of brightly coloured gin with syrupy flavours and bubbles and random bits of floating fruit. We bar hopped in the Waterfront, we bar hopped inland. We hiked and rewarded ourselves with wine tasting and a pie. There's a theme here...

 

Now, chicken noodle soup is my best friend. The packet kind where a toxic looking yellow powder with a few sad dehydrated noodles are dissolved in your sad rental house tea cup. Our counter top resembles a dishevelled pharmacy.

As I sip my tepid water, trying to fend off the dreaded dehydration, I realise I’ve been in holiday mode for the past few weeks. Then who an I kidding - I admit it’s actually been the past few months. Then I admit that it’s been since we retired in 2011!

When we lived on a boat it was a world in itself. People asked “what do you do all day?” but it had it’s flow. On the boat I busied myself with route planning and passing tools for repairs jobs. But I also learned to bake bread and I dabbled with beading, making anklets and boat shoes and bracelets. We hikes uninhabited islands and we sat in warm clear water with a beer in hand, contemplating our beautiful remote existence. The ‘real world’ was very far away in both philosophy and distance.

But now we are in limbo in a sense. We are living on land in between flights. Immersed in the lives of others. Watching the commuters, hearing the busied conversations of hectic lives. We are still far from this world in many ways and yet here we are. We need to carve our own path here.

It might be time to make some decisions and become a tad more responsible. It might be time to add up what’s left and invest sensibly and settle somewhere. To admit that we can’t live this wild and free life forever. To grow up?!

The doomsday newsfeeds creep into my conscience. ‘Economic crash on the horizon’, ‘house prices rising’, ‘fuel costs skyrocketing and affecting air travel’.

Health concerns loom. We’re not getting any younger. Where can we settle with health care?! That’s simultaneously affordable? South Africa? Spain? Canada? Panama? Mexico? Thailand? Who knows...

What is our budget if we’re to make it to old age? Should we own assets? Will we be homeless and starving at some stage due to our reckless ways?

And just when the fog outside threatens to crowd my entire sense of contentment, I remember that I’ve only got this illness for a few days. It’s not the end of the world. I’ll lose a few extra pounds. Not a bad thing. I’ll look at my bad habits and alter a few. Cut down on cheese and alcohol maybe. I’ll try to plan at least a year in advance. I’ll start budgeting. I will write. I will write. I will write. I promise myself today.

But I refuse to stop being free. I will literally die inside if I don’t find new adventures. Even if those are beach walks where the clouds tell new magical stories daily. I cannot choose a stable life. Uncertainty feeds my soul. There might be a little unknown motorhome out there somewhere in Europe with our names on it, or at least waiting for it’s Shiloh sticker?! What I know for certain is that there will be no mortgage, no driveway, no lawn to mow on our horizon. Not while our dreams of adventure are still alive.

I like wine. And whisky. But I must remember I’m not on a two week holiday. This is my life. I will appreciate the freedom and the privilege to peak into other lives, other worlds. But I won’t buy fudge. That’s for holidays. And bad for my waistline. We will hike and find obscure markets and thrift shop and visit old friends and make new ones. We will find cheap flights and visit family and cherish all those moments while we can.

I will try to live in moderation without disappearing into oblivion.

I’m not dead yet, therefore I am not done yet.

Amen.

 

Up close and personal with an elephant: Bakari bursts our bubble

I hate zoos. It’s a harsh statement I know. I don’t hate animals. I am as intrigued and in awe as the next person, especially when presented with the opportunity to get up close and touchy feely with a wild animal.

An elephant?! Wow. Two elephants. Even more amazing.  But as we plundered up the dirt road in our ‘too-low-for-this-terrain’ used BMW, I felt that queasy, cringe-y guilt. Animals in captivity.

We are headed to Indalu Private Game Reserve. They boast hundreds of hectares of land with everything from zebra to kudu and other buck, and even a family of rhinos. All the animals fend for themselves. The fences barely affect them, they are protected from poachers! All good right? So why the pit in my stomach as we chatted to the little blond Afrikaans Game-warden, in his khaki short shorts and big wooly socks peeking out from his dusty boots. 

 

“You will meet Bakari our 21 year old elephant and his mate who is 31. You can choose to ride in the open game truck and feed the animals at the end, or walk a kilometre with one of the elephants. 450 Rand for the ride and feeding, 900 Rand per person for the walk and feeding.”

So, money making on the backs of the enslaved animals.

Our visiting friend said out loud what I was feeling.

“Oh my God, the poor elephants! They have to do this 4 times a day, every day, for the snively tourists.”

“Like us!” I say. And we both sit there, hesitant, guilt ridden and disgusted with ourselves before it even begins.

We chose this experience! Because it will be so amazing to touch and feel and experience the energy and exotic presence of an elephant. So we join the other happy looking, expectant tourists, after we’d all emptied our pockets in the office. We WANT TO DO THIS. Right?

And the truck sets out, little Mr. Game-Driver about as excited as my friend and I. Another bus full of us faceless foreigners… yawn. The dust on the road kicks up obligingly. The ‘real experience’… not Disney. This is real people!

 

And then they come into view in the distance. Two giant grey, wrinkled, prehistoric beings accompanied by their two African human sidekicks. For a moment we are all mesmerized. In awe. An elephant?! Wow. Two elephants. Even more amazing. 

We are introduced as we hop down onto the red soil. The sun is intense and the heat is dry. I take a deep breath and approach Bakari. His skin is a bit crispy and so very rugged. But he is warm. My face sits at his elbow. His legs are ancient tree trunks. Beautiful. Terrifyingly so. But as I look up through his massive spider lashes all I can see is nothing. Dead eyes. He is truly broken. No wild energy I’ve seen as we drove through Addo Park some years ago and came randomly across families of elephants. My anxious fear is replaced by a deep sadness. And in creeps the guilt. 

Meanwhile Mr. Game-Guy is all business. He’s timed our walk, and hurry along as the next set need their turn. We’ve all paid up, after all.

It’s all just so contradictory. We are out here in the dusty savannah. There is an elephant 3 feet from me. This should be otherworldly. Instead, I sip my issued water bottle and squint against my embarrassment.

Sorry Bakari. Let’s walk now. And at the handler’s voice, Bakari is in slow motion. We are walking. With elephants. I join Mac up front and my friend and JW walk with the other elephant and his ‘controller’ behind us.

 

I drum up a chat with Mac – he’s from Zimbabwe. Grew up near a massive game reserve. He has a calm way about him that is comforting. He seems to have developed a relationship with Bakari. I have literally no idea what is involved in that. Is there abuse in the methods of control? Or just rewards for doing what the humans desire? Either way, Mac’s presence quells my anxiety. I rub Bakari’s leg in a lame attempt to have him forgive my part in all this. And then he stops abruptly. He shakes his massive head and his ears waft uneasily in the wind he’s created. I jump. I’m picturing this is it – he’s finally revolting. He’s going to trample us all and trumpet in defiant escape. He’s going to run as fast and as far as he can. Elephants on the highway! It will be in tomorrow’s paper. ‘Canadian tourists stampeded in freak accident on private Game Reserve.’

But Mac is all over it. He tells Bakari to chill with a strange commanding sound and we’ve all fallen back into line. We arrive on time and the feeding begins. Bakari hoovers up his allotted veggie chunks from our jumpy nervous hands and we are allowed photos in turns. He rolls those massively sad eyes and sighs audibly. But by then we want more of him. His gentle strength and crusty warmth. My friend literally grabs hold of his massive leg in a desperate hug. But alas, our time is over.

We are led to the hand sanitizing station.

And another truckload heads back to base as the elephants are led back down that same dusty road - to allow for the whole things to happen again in the next time slot…

We drive away in silence. Bakari has helped us forget the contrived scenario as he burns strong in our memory banks. Animals in captivity. We hold our judgement just long enough to savour that amazing experience.
 

The sleepless train and the ass-voel summit

 

I’ve got a new best friend. It’s a fly who’s decided my sweaty face is quite nice. Right here at the top of an unbelievable peak. That we have just climbed. And I’m trying to appreciate exactly where I am, but the fly needs attention, and my hiking mates look hot and bothered and frankly annoyed. 

 

 

Below us lies the quirky town of Montagu where an hour earlier we were quaffing jumbo Americanos and scoffing down perfectly poached eggs with artery clogging sauces and chewy, buttery sour dough toast. We poured over the hiking maps of the area. 

 

‘This one looks great! “Aasvoelkrans Trail - An easy 90 minute hike with beautiful views”.

At least they didn’t lie about the views. We had a juvenile giggle at the name (which sounded like ‘ass-full’ to our Canadian ears), found out it meant vulture’s peak, and decided to head off.

The hike led straight up a mini-mountain, over loose rocks. By the peak, we’d all slipped and slid and huffed and puffed, and finished our water. We might have been regretting the heavy breakfast. At the summit we could see the world, or most of it.

 

I sat on a jagged rock, ignoring the fly to the best of my ability, and appreciating the past whirlwind of a week.

It seems to all have begun with the train. Though we’d been on the trip for a few glorious days already, with much hiking and yet more eating and drinking, it’s the train that juts out like a sore, immobile locomotive thumb posing as a motel.

Despite the opportunity to bask in the luxurious digs of a beautiful old guesthouse with claw-foot tubs and California kings with high thread count sheets and complimentary sherry, we opted for the cheaper route. Told ourselves it would be an adventure.

We arrived after a three hour drive, down at the beach, which looked like a great location, and checked in. We were shown to our ‘car’ and cabins within. It quickly sank in, as we edged single file along the claustrophobic corridor, that the shower was a shared one, as well as the tiny toilets. Think airplane toilets. Or train toilets! Of course. No idea what I had thought it would be like. And then there were the cabins. Door opens inward, two army size cots on either side of the tiny floor space. Everything is metal. Windows. Thank goodness for the windows. That’s it. We stowed our bags above the cots and got out. 

 

But inevitably we had to return at night. Two nights. Of no sleep. Each sliding of each door of each little cabin in this jiggling, thin walled train, awoke us. Slam, clang, bash. Someone smoking… why can I smell it through the walls?! Drunken backpackers arriving at 2am, using the corridor walls to bounce into their cubicle… bring it on. 6am maid service… do they need to discuss the day before at the top of their voices? Can I hold my bladder a few more hours so I don’t have to shimmy down the little hall half asleep as the security guys nod from outside the window…

I decided I needed a shower to counter the sleepless night, but discovered you had to go to the end of the train, to reception and pay a deposit for a towel. Of course.

We saved R400 a night (USD $23, CDN $33). But what we gained was bragging rights. We slept in a train! We did a ‘backpackers’ in our 50’s and 60’s. We can function without two nights of sleep on the road trip. Priceless.

 

And then we decided we should meet an elephant…

Volunteer torture - a lesson in spas

 

I am defeated. I feel as if I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs and then been mugged. What’s more accurate is that I climbed up in an elevator to a chamber of torture, and handed money willingly over to be assaulted.

‘Come for a massage!’ my friend coaxed. She was smiling. She looked excited.

‘It’ll be great! Get all the kinks out!’ she promised.

‘It’s authentic!’.  And I suppose it was. Calming instrumental music played at the reception desk, while a few small and seemingly harmless Thai ladies came and went into the rooms beyond. We were greeted with deceptive smiles and soothing voices, and I was at ease. Spa-like vibes surrounded us. JW settled in on the reception sofas and I gave him one last chance to join, for a romantic ‘couples massage’. Not. Best decision he ever made.

 

It’s 72 hours later and I can only now lean back against a chair without an involuntary gasp or whimper from the pain.

Thai massage, let me tell you, is NOT a joke. I’m surprised I made it out with my spine in tact. Muscles unfortunately did not survive. It’s true that most of them existed on my body unused and unappreciated. They surrounded and protected my bones and were happily living a comatose life, covered with a healthy layer of fat. But now! Oh now, they want me to know how very unhappy they are. So far out of their comfort zone that they are making my life extremely unpleasant.

It all started out ok. I was led to a dimly lit room, left with a towel and asked to undress and lie face down on the massage table. The room smelled nice – lavender maybe. I was looking forward to my relaxing hour ahead. 

The scene of the crime

 

My torturess returned and chatted briefly and lathered up with warm oil. What could go wrong?

She started to rhythmically massage my back, and then suddenly she was all elbows and knees and things inside me popped and cracked and bent in ways they were never meant to! She was on the table, a nimble frog of pain-affliction. I would cry out, moan, exclaim, admit defeat – but all to no avail.

‘You too tight!’

‘Nopainnogain!’ her mantra and constant retort.

I was a prisoner on high alert. Each second a new, more excruciating pain than the one before. Each time she would show mercy on one part of me, it would immediately be replaced by a fresh new hell somewhere else.

My mind tried frantically to make sense of it all. Could it really be this bad? It’s just me. I’m overreacting.. OOOOOOOWWWWW! Nope, definitely not overreacting. I’ve had massage before so how can this be happening?! Oh, was that Swedish massage? OOOOOOOOOWWWW! Yep, maybe that was it. How am I going to survive an hour?! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH NO!!!!

And so it went. And went. No hour has ever lasted so long. And the grand finale involved me seated, with my hands above my head – picture the ‘I’ve been arrested’ pose, a bony knee jammed into my spine, and my elbows suddenly pulled backward until my spine formed an upside down L. Bent in half! Every part of my psyche, soul and body screamed ‘NO!!!!!!’. Irreparable damage had been done. Childbirth?! Pa! Bunion surgery? Nothing on this.

And then she was gone. Probably rolling her eyes at the disheveled mess left in her wake. Off to the next conquest. And there I lay. Knowing I needed to pull what was left of myself together, get clothes on! And make it back to the lobby without sobbing or falling in a broken heap in the hallway. And then I’d have to open my purse and offer up money!

The biggest insult of all were the tip jars with the name of each torturess, sat neatly and expectantly on the counter. And my own shame forced me to comply. And red faced, swollen and utterly defeated, we left.

‘Come back again soon!’ someone called out. Over my literal dead body.