TOWNSHIP THABO TOURS THE TANKWA

by A M SMITH © [FICTION]

As Followers will know, I occasionally post some of my Fiction on my blog. This longish story had its genesis in 2017, and is a composite  story that I created from my U3A writing groups’ stories based on a photo article on the Karoo appearing in The Big Issue. I have permission from the writers to  continue using the story, under my name.

Enjoy!

TOWNSHIP THABO TOURS THE TANKWA – by A M Smith ©

I’m in my studio, on a drizzly Monday morning, finishing the edit on last weekend’s wedding video. I don’t enjoy wedding work, or Matric dances, but they pay  my basic expenses, and now that I’ve got another mouth to feed, I‘ve got to get my act together. No more arty  Townships photo shoots, more Matric Dances. I sigh heavily. Thabo looks up from his cushion in front of the heater. His big brown doggy eyes focus unwaveringly on me. Yup. There’s the extra mouth that sneaked  into the Volksie, after my last arty photo shoot in Khayalitsha. Which, if I’m honest, I’m still getting over. My left arm is still bloody sore, even though they got the bullet out and stitched me up.

One minute I‘m taking shots of Thabo lifting home-made weights in front of his shack, and then PAH-PAH-PAH real shots, from a drive-by. Thabo’s blue shirt blossoms into a rusty stain, and my left shoulder stings like hell. I notice a creeping brown stain at the top of my arm.  Thabo’s ambushed eyes are staring blankly up at the blue sky. I’m gaping at the fallen man. A skinny brown dog rushes over to Thabo, barking madly. Everything is in slow-mo.

Because the dog adopted me by nipping into the Volksie the minute I opened the door, and because I stupidly chose to name the dog after the weightlifter, the episode remains vivid in my mind. I wonder how Thabo’d react if he knew a stray dog inherited his name? My thoughts drift. Prior to the attack, I got a couple of really good pics. I know I’ll be able to sell them. I could do with more pics like that, but right now, I’ve lost my taste for Township photo shoots.

Perhaps I should get out into the little dorpies/one-horse towns, those dusty Tankwa Karoo towns; it’s not that far, couple of hours driving. You find the most amazing characters in those dorpies. I wonder how Thabo will cope with hours in the Volksie?

My thoughts are interrupted by the intercom buzzer. It’s Monique. She’s come to collect the enlargements of her new studio shots. A very gutsy lady. Carrying on with her modelling despite her op.  Boobs or no boobs, she’s sexy. Sometimes it’s hard to stay professional when you do nude work; not that I do much. Can’t say I’m comfortable with it, actually. Little kids – yes, if I have to. Animals –  I can handle. Bridal parties – ja, but a quarter jack in my camera-bag helps to get me through. Matric dance girls? Drama queens. Those shoots need a half-jack, trust me. Grown-up ladies? I don’t do so well with them. But here’s Monique.

We sort out the pics and the payment. “My agent will be over the moon with these,” she exclaims. She loves them.

Then she spots Thabo, and before I know it, I’m telling her the story. Why I don’t really know. I’ve haven’t told anyone. Only Thabo, and he’s staying schtum. And then I find I’m telling her about my new brainwave – a road trip to the Tankwa Karoo. What is the matter with me? I’m not usually such a grootbek/chatterbox.

“Sounds wonderful,” she says. “Funny enough, my friend Chris  runs a horse-back riding adventure company up there. I hadn’t thought of him in ages. It’s a fantastic place: the Karoo, the Roggeberg Mountains, the desert – you should see the stars at night – you can’t believe how many there are. We never notice them down here in Cape Town, too many streetlights.”

Her expression is dreamy, nostalgia shading her face. There’s a long pause.

“I don’t suppose?” we both chorus, then stop. She laughs. I’m blushing crimson, and Thabo gives a confused bark.

So here we are, ten days later, riding in the Volksie, Thabo tucked up in the back amongst the photo gear, bags, supplies and what-what. How did we manage to bring so much crap with us for only a week’s trip?.

The plan is to overnight in Sutherland at a cheap guesthouse. It’s got to be cheap, and animal friendly. Way too cold to make Thabo sleep outside. Separate bedrooms of course; and 50/50 on the petrol. This is a buddy trip. We got that out of the way, right at the start. 

Then we’ll drive up to Loxton, hunting character shots. Monique tells me there will be loads of  photo ops in Loxton. According to her it’s bursting with picturesque characters. And she’s not kidding.

We’ve just passed the green directional board telling us we’ve entered  Loxton , when I have to slam on brakes.

“Omigod, lookout! “ Monique shouts.

There’s this oke lying in the middle of the road, flat on his back, on the tarmac. His arms are outstretched, his legs apart, feet falling sideways. His eyes are closed. A pair of glasses are neatly tucked into the top pocket of his faded check shirt. He’s lying in such a contrived position it’s clear he hasn’t fallen in the road, or been knocked down by a car, so what is he doing?

We jump out of the Volksie. He doesn’t stir. Is he drunk? Sleeping? Dead?

From habit I’ve grabbed my Nikon and clicked off four shots. Reflex action I guess.

“What the hell are you doing?” she shouts, “this is no time to be taking pics!”

Thabo  cautiously approaches the man and tentatively licks his face. He leaps back smartly when the man slowly raises an arm and vaguely swats him off. The man slowly opens his eyes and surveys us.

“Who you?” he whispers.

We haul him up, pack him into the Volksie and he directs us to Loxton’s only cafe.  En route we discover his name is Harold and he seems to be having a mid-life crisis. It’s got something to do with a poem, by some guy called Robert Frost. The Road not taken?  I don’t know what’s going on but Monique looks like she’s getting the hang of Harold’s story. Thabo is giving Harold a wide berth. I have a feeling this is probably a good idea.

So we all get stuck into toasted sarmies and regte Boere koffee  that caffeine-kicks us back into mid-morning Loxton. Turns out Thabo doesn’t like toasted cheese. For an ex-township dog, he’s getting fancy ideas.

 Monique discovers that Harold is sort of homeless and before I know what’s going on, Thabo has curled up under her feet in the front, and Harold is loaded into the back. Luckily he’s only got a small kitbag which he retrieved from a hidey-hole behind the Caltex.

Off we go, to find Chris van Heerden’s  camp. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t given up smoking, and wondering if I packed enough Klipdrift brandy in my camera-bag. Probably not.

The scenery is great. Halfway there we stop for a pee break (Thabo and Harold) and for me to catch some magnificent big-sky shots, there’s a little cloud, the Roggeberge in the distance, and infinite Karoo 360 degrees around. I realise the heavy  feeling that’s been sitting on my chest ever since the shooting, has magically lifted. The sun’s hot and satisfying. The sky is blue, I’m out of town, with my best friend – do I mean Thabo, or do I mean? I pull myself together.

Chris  gives Monique a massive hug. Suddenly I feel a stab of envy. Then we’re all shaking hands, and there’s more Boere koffee. The caffeine seems to have jolted Harold into something approaching normality.

Thabo is having a ball, nose working overtime, new territory, strange smells, and umpteen shrubs to christen. Where do dogs keep all that pee? It’s something that’s always puzzled me. Thabo’s caramel coloured coat blends in perfectly with the Karoo scrub but I can locate him by his windmill tail. Monique is warming to him. But I suspect she may be more of a cat person, to match her slanty green eyes.

 Then we meet Chris ’s Number One guide, a dignified elderly man, who arrives on a sturdy grey  horse. 

“Meet Hendrik,” says Chris , “oh, and not to forget Lightning, of course.” We all laugh, shake hands and acknowledge the horse.  Thabo finds out that horses don’t like dogs, and Harold decides he’s scared of horses. I’m clicking away so fast that my finger is burning.

  Man! you can’t beat shots of noble animals like horses. What a pleasure, after those Matric dance dresses.

Later we’re sitting round the camp fire after Chris ’s excellent mutton potjie. Thabo is full of bones and scraps ,snoozing by the fire. The flames give Monique’s normally pale face a rosy glow. Even old Harold looks a bit more cheerful. You can’t beat a good potjie and a dop/drink. Well, maybe two or three dops. Turns out Chris  has a full bottle of Klippies which he generously shares.

Monique was right. The stars are magnificent. Hundreds of thousands of brilliant twinkling diamond lights way way above us, stretching to infinity, or do I mean eternity? Whatever I mean: its just beautiful. I fiddle with my trusty Nikon and try to do justice to the stellar panorama.

Then I realize Chris  is telling the others a story about his friend Willem, who was driving at night between Nieu Bethesda and Oudtshoorn  and saw a mysterious glowing ball of light in the middle of nowhere. He got out of his car to investigate, but as he drew closer it shot away at speed, leaving a strong beam of light pointing heavenward.

“So what was it?” Harold breathlessly asks.

“Nobody knows,” replies Chris , “just one of those Karoo mysteries. The Karoo is a huge place you know. Over the years I’ve heard plenty of stories. And Willem is a regte ou/regular guy. Doesn’t drink much, supports the  Stormers. You can’t get more ordinary than that. ”

Hendrik interrupts and says slowly “Maybe it was our god  Ka’ang, the Karoo is his land, you know. Not ours. “

A silence falls upon us. It’s bedtime.

Early next morning Hendrik firmly marches a reluctant Harold off into the Karoo. I look at Chris , who smiles, and says “Hendrik’s pretty good with lost souls. I think Harold’s about to be fixed.” He sees our puzzled looks and adds, ”Hendrik has strong Bushman ancestry on both sides of his family. You wouldn’t think so to look at him, he inherited his mother’s Bantu  looks, but believe me, he’s Bushman through and through.”

Hmm : you’d never guess by looking at him. I must get a couple more shots of him and Lightning.

       Chris  invites Monique to join him on a drive. I watch the cloud of dust dwindle over the horizon. Thabo sympathetically licks my hand. Ah well. Maybe a best buddy is no bad thing after all. Less complicated.  I’ve taken some brilliant pics on this trip. I’ll be returning home with new work for my portfolio, and my dog. It’s clear by now that Thabo isn’t going anywhere. I guess anything over and above that will be the cherry on the top. Who knows? I’ll have to wait and see.

To everyone’s surprise Harold opts to stay with Chris  and Hendrik. He’s decided he likes the camp, and  apparently Chris  could do with another pair of hands around the place. Okay  – why not? At least we’ve removed a road hazard from Loxton.

A week later, Monique buzzes on the studio intercom. She arrives with koeksusters for me, and a packet of doggy treats for Thabo. Both of us eye them hungrily. My budget doesn’t run to doggy treats. But Monique is all sunny smiles, re-living our great road trip, reporting on Harold’s progress in the Karoo. Huh. This means she’s in touch with Chris .  I need to get over myself. Why am I so pathetic with women? After a bit of chit-chat she gets to the point: when can she join me for another road trip?

“Funny you should ask, because I’ve just got a job from the West Coast Agriculture Association to do a feature on the canola growers . We’re  going on Friday. It’s only a day trip, but you’re welcome to come along”

So here we are, back in the Volksie , going up the R27 to Piketberg.  We drive up to the Church Hall after a quick ride. No bodies on the tarmac at the entrance to this town. We’re surrounded  by bakkies/trucks , 4×4’s, and squads of  dogs loudly  defending their territory from the back of their bakkies.

“Sorry Thabo,” I tell him, “but you’re not getting out. Right now I can’t handle vet’s bills.” We leave the windows open a crack , and Thabo desperately tries to fit his nose through to hoover up the exciting smells.

I leave Monique to fend for herself, and get busy with the assignment. During the tea break she drags me over to introduce a middle-aged couple, Danie and Elna Botha. He’s a suntanned older guy, floppy grey hair, wearing a tatty  tee-shirt and shorts. Clearly he’s winter-proof. His wife is a female version, but with a lovely smile. She tells me they’re old family friends, who haven’t seen Monique since childhood.

 Soon they’re telling us about Danie’s recent narrow escape from a dangerous  pair of intruders, while he was repairing a fence in a remote corner of the farm. But Danie’s dog Kaptein saved the day by driving off the two assailants.

“Maybe you could take a pic of Kaptein?” Monique suggests. “You took such lovely pics of Thabo when we were on the Karoo trip. Johan’s got a real knack for animal photography,” she tells the Bothas.

At which point the sounds of a mammoth dog fight interrupt our socialising. I join the stampede outside, in time to see Thabo hurling himself into the battle. He’s having a go at a black and white sheep dog, who’s not shy to defend itself. I look around wildly – what the hell do I do now? Luckily a burly farmer gets his sjambok/whip out of his bakkie and lashes both dogs impartially. The dogs yelp and run for cover. I run after Thabo and drag him out from under the Volksie. He’s covered in dust and dog saliva, but otherwise okay.

“You’re a bad, bad dog!” I scold, as I bundle him back into the Volksie, closing the window that he managed to nose open. Thabo just pants and grins, wagging his tail. I lock the Volksie and find Monique in close conversation with the other combatant’s owner, another middle-aged man, who’s captured his errant dog with a length of blue nylon rope through the dog collar. Maybe I ought to buy Thabo a collar? Might be a good idea.

I hasten over. “Is your dog okay?”

“Ja – no harm done. Bobby ‘s full of  sh… well, you know what I mean,”
 he ends abruptly. He can’t take his eyes off Monique, and he’s focusing on the fragment of her tattoo’d name which is partially visible on her shoulder. I get a nasty sinking feeling.

The farmer wrenches his gaze away from Monique, sticks out his hand and says ” Sorry. I’m Gregory James. Forgetting my manners, in all the excitement. Hope your dog’s okay? “

I nod. Before I can say anything, Gregory James is off again:

“I’m growing canola up Wellington way, so perhaps you’ll come out to the farm to take a look?  It’s wonderful in September, when the canola’s in flower – brilliant yellow as far as you can see. Not much to see now, but give it another month.“ He digs around in his back pocket, and hands his card to Monique. “Any time, any time – why wait until September?” he says, his eyes fixed on Monique.

“Sorry,” he continues “I expect I’m talking too much. Me and Bobby don’t see too many folk on the farm, and since my wife died …” his voice tails off, but luckily the awkward moment is broken by a skinny sun burnt man, mid-40’s, who homes in on Monique like a rocket.

“Monique! Is it really you? After all these years!  I can’t believe it,” and he gives her a big hug.

What is it with this woman? She’s like a bloody magnet to men. But hardly surprising. Those green eyes and that gorgeous creamy coffee skin are irresistible.  As I know. 

“Oh – Mike – what on earth are you doing here?  Mike’s wife and I were students together…” but Mike interrupts.

“Now my ex-wife, I’m sorry to say.  I’m afraid she didn’t share my passion for plants and the wide open spaces.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Where’s Jen now?”

Gregory James watches the conversation for a moment or two, then turns to me and says,”But seriously, any time you and Monique feel like another trip, just give me a buzz. We’ll arrange something. Even if we wait for the September flowers.” He smiles ruefully, and walks back into the hall.

I ‘m gazing after him, and mulling over the phrase you and Monique  when I feel Monique’s hand on my arm.

“Johann, guess what? Mike’s invited us up to the Guest House where he’s working now, it’s in the Tankwa Karoo, actually not too far from Chris’ adventure camp. It’d be fun to go and see how Harold’s getting on, and I’d love to learn more about the Bushmen from Hendrik.  How about it?”

“Great idea!” is my hearty response. I turn to Monique and say:”So I’ll leave the arrangements up to you, shall I?”

She smiles and turns back to the excited botanist, who’s been joined his equally excitable Jack Russell. This place is one gigantic dog show. I glance over to the Volksie and see Thabo, paws on the dashboard, nose jammed into the windscreen, tail going like a propeller. I know how he feels. If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it like crazy!

THE  END

A WRITER’S SAFARI by A M Smith©

Because of the Pandemic, I have no travel stories to tell, and an uneventful life at home. So here is one of my long stories, about an amateur writer who goes on a family fishing holiday on the Zambezi River. It describes another lifestyle, another country, another time. Remember: this is fiction! Enjoy

There’s small glossary at the end, should you need it.

Zambezi tigerfish

The two Land Rovers forged noisily northwards, bypassing Harare, through Rusape, past ruined tobacco barns, past  rotted polythene growing tunnels; past deserted mud huts, thatch threadbare and holed, past straggly stunted mealies, past ragged children who waved listlessly at the small convoy, past all signs of cultivation or human habitation until finally there was nothing but bush.  Virgin bush on every side, up to the horizon which was framed by the clear blue sky.  Aileen gave a sigh of contentment.  This was what she had worked for,  saved for, dreamed of and slogged for with iron determination.  Just bush, and a glorious ten days of no office, no telephones, no kids.  Just bush, the river and some fishing and finally, the chance to get down to some serious writing.   Perfect!

Up front Uncle Harry drove, completely on automatic pilot,  intent on a PhD level discussion with Neville  on the new Bok team to play Scotland.  Next to Aileen in the back, Aunt Susie sat knitting, also on automatic pilot.

Clive drove the second Landy, with George as navigator, and Phineas and Enoch as passengers.  Uncle Harry believed in camping in comfort with all mod cons, which included hot and cold running camp staff, hence the presence of Phineas and Enoch.  In his scheme of things the perfect fishing trip did not include fire making, water carrying, dish-washing, fish gutting and cleaning, camp site cleaning or the digging of latrines and erecting of shower shelters.   However, Phineas and Enoch also  benefited  from  fishing trips to the river, as they filleted and smoked the fat Zambezi tiger fish  which they  later sold at an enormous  profit in the Bulawayo townships.  Everybody happy.

That evening the party relaxed by the fire after a long hot day’s drive to the river.  The night was warm and utterly dark, frogs creaked on the river banks, the mosquitoes sang busily but this was all part of the bush experience and Aileen loved every bit of it.  A long day’s travel is best followed by an early night and the party thankfully crept into their two-man tents.  Aileen was too tired to even attempt her usual day’s end diary entry.  Tomorrow, she thought sleepily, tomorrow I’ll ………

Phineas arrived at 5 a.m. with mugs of tea. So  getting up very  early to catch the freshness of the river at sunrise was no hardship.  Aileen and Neville set up-river with George and Clive, the rubber-duck making good headway against the strong current.   Clive piloted them to an old favourite fishing spot and they settled down to  enjoying the  coolness of the early morning, competitively  identifying bird-calls, spotting a pod of hippo further upstream on the far bank, casting out their lines, waiting for the tell-tale bob of the float, the tentative tug on the line. 

Aileen planned to use river scenery details  in the novel  she was working on, and scratched around in her backpack for her Writer’s Notebook, greatly irritating the men who knew that Zambezi fish have ultra-sensitive hearing easily disturbed by  the sounds  generated by females flapping around in small boats.  She glared at them, and continued to dig fruitlessly in her backpack.  Damn!  She must have left her vital  notebook back in their tent.  Oh well.  She began to make mental notes about the sounds, colours, smells, sensations and   string together a few handy phrases, when her reverie was interrupted by Clive who angrily hissed that her line had drifted across his and now look what had happened!  Lines  crossed and inextricably tangled!  Lines and peace were finally restored, but since the fish were not in a co-operative mood, breakfast seemed like a good option.

Enoch and Aunt Susie had produced a mammoth breakfast.  Uncle Harry, a man of fixed view and pronounced paunch, held that a substantial breakfast around 9 a.m.  followed by a light snack lunch of beer around mid-day (too hot to eat, anyway, proclaimed Uncle Harry) and then a decent early braai was the only sensible catering scheme for fishing trips. Fortified by breakfast the party applied sunblock and determination in equal quantities and fished until lunch-time, returning from the river with ten  fat tiger fish  and powerful  thirsts. 

Aileen had discovered that her essential Writer’s Notebook was not in the tent, or anywhere else.  Seemingly she had left it behind in Aunt Susie’s spare bedroom. The only other paper in camp was Aunt Susie’s beloved collection of Agatha Christie novels and removal of the spare flysheets at the back of the books was  unthinkable.  This pillage would have been fatal to their battered constitutions.  What to do?  Oddly enough Phineas came to the rescue with  a modest blue Croxley writing pad.  “Madam can use this,” he offered.  Aileen seized it gratefully and hastily jotted down some of the rapidly vanishing phrases from her  morning sunrise on the river.  Better than nothing, she supposed, writing extra small, so as to save precious paper.

Her main writing task on this trip, now that she had some time and head-space at her disposal, was to  plot the frame-work of her novel, get the story-line into shape, and work out where best to insert the main dramatic events that befell her heroine, a young Scottish lass, newly emigrated to the colonies and faced with life in the raw on an African tobacco farm. Lions , migrating herds of game, yes, all the details of old pristine Africa, the challenges of pioneer-style living, and of course, the romance.  Aileen was undecided as to whether the romantic interest would best be served by a pale young DC with a mystery history ( a remittance man?  Aristocratic black sheep?) saved by the love of a good woman; or maybe a better foil for the Scottish lass would be a sunburned but silent white hunter? While pondering these options the snack lunch and the furnace heat of mid-day took their toll, and Aileen slept.

Phineas toiled around at 4.30 with fresh installments of tea, and fishing resumed against the gaudy backdrop of the African sunset over the Zambezi.  The sun died in a glorious burst of crimson, peach and gold while the pale blue sky  turned  suitably to deep mid-night blue.   Sunburned, relaxed and replete the fishing party gazed sleepily into the roaring camp-fire.  Mmmh, thought Aileen, the smell of woodsmoke, the utterly dark sky, night sounds of the bush – oh, the peace! She savoured it.  Peaceful, and tranquil, no worries, no crime, no high-jackings, just the blessed, blessed bush.  She could have sat in her canvas camp chair all night but Neville prised her out and they wandered off to their tent by the light of their torch.  Disturbed by her departure, the large adult puff-adder under her camp-chair  gathered itself together and  slithered off in search of a frog, leaving a sandy signature in its wake. 

“Hau, Madam was lucky last night,” said Phineas chattily, offering an enamel mug of tea at 5 a.m. “big njoka under Madam’s chair last night!”  he chortled, trundling away with his tea-tray.  “Don’t worry babes,” said Neville comfortingly, “they only bite if you step on them.   No need to catch such a skrik!”

The days settled into an easy pattern of early mornings, days on the river, snack lunches of beer, nights around the fire with  jovial and embroidered accounts of the monsters that got away, together with the eternal minute analyses of the Boks’ performance at rugby and cricket.

 Aunt Susie cooked and knitted.  The tstetse flies feasted on the party, save for Phineas and Enoch whose fish-smoking activities would have proofed them against attach by rabid vultures, never mind hungry tstetse flies.  The mercury climbed effortlessly into the high 30’s, early 40’s.  Enoch had to dig another pit to tidy up the mountain of empty beer cans.

Nothing much else happened.  Aileen loved it.  Daily after lunch she sat down with the blue Croxley pad and wrestled with the plot, which was proving difficult.    Somehow the romantic episodes were proving the most difficult of all.  She loathed the bodice ripper style of encounter, all that thrusting and  heavy breathing and quivering: ugh!  Her novel would be sensitive, tasteful, yet passionate and earthy.

Hmmmmm.   Her own experience in this area was limited, due to an early marriage and a husband who took a workmanlike approach to his love life which might best be described as thorough, but uninspired. Apart from his curious habit, she mused, of muttering rugby players names just prior orgasm.  She had never understood this odd foible and he had made it clear, long ago, that he did not intend to explain.

 The answer was simple of course: by mentally reciting the names of every Springbok player since 1960, Neville was able to delay orgasm very successfully, until he could no longer withstand the urgent tide. And what was even more curious, she ruminated, was that she had distinctly heard George (or was it Clive?) shout out Os du Randt! last night, well after lights out.  Surely to goodness those wretched men didn’t dream about rugby all night as well as talk about it all day ? Aileen doodled distractedly on the blue Croxley pad seeking inspiration. 

Neville’s sportsmanlike approach to sex had proved equally inspiring to George and Clive, after he had revealed his formula for a happy marriage to the pair one hot afternoon when they had the boat to themselves and the fish were off the bite. It must have been the effect of an usually hearty snack lunch  that had encouraged him to reveal these confidences.  George and Clive had been impressed by this useful approach and had earnestly assured him they would remember this sage advice when the next suitable occasion presented itself.

Aileen’s thoughts turned to George and Clive – what marvelous heroic prototypes those two were, deeply tanned from days in the veld on the farm, strongly built, clean shaven, clean cut in fact.  Maybe she could model her fictional hero on them.  She wondered why they’d never married, two attractive men like that.  Just as well perhaps, because when Clive had been kicked off his farm by the war veterans George, on the next-door farm,  had generously taken him in, and Clive had simply stayed on, two years was it now?  No wife would have tolerated that she thought, but still what a pity, such a good looking guy.  She dozed off, stunned by the snack lunch and the sun, to be awoken hours later  by the ever obliging Phineas, offering a tray of tea.

“Madam is writing more letters?” enquired Phineas eyeing the blue Croxley pad. “Umm no, not letters” replied Aileen suddenly shy  about  explaining  her literary aspirations to Phineas, even though he was the generous donor of precious paper. “I, uhh” she began but was interrupted by a stentorian bellow from Uncle Harry demanding assistance with the cleaning of his days’ catch of tiger fish.  That’s a relief she thought as Phineas briskly sped away down to the river bank, his white  Bata takkies twinkling brightly through the short grass.  However could she even begin to  explain the  plot of a romantic novel, set in Pioneer Days, to Phineas?

Phineas in fact, had literary problems of his own. Aileen was not alone in her troubles.  Had she but known it, he could have provided a very sympathetic ear.  His German publisher was snapping at his heels and demanding, via a stream of hysterical  phone calls, sight of the first four chapters of the new novel, and he was two months in arrears with his translation from the Ndebele  into English of the traditional saga about the Nyami-nyami legend of the mythical water creature that lived in the deep pools of the Zambezi below the Vic Falls.  He hacked viciously into the fat belly of a tiger fish and the entrails spilled out in a slimy, bloody knot – curse all publishers, all agents, all accountants, all lawyers, if he could consign the lot of them into the jaws of the nyami-nyami he would!

 With rapid harsh movements he de-scaled the tiger fish. A savage stroke beheaded the next fish from the awaiting pile. The glassy fish-eye on the disembodied head reminded him suddenly of Rolf, his drug dealer in Cologne.  He looked around covertly.  He was alone on the river bank. He stabbed the fisheye repeatedly muttering “you bastard, you bastard” until the terrible craving had subsided.  Phineas sank back on his haunches, exhaled deeply, and let the scaling knife drop onto the sand.  He washed his bloody hands in the river and noted with irritation that he’d got blood on his Bata tackies.  He’d never hear the end of it from Uncle Enoch.

Uncle Enoch was very, very proud of Phineas’ accomplishments and very, very condemnatory of his dissipated European lifestyle.  It was Uncle Enoch who had offered Phineas a refuge, a bolt-hole, while he tried to shake off the drug demons and tried to start writing again.  As a strategy it had worked beautifully.  Who would have dreamed of looking for star writer Phin Makawira, prize-winning novelist Phin, in the cook-boy’s quarters of Uncle Harry’s Bulawayo mansion?  Certainly not Rolf, certainly not those hyenas from the lawyers and accountants and publishers.

 Phineas hurled the fishy debris as far as he could into the river and watched with respect as a knobbly head surfaced briefly and swirled around the sinking mess. Crocodile would be too good an ending for those people he thought grimly, swinging his pail of fish as he headed for the camp kitchen.

All too soon it was time to pack up camp and drive back to Bulawayo, step back into the real world of business, home and kids.  Aileen loved her terrifically relaxing trip and redeemed herself by catching the biggest tigerfish , nearly 9 kgs.  Enoch had tenderly entombed it in the gas fridge, and it would be rushed to the taxidermist  in Bulawayo at the first opportunity.  So much for women messing around in small boats and disturbing the fish thought Aileen smugly.  On the whole she hadn’t done much writing and had returned the now rather tatty blue Croxley pad to Phineas who had  remarked “Madam has the writer’s block too?”  She must have misheard him, what a strange thing to say. 

Nothing hugely  exciting had happened on the trip, except perhaps the night when Clive (or was it George?) had shrieked Francois Pienaar! At the top of his lungs late one night and startled the  eleven hippo who had been grazing quietly on the grass between the tents,  and in their mad rush back to the water,  had careered into the guy ropes of Uncle Harry’s tent, causing it to collapse on the occupants.  The entire campsite was startled into groggy wakefulness and it took some time to calm Aunt Susie and re-erect the tent.  Clive had been very apologetic about startling the hippo  – must have been dreaming and shouted out, he muttered, sorry chaps!

 Phineas and Enoch had rushed in to assist and Aileen couldn’t help but notice that Phineas had the most dreadful scars on his thighs, and, would you believe, Calvin Kline underwear. Probably  Taiwanese rip-offs from the market she thought.  So she wouldn’t really have anything terribly exciting to report to her Writers’ Circle meeting when she got back, other than her embarrassing lack of progress on The Novel.  Nothing like the exciting literary tours that Piet  from her Writers’ Circle kept going on, she thought wistfully, wish I could hobnob with famous writers like he does!  Oh well, she had at least the glory of that magnificent 9kg tigerfish, if nothing else.

GLOSSARY

Bok team = South African Springbok rugby team

Mealies = maize plants

Njoika = snake

Skrik = fright

Bata takkies = ubiquitous brand of sandshoes, known as plimsolls in British English

THE ANNUAL MASOCHISTIC MADNESS : NANOWRIMO

Today I reeled away from my latest bout with NANOWRIMO.

You’re probably wondering: what is  NANOWRIMO? The acronym stands for National Novel Writing Month.  It’s a global event, takes place every November, costs you nothing, and it’s fun (well, theoretically!).  You register on line, and join some 300 000 other wannabe writers in the attempt to write a 50 000 word novel during the month of November. That’s right: you heard me. The challenge is to write a novel in a month.

There are no prizes, but you will be awarded an electronic certificate that proclaims you won NANO this year. All you have is the glory, the satisfaction, and a First Draft of your next masterpiece.

When you emerge from NANO, sleep deprived, over-caffeinated, with aching back and fingers, you discover the world is still revolving, life has merrily continued during your 30 day absence, and you have approximately 1 million e-mails piled up in your InBox, which is on the verge of spontaneous combustion. But you do have a First Draft. NANO reminds me a little of childbirth: relatively short duration, painful, terribly hard work, but oh! the joy at the end of the process.

Your friends are fed up with you, the fridge is empty, the laundry pile resembles an encroaching alien life form, all your indoor plants have died and the cat has left home in disgust. You spend a fortune at the physiotherapist having the kinks taken out of your back.  But you do have a First Draft.

In my case, I plunged gaily into NANO in 2009 for the first time – and to my intense surprise: I succeeded! Spurred on by my success I tried again in 2010, and I succeeded. I now had the First Draft of Parts 1 & 2 of my Fantasy Novel. Yay!

2011 – NANO passed me by.  2012 – I registered, wrote 6 000 words and crumpled.

2013 : I announced: This is IT! I am going to finish Part 3 of my Fantasy Novel. And I did! Yay for me! I didn’t hit the 50 000 word NANO Target but I DID finish my novel. And now I have a massive First Draft that requires a surgical re-write of Part 1, and a vigorous edit on Part 3. Apart from these obstacles, all I now require is a friendly agent who will love, love my Fantasy Novel, secure me book and TV deals worth millions …  okay, I can dream a little can’t I? Does anybody know a friendly agent who’d love to represent a brilliant new talent? Don’t keep it to yourself, I’m dying to hear from you!