Surviving a gunshot, and a snake bite..not to mention all the rest !

It was a typical dark winters night that I lay awake unable to sleep. My constant companion the lynx, who at this time of night would be fast asleep alongside me, was also wide awake. Continuously jumping off the bed and hissing loudly at the dark open window, where something else was hissing back. After a few hours I swung my legs out of bed and walked through the darkness to the window. As I drew the curtain back the pain and impact of what felt like a gunshot at point blank range went through my right hand. Leaping back and screaming in pain, I ran into the bathroom, where to my horror my punctured hand was swelling by the second. As I clutched it under the cold running water, I saw the two distinctive holes, one having pierced right through the third joint. My hand continued to swell at an alarming rate, and within minutes we were speeding through red lights to a nearby hospital. The swelling at this point had started to travel up the arm to my elbow. Whatever was inside felt like a destructive cutting torch burning through tissue and bone.

                                                                             

The doctor on night duty casually gave me a tetanus injection, stopped the bleeding and bandaged it up, dismissing it he then sent me home. During the next few days through the worst pain I slipped into a state of delirious hallucinations. My neck and face had swollen and started turning blue. Two days later, on an unexpected visit from my sister in law who is a trained theatre nurse, she persuaded me to return back to the same hospital, supposedly our best private one. This time it was midday and the trauma unit responded swiftly. My body had started going into shock, with the venom now absorbing throughout my system. An ultrasound immediately showed a fluid collection along the dorsal surface of my hand. While being hospitalized, a couple of experts from the snake park had arrived, and confirmed their thoughts that it had been a large puffadder.

                                                                                  

During the surgery that followed in the operating room, the surgeon first performed a debridement. The surgeon removed tissue and the open top part of my hand would eventually be closed up, soon after only to cause a haematoma. Infection had set in, and as is often the routine, an amputation of the limb is considered. Bearing in mind that I had been a goldsmith and creative person my entire life, this was the most terrifying thought. Weeks in hospital would be endured on injections of Pethadine, morphine, and anything the sisters could administer, but nothing could help for this type of pain. I was in an orthopaedic ward, together with someone who had just had his hand re-attached, and another who had both his arms torn off in a machine. The nurses called it the pain ward, as the pain medication wore off, everyone would start screaming, and nurses would come running with syringes of whatever would take the edge off. This was where they kept patients ready for repeated surgery. The surgical procedure would be repeated, with weeks turning into months of continuous pain, and most days spent at the hospital having X-rays, scans, and bone density tests. Hours of physiotherapy treatment everyday proved futile. Eventually this particular surgeon suggested that I see a more specialized hand surgeon. (Isn’t that what he should have done in the first place) Apart from the third metacarpal joint being  destroyed, scar tissue had formed along with tendon adhesions. By this time I had acute septic osteomyelitis.

                                                                               

I had gone through everything possible, only to be back at the start again. As I walked into the Plastic Surgeons rooms he recognized me. He had recently performed a re-attachment of an entire hand on someone else who had put his arm through a timber yard saw. This surgeon took one look at me, asked what I’d had for breakfast, and calmly said that he would do the operation within a few hours! He was keen to attempt to repair all the previous damage and trauma. Later that night in hospital I awoke from yet another procedure to repair and reconstruct the fine and delicate structures within the hand.

For many weeks to follow, most Fridays were spent on flights to Johannesburg, more than a thousand kilometers away, where a professor of hand surgery attended to me. There was no option of replacing the joint, as the damaged metacarpal bone would not accept this procedure. Once again there was a suggestion of simply amputating the finger in what is called a ray amputation, removing the finger along with the bone right down to the wrist, then reconstructing the hand. My entire arm was then put into a traction brace, with external wires from each finger in traction down to my elbow...it looked like a bionic arm! This attempt to prevent the joints from fusing again did help to some degree.

                                                                                  

Despite having gone through all the trauma and pain, I was still alive, as well as having both my hands.

This event was reminiscent of many years ago when I had been shot, and bleeding profusely had gone through all the same smells and sounds of Operating Rooms and surgeons.

 Seeing the reality of how life can change within a split second, you then begin to appreciate every single moment that you have survived, and live with more determination.

                                                     One life,  live it now

"A Lynx, a Goat and a Mad Cow...

A lynx, a goat and a mad cow...(just a bit of humour)

Life with a home full of animals can sometimes lead to a loss of ones’ senses and perspective. Running with the bulls in Spain was never my idea of fun, but what now confronted me was a whole different, and gentle approach to the bovine world. So it was with this loose headed emotion and wild abandonment that I decided to give in to the nudge at the front door of yet another pet. This time, in the form of a rather young and amusing species. Thats it…’amusing’ I think is the appropriate term. After all, it was almost two decades ago and I was game for almost anything. This young creature actually had attitude and a hint of intelligence, and in my often self destructive nature I may have been drawn in some twisted challenge to take on yet another responsibility to mother nature. It also did show signs of being useful, or so I believed.

                                                                     

Here in Africa all of my pets and strays had been of indigenous breed, but this particular girl came from English origin, so all the better, why not introduce foreign genes into this menagerie of chaos! Just out of adolescence this creature was already solid in build, and despite being able to communicate in some vague way, she did show early signs of being stubborn and obnoxious. Little did I expect this black haired, brown eyed beast to one day grow into something that would anger the lynx into resorting to fits of rage and even attacking and giving full chase, while the goat would head butt it out of annoyance and frustration. The ducks would take off flapping across the garden pond, and all the cats would flee and seek refuge on the tin roof.

                                                                     

It is no co-incidence that the stress of this marriage ceremony caused the church organist to soon afterward die from a fatal heart attack. May he rest in peace. His recital of Bach's Toccata will always be remembered. Within a matter of months one neighbor sold up and moved, then another, until there was an entire exodus from the area. It is a fact that an entire neighborhood remains to this day as vacant of human life as the lunar surface.

This oversize creature had grown into an argumentative debating force to be reckoned with by day, and a rumbling snoring cacophony at night. Soon she would present symptoms of Hashimoto’s syndrome, with lethargic movement and many hours immobilized on a couch in depths of sleep, with sudden outbursts of bellowing noise when awakened. For years I suspected a hormone problem, but all attempts at persuading such a temperamental and large beast to accept treatment would be an impossible task.

                                                                            

Over the years the shiny black coat of hair became flecked with patches of grey, as this continuously growing monster now demonstrated symptoms of the dreaded Mad Cow disease. Well, at least it wasn’t Ebola, West Nile fever or Leprosy, remember that this after all is Africa.

It was indeed Mad Cow, imported years earlier upon her immigration from an island in the north called Great Britain. The only country in history to have built the largest ship that would sink on its maiden voyage, and the land of little cars with canvas roofs driven under grey skies, rain and fog.

Mad cow disease is an incurable brain disease that affects cattle and some other animals, such as goats and sheep. The medical name for mad cow disease is bovine spongiform encephalopathy. It’s called mad cow disease because it affects a cow’s nervous system, causing a cow to act strangely and lose control of its ability to do normal things, such as walk. Researchers believe that people who eat beef from cows that have this disease are at risk of developing a form of variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.

                                                                       

“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature nor do the children of man as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure.

Life is either a daring adventure,  or nothing”

Helen Keller

A Food Blog, are you crazy !

A food blog, are you crazy!…there are millions of cooking blogs, from salads to fusion foods, raw dishes to scrumptious killer cakes and bakes. Just when the entire world is glued to TV programs on cooking contests to the monotonous overweight female chefs in the kitchen rolling out pastries, cakes and vulgar amounts of cream, mumbling along the most uninspiring script as they repeatedly take a swig of wine from the strategically placed glass on the side, the world watches in a mesmerized stupour. This all takes place while we frantically resort to overnight miracle diets in order to reverse exactly what we are watching! What a paradox and ironical situation we have gotten into. A miracle diet, I can share the best hidden secret, six inches of surgical wire and a free plastic straw. Have your jaws wired closed and within eight weeks you’ll be half the size. Now, if you cannot afford this, have your best friend take the hardest possible swing at your relaxed jaw, breaking it at the joint. Apply an ice pack, then proceed to the nearest public hospital where they will wire it closed free of charge.

I could write about tossed salads, steamed vegetables, how to roast anything from a leg of lamb, a pigeon, chicken, guinea fowl or even an ostrich! Waterblometjie stews to Warthog or a dozen types of venison on an outside braai. South Africans have a wide diverse culture of cooking, from our European heritage to Cape Malay and Indian population, not to mention our very own original African native recipes from the beginning of civilization here in Africa. We've been cooking from the back of oxwagons trekking through wildcountry for the last few hundred years. This could go on forever, but with a hundred million starving people at this very moment, I’ll find something more inspiring to do.

                                                                             

The ultimate cooking experience, for body, mind and soul. This requires walking to the kitchen. Take your largest pot available and half fill with boiling water. Then take the half left food from last night and drop it into the pot, as well as the pieces of tomato from yesterdays sandwich, including the old packet of peas in the freezer that are as old as your sisters child. Oh, you may have just found the remains of Wednesday’s pasta, throw that in as well. A remaining piece of broccoli and two ageing carrots in the bottom of the fridge can be added. The last vienna sausage that your spoilt maltese poodle didn't want, drop it in too. While it starts to boil add a teaspoon of salt, a sprinkle of pepper, if you don’t have any, scratch in the draw and find all those little sprinkle sachets from your fast food Macwhatever. While this is simmering away get dressed. Within an hour you’ll be ready for the ultimate culinary and spiritual experience. Wrap the pot in an old dishtowel, and walk to your nearest corner or park down the road. Place the pot carefully on the nearest park bench, and open the lid, allowing the aroma to drift through the open air.

Soon you will be surrounded by a couple of homeless people looking on with hunger and desperation in their eyes. Stand aside and invite them to help themselves. You don’t even need to take cups, because as we all know, anyone living on the street always has the rudimentary mug or tin that they always keep in the event of any opportunity. As you watch this crowd gathering larger, you will notice that their weathered faces change into toothless smiles and contagious laughter.

Within a few minutes your pot will be empty, and you can proceed to take a leisurely walk back home. With the sound of their laughter still in your ears, the fresh air in your lungs, your mind is now releasing the best endorphins. You will have just experienced the ultimate pleasure of giving, as well as having exercised your body without paying a cent toward any ‘looseweightfast.com’ subscription you saw last night on the internet while lying in bed with your laptop which has now become your Siamese twin constantly joined and continuously telling you what to do !

                              “Hunger is the best sauce in the world”

                                                  Cervantes

"Passionately curious...

Following my last page, we wait for news on Henrika, the Dutch lady who was traumatized in Bulgaria and after a week of horror on the street, the latest is that after some rest in Batak with Kerry and Kosta, she is now heading back to Velingrad to see her lawyer. This is happening in an ex-communist country, now part of the EU…which leads me to sit and ponder about many things and just how unpredictable our lives are.

This brings to mind the story of how I came about to own an armoured tank. Yes, a fully functional war machine. South Africa had been engaged for decades in a war against the Soviet backed forces on our borders from Mozambique on the east to Angola on the west. Due to sanctions against our country, (The rest of the world in its ignorance thought it was a racial war) we were left with no option but to invent and build our own weapons. From artillery to tanks, fighter jets and helicopters, and everything needed in war would all become part of the daily manufacture in South Africa.

Toward late 1988, we had spent more than two decades fighting communism, while the rest of the world languished in what they called a “Cold war”. We fought it to the end, until the Soviet Union had realized they were fighting a losing battle.  They had reached Southern Africa, but we were not about to give up and retreat into the sea! After decades of fighting, Castro’s Cuban soldiers went home with their tails between their legs, and the surviving Russians went back to their villages to drown their sorrows in cheap Vodka. Communism had collapsed!

                                                                                                                          

Nelson Mandela was now about to walk free, and most South Africans were on the edge of their seats. Our thousands of army troops had been withdrawn from the border, with huge army and air force bases shut down. It was 1994, and I had just seen an advert for ex-military vehicles being sold. There were armoured personal carriers for sale, all brand new, recently having been rebuilt in the event of things in the country going wrong. Now this new inter-mixed government had no use for them. The military order for all these armoured vehicles had apparently been cancelled, and they were now for sale. Within minutes I was on the phone, the person on the other end told me that they were not allowed to be sold to any private individual. Our weapons were actually going to be sold to north African countries, perhaps so that one day they could come back and attack us with our own guns! We did however get around that red tape by buying it as ‘scrap metal’. A few days later this massive six wheel vehicle arrived on a tank transporter at our front door. While neighbours watched in disbelief, it was unloaded and became a permanent fixture in our driveway, which soon started to sink from the weight!

                      

Soon one day, I noticed a man in the street outside having what appeared to be a seizure. Amidst his shouting, gyrating arms and legs, I could only make out that he was screaming something about the tank parked in our driveway. He was a Brigadier from the Army, here to investigate the where abouts of a stolen tank! The charges brought against me of being in possession of a military vehicle were juggled between the Army and civilian police. The Army had instructed me not to move it, as they were about to return and recover their ‘stolen’ tank. Soon the police Colonel assigned was up to his head in paperwork, and advised me to “make the darn thing disappear”. That night we drove it across town and into a friends workshop, and spent the night spray painting it white. I had known that as long as it was not the army brown, we stood a better chance at proving it to be neutral, as white was the international UN colour.

Eventually with time, the tank became part of our daring jaunts across town. Powered by a twelve cylinder Rolls Royce engine, it would make a deafening noise, as we thundered along the roads through the city, cars would swerve off the road and people would gasp. The police would follow and then not know what to do. It was probably the best time to own this, as the country went through a change with many new laws, and a bit of confusion about most things. At the time, the United Nations had recently been in South West Africa, so white vehicles had been present.

                          

Our tank would guzzle two hundred litres of fuel within a short time, as we tore though the bush at high speed with friends and pets aboard. The high pitched whine of drivetrain and deafening roar of the engine, accompanied by unbearable heat inside the drivers seat, always made it a fun filled adrenalin experience.

This was to be my introduction into the world of finding ex-military helicopters, old fighter jets scattered through Africa,  Alouette helicopters from French Forces and twin rotor Kamov helicopters from Russia. There were many telephone calls to characters in Romania where I discovered more helicopters.  It would eventually lead me onto searching for naval ships and submarines in this world of obsolete equipment and inventions. Everything boiled down to negotiating the price of scrap metal!

This has all been just another part of my journey filled with curiosity through life.

“ I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious. “

                                         Albert Einstein

A horror week on the frozen street...

Yesterday  the horror of this story sent a chill up my spine, having also personally been on the receiving end of Bulgarian cruelty and hostility.

I received a desperate message from a friend in Bulgaria named Boriana, who also had alerted us about the lioness in the zoo there last year.

A Dutch lady who lived in Velingrad, Bulgaria, had been thrown out of her apartment by an evil landlord, the police had then removed her beloved dogs, shot and killed nine of them, beaten one untill it's legs were broken and locked her out on the street, refusing her access to get her clothes,  passport and personal belongings. The harsh winter there can be fatal to anyone outside at night. This dear lady has already spent the whole week sleeping on the street near a market, desperately clinging to life and her last remaining dogs.

Within minutes the message bounced off Julia to Nadia in New York, then back to me in S.Africa and onto a few more friends back in Sofia. Frantically everyone involved spent hours messaging each other across the world. Another friend Milena in Bulgaria lent her friend a car, who drove through the night to fetch this lady, and then drove her across Bulgaria to Kerry and Kosta at our house in the far north. They arrived in Batak in the early hours of this morning, where Kerry and Kosta have just given her a hot meal, and finally a warm place to stay. (http://www.streetdogrescue.com/)

Police had abused their power, the Embassy had proved useless, but friends on Facebook once again swung into action. Against all odds another life has been saved.

Thanks to everyone involved, who dedicated themselves to yet another day of good cause.

To Kerry Rowles and Kosta Chakurov in Batak, you are saviours to the lost and forgotten.

"Together as one, each and every one of us can change the world to be a better place."

URGENT!A letter to the Dutch ambasador in Sofia !!!Possible violation of human rights of a Dutch citizen in Bulgaria - URGENT!!!

by Popova Penka on Monday, 14 February 2011 at 23:02
Your Excellency,
I am deeply embarrassed and concerned about what I saw and heard yesterday in Velingrad from Mrs. Henrika Barkling (name might not be spelled correctly; mobile: 0882 807 213), a Dutch citizen. We (Mrs. Penka Popova, Dr. Georgi Litov and me as representatives of a registered "Civil control - animal defense NGO" and personally) were contacted by Mrs. Miglena Arapova (0887733558, ad.miglena@abv.bg), Attorney at law on February, 8th, 2011. In her letter she asks for advise and help about what had happened to Mrs. Barkling a few days ago. The story she tells was confirmed by Mrs. Barkling herself on Ferbuary, 13th, 2011 when we met personally in Velingrad. Here I am trying to summarize it in short. Mrs. Barkling resides in Velingrad since July 2010. She came to Bulgaria with her husband and her dog, they rented an apartment in Velingrad. By the end of January 2011 the landlord changed the front door lock and she has not been able to enter the apartment since. All her personal stuff and documents are still locked inside, she has no clothes to change and she sleeps in the wood by a church, according to her story. By the time she was refused access to her apartment she had 7 small dogs inside - her own one plus 6 other stray animals she sheltered in her place. For one week they were given no food or water. On February, 2nd, 2011 a Bulgarian policeman came with the landlord and took all her dogs away. No police order or any other officially signed by any authority was shown to her. Again she was not allowed to enter the apartment and take her personal belongings. She was told to go by taxi to the veterinarian where they were taking the dogs to. The vet knew nothing about it. She called Mrs. Arapova, attorney at law, who accompanied Mrs. Barkling to the police station.They were sent to the Municipality where they were told the dogs had been released in an area outside Velingrad. Mrs. Barkling and Mrs. Arapova went there by taxi and found no dogs although they spent a couple of hours looking for them. They still know nothing about the dogs. Besides, there had been 5 other stray dogs just outside the apartment building, which Mrs. Barkling had been taking care of as well. She reports that the policeman kicked the dogs (one of them has its leg broken as a result, another one has a swelling wound) and fired some pistol shots, probably dummy bullets. Almost two weeks later Mrs. Barkling has still no place to stay, no documents, no clothes, no idea why she had been evicted, why her dogs were taken away or what happened to them. This happens in Bulgaria, Europe, XXI century to a citizen of another EU member-state. We have already contacted the Bulgarian Helsinki Committee, some journalists here and in the Netherlands, many animal welfare NGOs, a Facebook group is about to be created. We consider all these major human rights and law violations, as well as brutal Animal Welfare Act violation. About the latter we - as an NGO - are already taking action, but we can't be of much help to a woman in trouble which is why we are kindly asking you to investigate the case and assist Mrs. Barkling in finding a civilized and lawful solution out of the situation, including claims and charges against the Bulgarian authorities/officers in case of national and international law violation.

Sincerely yours,
Dipl.Eng. Georgi Serbezov
M.F.A. Penka Popova

Per Aspera Ad Astra...

We live, then we die. Our heart beats millions of times, then suddenly stops. We are either alive, or dead. There is nothing in between. One life, live it!

Sitting outside the church this glorious summer day, I wait for my daughter to come out of Sunday school.  These young children slowly file out of the church hall, all tender and naïve, with their lives ahead of them. I wonder which path each will take. A tribute to Gary Moore plays on the radio. I listen to his voice in an interview, followed by Parisienne Walkway. Most people do not know the meaning behind the words of this song. Philip Parris Lynott was born in Birmingham in 1949, the illegitimate son of an Irish Catholic teenager. He grew up in Manchester and Dublin, and seems to have constructed an elaborate mythology about the father he never knew, and after whom he was named, Cecil Parris. In January 1976, an up and coming pre-Moore Thin Lizzy was featured in the weekly Titbits magazine. The story came to the attention of Cecil Parris, and led to the two meeting for the first time, but if Parris was pleased to find he had a rock star son, to Lynott his newfound father was a bitter disappointment. "Parisienne Walkways" was an attempt to reconstruct the lost romance of the enigmatic figure he never knew.

Thoughts of my own father flashed though my mind. Being quite an eccentric man, he had always encouraged me to do the most adventurous and often outrageous things, for which I am eternally grateful. Way back then, he knew that one day you would only regret the things that you never did. So, with that philosophy, we tried everything and absolutely anything that seemed of interest and out of the ordinary.

It feels like yesterday that I was a young choir boy, spending many fun filled days running around the cathedral grounds after morning mass. Days and long hours would be spent practicing at perfecting our young voices, other days spent sitting at the mammoth pipe organ that was such a thrill and privilege to play. This monster had four manuals, a two and a half octave radial concave pedal board, dozens of stops and presets, and breathed from an enormous blower below the church. The routine of starting up this giant before mass was always exciting. To any young boy, all of this resembled a flight deck from some ancient Da Vinci contraption, or something out of a Jules Verne storybook. At the slightest touch of our fingers we could bring the entire cathedral to shake from floor to rooftop and bell tower. Rehearsals of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue, Baroque era pieces such as Jeremiah Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary would while away the time, always played with gusto and the enthusiasm of a young heart. Often these recitals in the empty cathedral would get totally out of control, with the priest running in from the rectory with arms waving in the air to quiet it down.

There were the holidays at a small coastal fishing village of Port Alfred, where we lived in an old mill house right on the rivers’ edge. The house had been there for centuries. Originally sailing ships on route from the east would tie up alongside the millhouse and offload their supplies for the settlers along the Eastern Cape of Southern Africa. Beneath the house was a cellar, with a tunnel under the road leading through the hill to an old castle above. The tunnel had caved in years before, but as young children we easily imagined the ghosts of sailors in the dungeon below. Year after year I would go paddling down the river in my canoe. Soon it was proudly replaced by a small wooden dingy, powered by a two horsepower Seagull petrol engine. This little two stroke engine would scream away on the transom, making any kind of conversation with a friend impossible, and waking up the old retired locals as they took their afternoon nap. It would move the boat at a snail’s pace of perhaps two miles an hour. Hearing us from far down the river, my mom would have an hour’s warning to prepare supper before we even arrived at the jetty. At the end of each day, salty and suntanned brown, we would unbolt the engine, and haul it up the steep wooden jetty to the garage beneath the house where it would be rinsed down and oiled. The boat was often laden with crabs crawling around at our feet, with the few fish that we had caught which would be grilled on the outside fire.

It was on one of these summer days that a huge fish appeared swimming along the river surface past the house. But, fish usually do not swim on top of the water! In an instant I was in the canoe, paddling frantically in pursuit of this strange fish. Finally, exhausted and about to give up, I reached it. The poor fish also looked rather tired, and for the next ten minutes or so I grappled in an attempt to get this fish the size of a child on board. Eventually it was safely at my feet, and with the canoe just about ready to sink, with tired aching arms I paddled back home. The fish survived, and after resting a couple of days in an enclosure next to the jetty, it was released, this time happily disappearing below the surface. We assumed that it must have been washed in through the raging river mouth half a mile away from the Old Mill house. The nights would be spent watching the river mouth from upstairs, where fishing boats would battle their way in through its treacherous waters, waves and strong currents crashing against the two rocky piers that stretched out into the Indian Ocean. Violent storms and lightning would illuminate the mouth at night. Inside the house hung old pictures of sailing ships that had made it through and tied up alongside the Mill House, and then there were the hundreds of wrecks strewn along the coast. This house had seen so many characters and events in all the time it had stood here, it seemed to have the souls of a hundred sailors and pirates within its walls, or so it felt to a young boy.

From that day onward, I had come to realize the joy of saving any living creature in order for it to live longer. That river went on to provide us with an endless variety of animals to rescue, from seals, penguins, dolphins and just about anything the sea would wash up each day. To this day, I carry with me a burning desire for conservation of any living creature

During my early years, I had already developed symptoms of a mysterious illness with frequent spells of pain and blindness. At fourteen years of age I was on all types of treatment. Despite this, I was determined to one day pass the physical test to join the Airforce.

At that time, I was already familiar with the South African Airforce motto….which I would always hold on to.

                  “Per Aspera Ad Astra”

        “Through Adversity to the Stars”

Sean

A lynx and Hade-da's...

Being a lynx, and considering her wild nature, it was not unexpected that soon she would take command of the house and its inhabitants. Everyday would become an adventure, from Rosie’s game of chasing the hysterical maids into the toilet at the end of the garden, where we would find one of them perched on top of the toilet or clinging for dear life from the rafters. The news of this much feared animal quickly made its way into the township where the African staff lived. Gardeners would disappear and never return, and building workers would often refuse to enter the property. After all, the native population had an inherent fear of these predators, told to them in villages by their forefathers. After each mock attack, she would turn and stroll away, then roll around on her back with joy and glee as though nothing had happened.

The rustle of shopping bags would bring her charging into the kitchen. All chicken and meat would be packed away with haste, often having to throw a piece across the garden in order to ‘move’ her. Local butchers had come to know about Rosie, and always had a treat of venison or springhare ready to send home for her. On every shopping visit they would be eager to hear about the latest of her antics.

On many occasions, family dinner or lunch would be reduced to a serving of only vegetables, with Rosie having snatched the chicken or Sunday roast from the kitchen counter. I soon found her in the long grass under her favourite tree, endulging in a fine leg of lamb. Family gatherings would be centered around the movement of this unpredictable and at times illusive cat. Friends would be seated around the dinner table chatting for hours, while we thought Rosie was safely locked outside. Without warning, a sudden hiss would explode from under the table, chairs and furniture scattered as family would fall over themselves trying to escape. During all the conversation she had quietly slipped in, not to miss out on any gathering or company. In her defence, I would agree that she had become annoyed at someone's continuous boring ramble; she had sensed my irritation and decided that enough of this, and voiced her own opinion with a tremendous hiss from below! She would be loved by a few, and feared by all others.

At just a few years old, Rosie had reached adolescence, and started practicing her instinctive hunting skills. Every night she would settle down on the bed next to me. Sprawled out at full length, she would take up most of the bed. A few hours after midnight I would be jolted awake as the pillow would be ripped from beneath my head, the hot breath in my face, and growling of what appeared to be a possessed creature at my side. The second pillow was now torn away and cast aside, then the duvet would be pulled off in a vicious tug of war. Next went the mattress, an entire queen size bed with me still clinging on top would be dragged across the floor. Her jaws were locked onto the corner, while her powerful legs pulled the mattress from its base. I would be left without any protection, leaping onto the bedside pedestal. For years I could never understand this relationship between Rosie and the pillows, until one day the obvious dawned upon me - I had always preferred to sleep under a duvet and pillows filled with feather down. Rosie had waited for me to fall asleep, and at night she would hunt and kill the bed! Nothing would survive her claws and teeth, with her captured pillows being torn and plucked.

This was the nocturnal side of having more than a handful of a cat in the home.

A pair of large birds called Hade-Da’s had taken up residence in our garden. These are large, heavily bodied brown birds with long pointed curved bills, who are notorious for their screeching sound of “Haa- Haa-Haa de da”. Within a short time of Rosie watching these two from a distance, one day she felt it necessary to put her stalking skills into action. The pair of large birds were on the lawn when she decided to launch herself from a low crouch into a sprint. While I held my breath from afar, I realized that her dash had something peculiar about it. In an instant she had reached the two birds, but pulled up to an abrupt stop just inches away. As she stood there, the male bird took one step forward and decisively pecked her directly on top of her head, right between her proud tufted ears ! In an instant she had dashed for cover. Looking confused and dazed, the ever feared lynx had now been outwitted by a bird!

The two Hade-Da birds lived happily within the garden, and at each flight they would let out a loud screech overhead, as if in gesture to Rosie watching from below. Within a few months they had their first chick, who would perch on the wall for hours gazing down at this lynx. Soon he also learnt how to let out this Ha-Ha cry, just to add to Rosie's daily source of entertainment.

Every moment of the day is filled with an adventurous event, and through the eyes of nature life itself is a blessing

Sean

A rose has thorns, a cat has claws...

African summers over the inland Karoo region create dry, arid flat plains with sparse vegetation. This is sheep and goat farming territory, along with a variety of wild buck, springhare, and hundreds of other small wildlife, all perfect food for the survival of the sub-Saharan lynx, or Rooikat as it is commonly called.

Under the camouflage of this dull, red-brown sandy bush and grass, the ruddy coloured lynx is almost impossible to spot, moving around with stealth and speed. In the open grassland, dotted with large brown rocks, the unsuspecting herd of sheep graze, with newborn lambs at their sides. Suddenly the bloodcurdling scream of a lamb sends chaos throughout the herd. Too late for some, the Rooikat charges through, attacking randomly until a few lambs, too slow and paralyzed with fear, are viciously attacked. This is the lynx’s killing field, excited at the smell of blood, he swiftly darts among the sheep. Apart from groundspeed, the lynx can launch itself up to three meters into the air, easily catching wild geese and pheasant as they take to flight.  He has been here for centuries, and along with his larger feline relative the leopard, they have lived off this land. Lion, Cheetah, Caracal, Serval and African wildcat have been just some of the predator cats sharing this vast open land.

As I walk along, the tiny red brown bundle in my hands hisses and spits. Her coat as soft as velvet, with her oversize black ears appearing like huge leaves. She is more beautiful than a rose. Just a few days old and her claws are already razor sharp. She will grow into twenty kilograms of muscle, jaws equipped with fangs to kill, and claws to tear through the flesh of any prey, the most aggressive of all the cats and feared by many. When confronted, this cat does not back down nor retreat, quite the opposite, launching itself into a full frontal attack, and always instinctively going for the soft part of the throat.

This tiny bundle would be called Rosebud, and affectionately to be known for years as Rosie.

For many weeks there would be virtually no sleep, with Rosie chirping like a bird every few hours as she would call for her bottle. The call of a lynx is a high pitch call sounding like that of a bird, cleverly disguised for nature. However, as a mature adult, an aggressive warning of an attack is a growl accompanied by loud spitting and hissing. A milk formula carefully prepared with a supplement of essential trace elements, all years of research involving many veterinary biologists. The basic formula consisting of raw milk, egg yolk, glucose and calcium, to which the supplement is added. Within two months a lynx is weaned onto a diet of solid foods of raw red meat. This was our beginning of our wonderful journey with Rosie the Rooikat.

 

                       " A rose has thorns, a cat has claws; certainly both are worth the risk."

Sean

Crossing the hemispheres and into the Balkans...

Flying across the length of Africa by night there are no signs of lights or civilized life below, until ten hours later the orange glow of Cairo appears. Soon we were across the mediteranean ocean. It was the day after Christmas.  At forty one thousand feet we flew just above cloud ceiling, a white woven pattern of cloud as far as the earths’ edge, it seemed.  Below us were the Balkan Mountains, Bosnia, Serbia and names such as Sarajevo and Kosova went through my mind. The nose dropped and we were in a steep descent into a white out cloud for what seemed like endless time. The aircraft pitched and banked as we headed for earth, continuously buffeted by turbulence. This felt like some kind of military bombing sortie, this pilot had to have been ex-military. The Russian woman seated next to me had now become very quiet. Having spent years in the Air force, I thought of how absurd and ironic my situation was. Having spent thousands of days in a unit whose purpose was to shoot down Soviet Mig fighter jets from our African skies, I knew all too well that one of our Hilda or Cactus missiles (acquired from Arab countries through obscure ways) were capable of bringing incoming Russian fighter jets down. Here I was, flying over the northern hemisphere in an aircraft filled with ex-communists !

My thoughts jolted back to the present as we broke through cloud at almost ground level. Below the wing tips lay the pine forests, mountains and valleys, with clusters of small villages tucked away in the snow clad hills of Bulgaria. The undercarriage met the icy runway, and with all reverse thrusters shuddering in protest we eventually came to a stop.

Inside the terminal I frantically looked around for the contact person who had promised to meet me Soon realizing this was not to be, I bid farewell to the Russian woman, and stepped out into a foreign winter.

With the ground temperature reaching minus thirty degrees, my arctic coat offered just enough protection. I had travelled from the African summer heat of thirty degrees plus. A difference of sixty degrees overnight.  Clothed in layers of thermals, gloves and boots, I made my way along ice covered road surface.  It would be seven days before my next contact person would meet me in a town hundreds of kilometers away. A young woman named Zdravka, in a town I had never heard of.  Outside the airport I was confronted be a yellow sea of taxis, all arguing where they would take me to. Within minutes I was bundled into a taxi by the most convincing driver, who spent what seemed to be too long driving me around Sofia. As the city lights faded behind, the car skidded to a halt, and I was unceremoniously dumped on the outskirts of town. The driver had yelled at me and snatched fifty euros from me. Lurking beside this dark road and railway track was another group of drivers. I gathered my thoughts while they laughed and jeered…the game was on. The main wiry looking villain opened a knife and slowly cleaned his nails, spitting on the ground. It was apparent that my fate lay in their hands…I had been set up. Thirty hours of travel had left me tired and annoyed, any fears I might have had were dispelled by this rough bunch of thugs’ behavior.

Further down the dark icy road, a group of striking girls dressed in fur coats and boots looked like a fashion parade on the run. Stupidly, I asked them if this was a dangerous area. After a long, hard stare one of them replied “Thiz iz Bulgaria”.  So, perhaps my appearance was obvious as a foreigner, but I quickly reminded myself that I had grown up in Africa, in a land where danger is all around by day and night.

My cellphone had no reception, and rapidly the city was disappearing into darkness. Within minutes one would freeze to death outside. I took my second chance with the oldest looking taxi driver. A rough, old man with a different look in his eyes. This man drove me out of the predicament and dropped me off at a small hotel. Another fifty euros in his grubby hands, but I was grateful to him.

As I collapsed on the hotel bed I thought of how far I had come, but still faced the journey ahead to reach my ultimate destination high up in the north central Balkans.

Within a few hours I was out on the road again. The attractive blond girl loading the bus looked completely out of place, and would have appeared more fitting on a Parisian ramp. She frantically shook her head from side to side, repeatedly shouting “Da!” as I enquired whether this bus went to Veliko Turnovo. The bus pulled away, leaving me up to my knees in the snow. I had just missed the bus, in my mentally exhausted state I had forgotten that someone shaking their head here meant yes!

Later that day on the next bus, it climbed through mountains and tunnels, passing dozens of villages along the way. The entire country was covered in a thick white blanket of snow. We arrived in Veliko Turnovo that night, a beautiful city with medieval streets and a walled castle.

Once off the bus, the little yellow taxis ground slowly through the snow. The guest house where I was booked to spend the next few days waiting for Zdravka was full. Not again! The owner yelled something about it being Christmas and drove me across town to the old soviet era blocks, grey unpainted concrete apartments with rusting metal. Within minutes she was demanding more money from me for this apartment, as well as costs for her guest house room, and then swiftly departed.

The entire city was snowed in, with no sign of shops or let alone food. As I sat alone in this old communist building, I contemplated how I would venture out in search of some sort of food. In the event of getting lost, there would be no one to assist. Communication was impossible, not that there were any people crazy enough to be out on the streets anyway. My body was screaming from exhaustion and hunger, and felt as though it was shutting down. The only sound at night was the howling of dogs outside in the frozen elements. With all the last strength and will power, I ventured outside, slowly walking up the icy road, climbing over snow piles and I eventually found a café and long needed food!

A few days later I met Zdravka, who gave me a warm welcome and introduced me to her Bulgarian culture. We then continued the journey north to the village were my newly purchased house awaited.

Who would have believed that I would spend the following year travelling repeatedly in and out of this distant country!

Regards

Sean

It blew the windows out...

As I ignited the gas torch in my left hand, it crackled. The hose exploded down its length, a blast followed as the oxy-acetylene gas mixture blew the cylinder through a concrete wall. Windows exploded out across the main street. We were tumbling down the stairwell. One blast after another, we watched from below as our workshop ripped itself apart. The entire top floor of the building was ablaze. Years of constant work were now on fire, fuelled by the gas pipe from under the main street in the heart of the city. In the surrounding streets chaos ensued…this was the 1980’s, and South Africa was experiencing regular terrorist bomb blasts. The country was on edge. Police and bomb squads were on the scene. The city centre was quickly cordoned off, with sniffer dogs searching for more possible bombs. Still the fire raged on, threatening the entire structure of the building. Firefighters were battling to extinguish a blaze that now had a constant fuel supply. Finally the main gas supply was located and turned off.  My jewellery workshop, which I had just invested borrowed money into, was now destroyed. This was my life and soul blown up in flames. My only form of income was in a pile of ash.

I sat on the pavement and wept. The workshop, with all its specialized tools and equipment that I treasured, was now a smoldering shell. On the ground floor an art shop with special brushes, papers and canvases was the victim of water and smoke damage, the owner hysterical for weeks to come.

Days later we entered the dark, wet sarcophagus. Cleaning up would continue for months. Long days were spent with goldsmiths carrying buckets of rubble downstairs. The insurance company refused to pay, eventually settling with a cheque for one tenth of my costs.

My only option was to start again. I had staff to pay, debt, and the challenge of minimal equipment. Day by day we slowly climbed back from where we had fallen. Not only did we recover, but went on to purchase our own building, which was to be the permanent premises for Aztec Gold Jewellers. We would go on to supply diamonds and the finest jewellery to clients from all over the world.  Years later I would look back upon that day as yet another one of life’s hurdles.

When faced by a brick wall, break it down and walk through, you never know what lies on the other side.

Regards,

Sean