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THE TALE SPINNER
IN THIS ISSUE:Vol. XVI, No. 2 January 9, 2010 Zvonko Springer describes the next step in their safari Richard Ross concludes his account of life in an African village Peter Rollo writes about Christmas weather in Australia Dick Monaghan remembers choosing comfort over prestige Don Henderson sends the story of a gluttonous fox terrier Pat Moore, Tome Kyle, and Tom Telfer suggest websites  Zvonko Springer starts the second week of their KENYAN SAFARI We got up at our leisure on Friday, August 27, to start the second week of the safari by driving from the north provinces of Kenya to the west. We crossed the bridge and followed the right bank of the Uaso Nyiro to Archer’s Post on a dry earthen road with lots of gravel that banged on the floor plate like machinegun fire. At 30km/h we drove through an empty countryside, wondering where the animals had disappeared. At Archer’s Post we saw Samburu Massais dressed in their native red clothing. We wanted to take pictures of the women with kids, but they charged for each picture, so we forgot it. We went on to Isiolo and proceeded without stopping at the road forking to Naniyuki. The tarmac road climbed after Ngare Ndare, with splendid views mainly towards Mt. Kenya, enveloped in clouds most of the time. Passing through a cedar tree forest, we went through some passes that brought us to green valleys, some of which were fenced as for the pastures. Short of Naniyuki we came to the access road to William Holden’s Kenya Safari Club so we risked 15km to arrive to an iron gate and a board stating: "Members only!" and "Daily membership fees £1 p.p." Forget it! Back at Naniyuki, we got gas and were given the message that our friends had repaired their car and had driven off towards Thomson’s Falls and Gilgil on their way to Naivasha. We had a different idea: to cross through the Aberdere Range to get to the same place. However, we did not know then that the road through Aberdere's was closed. Naniyuki made a good impression with clean, wide streets, many shops, and nice houses with nicely-kept gardens, and its countryside with many well-cultivated fields. Soon after the town we crossed the Equator again to continue in the Southern Hemisphere on a macadam road towards Nyeri at a good speed of up to 80km/h. We reached Nyeri after a short but steep climb. The nearby countryside was well known for the cultivation of coffee and tea, and there were many plantations of bananas etc. Nyeri was a modern town that was started after World War II with wide streets and good public buildings and houses set in beautiful gardens. After lunch we went to the police station to enquire about the road conditions in the Aberdere Range. An officer explained that the passage was not possible even with a Land Rover, due to the recent heavy rains. Seeing our VW Beatle, he said: "Just forget it, please!" So there was no other way but to proceed to Fort Hall and then to Nairobi, about a 200-km drive on a tarmac road. We had passed through it before, but it was still pleasant to traverse this hilly country with rich soil and cultivated meadows. In about two hours we got into Nairobi centre during the rush hour, which made the journey rather strenuous. Passing through the town centre, we got on the main road that lead westwards towards Uganda. From there on, the ride was relaxing as we passed through the western suburbs. On the hillsides were private houses sited in gardens with mostly reddish bougainvilleas flashing like stars in lush green surroundings. Outside the city we entered the Kikuyu Land, with cultivated fields with vegetable and orchards on the hillsides. Heavy clouds gathered in the west, making me anxious to get down the escarpment before the rain started. At the roadside stood children and some women offering various goods for sale. There were trays with vegetables or fruits, but also some other trade objects like ornaments and woven baskets. Ljiljana saw a beautiful multihued basket made of dry grass and asked me stop. The moment the car stopped, a flood of objects was pushed through the open windows, so we closed them all to prevent pilfering. Ljiljana got out of the car and found the girl holding that basket. She took it and returned to the car, followed by the girl and a cluster of other children, shouting and offering their goods. She opened the door and a few hands with various objects came after her. There was nothing else to do but to start the car and move slowly forward so that the crowd dispersed. However, the poor girl ran behind for some time and got her money after all. It was high time to get down the escarpment on the road with too many bends, which could be dangerous in the rain that might start at any moment. The drop down the escarpment is about 600m to the Rift Valley’s floor. Italian war prisoners built this very remarkable road that reminds one of Alpine roads. About halfway down we got into a real downpour and darkness set in. I slowed down cautiously around the bends. Several miles out of Naivasha we saw the dim surface of Lake Naivasha in the last weak rays of the setting sun. The last drops of rain fell as we reached our destination of the Lake Hotel on the lake's east shore. It had been a long day for the driver as we started at 8 a.m. and drove some 465km in 10 hours. I was dog tired for sure! We had enough time for a bath and a stroll around the gardens, which were echoing with bird song, before dinner was served at 8:00PM. We found our friends at the dinner table. They had encountered no problems on their route from Nanyuki via Thomson’s Falls and Gilgil to the Lake Hotel. They had erected their tent somewhere nearby and I asked whether they would find it in the darkness. Their route was a bit shorter, but there was nothing exceptionally interesting to see except the waterfall. I recorded some birds’ sounds as they were settling for the night. We were back in our room and in bed by 9:30. To be continued. Richard Ross continues his story of his life in A SMALL AFRICAN VILLAGE I woke up the next morning, as I would many more times, to the cacophony of boisterous livestock. As a child, having been aboard my share of hayrides and having passed through a petting zoo or two, I recognized straightaway the chorus of baas, barks, neighs, grunts, and oinks. It was at first a lot to negotiate: a sandy village covered in horse shit, but step-by-step, I would soon make tracks of my own. Following the first cries of the rooster at 4:30 a.m. precisely, I rather groggily came to accept life on the farm. Often abandoning my scorching Nesquik and loaf of bread, I spent my breakfasts ushering wayward chickens out from inside my room and herding ugly, crooked-legged goats, who beeped unceasingly from my front gate. Once I even stood between the growing antipathies of a ratty cow and a burly horse, to see that the quarrel was settled before all of us carried on. But nothing was more distressing than when a moribund cat, crossing my path, whispered its last meow and before my very eyes, keeled over. She was later pitch-forked by my brother and taken by wheelbarrel to the compost. Seldom was there any real escape from the rambunctiousness in merry Ker-Sadero and in those moments when I and my American coeval, Erin, eked out a wisp of privacy, we were promptly forestalled. After lunch, we often sat reflecting on Russian literature, not realizing that for the busybodies outside, we had pulled the curtain on something else a whole lot more salacious. One afternoon in particular, when we had recklessly overstepped our propinquity, we were investigated by the whole harem, one concubine after the next. They teetered at the doorway, occasionally entering, roaming awkwardly from corner to corner. Proceeding with the theatrical insouciance and chit-chat that a detective without a warrant so purposefully does, they searched, hungrily, for the scandal. But as I had said before, behind the hanging drape of privacy, we had little to show but a sophistic critique of Tolstoy. One wife, a bit more fit and fertile, spent the daylight freighting watermelons in her arms and, on her back, harnessing her newborn Mohammed. Mohammed was not alone, for many Senegalese babies are introduced to life as baby kangaroos are - on the trot, sunken snug into the pouch of their mother. As she entwined her newborn in loops of her taut fabric, she spoke happily. So very happily, I was soon entwined by the fine stitch of her spirit. She desired euphoria and in the opportunity to teach a foreigner her language, she demanded that he know the euphoric words too. "How was the day in the city? "Nex-na!" "How is the rice?" "Nex-na!" It was all Nex-na! And the more you repeated it for her, "Nex-na ... Nex-na!", the more her mouth watered like the pink pulp of her watermelons.  For most of my stay lunch was only an agreeable activity for the infidel; indeed, for the others, the month of September was the month of the fast (Ramadan) and every Muslim in the village would pass time, as they would otherwise, slow and low, but without food in their stomachs, their sloth now a topic of discussion. As the state of sloth heightened as the days passed, the women still had to cook for their infidel of a guest, with less verve and more slapdash, and the plates, subsequently, had less zing and more slop. But towards the late afternoon, when the sun grew as lazy as all those who, the whole day long, hid from it, the mood of the country changed. Minutes before sunset, Senegalese would rise from the puddles of lassitude where they had lain, and all at once, in some weird act of urgency, they would gather around a bucket of hot sugary milk. There they would chew bread with new strength and a contagious joyfulness, and I, having usually just returned from my early evening jog, would let the cool sweat dry in the warmth of their friendly company. On the afternoons following the fast, the lunch hour returned as the day’s paramount happening. The forceful commissariat, manned by child-bearing wives and prepubescent girls, took their posts in the kitchen early. For the next few hours, pots and pans jangled to the beat of gossipy hoo-ha. Bespattering their arms and hands with the scaly flesh of fish, they prepared one bowl of Ceebu jën after the next.  Ceebu jen, pronounced "Chebbew Jin" is Wolof for rice and fish, and is the national dish of Senegal. For a Senegalese person, perhaps the dish whets the same passion as cheese may for the Frenchman, or sushi for the Japanese, but never have I seen a person of any nationality approach his gastronomy with such voraciousness as the Senegalese. A fairer comparison may only lie with the grizzly bear and his ravenous appetite for head, scale, and tail.Cooking Ceebu jen is an art form, requiring a fine balance between proportions, between boil and simmer, and between season and spice. It’s prepared in a tin bowl deep enough to bathe a young toddler and shiny enough for a teenage girl to do her make up – both of which functions I’ve seen. But it is in the bowl's final shake that the true Senegalese shines, when all her ingredients, in a few sudden thrusts, bleed their juices into the greater medley, and the true flavour of this vivid rich culture sizzles. Until that is, small and big hands crawl up the rim and together plunge - with fingertips soon to meet - in the burning inner core of mush. ED. NOTE: Richard's account ends here, but he does write a blog detailing his adventures. Unhappily, the address I have for the blog does not work, so as soon as I receive one that does, I will include it in an upcoming newsletter. CORRESPONDENCE Peter Rollo writes about their AUSTRALIAN CHRISTMAS Thelma and I had a very happy and family-oriented Christmas day. As is normal in this country, the weather was like the inside of an oven: hot and dry. You may have read or seen where one of our small country towns called Toodyay was ravaged by a large bush fire, and forty houses were burned to the ground. Fortunately, no lives were lost. Very sad when something like this happened during the festive season . We have had some very hot weather during the last fortnight. In fact, two days ago we had two consecutive days when the temperature went to 40 degrees C, which is well over 100 degrees F. On Sunday it is expected to reach 39 degrees. Thank the Lord for air conditioning! Dick Monaghan recalls an incident far in the past: PRESTIGE IS NO MATCH FOR COMFORT, AT LEAST IN THE ARMY More than a half-century ago, I was a corporal and a third-trombone player in the United States Army, serving in Germany. As a corporal, I was sent to Non-Commissioned Officers' School in Munich, where I roomed with two grizzled line sergeants who had little use for (1) corporals who wore glasses, (2) "flute tooters"), and (3) "intellectuals" who owned portable typewriters and could type. I might as well have worn a tutu with my Eisenhower jacket. I was the butt of jokes devoid of subtlety. They called me "perfessor" ... Until it was announced that we students would submit book reports, the quality of which would be used, in part, to determine our grades. Good grades were important to my roommates retaining their rank, and they writhed in sudden panic, their literacy levels residing somewhere between "add oil" and "system failure." "Okay," I said, "I'll do your damned book reports, provided you get off my case, knock off the 'perfessor', and be reasonably polite." I have rarely been treated to a more touching display of gratitude. One said that if I tranferred to his outfit, I would be a staff sergeant in no time. I replied that I would also be washing tank treads at 3 a.m., and I would just as soon stay a corporal in a warm rehearsal room and enjoy unbroken slumber (most of the time, excepting "alerts"). I have never regretted that decision. Don Henderson forwards a story that those of you who have/had animals will probably appreciate. It is a story that is hilarious in itself, and the person who wrote it is a good writer and made the story even better. JASPER AND THE UNBAKED YEAST ROLLS We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue program. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10-year-old child about whom you know nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent. Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me. Lest you think this is a bad case of "no discipline", I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to break him of this habit, including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress. Five weeks ago we began remodelling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family, extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time. I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did attend. I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the whole darn house that worked, thus the assignment. I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wednesday evening to reheat Thursday morning. Since the kitchen was freshly painted, you can imagine the odour. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for a few hours. Perry and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to go in the oven. It was 8:30. When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock, one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty. I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated. I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK; however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every two hours for the rest of the night. God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice it to say, that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white, and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night. We arose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing, put the dog out to relieve himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt, and most of the time when he was walking ,his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction. He couldn't lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in our back yard, he couldn't stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence. His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon. I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk. He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about four or five hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol. Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister's house for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day. My sister lives outside of Muskogee on a ranch, (10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less 12), and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between Perry and me, we took off. Now I know you probably don't believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that's not the worst of it. Now he was beginning to fart and they smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip to Karen's, thankful she didn't live any further away than she did. Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister's garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper's latest endeavour to walk without running into something. Of course, as the old adage goes, "what goes in must come out" and Jasper was no exception. Granted, if it had been I who had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but alas, a dog's digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a mixed blessing when we prepared to leave Karen's house. Having discovered his "packages" on the garage floor, we loaded him in the car so we could hose down the floor. This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor and the poop on the floor withstood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure. We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off the floor. And as if this wasn't degrading enough, the darn dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed too. Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second Thanksgiving dinner at Perry's sister's house. I am happy to report that as of today (Monday), the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolour. None the worse for wear, I presume. I am also happy to report that just this evening I found two risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door. It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding two of them for later would not be a bad idea. Now, I'm doing research on the computer as to: "How to clean unbaked dough from the carpet". And how was your day? THIS WEEK'S SUGGESTED SITES Pat Moore forwards the URL for a site we have seen before but is well worth watching again. It shows how one man figured out a way that Stonehenge could have been built, and single-handedly demonstrated his method: ~~~~~~~ http://www.cbc.ca/technology/story/2010/01/05/google-phone.html ~~~~~~~  "You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream." - C. S. Lewis Edited by Jean Sansum. You can contact her at : Jean |