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THE TALE SPINNER
IN THIS ISSUE:Vol. XVI, No. 4 January 23, 2010 Zvonko Springer takes up his story of their safari Pat Moore comments on an update by Richard Ross Geoff Goodship and Jim Olson have suffered serious injuries Frank Sterle writes about the fish that got away Tom Kyle sends the story of a thoughtful husband Catherine Green forwards another blonde joke Sites are suggested by Bruce Galway, Gerrit deLeeuw, Louise Kruithof, and Pat Moore  Zvonko Springer continues his story of their FIRST KENYAN SAFARI After breakfast, we decided that we would stay at the lake that day. We hired a rowboat, and dressed in swimming trunks and hats and shirts, spent the day on the water. We took a water pitcher and some dry cakes and fruit, as well as the recording equipment with us. We set out rowing vigourously at first in an open channel between a thick cover of blue-violet water lilies. We spent a fine day without traffic noise or congestion or any problems except for rowing between thick water growths. When we got tired of rowing so often we used the oars to push us forward when we got tangled in the roots. We wanted to get to Crescent Island that was separated by a channel from the peninsula where we had spent the night. Several paths were cleared through the carpet of water plants, allowing better progress, but we were getting tired of rowing or shoving so we paused often while Vesna checked on birds' names. She had two books with her titled “Tropical birds” and “East African birds” and with great accuracy she marked each kind we saw along our path. We passed through the channel but the idea to circumnavigate Crescent Island soon had to be abandoned due to the wind blowing against us. It was easy to turn around in the open waters so we returned with the wind to the channel and the way we came. From somewhere came a strange sound like “honk honk hooch hooo huh” that we could not record because of the wind blowing against the microphone. The sound came from a few hippos that inhabited the lake in quite a number. Tired but happy we came to the landing, astonished that we had been out for a full four hours. It was time for lunch, followed by a good rest. For some unknown reason, Vesna made some racket that woke us up. Ljiljana was annoyed and said that we would not go to look for the farm. Instead, Vesna would have to stay in the hotel while we went to Nakuru to fill up the petrol tank and to buy some food for our next day-long journey to Kenya South. We had in some way a different feeling on the way back as there was no usual noise coming from the rear seat. We were used to Vesna’s chatter or querying or muttering most of the time. No wonder - she was a young and spirited teenager of 11 years. Yet we had to admit that she was the most attentive one of us, particularly when it came to noticing animals or interesting things. As the driver, my full concentration was on the road and driving the car. Ljiljana was responsible for judging where and when we should stop to take pictures or a recording, and of course for feeding us too. She also took notes about the travel events that I could use to write the report later. We found Vesna somewhat disgruntled by the reprimand but she showed us an extensive record of animals that we have seen on the safari up to then. This made us all cheerful again and we praised her for her efforts and her attentiveness. Ljiljana asked to be commended for her hard rowing efforts too, and showed a blood blister under her wedding ring. We packed what we could put aside and went out to do some sound recording of the settling birds before we went to dine. After some chat with a few guests we left the dining room, walked through the park to the lakeshore, and were in bed by 9:00 o'clock. We expected a long and difficult drive to Kenya South the next day so it was necessary to have a good rest, particularly for the driver, whose perseverance and energy would be in demand. The information we could gather about road conditions to Kenya South were rather scarce and incomplete. Our next destination was the Masai Mara Game Reserve and Narok was the only large township on the way over the Mau Escarpment. We started soon after breakfast and shortly before we got to the main road to Nairobi, there on a small board stood the name of the farm we were supposed to visit. There was no time for it now as I expected a long drive with many slow sections to the Masai Mara region. We missed the junction for Narok and had to return some hundred meters to get on that gravel road. It was easier to keep in the wheel ruts but the shaking was hard to bear after a while. On some stretches the ruts were deeper so the higher middle part scratched the bottom of the car. That was bearable so long it was soil, but rocks made an awful screech. Sometimes I tried to get out of the ruts but risked falling into a gully or sliding on the wet black cotton soil (notorious loam!) or hitting a stone. The ride on the gravelled road along the Mau Escarpment was not a joy. The first 15km the road climbed, demanding particular attention when driving behind another car through a cloud of dust. On the Suswa plateau, the road section had been levelled by a scraper recently, allowing speeds of up to 40km/h until a board announced, “Drive slowly! You MUST drive slowly – Escarpment.” The descending road had been cut into sedimentary rock and some volcanic tuff and was very tricky, partly due to many curves and its narrow width. At last arriving down in the Rift Valley, we crossed a river over a massive bridge and after a short climb came to Narok at 11:00. We had needed 2.5 hours for this first stretch of some 100km of the total of 240km envisaged for this day. Narok was a small town but clean, probably because of the garbage collectors like ants and many scavenger birds sitting in wait everywhere. In the town we saw the Masai, dressed traditionally in their red tunics wrapped around their naked bodies. They carried long spears and sheathed long double-bladed knives and truncheons thrust into belts. We had learned not to take pictures of a Masai on our previous encounters. The women were similarly dressed and wore adornments made of threaded small pearls that were really decorative. We left the town soon after getting gas and enquiring about the way to the Masai Mara Game Reserve, despite Vesna’s strong protests. She had seen several horses in a paddock probably belonging to a riding school or club. I could not grant her wish to stop as I had to drive another say 140km on an unknown road. Soon I saw in the mirror two cars approaching at higher speed as their drivers obviously knew that road of hard macadam. A Rover with a priest as the driver was followed by Ford Taunus, and they passed us at 70km/h, which was madness under those road conditions. I wished them to go to hell and continued driving at 50km/h until we arrived safely at the reserve entrance. The Masai Mara Game Reserve consisted of two parts. In the so-called developed part, the Masai tribe built their settlements (“boma”) and used the lands as pastures for their cattle herds. The other part remained as the original wilderness where the animals could move about unmolested. We needed permits for both parts when signing the entrance book (names, address, date and time of entry as well as car and permit numbers). A good-looking Masai woman asked us to take her to a nearby boma but we had to refuse because of the Masai’s specific body odour that you could not get out of the car seat fibre. The hard-rolled road surface enabled faster driving over the plain but small gravel thundered against the car floor, even at 25 to 40km/h speed. We crossed several dry gullies with concrete floors which we had to descend and ascend with care because of the VW's low body. We met several Masai herdsmen (cattle and goats) who were mostly boys, and whose dogs ran after us barking, particularly when we had to pass a gully. We waved to them and they reciprocated, calling their dogs back. Due to the high-standing sun, we noticed some mirages (known as the Fata Morgana) appearing in the steppe's vibrating hot air like those we had seen in the Sudan. After some 30km in the steppe, we saw the Ford Taunus pulled by another car back in the direction of Narok. Had my curse worked? After a while we got onto an old track with black cotton soil that is notorious when wet for turning into a slippery quagmire dangerous for any car caught into it. I had to watch to bypass some section with deeper ruts that were reminders of past rains. We came to the Olemelepo Gate and paid the normal entrance fees Sh10 for the car and Sh5 p.p. Vesna was declared as “toto kuba” (girl big) so she paid the same Sh5 as a “memsab kidogo” (lady small), explained the cashier with a wide smile. At some distance from the gate, Ljiljana got out some sandwiches that we ate, accompanied by flies. That was the first and last time we tried to eat in the wildness as tsetse flies could be a real nuisance. Sleeping sickness was well controlled, and only 20% of tsetse flies present a danger. Tsetse flies follow large moving objects like a car, and when you stopped, you had to make sure to close all windows instantly. However, if you moved far enough away from a car or anything larger, then the flies would not get at you. We remembered reading this in one of Grzimek’s books, so we stepped out of the car to finish eating our sandwiches at a reasonable distance away - a picnic a la tsetse. Soon after this stop, we arrived at the gate of the Keekorok Lodge that would be our two-night stopover. To be continued. ED. NOTE: According to the World Health Organization, sleeping sickness, once considered under control, now threatens millions of people in 36 countries of sub-Saharan Africa. However, only a small fraction of them are under surveillance with regular examination, have access to a health centre that can provide diagnostic facilities, or are protected by vector control interventions. CORRESPONDENCE Pat Moore writes: I read with great interest Richard Ross' experience in the Peace Corps in Senegal. I have a grandson who is currently travelling with a similar group in different parts of Canada - Thunder Bay, now Montreal, and soon P.E.I. He is with a group of a dozen 18 and 19 year olds for a year, doing community work with an organization called Katimavik - Canada's youth volunteer-service program for young people 17 to 21 years of age. ACCIDENT REPORT Two of our contributors suffered severe accidents recently, and both are recuperating: Freddie Goodship writes: On November 30 we left home for a three-week cruise, and after a lovely holiday we arrived at Nan's place in Duncan on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, our good year came to an abrupt halt when Geoff missed a railing and went crashing down the stairs from the second floor to the first. He ended up in a heap, and was quickly taken by ambulance to the Duncan hospital. A few hours later, he was transferred to the Victoria General Hospital, where he is receiving the best of care. MRIs proved that he had a cervical disc protruding against his spinal cord, and surgery was performed to repair that. He also had five cracked ribs, a gash under his chin that required stitches, a very purple eye, and bruises over much of his body. The next day he could use three limbs again, and had a feeding tube up his nose into his stomach as his ability to swallow properly was affected. Geoff was on the critical care neurosciences floor for 12 days, but last Wednesday was transferred to the rehabilitation floor, which certainly perked up his spirits. This week he walked for the first time, and started to set some movement in his right arm. He can now get out of bed and into a wheelchair, and even went outside for a few minutes. His right arm and hand are showing signs of movement but no strength. I am having to learn how to use this laptop computer. Up until now I've never used it, so must do a quick learning process. ED. NOTE: Today I received a note from Geoff: This comes to you from Freddie's fingers and a computer in the rehab unit at Victoria General Hospital. Progress is slow but in the right direction. Jim Olson writes: Last month I fell on the ice and broke various parts of both arms, resulting in hospitalization, a right elbow replacement, and now temporary residence in a nursing home doing rehabilitation. I have recovered enough movement in my right hand to use the computer here provided for residents. Later I'll try to do a short piece about nursing home life as seen from the inside, the trials and tribulations, as well as some of the humour. It only hurts when I laugh. ED. NOTE: I know you join me in wishing our convalescents a speedy recovery. If you wish to send them a get-well card or a letter, write to me for their addresses. Frank Sterle tells the story about a fishing net: THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY We had talked about it for so long and were finally putting words into action. My good friend Al and I, both 16, had made the monotonous bus trip from White Rock to the fishermen’s drydock in Steveston and gathered enough material to put together our own miniature gill net. It was about 4x3 meters in size and consisted of a piece of light-green web hung from a thin yellow rope and weighted down by a lead line. The net was small enough to carry down to the Little Campbell River in a black plastic garbage bag, with room to spare for any salmon we might catch that night. It was early October, 1984, and the salmon were migrating to spawn. They were making their way into Semiahmoo Bay from Washington state waters and then into and up the Little Campbell. Al and I had witnessed, with understandable envy, the sport fishermen catching their quota day after day during the prior couple weeks, and we felt confident that we would do at least as well. Al, always the one to take most of the risks involved in our joint ventures, had crawled across a fallen tree bridging the four-meter span at that point on the river. “How can we miss?” said Al, securing his end of the net around a tree on the south bank, which was Indian reservation land. “The fish can’t pass without hitting the net.” We sat down on opposite banks and lit up our cigarettes. Sitting there silently, mostly for fear of scaring away any fish, we stared at the seemingly lifeless water flowing through our empty net for about 15 minutes before I looked up. The falling darkness was absorbing the many tree branches above us. The night meant we had to work in the dark but also meant that any unwanted attention to our activity was unlikely. “Something would’ve hit by now if there was anything here,” I said to Al, and suggested we move on. “Yeah, you’re right. Not a single jumper,” he replied, and flicked away what was left of his second cigarette. “Let’s hit the golf course.” In case we failed to reap harvest at our first fishing spot, the contingency plan was to try our luck at the nearby South Surrey golf course. It was cut in half by the river, which could be crossed on bridges at various points. To get there, we had to cross the freeway - underneath which flowed the river; jump a deep but narrow ditch and slip through a small gap in a tall fence. Al led the way, assuring me that the first bridge was near the lighted pole penetrating the darkness before us. But as we walked over the short golf-course grass and the bridge revealed itself, the more skeptical I felt about the new location. It all just seemed too sterile for fish to travel through. The only thing I could picture us catching was perhaps a cold. Al, on the other hand, appeared to stride towards and onto the bridge with optimism. He stood at its center and peered down into the black river. “They’re here,” he said with confidence. “Let’s throw it in.” Except for the wood floor panels, the bridge was metallic and stretched about 15 meters across. Unlike our first spot, the river bed and banks through the golf course were made of cement. “This is too sanitary,” I said to an ignoring Al. “We’ll get nothing here.” We set the net and seated ourselves. Al lit up a cigarette, and I followed his lead. Waiting for any sign of marine life, we stared down into the darkness blanketing the flowing river. If not for the brightly-lit freeway a few hundred meters before us and the lamp post about 30 meters behind us, our eyes would’ve been completely useless. The net had lain dead in the water a good 40 minutes, and not one jumper for encouragement. I looked at Al, and he looked back at me and mumbled, “Don’t say it; I don’t want to leave yet.” It was probably too early in the season, I told him. “We’ll come back in mid October when the salmon....” And there it was: a heavy yet unseen splash below us. Both of us fell silent and looked down past our dangling feet into the darkness, but all that was left was the gentle rippling of the river running its course. And there it was again - another great splash right where our net lay, followed by continuous splashing. We jumped to our feet and pulled up the net. Squinting, we could see the entangled fish thrashing for its life like a black fly freshly caught by a spider’s web. Although it was Al’s first, he picked the slimy salmon from the net like a professional. It was a beautiful five-pound Coho and hit hard the bottom of our plastic bag. “See, you shouldn’t be so negative,” he lectured me, as we once again dropped the net. “And there’s more from where that baby came from.” He was right. Less than a minute later, another big splash overwhelmed the tempered sound of freeway traffic. “We’re going home loaded!” Al cried. He pulled the net up on his own and picked the salmon free. In his excitement, he clumsily gripped its slimy back and it slipped from his grasp like a wet bar of soap. The fish slapped the bridge’s wood floor and slid towards the edge. As though his very life depended on it, Al dived onto the floorboards to save the catch. But the fish was gone. With a fierce curse, he got back up. We reset the net, and Al apologized while assuring me that such bungling would never happen again. And once again, he was right. We fished fruitlessly for the next couple hours before heading home at 1:03 a.m. On our way home with our one fish, I told Al that somehow I knew we wouldn’t be catching any more salmon from the river - ever. “Don’t worry, there’ll be other nights and other fish,” he interjected. “And at least we got one, tonight ... eh?” There were other nights, but all were fruitless. As for that first night - and first and last gill-netted salmon, and the one that got away - I, unlike Al, went home feeling cheated and bitter. I could not help but feel that we had left that river with our proverbial glass half empty, whereas Al saw the glass as half full. Tom Kyle, who of course is a Scot by birth, sends the story of A THOUGHTFUL SCOTTISH HUSBAND A Scotsman was heading out to the pub. He turned to his wee wife before leaving and said, "Maggie - put your hat and coat on, lassie." She replied, "Aw Jock, that's nice - are you taking me tae the pub with you?" "Nay," Jock replied, "I'm switching the heat off while I'm away." Catherine Green forwards this one: THE BEAUTIFUL BLONDE AND THE JIGSAW PUZZLE A beautiful blonde calls her boyfriend and says, "Please come over here and help me. I have a killer jigsaw puzzle, and I can't figure out how to get it started." Her boyfriend asks, "What is it supposed to be when it's finished?" The blonde says, "According to the picture on the box, it's a rooster." Her boyfriend decides to go over and help with the puzzle.... She lets him in and shows him where she has the puzzle spread all over the table. He studies the pieces for a moment, then looks at the box. Then he turns to her and says, "First of all, we're not going to be able to assemble these pieces into anything resembling a rooster." He takes her hand and says, "Second, I want you to relax. Let's have a nice cup of tea, and then," he said with a deep sigh, "let's put all the cornflakes back in the box." THIS WEEK'S SUGGESTED SITES http://www.flixxy.com/water-drop.htm ~~~~~~~ On the same site is this video of an airport scene in Lisbon: http://www.flixxy.com/christmas-lisbon-airport.htm ~~~~~~~ Gerrit deLeeuw writes: You absolutely must take time to watch this video from beginning to end. I guarantee that this phenomenal young man will put you in a better frame of mind for this day: ~~~~~~~ Louise Kruithof sends this brain wake-up for the day: http://www.humorsphere.com/fun/8787/colortest.swf ~~~~~~~ http://www.businesswriting.com/tests/commonmisspelled.html ~~~~~~~ It seems to me members of the human race run around with "snow globes" for heads. That is, their minds are surrounded by imperfectly transparent spheres, inside of which they build villages to fit their own dreams. They receive information from others after it has been filtered through two "globes" and then fit it in to their own "village." In other words, there is far less communication between people than they like to think, and what there is is seriously distorted at both ends. - Dick Monaghan Edited by Jean Sansum. You can contact her at : Jean |