Exploring the Suburbs

So it's been three weeks since I started "walking for life" and I am certainly getting to know my suburb while getting fit and healthy. We are so fortunate to live in a city where nature abounds. So always the mountain is right there to keep me going...                   

 

There have been lots of people out for a walk now that the weather is warming up. I spotted this family out for a stroll...

 

...and the Vodacom man with a direct link...

 ...and walked up tree-lined hills...(see the mountain right there...). 

Yesterday a homeless couple were having a very loud fight, standing on opposite sides of the road, unperturbed by passing cars or people...the issues? He was demanding to know where his money was, and she was urging him to go to "the other woman". Seems the more you explore, the more things are just the same...

I cannot believe how much you miss out on when you drive rather than walk. 

Couch Potatoes and Olympic Glory

I braved the cold for a brisk walk around the neighbourhood yesterday afternoon.  Usually I comfort myself with the thought that those extra kilos are winter padding and that they’ll be gone come summer. But, has it been cold this winter, or what? I haven’t quite worked out if it is because of age that I have been feeling it so much, or if it actually has been much colder this year. It did snow in all nine provinces last week, so maybe it’s not quite time to phone the retirement homes. I think the Olympics have to take some of the blame for the weight gain this time around.

I have surpassed my quota of TV viewing over the last ten days of Olympic glory. Besides the athletics and swimming, I have watched events that I would never ordinarily watch – synchronised swimming, beach volleyball, even judo. It has certainly been an emotional time – wet cheeks, quivering bottom lips and joyful smiles have kept me watching the victory ceremonies.

My nerves were completely jangled by Caster Semenya’s race on Saturday – I wanted her to win that gold so much; to say “Take that!” to all her detractors... I was puzzled by how she ran the race and a little disappointed at the outcome. However, it’s no mean feat to win Olympic silver. We have bagged six medals – our greatest haul since 1992, and Rio 2016 beckons. Onwards and upwards!

The last race has been run, the last anthem has been sung...and we can get off the couch now.  In desperation I have been thinking about a gym membership. I hate the gym ordinarily but watching all those toned bodies slice into the water, lope over finishing lines and leap into the air has ignited a spark – I will have to see if I can fan it into a flame...

Rondebosch to Khayelitsha

Yesterday I travelled a relatively short distance from Rondebosch to Khayelitsha - it might as well have been on the other side of the world. We were going to one of the schools in the townships, all the way down Lansdowne Road, a familiar landmark on the Cape Flats. We went on and on for 45 minutes or more, leaving behind the tree-lined streets and high walls of the Southern Suburbs.

To start off, the road was pretty good and then gradually became more chaotic – cows were spotted rummaging through garbage on one side of the road, while on the other side, live sheep were for sale. A little further was a big open area where fires were going in drums which had been halved lengthwise, meat on the grill, fragrant smoke billowing into the air.

Here and there patches of green grass with colourful benches and tables hinted at previous attempts to encourage a communal gathering place. Along other stretches of road, shacks threatened to spill over into the road, so close that we could almost see right into their living areas.

Everything could be bought – mattresses piled high next to second-hand furniture, pre-assembled shacks of corrugated iron and wood, haircuts, general groceries and medical care. Streams of school children were making their way home past a billboard warning against the ills of drinking alcohol during pregnancy: “Your child needs a mother, not a dop”. Hooting taxis packed with weary travellers were weaving through traffic. A group of children on the back of a bakkie, passed away the time playing cards.

We attracted stares from curious pedestrians, wondering what our business was. We stopped to ask for directions only to be told to keep going straight ahead. At last we arrived at Chris Hani School where seven young girls were rehearsing for their trip to Sweden to perform in front of HM Queen Silvia. I can’t help thinking that our trip to see them was almost as far as the journey that they will make from Khayelitsha to Sweden!

Not the life and soul

I’m not the life and soul of the party. I don’t know just the right thing to say when at a cocktail party. I envy those who seem to have a store of one-liners which break the ice and start the conversation rolling. I am like a fish out of water, balancing a drink or a canapé in one hand, standing around making small talk. But I am a good listener, and once I get to know you around the dinner table or over a cup of coffee, I can ramble on as well as the next person.

My husband and daughter emit some kind of radar that draws people to them and they engage with ease, beaming in the afterglow of the interaction. People remember meeting them. On the other hand, I am always being told at parent-teacher meetings that my son has much to contribute, but is far too quiet in class, or he could be having more fun if he relaxed and opened up.

As a young boy, my son earned a reputation for himself as being a choosy playmate – teaching me to consult with him before I made any play date arrangements. “I need to rest today,” he would say, “I had a friend yesterday.” I learned to respect that – to give him his space to be by himself. After all, I could identify with that. We are both introverts and don’t need rescuing to come “out of our shells”. We are having fun, just doing it quietly.

At the bookshop last week, I spotted a book on how to make small talk; I picked it up, turned it over, read the back cover, and riffled through the pages. I was tempted to buy it. Maybe I do need to know what to say when introduced to the Prince of this or the President of that – to make a memorable impression. I walked around the aisles with it in my hand before reluctantly putting it back. I knew deep down that this was not something I could learn from a book. But, hey! There must be enough people with the same “problem” for someone to write a book, right?

Sometimes you have to accept the things you cannot change.  But I am free for coffee...

To Carbo-load or Not

Seems you can’t open a newspaper or magazine or turn on the TV these days without seeing Tim Noakes.  He is quite the guru of Sports Medicine in SA and is well-respected as an academic. My friend, Bridgette, a runner, swore that his book, The Lore of Running, was like her bible.

How disconcerting then for ordinary folk, that he does a complete about-turn on what he has been preaching for so many years. I may be mistaken but I think that he coined the term “carbo-loading” before a big race. You would be hard-pressed to find a table at an Italian restaurant on the eve of the Two Oceans Marathon or the Cape Argus Cycle tour, as everyone indulged in pasta.

Now he is going on national television and saying that he was wrong and that we should be eating more protein and fat. He is even going so far as to say that we should take his book and tear out the chapter he wrote on nutrition.

Because I have high cholesterol I have cut down on red meat and dairy products and I generally eat and live a healthy lifestyle. But sometimes it’s hard to keep track of what healthy is. One minute butter is in and margarine is out, the next it’s food-combining or high protein diets and then butter is out and margarine is in. Then there are the foods that cause cancer (or not) and the foods that are approved by the Heart Foundation and so on.

At the end of the day I think we should listen to our bodies, keep the balance and use common sense.  

Taste with your Eyes!

Surprise: an emotion that occurs when something breaks our habitual pattern.

On Friday we were indeed surprised and out of our regular routine of downing tools after a busy week ready for pizza in front of the television. We had booked in at Le Quartier Francais for dinner in their Tasting Room and were spending the night. We were joined by Swedish family friends.

The Tasting Room is regarded as one of the best restaurants in SA and we were looking forward to seeing just what it was that made them so great. We were in for an eating experience. The décor is quite funky, punctuated with flashes of bright pink and orange, but with a classic feel. The quote above was set on the table in front of us.

We chose the seven-course, African-inspired tasting menu. Each course was explained as it was set in front of us. Our waiter entertained us with little anecdotes about ingredients like buchu, baobab and biltong. The first serving of corn bread in a pilchards tin, accompanied by butter with caramelised milk solids, caused one of our friends to exclaim, “Taste with your eyes!” and that pretty much set the scene for what was to follow.

We enjoyed course after course of colourful dishes imaginatively presented on boards, different plates, and even a strip of slate. The surprise was definitely in the tasting – beetroot-red crispy looking balls dissolved in our mouths to reveal an unexpectedly soft and creamy centre; a cigar of avocado and shrimp which looked like it was encased in seaweed, splintered when we bit into it.

This was an exercise in mindfulness – we paused between courses to prepare for what was coming, delighted in the presentation, taste and smell of it and discussed the sensations which were being stimulated. We could hardly believe that 5 hours had passed. We had eaten well, but not over-eaten and dinner had been an experience to savour. Well done, chef Margot Janse van Rensburg!

Cape Town, beautiful Cape Town

Cape Town is beautiful. Seriously. And I am not just saying so because I have had an overseas visitor who I have been going around with! Yes, I know that Capetonians are guilty of taking their beautiful city for granted.

Apart from getting out there with my friend to Kirstenbosch Gardens and Kalk Bay, I am also week 3 of Boot Camp. Last week we had a session in Newlands Forest - I had no idea that there were so many people out there at 6:00 pm on a week night - joggers, people walking their dogs and, of course, the silent army of boot-campers marching along with yoga mats under their arms!

On Saturday morning, braving the rain we hiked to Elephant's Eye in the Silvermine Nature Reserve - the scenery was breathtaking and was certainly worth the sweat and pain to get there. I cannot remember when last I walked through the Reserve. Most of the sessions are on the sports fields of a local high school, in full view of Table Mountain. I can assure you that crunches, push-ups and lunges are a little less painful with the mountain, the fresh air and the grass beneath your feet for distraction! 

What attracted me to the program, was the chance to reacquaint myself with the outdoors and get my fitness levels up so that I can once again do regular hikes. Long may it last. Any takers for a regular hike (when I am fitter, of course)?

Check out the links Newlands Forest and Silvermine Reserve and Kirstenbosch Gardens for a little reminder of what's out there.

A Friend indeed

As I write this my friend is winging her way back home across the Atlantic Ocean. She was here ten years ago but we had seen each other in the US, where she lives, in 2007. This visit has been both sad and joyful for her, with a wedding and a funeral to attend.

She phoned on Saturday and we quickly arranged an impromptu pizza evening for later. She had hardly walked in the door and said hello when we were in the study deciding on the pizza order as if it was last week we had seen each other, and not four years ago.

This last week, we have caught up over countless cups of tea, explored the little shops in Kalk Bay and revisited memories in Kirstenbosch Gardens. Our children connected face to face, not via Face Book and made some memories of their own.

Over the week many memories have come flooding back – memories of carefree university days, spending Christmases together, travelling to the Eastern Cape, being one of the bridesmaids at her wedding, having babies and spending time together in the US and here.

I love how you can have such a deep connection with someone that you effortlessly pick up where you left off. What a blessing to have shared such good times that you can enjoy again. 

Kirstenbosch putting on a display for us

No Pain,No Gain?

“I am going to get fit if it kills me” was the thought that occurred to me last night as I “jog-walked” - going a little faster than walking but not quite jogging - around the sports fields of Westerford High School.  The jogging-walking was interspersed by step-ups, push-ups and crunches, and other mean things involving weights and stretchy bands. This morning the muscles underneath my muscles are complaining.

I know I have just finished the yoga challenge, but the truth is that I need to up the cardiac exercise, being of a certain age now. I hate the gym – the thought of exercising indoors is a foreign concept to me. I don’t even like the smell of the gym, the fluorescent lighting, the noise of weights knocking on weights, and the smell of chlorine wafting up from the indoor pool.

Yet over the years I have tried to overcome my aversion numerous times, but never lasting very long. In fact the longest I did stay was at the Sports Science Centre and that was about five years ago. It didn’t seem quite so “gym-y” and there were few designer-leotard-clad people about. It seemed more serious. Like business was happening there. One of the reasons I did stay, was that we went on a run through the leafy streets of Newlands and along the canal once a week.

This time I have been seduced by the promises of sessions in Newlands Forest, Silvermine Nature Reserve and Lion’s Head, and, apart from assessments, we don’t have to set foot inside the gym. I did balk at the thought of “Boot Camp”, picturing a sergeant-major-type screaming instructions at me while I dragged my body from one torture site to the next, but it’s not quite like that – or not yet anyway. In any case, I am the boss of my body and I know how far it can go.  So bring it on!

 Visit the Sports Science Institute - http://www.ssisa.com/

Moving On - St Cyprian's Day and other rituals

Last week was St Cyprian’s Day, as celebrated by my daughter’s school.  It is celebrated every year but this year had special significance for her as it is the last one of her school career. In an age-old tradition the matriculants went off the previous day to a farm in Stellenbosch where they picked lilies to decorate St George’s Cathedral for the St Cyprian’s Day service. They ended off with a picnic.

On the day the girls dress in their summer uniform with their hair in French braids, done up with a blue ribbon. They walk down from Oranjezicht, through the Company Gardens to the Cathedral for the evensong service. Old girls come from far and wide to join in the celebration and afterwards there is a sumptuous feast on the lawns of the school.

At the beginning of the year they had their matric dance. Each matriculant has mentored a grade 8 student, passing on the knowledge and experience of the last 5 years. Last term they handed over their portfolios to the new batch of leaders and last week she had a reunion with the girls she was in junior school with, before they all go their own ways – on gap years or to university. In the next two weeks she will be having the valedictory service and lunch and a dinner with her teachers before the final exams begin.

The feeling of the end of an era has been all around us this year as she has turned 18, voted for the first time, learned to drive, applied for university and looked at a life after school. All of these rituals have been marking the passage of one phase to another.

Rituals have been practised since time immemorial to help us to move on in life – there are rituals for giving a baby a name, for marriage and burial. As we move from one stage to another we say goodbye to the old way of life and embrace a new set of rules for behaviour. As she moves on with life, I find that the rituals help me too to let go and enter a new phase of my own life. 

Part of the Group

A little while ago I chatted to one of the hockey mums who commented that she did not see me at the matches. My son has been telling me that I didn’t need to come and watch. So off I went a few weeks ago and to my surprise, found a little supporters group of parents who have been valiantly cheering them on all season. (Kind of like the feeling at varsity when everyone assures you that they are not studying and you find them all in the library!).

 It was freezing cold at 800 yesterday morning, watching the last under-14 hockey match of the season, huddled up with other parents on a stand which the sun failed to reach. It was a good game and the opponents were evenly matched.

It felt good to be part of the group as I find that in high school one seems to lose the contact with other parents. I seem to only fetch and drop. It was the same with my daughter, perhaps more difficult since she went to a different high school and he has stayed with the same group of boys from his Prep school.

I am not sure if this is part of his separation from my protective wing, which started with not being kissed goodbye in the mornings, way back in grade 4 or 5. He did the same with the Eisteddfod last term. He was playing his clarinet, and also told me it was not necessary for me to come. I was very glad that I did decide to go and witnessed the atmosphere at the school.  Since he came back from Sweden, I have felt the independence.

Once again I marvel at how differently boys and girls seem to grow up. My daughter has no qualms about kissing me in a busy mall, outside the movies or wherever it is I am dropping her. I hear that it is part of becoming a man and then they come closer again. I guess he is going to have to get used to having me around for another little while longer! I am not quite ready for this empty nest!

Yoga Lent Day 5

This morning I felt like I was moving through mud! My body seemed to not want to take direction from my brain. As I pushed back into downward dog, I wondered what it would be like if my arms and legs simply collapsed and I landed, “splat!” onto the mat. No chance of that though with my new, earth-friendly rubber mat, which made sure that I was going nowhere!

As the class progressed, I could feel myself yielding, and allowing my body to flow through the postures it knows so well.  I think that is part of the journey, pushing through the resistance and onto the other side.

This afternoon I curled up into a little spot of sunshine on the couch of my bedroom and drifted off into a delicious little snooze. As I woke, I twitched my limbs and felt out the muscles which seem to be asserting themselves. All I can think of is that it is going to get better. I just have to show up on the mat.  

Yoga Lent Update

So, it’s day Four of Yoga Lent and 30 days is seeming like a looong time! Today it felt like more of an effort to get to class. Some creaks and cracks have shown themselves this week, in spite of me upping the yoga to four times a week during the last two weeks in preparation for the challenge.

Yesterday I was so tired it felt like I was dragging my body around. All I could think about was how long it was till I could go to bed. I had this slight headache just above my eyes, like my eyebrows had suddenly become heavy ... hmm, maybe I have been fooling myself about how much coffee I drink.

On the plus side though, I feel slightly leaner since I am not eating wheat and I swear my body is already starting to feel toned (even though I can’t see anything – maybe it’s just waking up). I have been detox-ing my environment as well and rearranged and cleaned a few cupboards and shelves. I have been writing quite a bit, and feel like my focus is turning inwards. I am excited at the idea of a stronger body in a more peaceful space. I connected with a varsity friend, who I have not seen for many years. She has been having a tough time – it made me feel thankful for my life. 

Yoga Challenge: feeling good, doing good

I have committed to a 30 day Yoga Challenge. Starting 1 August,  I will be doing yoga everyday for 30 days.  I need to find 30 people who will each sponsor me R100 so that at the end of it I will have raised R3 000 for a project called Home from Home. The aim is to get 30 people to do the challenge and to raise R90 000 towards the project. This will be enough to  care for a family of six children in a community-based foster home for a year. Home from Home has 21 such homes and this will be for number 22! 

The challenge is the bright idea of friends Melissa Brake, the owner of YogaWay Studio, and Pippa Shaper, the  Managing Trustee of Home from Home.

Initially, the idea was rather daunting (will I have enough time, where will I get 30 sponsors...), but the more I thought about it (and the more Melissa twisted my arm), the more attractive it became. I am picturing my new centred, together self at the end of August serenely handing over the money - how's that for a win-win situation - feeling good and doing good. And there will be 29 other centred, together people serenely doing the same. Hey! Imagine if more people did this.... we'll all be feeling good, doing good...or you could just sponsor me, please!

Pippa and Melissa in the YogaWay Studio

Who's your auntie?

It happened while I was standing in a dessert buffet queue at a wedding. The young man in front of me, pointed to one of the desserts in front of us and asked, "Do you think that is ice-cream or mousse, Auntie?" It took a few seconds for me to realise that this grown up MAN was talking to me. Calling me auntie. Did I even know him? When did that happen - strange young men, calling me auntie? I don't deny the passage of time, but really...?

I have been contemplating the grey streaks which have appeared as natural highlights in my hair and have decided that I plan on aging gracefully. Apart from some of the creaky bits that have made themselves felt, I think that I am enjoying getting older. The past few years have been interesting, I have learned much through courses and travel, and had fun along the way.

Now that my children are more independent, I find numerous possibilities surfacing to occupy my time. I am relishing the time to pursue interests that nourish me, like writing and photography. I also enjoy the more "mature' attitude that I now have to studying - I spent so many years getting into a neurotic state over exams that it is a treat to be able to attend courses and make the most of the opportunity without performance anxiety. 

I believe that I am embracing the process although don't for one moment think that I plan on being frumpy! I'll be wearing purple with a red hat that doesn't go, as the poem by Jenny Joseph goes. I think that there is a lot to be said for not being 'mutton dressed as lamb'. I shudder when I see women of a certain age trying to cling onto youth at all costs, literally and figuratively. As for the sexily-clad moms one sometimes sees in the car park, they put so much pressure on young girls to look a certain way. After all, unless you have Demi Moore as a mother, you would like to at least look younger than your mom.

Listen to Jenny Joseph read her poem here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cACbzanitg

Changing Seasons

From where I sit at my desk I can see the squirrel at the bottom of the garden scurrying around all morning collecting sustenance for the winter that he probably feels coming in his bones. On my walk this morning leaves rustled across the path in front of me and crunched under my feet. Tall oak trees leaned into each other as if bracing themselves for the loss of their scorched, end-of summer leaves. There is a nip in the air, the nights have become longer almost without our noticing it. But like a teenager with too much choice, the Cape Town weather seems to have not quite made up its mind. Yesterday the temperature was a scorching 28 degrees in spite of forecasts of an approaching cold front. And as anyone who lives here knows, the weather can be relied on to swing wildly from one extreme to the other for pretty much of the year.

That's why, on my first trip to Sweden, I marvelled at the clear distinction between seasons: leaving you in no doubt where you are and what to expect. This was early April and the locals were excited at the advent of spring. I have been to in January (-25 deg), Mauritius in December +(36 deg) and even Madrid in springtime (sunny mild days) – but this was the first time that I had been so far north and experienced the change of season so dramatically.

We stepped out in 2 degree, bright sunshine and clear blue sky - “A good day for a funeral!” as a British friend remarked. My African self was warmly wrapped up in a winter coat and boots. Bright yellow daffodils bravely pushed their faces up out of the cold, hard earth, heralding the spring.

daffodils in Mariefred - April 2008

This time when I go, I am looking forward to the bonfire held on the last day of April. All the leaves are gathered and set alight – bidding the winter farewell once and for all and making way for warmer weather. It occurs to me that we may be more affected by the weather than we think. As a Swedish friend has observed to me recently: the Swedish way is to gather all the information so that plans can be made;  in South Africa we tend to wait and see what happens. 

Chalk and Cheese

I find it fascinating how children who are birthed from the same parents, who grow up in the same house with the same circumstances turn out so differently. I guess when you throw two different adults together and make a baby; you take potluck with how they are likely to turn out.

Sailing and horse riding are sports with a certain genteelness that I certainly did not grow up with. My son is a fan of both and it matters little to him that no one in the family shares that passion. Similarly, he plays the clarinet. Although we all love music, none of us play an instrument. My daughter briefly played the recorder in grade one, as a requirement of the syllabus but dropped it with little further interest. She did not even try out for the school choir, dismissing it as being for children who needed to learn how to sing.

She sleeps like a log, since an early age has invited all she meets to come round and visit and leaves everything till the last minute because she “works best under pressure”. She's travelled like a dream since she was nine months old. My son on the other hand does not mind his own company (choosing solitary interests to occupy himself) sleeps like a flea and is more focused and conscientious about his work. If it wasn’t for the fact that he looks like me and shares other characteristics too, I would be inclined to believe my daughter’s assertion that he was swopped at birth.

I spent the first two and a half years of his life comparing him to his sister before I accepted that this little boy had his own agenda and was blazing his own trail. Now that adolescence has dawned I find myself comparing them again. My daughter breezed her way through but it seems like it may be pay-back time with my son. 

Both of them have enriched my life in so many ways, teaching me so much and often pushing me out of my comfort zone (like when I decided to take horse riding lessons). If sailing proves to be a lasting passion, I might have to take to the water soon.

A Visit with an old Friend

I have just re-read a classic – My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. When I finished it this morning I felt a deep pleasure that started in my very middle and rose all the way up to manifest in a huge grin. I felt the satisfaction settle like a cloak over me.  Every bit of it was as good as I remembered. With a few words, Durrell was able to transport me right into his madly, chaotic, eccentric family on the equally mad, chaotic and eccentric island of Corfu. It was like meeting up with an old friend and finding that we could pick up exactly where we left off. Although I think that this time I read it with far more appreciation of the descriptive passages that he is so good at. 

I had an urge to share it with my children although I am not sure how well he will stand up to vampires, dragons and other unearthly creatures. Nevertheless, I cornered them with a few passages I could not resist reading out aloud.

... we…fled from the gloom of the English summer like a flock of migrating swallows ... 
... France rain-washed and sorrowful, Switzerland like a Christmas cake, Italy exuberant, noisy and smelly, were passed…
... the cypress-trees undulated gently in the breeze, as if they were busily painting the sky a still brighter blue for our arrival...

And that’s only in the first 20 pages or so.

I found myself laughing out loud at hilarious descriptions of his family and other characters who passed through his life while they were in Greece. I have stuck little coloured post-its all over the book to go back to ruminate over.  Ah, the simple pleasures in life! 

The 50th Anniversary Edition of My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell is published by Puffin 

Photography and Yoga

I am still smarting from my less than perfect matric dance photo session. I now have new respect for wedding photographers. It cannot be an easy task to deal with family and friends brandishing cellphones and cameras, telling your subject to look this way and that. I was completely overwhelmed and suddenly had ten thumbs when it came to operating my camera and deciding on lighting, apertures and shutter speeds!

However, I had such fun taking photos for the course last week that I thought I would post a few. The subject was willing, the serene environment conducive and I could combine two interests. The dappled, late afternoon light was a bit of a challenge but I think I managed to get some good results. 

  

           


Many of the students on the course seem to have a passion (architecture, child portraits, food, shoes or nightclub photography, and so on) and I think I may have found mine. Melissa patiently posed for me. You can learn more about her yoga studio by clicking here yogaway.

Celebrating the Ordinary

I feel like the camera has given me a new set of eyes. Suddenly I notice so many details in photographs and also have become more critical of elements like composition and lighting. The ordinary has become more photograph-able. Unfortunately, I don't always have the camera on hand.

Like, driving down the main road last week, I wished I could have stopped and taken a picture. There, filling the bus shelter, was a double mattress- and bed-set with two African mamas having a relaxing chat while they waited for the bus. One of them had even taken her shoes off. It reminded me of the time, a few years back, when we were doing some renovations in our previous house. The bathroom door we removed was not standard and we were not going to use it again. Mavis, who was our domestic worker at the time, jumped at the offer of a door for her house. "Don't worry," she assured us. "I bring someone on Saturday." Saturday Mavis arrived with a friend. I looked around in vain for the bakkie I had assumed they would be coming in. "No," Mavis replied to my query, "we take on train. She is going to help me with the door onto the train!" Now there would have been another good picture.

On another occasion, I pulled up at the robots next to an enclosed bakkie, at a busy suburban intersection. Eyes right, and right again! I didn't imagine the cheetah giving us what I hope was not a hungry eye! On closer inspection, I discovered it was the bakkie of the Spier rehabilitation centre for cheetahs. They had probably been to one of the schools in the area as part of the education program they offer. Only in Africa.

I am sure there is much material for many books on uniquely South African scenes. Here is one website I had discovered recently:

 http://www.photographersgalleryza.co.za/obie-oberholzer/