The Boy with the Donkey

At night, travelling on the road to Beitbridge you often come across groups of donkeys, very difficult to see in the darkness as they have no reflectors behind the retina so their eyes do not glow in the dark when car headlights fall across them. 

As we know, donkeys have always been beasts of burden.

Also on the road to Beitbridge, before the Lion and Elephant Hotel (a good overnight stop), was a farm owned by a grandmother who lived with her grandson. Lions invaded her farm and were killing some of the animals, so two lion hunters were asked to come and get rid of them. They brought an old blind donkey with them to use as bait.

The grandson fell in love with the old donkey. 

He looked after his new found friend, sat on his back, walked with him and talked to him. One of the hunters came to collect the donkey and the boy pleaded with him not to take the donkey away. The hunter said that he would leave it and the boy was delighted and relieved.

A few days later the second hunter, an older man, arrived not knowing about the previous conversations and he had come to take the donkey away.

Once again the boy pleaded with him to please leave it. “Please, please, please!” The boy’s grandmother joined in with his pleas and explained that the boy loved the donkey as a friend and would be heartbroken. Eventually the hunter gave in and said that he would leave the donkey.

Not long after that, the grandmother and her grandson were ordered to leave the farm. They were given 3 months to get off the farm. They had to move the donkey in a specially secured truck to their new home. When they were resettled, the boy acquired two more donkeys so his little group of donkeys expanded. The old blind donkey lived happily for quite some time in his new surroundings and eventually died peacefully.

The grandmother wants to make a donkey sanctuary as a donkey reserve has now been started in Zimbabwe.

*****

The Donkey – by G.K Chesterton

When fishes flew and forests walked

And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry

And ears like errant wings,

The devils walking parody

On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

Of ancient crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me; I am dumb,

I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

And palms before my feet.

Spring in Zimbabwe

Pic by Pauline Battigelli 

When I reached Zimbabwe in August this year, I timed my visit so that the Msasa trees would be in early leaf. I had to wait a few weeks and suddenly from their dry branches sprang soft new leaves. This year a glowing burnt sienna was reflecting the colour of the ground from which the tree had grown.

The new leaves are very tender and a knowledgeable botanist told me that the colour of the new leaf does not attract animals which could be drawn to munching up such a delicate scrap. The colour of the new Msasa leaves are in fact a protection against hungry animals much as a thorn protects a thorn bush.

After a few weeks the chlorophyll in the leaves builds up and changes bronze colours to green.

In the evenings, my son Richard and I would take a walk through the grounds of Peterhouse School to greet the spring colour and watch the sunsets across the green playing fields. All quite, quite breath taking. Some evenings a piper and teacher at the school would walk down onto the field and play his bagpipes, giving an added contribution to the extravaganza.

The Msasa colours last only a few weeks until the leaves strengthen and turn green.

Spring in Zimbabwe- there is nothing like it. After the colourful display of the Msasas, the next blossoming are the Jacaranda’s with their purple trumpet-like flowers and then the fiery spread of the Flamboyant trees.

Jacaranda trees

I returned to Johannesburg on the 5^th of November and the next week Zimbabwe itself was having a change for the better. We hope and pray with the retirement of Robert Gabriel Mugabe that this will be a new spring for Zimbabwe, as beautiful, colourful and rich as the blossom of the trees that grow there.

"Msasas"  - Pauline Battigelli

 Travelling in Zimbabwe

The police in Zimbabwe are continually stopping cars and inspecting every inch of them with a long list of specific requirements that need to be visible in every vehicle. These road blocks cause delays and obstructions to moving traffic. Heavy fines are demanded if anything is out of alignment or not visible. In the meantime, on the streets and roads there is a high rate of serious accidents. The police always manage to find something not quite right and issue the drivers with a $US20 fine, which they will drop to $US10 if you look pathetic enough.

We had an experience driving into Harare. We were stopped for driving 70km/h in a 60km zone. This was perfectly correct as Richard did not see the speed sign. A policeman came to my window and said that we would have to pay a speeding fine of $US20. He took one look at my face and said kindly, “Ah, but you are too old. We will make it $US10,” for which I thanked him for the compliment. He then sent a young police woman of generous proportions to the window and she was paid the $US10.

My daughter-in-law asked politely for a receipt. The police woman stomped off and came back with one which she pushed through the window. I expected Richard to take the receipt and hold it for a few moments but he didn’t and neither did I as I do not see well. Impatiently she threw the receipt in my face and once again stomped off! We wondered why she was irritated at having to give us a receipt…

We hope with the new change in Zimbabwe, there will be a different attitude adopted by the police.

The Beekeeper

I am presently living with my eldest son Anthony and his wife Pia in Johannesburg.

The garden is spacious, peaceful and well-treed, offering sweet smelling Syringa blossom in the spring and a wonderful habitat for birds and bees.

The bees formed a huge hive under part of the roof over the main bedroom and bathroom. During the night, attracted by light, some of the bees would somehow climb down into the bedroom and lie doggo on a pillow or the carpet resulting in some fierce stings when pressurized by a cheek or a foot.

Pia, who is allergic to bee stings, seemed to bear the brunt of this.

After a particularly painful sting on the foot she said to Anthony: “Either I go, or the bees go!” 

He asked her where she would go to and unthinkingly she said: “.. to a B&B”.

At long last Anthony decided he would have to have the bees removed, much to Pia’s relief. He found a beekeeper who arrived in a truck with a long ladder tied to the roof with a bit of rope. He was dressed in a white protection suit and he swiftly removed and set up his ladder to inspect the hive with bare hands and no protection on his face.

a  bee smoking device

He carried with him a bee smoker device, used to make the bees dozy. It was a small mug with a lid and a long spout carrying straw.

Bee careful

Unfortunately he mislaid his lighter and got stung on the cheek. He hurried down the ladder, donned a protective headgear, borrowed a lighter from Ant and up he climbed into the roof once more. He told Anthony that when one bee stings you others follow suit. His bare hands were stung many times but he did not seem to worry about that and simply removed the stings and went on with his work.

"I was full of admiration" 

I watched the beekeeper happily going on with his work of dismantling a huge swarm which had been living there for years. I was full of admiration. 

He removed the darkest comb first with the many, many little black baby bees which he placed with their Queen in a cardboard box on the top of his truck.

Bees followed their Queen in clouds and buzzed in confusion around the box, whereupon another swarm from some neighbouring garden invaded the situation and in no time a sort of bee war went on with complete bee fury!

We were all safely inside behind closed windows with the dogs and watched with fascination.

Eventually the cardboard box was put into the truck and the beekeeper left at great speed down the drive, pursued by a swarm.

Evidently the bees have some extra sensory perception or antennae which warn them of flying over 35 kms an hour so many flew into the box after the Queen while others I suppose must have just dispersed. 

The honey comb had been put into buckets; the beekeeper would then settle the bees in a new hive.

In an hour or so the beekeeper arrived back for the mop up operations and to put tiles back on the roof. He went to collect payment from Anthony who asked him his name and email address. “Ant 4 B” said the beekeeper.

“I am called Ant too!” said Anthony. “What is your second name?”

“Lawrence,” replied the beekeeper.

“That’s odd,” said Anthony, “My second name is Lawrence too, spelled the same way as yours.”

I was sent for to establish if they were at all related, and I said that the Lawrence family were indeed relatives of ours. They were engineers and shipbuilders from a farm in Scotland called “Tillygthills” and had settled many years ago in the Kimberley area where my mother was born.

We will have to sort out the full history of our relationship at a later date but I do know that the Lawrence family of Kimberley with James and Alexander Lawrence as our forefathers were famous in their day for building churches and bridges in South Africa.

“I knew you were special Anthony Lawrence,” I told the beekeeper. 

“When I watched you handling those bees!”

Creation

Oh loving Father in heaven. You are a glorious, mighty God and yet all can come to you as little children, in the name of your beloved son Jesus, and call you father.

May we as adults, growing older, keep the vision with which we first became aware. May we keep our delight in the start of each new day and the peaceful sleep at night knowing we are in your loving hands.

We praise you for the rhythms of nature sustained year after year. Winter, spring, summer and autumn; day and night; and wind, rain and snow. Clear days with brilliant sun; days of gathering clouds and gusts of wind.

Bluebells by Jeanetta

For the falling orange-gold leaves we thank you Father, and for the new leaves that spring from dry branches in the spring. For the sunlight making patterns on the grass, sending diamonds of light onto the green. 

We thank you for the changes of light with which you have showered us - the dawn, gentle at first and then dazzling, then softening again in the evening with the radiance and colours of unending daily sunsets.

Thank you for the light on clouds, white, grey and deep blue-grey changing and touched by dawn and sunset.

The stars Father, the stars, they are too beautiful yet far away in the deep blue-black of the night and the changing moon from a crescent to the full roundness of silver light.

How you have used colour great artist! The redness of a rose, full blooded and warm, the bright yellow of a nasturtium, the blue of a delphinium. What gentle care made the pansies? There are faces painted on pansies; their shining faces look up from their beds in the earth. Each leaf of the variegated ivy seems to have a different brush stroke.

The sharpness of the strelitzia growing like a beautiful bird on its heavy stalk;

Strelitzia by Cheryl

the morning and evening birdsong; the fish in the water; the birds and insects in the air and on the ground. The hallelujah shout of colour from the bouganvilleas.

Within each colour range there is variation, so many shades of green, delicate sweeps of mauves and grey on far off mountains, with a palette of red, brown fertile earth and ochre grass. And the earth, which you have made with more breadth of variety and wonder.

Lily pond  by Claude Monet

Artists have painted landscapes through the ages which have given us new glimpses and appreciation of your stunning, magnificent earth. The sunsets of Turner, the dappled shade of Monet; I think of the rules of perspective with wonder too, Father, such as the largeness and smallest of your animals and insects and dare I say, touches of humour.

And then you gave us the rivers and the seas. Father the magnificent sea with its tides, moving in continuous waves which crash and then subside and gently wash over in the sand in foam curves.

The human form with its different structures of bone, muscle and faculties is another intricate and marvellous mystery.

Praise you great God and loving Father, for this magnificent creation.

A poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 – 1889)

Pied Beauty

 Glory be to God for dappled things -

   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

       For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

   Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;

       And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

                                     Praise Him.

On my knees I thank you Father for your generous, patterned, varied, rhythmic, exuberant and wonderfully extravagant creation.

Touches of Christmas

2015

As I write this, time is already rushing through the month carrying us speedily towards another Christmas. So often we have been reminded that there are only so many days to shop before the next festive season is upon us.

When I look back to our Christmas last year, it is not the festivities that touched me as much as the little acts of precious kindness which preceded our gathering together on THE DAY.

I have some tests

In the little suburban shopping centre just up the road I went to visit the optometrist for an eye test. 

She spent some time with me, trying this and that and the other and finally suggested I went to see an eye specialist. When I asked her how much I owed her for her time she replied: “Nothing. Had I been able to help you there would have been a fee but there is nothing I can do. Come back and tell me what the eye specialist advises.”

Having accomplished that visit I then went to have tea at a little Chinese shop round the corner, charmingly decorated with lanterns and bright colours. The owner came to the door and glowered at me as the little tables and chairs had not been set out yet.

“I only wanted a cup of tea,” I told him, whereupon he set up a table and chair and tea was served. I noticed him sitting nearby with his head bent over, considering his day’s reckonings I expect. I went over to him, thanked him for tea and asked him how much it was. He waved his hand above his head and said: “Alright… it’s alright.”

I said: “Thank you – and happy Christmas.” He just nodded his head without looking up.

On Christmas Eve we went to son Paul’s home in St Stithian’s School, set amongst many acres of fields, bushes and tree-lined roads with beautiful views overlooking Johannesburg. 
Some neighbours of Peta and Paul’s two houses up had invited anyone who wanted to join them in the road for a glass of wine. There were chairs set out on the side of the road and opposite us on the grass verge in front of the house was an interesting display of angels, Mary and Joseph and the new born babe, cows, rabbits, stars and from a tree hung a sort of waterfall of lights.

There was too a gnome, which I believe stays there all year round. At Easter time I believe the Christmas display is replaced with rabbits!

We were offered mince pies and a drink and as it was very hot our host rushed up to the shops nearby and bought us all an ice lolly.

Above us, shining down on this great city and ourselves was the most magnificent moon. It seemed to me to be a Super Moon. When my grand-daughter Emma looked it up on her constant stand by “Google” she told me that the last moon on Christmas Eve was in 1977. I was deeply touched. We were warmly entertained by strangers under resplendent moonlight.

Grandson Philip came with me to a carol concert at St Michael’s Church. The majestic flower arrangements, the beauty of the words of the hymns and the atmosphere of wonder, joy and hope lifted our hearts in worship of Christ our lord.

 Philip & I singing at the carol concert

       Standing next to me grandson Philip sang and delighted those around us with the beauty of his voice. These are the touches of Christmas that delighted and filled me with warmth.

With the excitement of Christmas day upon us, we all seemed to go off in different directions. Some to church, others to start cooking, others to put the last wrappings on presents which were arranged under the beautiful decorated Christmas tree where we all eventually gathered.

Having mentioned that I really like marshmallows I was given a huge amount of marshmallows, some in a large glass container, others in twists and another large ring of marshmallows arranged on a stick like a large marshmallow sucker (aka lollipop). 

It had taken me some months to eat them all and now I have gone off them entirely. Moral – never mention anything you like before Christmas!

Guests arrived for lunch in the late morning, and tables were set on the long, spacious front verandah to seat about twenty guests.

We all sat down after grace was said. The first course was served -Parma ham and melon. We all set to with enthusiasm, when one of the guests shouted out angrily: “Don’t talk to me from the bathroom window!”

 A small voice replied: “I am locked in.”

"I am locked in!"

It was Squirrel, one of my grandson David’s friends. David rushed off to help accompanied by another young man, while the rest of us appallingly went on eating Parma ham and melon, ignoring the situation in spite of the shouting through the bathroom door and the odd bang.

Next to the verandah in an alcove is a window for the bathroom. 

Squirrel’s Dad finally went through to the bathroom door to give assistance, but was told that his help was not needed. I suppose he was considered too old to be of service although he had years of experience as a motor mechanic.

by JR

"we were well into the second course..."

Time 
Time ...Time moved on and we were well into the second course of vegetables, lamb, chicken etc before David and his friend finally broke the door down and a shaken and embarrassed Squirrel sat down as unobtrusively as he could to eat his disturbed lunch.

In the evening the older guests all drifted off to bed while the young ones carried on with their party. When they all finally went to bed much, much later, they could not find Squirrel. Having searched everywhere for him they left the back door open for him.

The next morning he appeared looking quite fresh and perky. “Where were you Squirrel?” everyone asked.

He had slept under the fir trees far away from locks and keys and bathrooms – and where else would a squirrel sleep?

Women of Zimbabwe

 In September I went on a visit to Zimbabwe, that beloved, destroyed country where I had spent most of my life.

I stayed with my son Richard and his wife Fiona at Peterhouse School. There, a reliable supply of electricity and water are available. 
Across green playing fields in the school grounds a great orange ball sinks quite quickly behind the earth’s edge, leaving its glow for some moments and an abundance of purple jacaranda blossoms. This is the oval sun, spilling its heat and light from cloudless skies. What a paradise.

 The school has a game park where granite rocks balance one on top of the other or lie flat in great sheathes where one can picnic and watch the light change, where animals wander freely and the stillness creeps into your soul.

It is only an hour’s drive from this oasis into Harare and I had the opportunity to visit dear friends, some in retirement homes and some still living in their own houses. There are two very well kept retirement homes in Harare, and women living there make friends and communicate and go for walks together. 
Widows living there are sometimes helped by their families who now reside outside the country, far away in Canada, Australia or Dubai, so instead of being surrounded by children and grandchildren they are with friends - and they look after each other. 

They laugh together, play bridge, go to lectures and enjoy entertainments within the generous facilities at the retirement homes. There is fun, laughter and smiles, fellowship and the comfort of companions. 

Yet day-to-day living is not so easy. There were electricity cuts for 18 hours a day. This was not a spasmodic cut, but continued, day after day.

How do we do our washing? When can we iron our clothes? Where did I put the candles? Has my solar lamp run out? Do I need gas for my gas stove? Has everything gone off in the fridge? These are some of their daily thoughts.

Single women living outside retirement homes have a similar battle, perhaps even more difficult when they have to buy water to fill their tanks. Some houses have inverters which give enough power for the television and one light bulb. Wealthier and younger people have generators, meaning they have to buy fuel – all very expensive.

There is too, the problem of turning things off. Sometimes when a tap is turned on it is followed by an expletive such as “Damn! There is no water,” and one easily forgets to turn it off. When – if – the municipal or borehole water does come on, a flood ensues if the offender has been away for an hour or two. 

But I suppose that is better than having to walk for miles to scoop water out of a well or river as other friends like Sophie do.

The same pitfalls apply to electric heaters or electric blankets in the winter. “Damn, the lights have gone, I’ll go to bed without my hot water bottle,” one may say, and while they try to keep warm the electricity switch may have been be forgotten, which can result in a fire.

For survival it is necessary to keep your wits about you all the time.

Less expensive homes for the elderly in the not-so-elite suburbs have walls around them to protect the residents from passers-by, litter and the traders from small businesses that operate in the street. Behind the filth is a secure peaceful haven of care and orderliness.

Yet none of these inconveniences, annoyances and shortages detract from the spirit of the people who live there still. Their cheerfulness, resilience and flexibility are wonderful to see and their faith in a loving father supports them. There seems to be no wingeing and whining, but rather an acceptance and the courage to use each hour they have been granted positively, come what may.

Women of Zimbabwe, I salute you.

 [Illustrations by Pauline Battigelli]

Shopping

In Harare with Dingaan......

Around the corner from where I used to live at number 10 St Luke’s Road in Rhodesville, a suburb of Harare, is a spectacular fruit and vegetable market bursting with produce. 
As you walk into the large thatched building there is a gentle mist, which keeps the vegetables fresh and the customers cool.

Waist high boxed shelves are arranged in blocks of colour. In fact when I think of that market I think of colour – red apples, green apples, yellow apples, orange paw paws, green and black punnets of grapes, pink potatoes, grey potatoes, purple onions, white onions etc.

And there’s a tea room next door where the world meets for a friendly chat and a prolonged cup or two of cappuccino coffee.

Often I used to walk to this market once known as Honeydew with assistant gardener and Mr Fix-it Dingaan, Sophie’s husband, who is 80+, very frail and nearly stone deaf. 

He would always put on his long trousers and a smart shirt to take me shopping and would walk two steps behind me and direct my path with remarks like “mind that big hole in the road” or “here comes a bicycle”. It was quite the wrong way for a partially sighted person to be directed but he insisted - a reversal of positions would have not been polite to him. He was a true gentleman.

We would do the shopping and Dingaan would pack a little tartan bag with wheels and pull it along so he did not have to carry too heavy a load.

On one occasion, coming out of the side road of Honeydew on our way home, we noticed a huge truck about to turn into it. Dingaan called to me to “GO” so I went, but then he yelled “STOP!” I heard the truck coming towards us and so I ran rapidly across the road, full tilt into a gathering of surprised basket weavers. 

“Today is not my day to die,” I informed them as they looked at me in wonder.

I was soon joined by Dingaan and we went on our way having negotiated the main road without incident. As we ambled happily along the pedestrian path I heard a car hooting as it bowled down the same main road. It was a friend of mine named Pam on her way home from the airport with her sister Jo. I rushed forward to greet them, waving and smiling, then tripped. It was one of those falls where your head moves forward and your legs move like pistons trying to catch up. But no such luck - and down I went on hands and knees.

Greeting Pam and her sister, I assured them I was fine – only a graze on the knee. When I looked back at Dingaan he was almost white-faced, standing with dropped jaw and limp outstretched hands hanging at his sides. The tartan shopping bag lay askew on the ground with vegetables spread all over the path.
We gathered them up, packed them away again and headed slowly back home. When we arrived at the front door of the cottage, Sophie took one look at us and said, “What has happened?!”

Dingaan was looking very peaky so I gave him a glass of sherry and we were told by Sophie that we were never, ever allowed to go shopping again. 
Well I always listen to Sophie, and we sadly never did.

* * * * * * *  * * * * *  * * * * * * * * * * *  *

... and in Johannesburg with Innocent

Whenever I visit my son Anthony in Johannesburg I am taken shopping by a tall man with the flattering but unlikely name of Innocent.

He has long legs which he crosses modestly when standing and talking and he punctuates his every sentence with a huge laugh which he thinks is a good way of keeping out of trouble.

We drive in Anthony’s old truck which he seems to understand. I did have to reprimand him a few times for driving using the cell phone in his left hand while waving at a passing “chick” with his right and yelling “yebbo”.

On arrival at the shops we usually parked in the space for disabled elderlies although at first we had no sticker giving us this privilege. Innocent seemed to get away with it by shouting “You see – Gogo (granny),” and laughing hilariously.

In the shop we meandered through the long aisles in a haphazard fashion, stopping to stare at all the rows upon rows of food which I could not differentiate and he could not recognise, since both of us hail from Zimbabwe.

The one item that really floored us was the range of digestive biscuits. There are so many different kinds, only one of which I would buy – not chocolate, not wholewheat, but plain. 

Sometimes we would get into trouble by stopping the trolley across the aisle instead of keeping it  strictly to the left or right. After apologies, laughter from Innocent and “yebbo” we were forgiven by the many kindly folk who shop there.

Once or twice when the truck was not working Innocent kindly gave me a lift in his own car of which he was very proud. Apart from a strong smell of carbon dioxide coming through the floor boards and many rattles, it went all right. 

Innocent would drive that car overnight to Zimbabwe to see his wife and children. He would collect katundu in Zimbabwe for people living down here. Once he was stopped in Gwanda and fined for overloading. He told me he had to sell everything he was carrying to pay the fine.

 It would embarrass me unspeakably when Innocent would peer over my shoulder at the till for I knew I had bought more than he could possibly afford.

Our shopping finished eventually, and after executing a few terrifying U-turns at the robots and taking a shortcut through the corner garage, we would make our way home.