Hello Europe

I languish in bed at 4:11 GMT realising that right now, in my beautiful, warm, friendly, wonderful Chikuni, the sun is already an hour above the horizon. Kids are playing, birds are chirping and building homes, girls are sweeping the red earth and oxen are straining against their yokes and owners as they plough mile after mile of bush. I’m no longer physically in the middle of nowhere, instead I’m very much in the middle of somewhere (Wimbledon, London) but now my heart is in the middle of nowhere until I get that first, all important hug from the first of my friends. I sit, shivering, with the realisation that daylight is still three or four hours away and even at that, it’s a grey dull sunlight, filtering through the rain and cloud that I flew down through last night.

So here I am, arrived safely in London. I have many wonderful reunions ahead of me before the next hop to Cork in Ireland. Now I just have to try and readjust to Western society and not have a nervous breakdown in the process. When I'm thinking clearly I'll write more here about some of my reflections about the adventure that has been Zambian Madness. Until then...

Your reporter back in the London Town

The Desert of Silence

Sitting in the (uncomfortable) front seat of the bus, I am suddenly very glad that I have just spent eight days working on my relationship with Jesus. I watch with a mixture of comedy and anxiety as the guy who passes for the bus conductor starts to winch the front door of the bus shut using a once tan coloured strap and an also broken winch. The sadomasochist in me (the guy who thought it was a spectacularly good idea to jump off a platform 130m above the Zambezi) smiles with glee at the prospect of an ‘exciting’ journey from the capital, Lusaka, back home to Chikuni; the diminutive, sensible part of me starts berating me for not getting the decent bus. Silently I start to pray to just about everyone I can think of who relates to my current situation, St. Christopher (patron of travellers), St. Patrick (patron of the Irish), Jesus, Mary and my ever present and perilously overworked guardian angel.

I found myself in the capital because I was returning from Kitwe, a town in the Copperbelt which is in the north of Zambia. Kitwe is about 30 kilometres away from the Congolese border (in the East) and is right in the middle of all the mining action in Zambia. I was there because I’ve just completed a spiritual retreat in silence. Who knew that eight days of silence would involve so much (damn) silence? Not me anyway! I’ll keep personal insights for when I see people, especially given the propensity of my friends/readers towards atheism or agnosticism but it was an interesting experience and something worthwhile from far more than a spiritual aspect.

Kitwe is a very interesting town. The whole region has seen much more investment over the decades because of the mines, much more than lots of other parts of Zambia. There’s a fair amount of wealth and while not huge, it’s obviously sizeable compared to my dinky Chikuni. I really liked seeing the smelted copper being hauled away for transport from South Africa (I guess) and there was a huge black heap of apparently still-rich copper slag. There are electricity pylons everywhere to service the two/three mines dotted around the town. And while I was waiting for the bus to bring me back to Lusaka (for an unenviable two and a half hours) I discovered that Pemba women are hot! See, every cloud has a silver lining…

I returned to Chikuni (eventually) and now have but a short week left before all hell breaks lose and London Town welcomes me back with icy-cold, unsmiling and mango-free arms. Can you tell that I’m not ready to leave yet?

Your reporter in the middle of nowhere

Thank you Photobox

A special shout out to photobox who I’ve been using for a long time to produce dead-tree versions of my photographs. I've taken a fair few photographs of people over my time here and I wanted to get some produced on paper so that I could give them to the people who've been kind enough to let me photograph them. I recently appealed to photobox's good nature and they responded very kindly. Thanks! They also provided great customer service after the Italian postal service spent too much time drinking coffee and not enough time delivering my photos on time to make the connection to me here in Zambia. If you need photographs, I’d recommend them as their stuff is very good value, high quality, there’s often good special offers (like 50% off everything recently) and their support is top notch.

Rain (again)!

I woke with as start as the room reverberated with the sound of thunder. My eyes closed again sleepily but even so I ‘saw’ the lightening through my closed eyelids seconds later. The rains had arrived with full on force. I sat up and yawned as again, my room is lit up as a huge streak of lightening sizzled down from the heavens. I checked my phone, 2:15 in the morning, arse!

I love a good lightening storm. All that power, noise and light created out of nothingness by nature. So I sat in bed and watched through the mosquito net as the lightening exploded out of the darkness time and again, counting the seconds between lightening and thunder to discover how far away the storm was. I love it when you see a really big bolt of lightening and you know the thunder that is ‘slowly’ making it’s way towards you is going to be immense. And then it hits, the walls shake, the dogs whimper and you feel utterly alive.

This morning, long after the storm had passed, the scene was serene. As I sat outside and had breakfast, nature seemed to be fully alive, as if refreshed by the night’s storm. Birds were delirious, singing, chirping, larking about and generally having a good time. Frogs, crickets and a host of other noisy creatures were all making a racket and the smell of soil starting to breath for the first time in months was heady in the air.

The rains are late this year compared to last year. Sixteen days to be exact and everyone suffered in the (lovely) heat that I will always associate with Africa. Living in high thirty degree heat while Europe shivers its way into winter brings pure joy to me as I sit smugly sweating my brains out, in blissful self-denial about what I will return to in three weeks. Now the real business of Chikuni, cultivating maize, will start. Everywhere, ox drawn ploughs will start moving up and down fields from predawn to dusk. Families will follow behind, sowing maize seed in the ploughs wake. What was brush and scrub land will suddenly be transformed into farmland as each family tries to grow as much as they can manage, and maybe even a bit more than that. I just hope I get to have some roasted green maize before I go back now (not likely).

The Silence In-Between

Sometimes in my life, I have felt like there has been so much that has gone unsaid. So much empty space that words, important words, should have existed to occupy the silence and yet they did not flow. For much of my life I was something of an introvert (and still am despite peoples protests) and I had very little to say to the world, I was too preoccupied with my own suffering and didn’t have the tools to open up and share my pain with a world that also suffers. Perhaps this is why I have always liked music, it fills this space and keeps me from thinking too much. But sometimes the distractions get in the way and I let moments go past.

With an ex-girlfriend of mine, we always had something to talk about. There were silences but never any uncomfortable silences. And yet, we never talked about the important stuff, the white elephant(s) in the corner of the room that lived with us for over a year. I was a very different person then, still a boy in a way, still that teenager unable to deal with the emotions bubbling just underneath my happy-go-lucky smile. Only sometimes, if the moment were right, would you see it in my eyes, a very sad little boy trying desperately to escape.

Then things changed, that girl and I broke up and afterwards I finally managed to find a way to start opening up. To try and fix me, if you like (actually it was more like forgiving myself). And it worked; I started opening up, I started dealing with all the confusion I had stored up over the previous 15 years and it felt fantastic to air out those skeletons. Since then, I have continued to be vigilant about saying what I feel is important or at least trying.

So it was interesting to think recently that it is often the conversation that goes unsaid that is the most fascinating thing to talk about. In particular, I am thinking of questions I have for people. When I ask a question, I am generally interested in the answer. I weigh up the importance of this question and the information contained within the answer against the possible (negative) impact on the person answering. I superimpose my psyche on the other person, add some (Catholic) guilt for flavour and then decide whether or not somebody asking me the same question would upset me. Then regardless of the answer I air on the cautious side and decide not to ask… I do of course realise that I should just let the other person decide whether or not they want to answer the question but I don’t know… asking the question will result in the person thinking about the answer and this could cause as much upset as telling me the answer. Then again, perhaps it’s important to remind people of the things that we don’t really want to think about.

This is just one of the many thoughts I’ve had the time to explore during my time here and to look back and laugh or tutt at my own inability to open up sometimes and say what needs to be said or to what I’d like to say. You may find all this boring but it’s a truth that I think applies to many people, especially the characters of “One Day” which is what I just happen to be reading at the moment (thanks cuz!!).

Your reporter in the middle of nowhere

Adventuring

Strange things are happening in Chikuni. There’s rumours and talk. Talk of spirits and strange goings-on. On a hill known locally as Singonya Hill. People saw fire on top of the hill at various times during the night on the weekend before last. This talk has reached the very edges of the parish, including Michelo over forty-five kilometres away. Nobody knows what was happening but people are curious and like to talk about such things. The rumours have even reached me, but there’s probably a reason for that…

At some point between midnight and three am I hear a man, down in the valley signing a ‘happy’ little ditty and later on I hear women singing a lonesome haunting song to the beat of a drum. People all around me are asleep and the night is cool despite the hot days now. I feel very happy having thought of, planned and am now in the middle of executing, a very fine adventure. You see, during the Sunday of my snake-tastic weekend I went for a picnic to a nearby hill. While there I thought that it would be a splendid place to spend a night and I thought the best time would be when the full moon was there. So a plan formed and I decided that the October full moon was the best as November is rain season and nobody likes camping in the rain (unless you’re a freak; yes like the thousands of people who go to waterlogged British music festivals).

The rest of the adventure went something like this… We set off late on Friday evening and by the time we made it to the bottom of the hill the sun was already setting in a blaze of red in the West. I raced ahead to the top to set up camp and made it just as the last of the light was fading. Kebby, Dr. Sam and his two boys arrived about ten minutes later to a swept camp area and a fire. Sam brought a tent and he set that up while I fumbled around in the darkness for more firewood. We had dinner that I had prepared in the afternoon (rice and extra yummy BBQ'ed chicken) followed by delicious yogurt cake made by Dr. Sam's wife. After everyone was 'full' I broke out the marshmallows and suddenly everyone could manage to eat just a little bit more. Strange that! I'd forgotten how ridiculously lush toasted marshmallows are. Soon my teeth where whaling in pain and so, you know, I just had a few more. Somewhere during cake, the moon arrived. It was bright red because of the angle of the sun relative to the moon I assume. It rose higher and higher and changed from red to orange to yellow to its familiar cream. After washing their teeth the two boys went to bed leaving me, Sam and Kebby to enjoy the fire.

With the moon up and it's brightness in full effect I went off on another expedition to find enough firewood to get us through the night. When I came back dragging branches behind me, I stoked the fire with the fresh lumber and we settled down for the night. No sooner had Kebby said the immortal words, “I'm not going to sleep tonight”, than he was fast asleep. I laughed quietly to myself. I too managed to sleep though it was quite fitful. At some point around midnight, Kebby told me the fire had burnt down. I said something like "that's nice" and rolled over to continue sleeping. Then I felt a nudge and Kebby repeated his statement. My sleep-soaked brain then registered that this was my queue to add more firewood. So I got up and moved the branches and tree trunk closer to the fire and soon there was a raging fire again. I seemed to add a lot because soon the fire was raging, about 1 meter into the sky. Kebby was soon fast asleep again and once the fire died down a bit and there was limited risk of us burning to death, I too drift back to slaying dragons, winning the lottery and Jessica Alba. Sometime after 3am the wind picked up and it got cold so once again I added more wood. Later still, a spider decided to try and climb my hand but I jerked with the sensation and all I saw was it making a hasty retreat towards the luminescent darkness. I slept on and off until 5, adding firewood as required when I started to feel cold.

Dawn was amazing! I climbed a tree to get a better view and was blown away yet again by the beauty of this world. After breakfast and clearing up we went to explore another dam and then headed for home. I think we got back to Chikuni around 9:30 in the blazing heat.

So it would seem your reporter is causing much talk amongst the villages. I had to laugh when Fr. Andrew told me about it just two days after the event, having celebrated mass on the Sunday in Michelo and being asked if he knew anything about the activities on Singonya Hill. People looked at me very strangely as I set off with full backpack on Friday complete with axe strapped to the outside. Strange mukuwa I’m sure they thought to themselves and voiced to their friends and neighbours. I’m used to it by now though and don’t mind.

Your camper in the middle of nowhere

My New Roomie

The room is dark, lit only by the outside lights. Inception is playing on my laptop for the umpteenth time and the remnants of a bowl of popcorn sit next to me. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. It’s also hot but the ubiquitous mosquitoes mean I’m in jeans and long sleeved T. Suddenly my attention is jerked away from Leonardo DeCaprio and is focused solely on the new arrival, Timmy. I saw Timmy arrive out of the corner of my eye but he’s hard to see in this light. So I decide to get up and turn on the light so that we can get properly acquainted. Timmy doesn’t seem to mind the light and continues to stand next to the coffee table. I have to get closer for a better look. Timmy is without doubt, the ugliest, hairiest and biggest damn spider I have ever met! Timmy the tarantula has way too many eyes and it’s got fangs for heavens sake. Fangs I tell you!! There’s only one thing for it, Timmy’s got to die!

At this stage of my life in Africa I’m used to uninvited guests. You get kind of used to it after a year involving snakes, spiders, bees, cockroaches, scorpions, frogs, giant arm-nibbling rats and heaven knows what else in and around the house. But come on, this thing is just ridiculous. I just stare at it in awe and unadulterated terror until I remember, it’s got to die…

Now as is the way, I just happened to have a wooden chopping board next to me; just the thing for squashing the world biggest, ugliest and deadliest (in my imagination anyway) Irishman eating spider in the world. So I pick up the board and tentatively move it into place over Timmy’s head, like a guillotine being raised in readiness for execution. I open my hands and the board falls. Timmy jumps out of the way and the neighbours hear a hysterical teenage girl screaming in the vicinity of my house. Timmy can jump! I’m perched on top of the chair wondering how I’m going to retrieve the stupid chopping board without losing a hand. I gingerly move the leg of the table towards Timmy and coax him back towards the direction he came from. He gets the hint and saunters across to the leg of the chair adjacent to mine. I reach for the board with all of my attention fixed squarely on Timmys legs. One jerk from any of his EIGHT gargantuan legs and I’m out of here faster than the Road Runner, be-beep. I feel for the board, clasp it and tear my hand back. Now I need to persuade Timmy out into the open and try again. I move the leg of the adjacent chair and he walks out a couple of centimetres. Again I lift the board, again I hold my breath, again the board falls and again Timmy escapes out from under the board. I’m beginning to hear him laughing at me and cackling “You think a puny little chopping board (weighing 700g) can harm me? Wahahahahahahaaaaaa” In reality Timmy decides that it’s all a bit hectic out here in the open and retreats back to under the far couch where I can only assume he came from. I abandon the useless chopping board and get the axe. No, actually I get the biggest saucepan I can find. If I can’t kill it then I’ll trap it. So I brave the floor (after clambering over chairs for as long as possible and enter the kitchen, keeping an eye on the last known whereabouts of Timmy. I emerge, saucepan in hand and (mock) bravery in my heart. I inch towards the couch, heart pounding in ears, adrenaline thumping through my veins and Leo long forgotten. But Timmy’s disappeared. Oh, of course Timmy has disappeared. I bet he hasn’t gone far though, certainly not far enough!

And so Timmy vanished, “like a fart in the wind”. I couldn’t see him under the couch, he wasn’t around the curtains and my torch light couldn’t locate him. He’s gone to live on in folklore, pub stories and my nightmares while I was left to return to Leo though I spent most of the rest of the film and night for that matter in (understandable) paranoia. The following morning I checked all around the area for him but still nothing. So we will live on in harmony until he appears and scares the bejesus out of me again. I’m kind of glad though because I don’t like killing things (with the exception of mosquitoes and cockroaches) even when they’re trying to turn my habitat into theirs. It turns out Timmy is a jumping spider. You can get full details on the family here and see lots of shiver-inducing photos of the species here. Of course it’s totally harmless but just you try telling yourself that when you’re looking at the ugliest, hairiest and biggest damn spider you’ve ever seen.

Your failed spider assassin in the middle of nowhere

(Image credits: Opo Terser via: villageofjoy.com )

Obsessing About Not Obsessing

“Yes, I know I only have {stupidly short number of} weeks to go, thank you very [bloody] much for reminding me” goes through my head each time I am told how little time I have left now in Zambia. I even thank myself because I’m the one that thinks of this most often. My time here is growing preposterously short and I’m beginning to obsess about not obsessing about returning to reality. Oh dear…

There has been a great many anniversaries fly past of late and there is still one to go. There were anniversaries of individual goodbyes to my most precious friends, winding up my London life, packing up that life into just one car and driving away from all that I’d known for 6 years. Just one goodbye and the beginning of the adventure have yet to be celebrated/commiserated.

It’s impossible to believe that I’m celebrating one whole year of being in Zambia. The time has flown by in a whirlwind of awe, self-discovery, memories and sweat. I can’t believe the things I’ve gotten to see and do, the most unlikely of friendships that I’ve made and the insights and revelations I’ve experienced along the way.

But as I enter the final chapter, I feel reluctant. I don’t want to spend my time worrying about what happens next. I want to enjoy, to absorb, and to wallow in all that Chikuni and life here has to offer me. A part of me is screaming like a spoilt child “I don’t want to go back!” Yes I miss my friends and family but damn, this place is awesome and change, especially great big being a grownup change, is scary! So I find myself obsessing about not obsessing about December, January and the rest of next year. I have a plan, the plan might just work out and everything else is just life. Nevertheless, I find myself having a certain type of conversation internally, “Stop thinking about it”; “No seriously, stop thinking about it!”; “Are you still thinking about it?” Aaaaaaahh……

So to all those that miss me, rejoice for I shall soon be back in your midst, begging bed, beer and brewed coffee (sorry, I ran out of thinks I need beginning with b). My time here is short but there’s still much to do and see. And no doubt I will continue to bore you to death with the details of it right here on zambianmaddness. Until then…

Your reporter in the middle of nowhere, for not long more

THE Holiday

There is a noise, a bit like a whimper that very few people on this earth have heard me make. As I stood on the bungee platform, one such whimper escaped me as I really, really, no REALLY wished I wasn’t so damned adventurous! Prior to this moment, I spent many weeks looking forward to this very thing, grinning at the prospect of this rarest of rare opportunities. But now all that’s going through my head is “oh God, I don’t think I can do this”. I was fine until I got on the bridge between Zambia and Zimbabwe. Once there, my excitement slowly curdled into nervousness. The nervousness soured into fear with each step towards the middle of the bridge and the “platform of doom”. By the time I had the harness on and was stepping through the tiny hatch between the bridge and the platform I could feel real apprehension growing. After the minor details like attaching the bungee cord etc it was time to step out and face destiny. All of the carefully constructed words and actions I had planned a hundred times in my head disappeared to be replaced by that aforementioned whimper. Looking down of course is the worst thing you can do so little surprise that that’s exactly what this idiot did. The view was incredible and so real that I was worried for the state of my underwear. An exceptionally quick 5-4-3-2-1 from “the dude” and I was gone… There’s no describing the feeling or the sound of what happened next. I tried flapping my arms in a misguided attempt to save myself in a style similar to “Dustin The Turkeys” flap-flaps routine. The sight of the canyon floor and the dark Zambezi rushing up to meet me was immense and I barely noticed the wind screaming in my ears as I feel like a stone for 111m before being yanked back up by the bungee cord. The rest of the ride was boring in comparison but included another 90m fall, some punching of air with my fist and more than one “wooohoooo”. As soon as I got back on the bridge all I wanted to do is jump again of course. Some people just never learn…

Before all that though, I had a fantastic safari in neighbouring Botswana at Chobe National Park. The park has over 120,000 elephant as well as lions, giraffe, leopard, crocodile, zebra, buffalo, hyena, jackal, shed loads of beautiful birds and all manner of cute doe-eyed lion fodder. Speaking of which, we saw a pride of lions only a couple of meters away from us early on the second day. There were maybe 12 of them in all and they walked right past the front of the car on their way to finding shade to snore the day away. Amazing! We also got mock-charged by a pregnant elephant mom (another underwear endangering experience), we had a night safari and saw so many beautiful animals that no words will never do them all justice. While the lions were the highlight, I loved watching the scaredy-cat zebra, the majestic elephants and the inquisitive giraffe the most. Chobe is an excellent place to do a safari, especially at this time of year because all the animals are concentrated near the Chobe River because that’s one of the only sources of water now. So you can see loads and loads and loads of stuff all in a very small area.

Aside from the big activities, being in Livingstone was a lovely change from Chikuni. It was a chance to live a little bit of city life. I had fantastic pizza at Olgas (every night!) and I visited Victoria Falls again, only this time I could actually see them. I got robbed of lunch (and then stalked) by aggressive quick-eyed thieving bastard baboons. I blagged my way into posh hotels and then got ambushed by the twilight zone when Chikuni people showed up unannounced in one such hotel. I watched the sun setting over the Zambezi and disappear behind Zimbabwe while drinking the first cocktail I’ve had in a year. Bliss! At the end of it though, I was really looking forward to returning to my village. Big City David seems to have died a death to be replaced by Village David.

Despite all the fantastic experiences I had while being in Livingstone, these experiences won’t be the highlight of my time in Zambia. Instead it’s the low key experiences that mean the most to me. Saying goodbye to new friends, little kindnesses shown to me and spending all night giggling like a school girl all mean far more to me than beautiful animals, shear terror/adrenaline or nearly drowning in the Zambezi. Perhaps I’m getting sentimental in my old age…

Your adrenaline junkie in the middle of nowhere

Concert Craziness

Seconds before the camcorder pitches sideways and crashes, unattended to the ground, the video footage shows Mr. Bendy Legs from the Mashombe Blue Jeans band leaping outwards from the two and a half meter high stage. His flailing body grows ever closer to the camcorder before “ka-pow!”, man and machine meet in the most unexpected of ways.

Muchamba is one of the entertainment bands keeping the 5,000-ish people happy while the contestants in the Annual Chikuni Tonga Concert competition take a breather. There are almost one hundred bands from all over “Tonga land” (encompassing large tracts of the Southern Province in Zambia) to compete across twelve different categories. There are solo artists singing unaccompanied songs, there are people singing to all manor of unusual musical instruments and bands featuring homemade drums, guitars and bass. A few have dancers up front entertaining the crowd and others are adorned in magnificent traditional African dress. Some sing with furious passion, others sing soulful sonnets while others attempt to rock the crowd.

Chikuni is a quiet place, more or less. Despite my usual departing tag line, it’s certainly not in the middle of nowhere and is instead very well known throughout Zambia and beyond. Having said that, it’s not exactly a metropolis either and it is most definitely, thankfully, in the bush. So when 10,000-ish people all arrive together over the course of two days, the place can feel a little other worldly. I was relatively isolated from the whole thing because I spent both days on stage filming the contestants and entertainers for the forthcoming Hollywood blockbuster “Chikuni Tonga Concert 2011”, coming direct to DVD soon. The time I did get to spend rushing around, I enjoyed the contrast to the usual quiet life here. And rushing around through crowds of people surprised by my appearance and (laughable) ability to greet them in Chitonga will provide one more memory of my time here.

As well as the contest and the entertainers there was also another notable performance from Mukanzubo Kalinda, the excellent Tonga cultural centre based here in Chikuni. There were about 40 girls in all, performing lots of different traditional types of dance in all manner of striking outfits and accessories including axes. They were backed by the singing and drumming of the regular Mukanzubo troupe. When all of the dances had been performed the girls and the band disappeared off stage but there was a final treat for the audience. When the next set of performers came on stage the crowd went wild. I was sandwiched in the VIP area between the crowd and the stage; trying to run the camcorder, keep annoying cadets from walking in front of the camera and taking a plethora of still photographs. Suddenly it seemed to be all men at the front of the crowd and the whistling and cheering became more and more immense. The reason for all this was that the last group was the regular Mukanzubo dancers, but they were kitted out in evening dresses, very flattering and seductive evening dresses! They only performed one number which was probably a good thing or there may have been rioting but the girls seemed to love the reaction and were all smiles for their boisterous adoring fans as they performed and then promptly exited stage left to recover from the exertion.

So all in all, a very busy but fun weekend, rich with yet more memories. The memories of many of the competitors will remain with me for quite some time along side the Mukanzubo performance as well as boys in trees, huge crowds, climbing towers and utter exhaustion.

Your reporter in the middle of nowhere

Illness

“Huumplkkkkkk” is the sound that escapes my body as I dry-retch for the 5th time; “Oh God, I want to die” goes through my mind as I cling to the floor and look into the abyss that was the contents of my stomach not long ago. Beads of sweat run into each other on my forehead and trickle down my exhausted, drained face before joining the awful contents of the bucket. I HATE VOMITING! After the vomiting comes the diarrhoea; diarrhoea I can handle, just about. In fact, as I sit, exhausted and faint on the toilet, a merry little tune comes to my mind thanks to my favouritiest cousin in the whole world. The lyric goes something like

When you’re climbing up a tree
And it’s running down your knee,
It’s diarrhoea, diarrhoea.

Despite the tiredness and desperation, I’m still able to smile at this stupid little thing and I think that’s one of my favourite personal qualities, the ability to (nearly) always see the bright side of even the worst situations. And to never forget that some things are temporary, no matter how unpleasant they are. An ex-girlfriend of mine never liked this saying but I’ve always felt it very true, “Life’s a bitch sometimes!”

It sucks being ill; it sucks worse when you are alone when you’re sick. I think it’s the times that I have been ill and away from people I love that have been the loneliest, most isolating and vulnerable times in my life. The knowledge or feeling that you are on your own no matter how bad it gets. That feeling was always present in London but here it is amplified even further. Just like in London there are people who care and worry about me here but somehow it’s not the same. I’m not the top priority and never will be. Having had a glorious illness-free eight months, I’ve now had three bouts of stomach trouble in the space of 2 months. I dreaded going to the doctors because the last thing I want to hear is that I have malaria but in the end I bit the bullet I can confirm, thanks be to God, my guardian angel(s) and every other saint I can think of, the test came out negative. So it’s just me being unlucky/stupid. I’ve always been a boy when it comes to my personal health. I had numerous near life ending moments long before I got to Africa and while I am a bit more careful here I believe in fully experiencing life and if somebody offers me something then I usually won’t hesitate in accepting their kindness. This obviously has its own risks but as always, I’ve considered this and am willing to accept the consequences of my actions. Even if that test had come back positive then I would have faced the consequences without much regret. I didn’t come to Africa to live in a glass case, much and all as some might like me to. I can’t live like that and after all, it’s all my father and my favouritiest cousins father (the dare-devil on my mums side) fault.

Having said all that, I’m really hoping that the next three months will remain illness free. I might just have to be even more careful. No more dodgy furry jam, grapefruit with maggots or mouldy cheese. A lifetime of eating things that others might not (like rescued peppers that a flatmate thought he threw out) is a powerful habit to break but having just survived a third reminded of how much I HATE VOMITING I’m inclined to be just a tad more careful.

Your thinner reporter in the middle of nowhere

News Flash

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted here. This hasn’t been because one of the snakes finally got me or I’ve melted under the now extreme African sun, no. Instead it’s been an incredibly busy three weeks filled with illness, adventure, work, running around, work, illness, yet more work, a fair bit of screaming and did I mention work?

All the work originated from the Annual Chikuni Tonga Music Concert. It’s the most stressful time of the year for anyone associated with Radio Chikuni. Some photographs can be found on picasa and more details will follow soon…

After the concert, I had a week off and did my long awaited return trip to Livingstone. I had a fantastic time there, did loads of stuff, have loads of memories and yet more pub stories to keep me in Fruili long into next year. Full details to follow about this too… (In the meantime a small selection of the stupid amount of photographs I took can be found on picasa)

Finally there’s the illness. I hate being ill and am not the world’s best patient by any stretch of the imagination. So I was very disappointed to be hit by a stomach bug on the weekend before the concert and immediately upon returning to Chikuni after Livingstone. I am fine now but I’m left feeling worried about whether there is more to follow, this is Africa after all. Full details to follow immediately…

I Want To Bee Free

It is with a heavy heart that I have to announce that operation “Lets not get stung again because it hurts like a bastard” comes to an end and a very undramatic end at that. Worse still, it’s come to a honey-free end! In fact, operation “Lets not get stung again because it hurts like a bastard” could easily have been renamed to “Lets sit on my arse and wait for the bees to leave”, an equally snappy title as the original. It would seem that my attic was only the bees winter get-away and now that the weather is heating up (how nice it is to be back in shorts again) they have decided that the attic is getting a little warm during the day and decided to relocate to a more temperate environment.

Watching them swarm Sunday morning, it didn’t really dawn on me that they were actually in the process of shifting. It was only when we went into the attic to (finally) retrieve the honey that we realised they had scarpered. I mean, honestly, they took every last drop of honey with them, how rude! So my bee problem has come to an end, not necessarily the end I was hoping for but at least I only got stung the once and we were able to live in relative harmony. Now I can go back to only being disturbed by the army of ants that now seem to be everywhere.

Your bee-free author in the middle nowhere

A Snake-tastic Weekend

While I am only hours away from another weekend, the last one is still very fresh in my mind and the thing that featured the most, other than perhaps laughter was my old leathery, scaly, slithering, scream-inducing friends, the snake population of Chikuni.

So I am sitting on my front step, enjoying a sneaky coffee and ginger-nut on a hot Saturday afternoon when I should be in Chikuni. The concrete underneath my (cute) butt is hot, the birds are flying through the air and I am pondering the meaning of… ”What the Hell was THAT?” Rustling comes from the corner of the flowerbed just below where the house meets the front step. I knew immediately what the hell that was. That was the sound of a snake slithering over the dry leaves that have built up in the corner. Next came the difficult question, do I finish this fine coffee or do I run away? Of course I finished the coffee; I mean come on, it’s coffee! I will admit though, I finished it quicker than normal with regular glances over my left shoulder. After escaping into the ‘safety’* of the house I got myself ready to return to Chikuni and then before shouldering my pack I picked up an old broom handle and went for a proper look. I could just make out the not-so-little bugger in amongst the leaves. It was light brown/tan in colour making it hard to distinguish. As the end of the handle got closer to it, it hissed louder and louder. In a moment of inspiration I suddenly came to my senses and thought, “what the hell am I doing? If I provoke it then it’ll probably bite me; if I leave it alone then I don’t get bitten and it doesn’t have to die.” So I sensibly decided (yes, me, imagine!) to leave it alone and hope that it didn’t decide to take up residence there. I hopped on the bike and we both went our separate ways, (hopefully) never to meet again. I will tell you though that coming home in the dark that night I made far more noise than normal in the yard and didn’t hang around before slamming the door behind me. *Fun fact though, snakes can get through the gap between the floor and the door, hurray!

Next was Sunday morning, on my way out to meet a friend for a picnic. I rolled the big gate that keeps the cows etc out of our garden shut behind me and made it approximately two steps forward when I heard and then saw a little wiry green snake jump into another pile of leaves. This one was only a baby compared to the day before. I didn’t have anything to poke it with and I was already on Zam-time (i.e. half an hour late, yes even here I am useless at time keeping) so decided to just keep going. I met a girl walking in to see the guy I live with so I did at least warn her and the contorted look on her face was well worth it.

Lastly, later in the day, this friend and I were walking along through the bush having a great old chat when lo and behold, we literally stumbled across a snake sunning itself on a patch of grass. I’ve always been led to believe that snakes can feel the vibrations of footsteps long before you get near them but if that’s true this one must have been a real dunce because it was as surprised as we were at the encounter. My friend screamed and ran for the hills (literally, because that’s where we were walking to) while the snake did a very acrobatic little jig and plunged head first into it’s hole (the internet has failed me in finding the name for a snakes home and even I don’t believe snakery is a word). All this happened as I stood there like a sack of spuds looking at the spot where the snakes tail had disappeared only moments before and thinking “cool, three snakes in two days”. Meanwhile my friend was fifty metres down the path in obvious shock and muttering “ewww ewww ewww, I HATE snakes!” I quickly realised that I had to go and calm her down but no amount of comforting words and accounts of personal heroics involving many a maiden would console her. She spent the rest of the walk keeping two very weary eyes on the ground and even the very mention of a s-n-a-k-e resulted in a shiver and a cold glance. Thankfully we didn’t meet any more though and the picnic turned out to be a very lovely idea.

Your snake-charmer in the middle of nowhere

The Lusaka Express

I welcomed the alarm after a wretched night of fitful sleep entwined with tear-jerking half memories, thoughts of a future love and “what ifs”, all choreographed to 65daysofstatic. Ninety minutes later, beautiful tall gnarled trees stand proudly in black silhouette against the cool dawn light as a new day is birthed from the horizon; this sight alone more than makes up for the early hour. Minutes later my favourite vista in all of Zambia appears as we crest a hill and the valley below, which must stretch out for over a hundred kilometres, is bathed in the soft pink light of dawn. Mountains on the distant horizon produce a topsy-turvy sky and the sun beyond them is only a few minutes away. Not long after, down in the same valley we come to a temporary statutory stop before crossing (yet again) the seldom used railway line that links Lusaka and Livingstone. The morning fog here in the bowls of the valley is light and patchy. It makes for a one more beautiful sight as the railway line heading northeast towards Lusaka disappears into the fog while at the same time people are walking towards us along the line who are in varying degrees of emergence from the fog. All very picturesque! This is the second “memory photo” at this crossing. The first was on the return leg of my trip to Lusaka with Gian when a group of boys were sitting on the railing just before the crossing. Annoyingly, both times I have been unable to photograph the moments and so the images only live on in my (often forgetful) mind.

It’s the colour and movement that catches my eye and draws my attention away from the conversation. It’s her shape that makes my head turn. Hey, whoa, hang on a second, I’ve missed this; well dressed talent (Irish slang for cute girl)! And it’s not just singular either but plural; sweet eye candy how I’ve missed thee… Now for clarification and in order to not get lynched by my local (female) audience, I should point out that there’s no shortage of good looking girls in Chikuni but most of it is out of bounds for one reason or another and is invariably wrapped up in a chitenge. A chitenge is a piece of patterned material, measuring roughly 1x2 meters, worn as a sarong and while functional (and more importantly tradition) it’s far from flattering. Many a cute derriere or lovely pair of pins are hidden away for private viewings only. This incidentally isn’t necessarily a bad thing in my humble opinion. It’s just that having it on display is a nice contrast to what I’ve been used to in my village life.


This productive little day trip to Lusaka was wonderful, a delightful day to contrast against my quiet life in the village. Amongst other things, I drank coffee, I wrote, I people watched and I browsed through shops. I felt the buzz of crowds of people going about their own lives and remembered what it’s like to live in a city. I leave you with this funny little anecdote though which happened to me as I found myself walking up and down the aisles of a supermarket. (In your best David accent) Look. CHOICE!! And look at all this fresh fruit and vegetables. And look at the eh…, oh dear Lord, look at the price! Quick, get me back to Chikuni…

Your day-tripper in the middle nowhere

Dessert For Sir?

This month marks the completion of nine whole action packed and memory stuffed months here in Chikuni. Imagine, it’s been nine months since getting off the plane in the scorching hot morning heat of October. Nine months of delicious, fresh and organic fruit. Nine months of dealing with various forms of wildlife. Nine months of crap haircuts. Nine months of you reading this drivel…

I remember before I left for the airport in London, the priest in charge of the volunteer programme said to me “See you in six months” to which I replied, “Probably more like twelve or eighteen actually”. I knew ever before leaving that I wanted to spend more than six months here. And I was right, that’s exactly how I have always felt. In fact, I’ve had such a great time here that I’m adding a little aperitif to my one year plan. So it is that I announce that I will be here until December, December the 8th to be exact. I would probably stay longer but Christmas is in the way and I am far too much of a home bird to want to spend a second Christmas away from family and friends and any notion of a traditional Christmas.

As I am on the public service announcement bandwagon, I will also take this opportunity to announce a sad milestone. At some point during the beginning of July the blog finally reached €10 in advertising revenue. That equates to 33 ad clicks which is pretty crap given that the blog has had approximately 1300 visitors since January, which equates I think to a 2.5% click through percentage. I suspect I will reach no more than €15 by the end of the year so I think I am going to buy some colouring books and crayons for the HBC kids with the proceeds. The grand notion of being able to dig a well or do some other medium sized project has fallen flat on its face without the support it needed. But ce-la-vi, I guess people dislike or are impervious to advertising much the same as I am.

Your reporter in the middle of nowhere (for just a bit longer)

Earth-feckin-quake!!

I’m Irish; Ireland doesn’t do earthquakes or anything like earthquakes. Indeed, the only time I’ve ever ‘felt the earth move’ was when there’s been a lovely lady involved. Not so any more though. Yesterday afternoon I was happily sitting, drinking coffee, and trying to persuade my brain to restart. I was in the middle of a happy daydream when I suddenly heard glasses beginning to rattle together. “That’s odd”, I thought. Especially given that there were no cars/tractors/loud explosions around to cause such a vibration. But the glasses didn’t stop rattling and I felt more and more confused. This went on for maybe 7 or 8 seconds until things started to get interesting and the shaking intensified enough that I realised it wasn’t just the glasses rattling, the entire bloody house was at it, myself included!

Instinct told me to get up and get to a doorframe. I don’t know how I knew that or whether it was even the right thing to do, but I did it! I wasn’t entirely sure just how much of a joyride this was going to be and I knew enough not to go outside in case of falling debris. Thankfully/sadly after only a few seconds the entire thing (the earthquake that is) came to an end. I was left feeling slightly stunned and oddly, a little disappointed that it was over before things had become interesting. Yes I am a selfish, sadistic, inconsiderate bastard, with a clear adrenaline addiction problem! I promise to seek immediate treatment upon my return to Europe. It was very impressive to know that the entire earth, for many kilometres around, was shaking because deep underground two tectonic plates had just shoved past each other like rushing commuters.

While people came out to chat about what had just happened I went back to my coffee, which was getting cold after all. One has to have their priorities in order. So just to add yet another once in a lifetime experience to the plethora of memories I already have from my time here in Chikuni, I can now add minor earthquake to the tally. I love this place!

A taste of Chikuni

Yum, yum, yum I thought as I was led towards the bowl sitting atop of the table. Eating new foods is part of living in any new culture and each culture has it’s own food types. “Down the hatch” someone said and I thought I might as well just play it ‘cool’ and go for it. I looked into the dish to find thirty or so fried caterpillars. They looked a bit like dried beef but more circular in shape. “Oh God” I thought as my hand went in to fish one of the little buggers out. I grabbed hold of a medium sized one, opened my mouth, tossed it in like it was no more than a peanut and promptly closed my mouth. Now came the difficult part… chewing. I hesitated. My co-conspirator smirked. She had already tried and knew just what I was going through. I open my jaws and shudder, started to chew. It actually wasn’t too bad. Not good mind you, but if I had to I could have eaten another. Of course then I had to swallow the thing. My throat felt tight and my stomach was ill-inclined to receive what my brain knew I was eating. But it relented and I swallowed and it was gone, except for the taste. But lovely beer took care of that problem! Happy days…

I looked at her when she told me it was hippo meat. This girl has fooled me many times already and I am not about to be fooled again so easily. But this time she’s not kidding me. It really is hippo, as in hippopotamus! They had a time trying to cut the skin off of it but eventually through gritted teeth, stamina and sheer determination the epidermis was detached and just the meat remained. Later in the evening I get to sample and very nice it was too. Not too strong a flavour. I’m tempted to say “a bit like chicken” but actually I thought it was more like a mashup of beef and pork. This seemed quite apt given that a hippopotamus does actually look, at least to me, like a cross between a pig and a (very large) cow. It apparently had to cook for just three hours which I though was quite short given how tough the meat looked.

“So you eat the head as well?” I asked tentatively looking at the fish, held by its tail between two of my fingers. Yes was the answer and so with only minor in trepidation, in the fish went. The fish is only about five or six centimetres long and perhaps two wide so the bones and skull (do fish have skulls??) were easily crushed by my amble molars. Any fears instilled by my mother about the hazards of fish bones are momentarily forgotten as I enjoy the new experience. I do grind down the fish thoroughly though to ensure any stray bones don’t skew my throat because as the saying goes… mother knows best! Of course one of the reasons why the fish tastes so exceptionally good is because they are fried in oil but I don’t think cholesterol has been invented here yet so I just enjoy yet another new experience.

Your reporter in the middle of nowhere,
Bon Appetite

Liquid Gold

Thwack, smack, whack goes the axe through the night sky and into the hollow tree. Woodchips rain down on us with each swing of the axe. Eriterial stands on the platform above us and swings the axe with expert control and precision. The platform he is standing on continuously wobbles despite three of us holding it. Excitement, anticipation, adventure and adrenaline flow through me with each thump of metal tearing into wood. In the dim light I can see similar excitement in Elizabeth’s eyes. Slowly the buzzing sound grows louder and louder until I feel the first of the bees land on my bare arm and I jump. Elizabeth, beekeeper and enthusiast, tells me to just be calm and relax, the bees will not sting me unless I pose a threat and they can apparently sense my fear and will sting me as a result. So I breathe, try to relax and Eriterial continues chopping.

Next comes the smoke, Eriterial picks up a bunch of burning hay and stuffs it into the hole he has hacked in the tree. I am now standing back behind the dying embers of the fire about 2 meters from the tree. The embers glow red and make a curious shape, something like the shape of a three-legged starfish. Somewhere on the ground I can hear the distressed buzz of bees disoriented by the smoke and the disturbance of their slumber. I watch in awe as Eriterial reaches into the hole in the tree and starts to pull out great big lumps of honeycomb. He has stripped to his trousers to avoid bees getting trapped between his clothes and his body. No such thing as a beekeepers outfit here. His work-sculpted body is silhouetted against the star studded night sky and yet again I feel the utterly compelling reality that I am in Africa and this experience will never happen again. I watch as time after time, he tilts into the tree, his left leg going in the opposite direction to counterbalance his body. His right arm dissolves into the tree all the way up past the elbow and then emerges with even more honeycomb. This gets dropped in the waiting bucket that Elizabeth is holding. After depositing the honeycomb in the bucket he gives a masterly flick of his arm to clear it of little lumps of honeycomb and presumably, bees. This goes on and on for the best part of twenty minutes until eventually I hear “gwamana”, meaning finished and we all exit stage left to leave the bees recover from our night time raid.

Back near the cooking fire we examined the haul. Both Elizabeth and I are worried for Eriterial but apparently he has escaped with just one sting and seems totally unphased. Men are clearly made of tougher stuff here because there’s no way in Hell I would have been able to do that! The bucket is three quarters full and in the dim light we can see glistening honey, white larvae, sealed up cells containing more larvae and of course a few bewildered bees. We cannot see the queen which is good news as it means she is most likely still in the tree and may decide to stick around meaning more honey in a couple more months. Eriterial, Elizabeth and Gian start to sort through the honeycomb as I ‘supervise’. They carefully examine each piece of honeycomb and talk excitedly about each piece. Gently, they brush off the bees and return them to the bucket while putting the honeycomb in another basin. The bucket will be returned to the base of the tree so that the bees can return to the slightly tattered hive either immediately or in the morning. By the time the job is complete the basin is practically full to the brim. Elizabeth and I look astounded while everyone else seems to just take it in their stride and are just pleased to have the honey without anyone getting badly stung.

Your honey thief in the middle of nowhere

Life in the Bush

Sadly, just now I don't really have anything witty to say and as life is going pretty well compared to the last couple of months, I don't even have anything to complain about. So instead here are some video's of what my little bit of African bush is like... Some have been plagurised from one of the priests blogs which you can find here. I'm not sure without some references how useful these will be but hopefully they will at least give you an idea of where I now live.

Enjoy you lucky people with broadband ...

The opening picture is of Radio Chikuni. The cheetah is very friendly :)





A walk around Chikuni


Your broadband-less reporter in the bush

A Change of Scene

“SHUTTTIT!” I holler at the noisy pack of boys whose voices have been steadily rising as I explain something to a small group of three. Echoes of “shhhh” and “quiet” reverberate around the classroom until eventually there is a sort of silence. Ah days of school, how I used to hate them, with a passion! Now though things are a little different and I am the one trying to imbue knowledge into these kids brains.

As of a few weeks ago I have started teaching at the boys secondary school, one of the most prestigious schools in Zambia. I am teaching extracurricular mathematics to twenty grade 8 boys. These kids are struggling with maths and it’s my mission to de-stigmatise and de-mystify some of the ingrained perplexity they have. Maths is a regular pain-point here and many people are unable to do even basic mathematics which is a shame because basic maths, in my humble opinion, is rather easy and dare I say even fun because it means solving problems in logical ways (spot the computer geek). So I am trying to make the classes as fun as possible while still maintaining a modicum of control.

I’ve discovered though that when kids are afraid, they absorb very little. I have one little fellow who practically shivers with fear when I approach and ask if he understands. His voice is lower than a mouse’s squeak and when he says an inaudible no, you can see he is expecting retribution for not understanding. My heart goes out to the poor kid. That someone along the way has managed to instilled such fear into him is a real pity because there will also be many more like him in the years to come. I am doing my best to reassure him that it’s ok if you don’t understand but he needs to let me help and not be so afraid. I sense an uphill struggle but at least the class size means that I can give kids like him more individual help and the boy next to him usually leans in to listen and then when I leave helps his friend to better understand.

It turns out that teaching is good fun and quite rewarding. The boys are happy to be given an opportunity to improve their grades and seem on the whole to work hard, at least during class. I have tried to make the atmosphere as relaxed as possible so that the maths doesn’t seem so scary. I am going for the knowledgeable (but cool) older brother approach rather than the formal teacher approach. Amusingly, this relaxed atmosphere did result in two boys falling asleep the other day, which perhaps points to a need to not make it too relaxed. Memories of an infamous ex-colleague falling asleep at his desk resulting in his head smacking the keyboard came flooding back. I am also revelling in the change of scene as it gives me a wider ranging experience here. I only hope that I am making a difference to the weaker kids. Their exam results at the end of term will be the best indicator of that I think.

Your teacher in the middle of nowhere

The Brutality of Reality

“What are these white bits that keep appearing on my arm?” I pondered from time to time when I happened to look down at my exposed arms. I was already weary of the little flies that seemed intent on biting my apparently tasty skin. These tiny little white-ish lumps were inanimate though. They appeared sporadically and even when I brushed them off, more appeared. Where were they coming from? The answer came shortly after I took over from my friend holding up the sack of meat. First I felt the tiny shards of bone hitting my arm, then my face and then landing in my hair. I also occasionally felt little bits of cow accompany the spray of bone. This horizontal shower of bone and meat was accompanied by the constant shrill sound of the band saw cutting through the 120kg of cow carcass.

I find myself standing in the back of a butcher, helping the butcher cut up the carcass of the cow that just yesterday had a heartbeat. Thankfully I wasn’t around for the murder but I suspect it was pretty grime. The cow belongs to a friend who has bought it to supply meat to a group of visitors who will shortly arrive in Chikuni. There are four legs and the ribcage to be cut up. We start with the legs; firstly the hooves gets cut off and then the butcher starts cutting from the top of the leg so that we get the fillet first. The sensation of being hit by bits of cow, thrown off by the speeding blade of the band saw, as you might imagine is unpleasant to say the least. In fact my skin crawls each time I feel a new bit land. I look down to find bits clinging to my tshirt and run my hand through my hair to remove fresh debris. The only thing I can really do is laugh at the absurdity of the experience. Once again I am reminded that my time here in Zambia is a once in a lifetime experience and that my life here is just so unbelievably and utterly different from everything I have lived through before.

At one point the power goes out. We are plunged into semi darkness and the band saw grinds to a halt. I look at my friend and we smile, Murphys Law! All we can do is wait and hope that it comes back quickly. There is still a full leg and the main body to process not to mention the in-progress leg. After five minutes the power comes back and we get back to business. Twenty minutes later though, the blade of the band saw snaps loudly and clangs against the inside of the machines body. Everyone except the butcher jumps and scatters at the sound. He turns the machine off and opens up the machine. The inside of the walls are pasted with the same tiny bits of flesh that have been bombarding me. The only difference is that the layer of meat is about one and a half centimetres thick; I shudder and wonder how often the machine is cleaned. The butcher goes to get another blade and we wait to resume the fun.

Many thoughts go through my head as the work progresses. I remember being a child and happily watching the family butcher, Mr. Bresnan, chopping meat in the back half of his shop while my mum or dad bought the weekly supply of meat. I remember his shiny band saw and the handsaws and knives. I remember watching the skilled staff slice through the meat as if it was a knife through butter. There is none of that here though. There is no notion of choice cuts and neither knife nor handsaw made an appearance for the two hour stint I spent in the butchers. The only thing that seemed to get done properly was the T-bone. I never knew that it came from the top of the ribcage and the ‘T’ is essentially part of the spine. I also thought about the day in school when Billy Murphy chopped his finger of using a band saw in woodwork and the raucous that ensured there after. I also thought about an ex-lovers beloved cows and how they face the same fate as the poor retch in front of me.

As a confirmed carnivore I am well aware of the fate of many an innocent animal for the gratification of my taste buds but I am always amazed at how well my mind can abstract away the process of turning docile, soft eyed, grass eating cows into delicious, bloody streak for my eating pleasure. This is the brutal reality of eating meat and I can live with that, just about. I will spare you the more gruesome details of the days events but in many ways, the butcher was the least gruesome experience of the day. The shower at the end of the day was not just necessary to stay clean, it was necessary to stay sane and feel like I no longer had bits of cow all over me. Now I just hope I get to taste some of the spoils of the days labour.

Your reporter in the middle of nowhere

Uninvited Guests

Time was, I could sit outside the back of my house, in the dappled shade of a guava tree, enjoying a delicious coffee and reading a good book or writing in my diary. The only thing I had to worry about was the ants making their way up the legs of the chair and crawling all over me. I could get over that though for the pleasure of being able to just relax in the glorious African heat and feel at ease. No more though. I have new neighbours and not just neighbours across the wall, oh no, these neighbours have moved into my attic! Nowadays, if you spend more than ten minutes outside the back of my house between nine in the morning and five in the evening you are likely to get buzzed, bothered, barraged and maybe even stung by the hundred or so bees that have settled in the attic directly above my kitchen. They fly in and out of a hole at the rate of about four or five a second, seemingly all day long. They don’t seem to like me very much and I have been chased around my own house on three different occasions while checking on my laundry. I am not at all impressed, I can tell you!

Now in an ideal world, this wouldn’t be a problem. In my head, I see the bees and the giant feckin rats having a war in the attic and essentially wiping each other out. No more rats and no more bees seem like a wonderful outcome. Horrifyingly though, the two seem to be coexisting just fine. I know this because the rats are still doing their best to knock a hole in the ceiling and/or ensure I get as little sleep as possible. So I am left in a bit of a tricky situation. I quite like the idea of honey but I’m not so keen on being stung repeatedly for the next six months. The bees and I need to become friends! Apparently you doing this in much the same sort of style as you would with a girlie you are trying to convert into a “petite amie”. You bring them their favourite thing in the whole wide world! No, not diamonds or chocolate or flowers, well maybe flowers; I’m talking about honey. When the bees realise that you can provide honey, all of a sudden you are less of a threat and so don’t need exterminating. So we are about to embark on a black ops mission, code-named “Lets not get stung again because it hurts like a bastard”. A snappy title I’m sure you’ll agree. Time will tell what the outcome will be but one way or another, we need to deal with these unruly and very much uninvited guests.

To add insult to injury, last Thursday, upon my return home after a hard days toil I was unable to gain access to the house. I could hear the noise even over the music of the ipod. The sound was the simultaneous beat of two hundred odd wings. A second swarm had arrived. I was beginning to wonder if I had missed a sign somewhere which read “Free Luxury Bee Accommodation” with an arrow pointed at my house. This time they were in my front yard. There was no way in hell I was going to risk going anywhere near them and so I had to just stop, wait and marvel at the sheer number of them and the noise they were producing. They disappeared from the sky but I could still hear them. I took a few steps forward and realised that they were sussing out the abandoned doghouse in the corner of the yard. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do with two swarms to contend with when one is more than enough! Thankfully, the darlings decided the accommodation was not up to scratch though and so slowly dissipated into the last rays of sun of the dying daylight. I breathed a large sigh of relief and slowly made my way toward the door. A few bees still hung around, like ASBOs on a street corner but they seemed more intent on the doghouse than me. I was very, very happy to close the front door and feel the safety of the house engulf me.

Your unintended and hapless beekeeper in the middle of nowhere