The Essence of Freedom

The Bible

In her radio show, Dr Laura Schlesinger said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The following response is an open letter to Dr. Laura, which was posted on the Internet. It’s funny, as well as informative:

Dear Dr. Laura,
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God’s Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination …. End of debate.
I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God’s Laws and how to follow them.

1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighbouring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?
2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of Menstrual uncleanliness – Lev15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odour for the Lord – Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbours. They claim the odour is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
5. I have a neighbour who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?
6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination, Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don’t agree. Can you settle this? Are there ‘degrees’ of abomination?
7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?
8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?
9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?
10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn’t we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I’m confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God’s word is eternal and unchanging.

Your adoring fan,
James M Kauffman, Ed.D. Professor Emeritus, Dept. Of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education University of Virginia (It would be a damn shame if we couldn’t own a Canadian)
NOTE
James M Kauffman claims he DID NOT actually write this. But hell it is funny any how.

Battle School Part Two

 (Due to a slight argument with the CO of Wits in the Offices pub I was no longer allowed to visit the Regiment HQ.)

Much to my surprise, the secretary of Wits Rifles phoned to ask me to take part in a Grading Ops at Lohatla. The army was now the new SANDF, run mainly by the old enemy. They did not like the Commando Units at all: a majority white Afrikaner organisation within their structure. In an attempt to disband them with a minimum of fuss, the powers-that-be decided that each unit would be evaluated. If they did not come up to scratch they would cease to exist. Now, I may have been a drunken lout, but my assessment of the Commanding Officer and his lackeys was accurate.
Carlton-Barber was the exception, and he had a deal for me. I would go with them for their evaluation but stay in the shadows; no parades, roll call and all the other stuff I thought was a load of crap anyway. Only when they needed the weapons fired would I come into play, and since the high ranks stay as far away from any hard work or physical danger as they can, the chance that we would bump into one another was zero. One thing: the bus would have to pick me up outside the camp. No problem.
We got to Lohatla without incident. This time we were doing Mechanised Infantry, which just meant everyone got Ratels. The same lieutenant that did the map work was there. He and I got on okay; only thing was, there was no one else to fire the weapons. We recruited some of the new army (SANDF) guys to help. As we did not have time to train them before the evaluation, we would have to do it with only one 81 mm Mortar, where there were supposed to be four. Fortunately, we found a coloured lieutenant who could operate the sights.
A mortar crew consists of three people: one to set and aim the sights, a second to help adjust the weapon, check the ammo is correct and drop the bomb into the tube, and a third who passes the bomb to the second and helps carry and clean the pipe bore between salvos.
We took our four Ratels to the magazine and loaded them all with ammo, not mentioning to the storeman that we were using only one pipe. I love things that go bang … as soon as we were out in the bush and out of sight, I loaded most of the bombs into “my” Ratel. We were literally sitting on piles of bombs.
We had a few days to practice and to get to know each other, and stayed away from the rest of the unit, as mortarists usually do. A small degree of error at the pipe will cause the bomb to be dropped very far out, a few kilometres away, so our practice area is huge and people tend to stay away. The coloured lieutenant spoke like a posh Brit, very well educated and all that, what. Not a bad chap, all of 22 years old.
Part of the evaluation was to give supporting fire in a night attack. The mortars first “soften” the target and then the infantry “cleans up”.  One pipe will put illumination flares up so the infantry guys can see the target. We have to be very accurate, firstly with the HE (High Explosive) bombs, as we don’t want friendly troops to walk into our fire, and then with the illumination so we light up the enemy positions without showing up our own troops.
The day before the attack we cheated a little bit and sneaked into the target area to get exact distances. Lohatla’s rocks have a high iron content, making compasses almost useless, but all is fair in love and war, right? The only problem was that we only had one pipe, and to keep our rate of fire correct, and the illumination in the air was impossible. Kak!  With enough vodka anything is possible. What we did was to put ten HE into the target, turn the elevation screw six times up, put four illumination flares in the air, turn the screw 6 times down and ten HE into the target again, and so on. This would not have worked if the pipe was on the ground, as each bomb would have caused it to sink deeper. Well, we had a vehicle of 18 tons and it was not moving.  To prevent fouling, we had one troop standing on top of the vehicle to push an outsized ramrod with steel wool down the tube in between flying bombs. If he got the timing wrong he would have lost his head. I once saw a troop lose his fingers by being too slow to move his hand from the opening of a small 60 mm Mortar; the tailfins of the bomb caught him and sliced his fingers clean off.
This was going very well but then we had a hiccup. An HE bomb got stuck in the tube. No problem, there is a specialised tool which we call an uittrekker to pull stuck bombs out of the tube. You drop it down the tube, it attaches itself to the bomb, and is then pulled up by means of a couple of ropes. The bomb is of course considered extremely dangerous and has to be carried, very carefully, to a safe location far away from the troops.
Well, we dropped the uittrekker down the pipe, but just before the bomb was out, the ropes snapped. The new South African army does not look after its equipment. The top of the uittrekker was just visible, so with an asbestos glove, I grabbed the thing, hauled it out and threw it over the side of the Ratel. Pretty drunk and hyped up, I wanted to throw more bombs at the target. This is where the colouredlieutenant lapsed into his past. He yelled: ‘Bisset jou ma se poes, wat doen jy?’ Gone was the posh accent; the Cape Flats took its place instead. Too rude to translate.
Blowing things up is like a drug; once you start you don’t want to stop, you just want MORE. Countless bombs left that pipe that night and I don’t think it should ever have been used again. When we finally finished the mock attack I had thrown about 375 kg worth of bombs and was exhausted, but high as a kite. The CO of battle school found out that we had only one tube and came to shake my hand, and his head, at the same time. He thinks all English speaking people are not well in the head, and me in particular. Never mind.
Attie was around and acting even more berserk than I was. We did a daytime attack together, and he used my Ratel as a command post and to store ammunition he had obtained illegally. I now had a bit more space. The new troops were so bad that the ou manne refused to do fire and movement with them, so the attack was planned around this problem. In a real war, they would all have died, but this was an indication of our new South Africa and its army.
Attie would set up in his designated position and fire all his ammo before some of the troops had even worked out they were supposed to be firing, then he would run to the nearest LMG gunner, moer him out of the way and fire all his ammo. Not done yet, he would charge the next, or the nearest weapon he liked, a 60 mm mortar or RPG, and repeat the process. Once he had exhausted all the ammo, he would charge to the Ratel for his stash and frantically try and fire as much of that as possible before the cease-fire order came through. A proper soldier, the moment it did, he stopped; a man after my own heart. He too was congratulated by the school’s CO.
Taken from The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief II

You can get The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola HERE

The Mexican in Angola

Making Amends

Charmaine moved out and took up the New Age philosophy in a big way. She seemed to have a knack for that sort of thing and soon was reading Tarot cards and studying to become a Reiki Master. She left her normal job and started doing stress therapy. She was a much happier person, but kept getting involved with maniacal men. One actually committed suicide just after they broke up. Charmaine was devastated. Eventually she did some work on fixing herself. We remained best of friends, and together we looked into co-dependent relationships and did a rather rough “inner-child” workshop together. For the next few years we would travel the country together, visiting Holistic Fairs, Buddhist Temples and the like. We both had an aversion to Christianity, what with her growing up Catholic and my father bringing me up as a Jehovah’s Witness.
Dougie was my guiding hand in the AA programme. I did not like what he told me most of the time, but he forced me to take an honest look at myself. He also said that if I wanted to get sober I would have to rejoin the human race. My reply was, ‘Had a look at that lot, don’t like ‘em, won’t join ‘em.’ My position remains stat.
I met some very interesting people at those meetings, and a few became good friends of mine. My first year of staying sober I met Angus and Eric, both of whom became important figures in my life. Angus was a Scotsman, born in Glasgow but due to English public schooling had not a trace of an accent. Eric was a computer guy with, at that time, one wife and three ex-wives to his name. Both were smooth-looking and even smoother talking – bloody made me jealous. Never mind … one night I attended a meeting and a striking young woman walked in with a rather scruffy fellow. Evonne was tall, well over six foot, a head and shoulders above most of the men in the room, with a lean, fit-looking body.
Uh oh … exotic animals and women, can’t keep away. After these meetings we normally had coffee, chatted and arranged to meet again later in the week. Being a support group, this was an accepted thing. We also made newcomers feel welcome.
Of course I could not do this programme without some sort of rebellion. One of the two steps I did not want to do fully were: Become willing to make amends to people I had harmed. I had a serious problem with the cop who’d put a gun to my head, and my ex-wife. For two years I horrified members each time this step came around by saying, ‘Alright, everyone except the cop and my ex. I still plan to snipe her as soon as I feel I can get away with it.’
The third year I did two things. I walked into the police station, went into their bar and publicly apologized to Swanie. I also hired a private detective to find my ex-wife. I did not get a home address but one for her place of employment. It was less than 2km from Sound and Light City, just over the highway. At this stage of my life I had been taught to think before I act, so I did not rush over there full of apologies. Besides, sorry and making amends are two different animals. I don’t think I can ever make direct amends to Tracy, but I do try make amends to the Universe by treating people, especially women, better than I did her and Charmaine. I do not always succeed. The upshot was, considering what I had done and said to this woman during our divorce, she was not going to be glad to see me.
To overcome this barrier I wrote a letter, explaining that I had being sober for a couple of years, trying to apologise, stating that there was nothing I could do to make things right and so on. I also gave my contact details and said if ever she wanted to talk, she could contact me. This done, I proceeded to her company. Arriving at the reception area I politely asked if I could see her. She was paged but as she came through the door she saw me and made a bee-line for the ladies’ toilets and locked herself in. I was not about to shout through the door so just pushed the envelope under the door and made a tactical withdrawal. She did not contact me. Considering how many times I had broken my promise to stay sober while we lived together, I don’t think she believed my letter. I waited 6 months, then had another letter hand-delivered, just stating that I was still sober and did she want to talk. Again, no reply. I did that for the next year with the same result. I was saddened by this but not surprised; my childhood sweetheart would never speak to me again, but I had to move on. This particular attempt at making amends was now done; I had many more to do.
From The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief II

Battle School Part One

The first job came out of the local newspaper. The Commandos needed a few good men to get their ratings up in the changing South African Army. The pay per day was more than my combat pay per month as a conscript years before. The ad had a phone number and I duly called and set up an appointment, at Wits Rifles.
It was very strange to walk into a South African army camp again after so many years. The interview was conducted by a Major Carlton-Barber, a soutpiel, which was a bonus. He wanted to know why after all these years I thought I was capable of representing his unit. In for a penny, in for a pound. I told him about my mercenary activities. Like most conscript or commando soldiers, he had no particular liking for mercenaries, but considering the men he had, my experience with weapons was needed badly. There was an Ops coming up and they did not have even one 81 mm mortar man. They did have a lieutenant to do the map and co-ordinate work, but that was it. I was in. With an invitation to come and meet the rest of the unit the following Wednesday evening, I left my details with the civilian secretary.
Having found my old uniform and spiffed it up a bit, I arrived on time. The meeting was at the NCO’s (non-commissioned officers) mess. The SADF has strict rules, copied from the British, about rank structure and who socialises with whom. Now, I may have attained rank in other armies, but here I was just a troop. In order to enter the mess one has to stand in the doorway, slam one’s boot into the ground and shout, ‘Permission to enter the mess, S’major!’ This done, one is granted permission by the highest ranking NCO and one may approach the bar and greet the highest ranking officer. What a lot of crap.
Commissioned officers are allowed in NCO messes but not vice versa, unless the NCOs get special permission. As a troop to be allowed in a NCO mess is a privilege only allowed in certain units. So there I was, a sleg troop, minding my own business … but Carlton-Barber had not kept our interview confidential. As I was on the wagon I ordered a coke, which caused a general commentary, none of it very pleasant, about a tough mercenary drinking cold drink. I really did not give a damn, as most of these “soldiers” had never been operational in their lives, and could kiss my arse. Later in the evening one sergeant major got particularly nasty and I thought a fight would break out; he was big, but pretty drunk. One of the officers ordered him to leave it alone. We got instructions on the upcoming Ops and an invitation to come for a drink every Wednesday night.
The deployment day arrived and we set off for South Africa’s Army Battle School at Lohatla. I had heard of this place, none of what I’d head was agreeable. It rated up there with other hard-core training grounds like Letaba Ranch and Die Brug. So far, the drill was a lot more relaxed than I remembered from the old days, so what the hell. I sat with the Mortar Lieutenant and got an update of how the Commando units worked.
We were to be a Motorised Unit using Armoured Troop Carriers, but the mortar crew would get Ratels that were specially modified for the 81mm Mortar. Cool … I had never seen a Ratel up close, other than the one at the old Portuguese Fort in Luanda, and the idea of driving around instead of humping all that kit sounded good to me.
It was a long bus ride as Lohatla is in the far Northern Cape, an inhospitable semi-desert part of the country. Snakes, spiders, scorpions and ostrich abounded. As per usual, we stopped at the HQ to draw kit, weapons, vehicles and clothes. Moreover, as per usual the store-men, with thousands of socks on the shelves behind them, hassle to give out even one pair. I had to explain where my original issue items were and why what I had was so worn out. Considering my original issue was about 13 years back, no wonder my socks had holes in them. However, having been through this a few times before, I managed to get what I needed and two pairs of brand new boots as well. That done, we went to collect our vehicles.
Overall I was not too impressed with these “weekend” soldiers, but one man stood out. Without saying a word or doing anything in particular, he just had a different feel to him. Later on I went to greet him, and that is how I met the best all-round weapons expert I have ever known. When we shot our rifles in, he proved his marksmanship.  Each man gets ten bullets and fires them at a designated target in order to check the weapon and sights. Attie’s target had one ragged hole in the target’s chin area.  The sergeant told him how useless he was. Attie is extremely polite, and said that all the shots were in the same hole. This was in Afrikaans, to which the Sergeant replied: ‘Kak!’  To prove his point and restore his honour, Attie suggested that after each shot a new target be placed behind the first one. This organised, he took 10 quick shots. True as shit, every target had a hole in it, with a slightly jagged hole in the front one.
Since this was Battle School, the emphasis was on schooling. We attended a lot of lectures and weapons training. The regular army guys were in their late teens and early twenties, so Attie and I stood out as old men at the age of thirty-something. It showed when a Colonel gave a sand model lesson and asked what would we do in such and such a situation – we both gave the same basic plan but added that we would take the enemy’s armoured vehicles out with RPG-7s. The Colonel was reasonably impressed with the plan but said, ‘Kak, boet!’ to the RPG suggestion.
He informed us that they now had an FT5, and got one of his men to fetch the thing. It looked like a piece of PVC toilet piping. Off we went to the big firing range to check this thing out. Attie and I had never seen one before so the Colonel explained how the sights worked and how to load the thing. It was a two-man weapon so I loaded it up and slapped Attie on the shoulder to let him know it was ready. Whoosh! And bang, there went an old tank in the middle of the range. Everyone, including Attie, was suitably impressed.
The trip was a good one overall, and as I was still on the wagon, there were no unpleasant incidents. My skill with the Mortar pipe was duly noted and I was told I was welcome to visit the NCO mess in future.

Addiction

5 Sunrise- Sunsets Series

As I was doing permanent night Ops in a Rhino Anti Poaching Unit I saw a LOT of sunrise and  sunsets. Some were spectacular and I took too many photographs for just one post. So,  thought I would share them “one a day” with you.

I am also a writer, but have yet to write The Chronicles of this chapter of my life. You can however find my very first written Chronicles here; they took place, in another lifetime, many years ago.

The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola.

4 Sunrise- Sunsets Series

As I was doing permanent night Ops in a Rhino Anti Poaching Unit I saw a LOT of sunrise and  sunsets. Some were spectacular and I took too many photographs for just one post. So,  thought I would share them “one a day” with you.


I am also a writer, but have yet to write The Chronicles of this chapter of my life. You can however find my very first written Chronicles here; they took place, in another lifetime, many years ago.

The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola.

BierPens: Fees Must Fall. Who will pay

BierPens: Fees Must Fall. Who will pay: Student Unrest Fees Must Fall I_Victim Looking at the problem one wonders why is the struggle not taken to the Authorities. The Law ma...

3 Sunrise- Sunsets Series

As I was doing permanent night Ops in a Rhino Anti Poaching Unit I saw a LOT of sunrise and  sunsets. Some were spectacular and I took too many photographs for just one post. So,  thought I would share them “one a day” with you.


I am also a writer, but have yet to write The Chronicles of this chapter of my life. You can however find my very first written Chronicles here; they took place, in another lifetime, many years ago.

The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola.

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2 Sunrise- Sunsets Series

As I was doing permanent night Ops in a Rhino Anti Poaching Unit I saw a LOT of sunrise and  sunsets. Some were spectacular and I took too many photographs for just one post. So,  thought I would share them “one a day” with you.

I am also a writer, but have yet to write The Chronicles of this chapter of my life. You can however find my very first written Chronicles here; they took place, in another lifetime, many years ago.

The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola.

An Armed Robbery - Short Story

At S&LC Mark was firing more people than hiring. Thomas was one of them, can’t say I was sorry to see him go. He also down-scaled the shop and we no longer did car-radios and TVs. Good thing I was in the Professional Sound division by now. We moved to smaller premises in a complex called Midrand Junction. Interestingly, our neighbour was a tiny little shop-come-warehouse called Sahara Computers; any South African will know how large that company is today, but it had small beginnings. We had a duplex shop: the ground floor was a showroom, the demo room and stockroom. Denis manned the floor and I was in the office upstairs. There were two offices. Ashleen the secretary and I shared one; Marc and Frederick shared the other. The kitchenette and toilets were also on that floor. Ashleen and I got on very well together. She was an exceedingly beautiful Indian woman and lived near my house. I taught her how to drive as her husband would not.
It was 9.30 on a Tuesday morning. I was on the phone to my mate Angus. As the toilet was upstairs and customers used it, I took no notice of a man coming up the stairs. I was not looking at him but heard the unmistakable sound of a semi-auto pistol being cocked. He shoved it against my head, shouting I must put the phone down. I did not say goodbye to Angus, just did as he said. Another man rushed into Marc’s office. Ashleen was as still as a rabbit caught in the headlights. My guy was shaking so badly that the gun was tap-tapping  against my head. I was still on my pacifist plak and therefore unarmed. Time seemed to slow down.  I noticed that the weapon he had was a brand new Taurus Millennium 9mm. I hoped he would not pull the trigger by accident or from shaking so badly.
The other guy was man handling Marc and Frederick out their office and down the stairs. He shouted at my guy to bring Ashleen and me. The guy left me and grabbed the 8-month pregnant Ashleen. By himself he would have been easy to overpower, but the other guy, also armed, had Marc and Frederick, and I knew they would have friends downstairs as well. I was ordered to follow my guy and Ashleen. Real dummy, this one. Downstairs, Rachel, the cashier, was behind her till, eyes closed and praying. The rest of the staff and two other gunmen were in the sound demo room. This room was set up as a miniature disco and soundproofed.
My cell phone rang. All the gunmen started shouting. My guy shoved his gun nearly up my nostril. I handed him the phone. Another guy collected everyone’s wallets and watches but forgot about me. The leader was demanding the safe keys from Marc. Marc told him to fuck off and got pistol-whipped for his trouble. He still wouldn’t tell where the key was. I told Marc to give them what they wanted but he stubbornly refused. The leader started to punch Ashleen in the stomach. I moved, purely by instinct, only a fraction of a step, and got two guns shoved in my face. I could do nothing. Frederick also knew where the key was and as Marc was still refusing to tell, he told them where it was. One of the gunmen took the key. They knew where the safe was: under the stairs. Marc protested and got beaten to the floor. My nervous chap re-cocked his gun and the chambered bullet flew through the air. The leader picked it up. The other guy came back; he had broken the fucking key in the safe! There was a lot of shouting and the leader demanded we lie on the floor. I thought, ‘This is it, we will either live or we will die in the next few minutes’. I believed that they would not shoot us, that at this point, they just wanted to get away. I could only hope if they did start shooting I wouldn’t be first, and hoped I could move fast enough to get at least one of them. Not much of a fucking plan, I know. They all left. I waited a few moments then cautiously got up to take a look.
Rachel was all alone, eyes still closed. I told her they were gone. She immediately went to make tea for everyone. Now there is a faith I respect: no matter what they threatened her with, she was not going to move and believed that if she died right there, praying, she would go to heaven. Best Christian I have met, then and since. I also found out that she was on the phone to my agent in Bloemfontein when ordered to put the phone down. She calmly informed him that we were being robbed and asked would he call the police. This small lady is much braver than the Mexican Horse Thief.  The gunman had to rip the phone wires out of the wall! She risked her life in vain.
I got a call later from the agent and this is what he told me. He had immediately called the Bloemfontein Flying Squad, they’d informed him it was not their problem and that he should call Johannesburg. He asked for the number. They could not give it to him and told him to look it up! He did find the number and called them. They NEVER arrived. We had called the police from our side and they came four days later after we called them a few more times, then accused Marc of trying to set up an insurance scam because we did not call the robbery in immediately.  The gunmen had fled taking only a few high-end Technics turntables. I had a huge fight with Marc about the whole business. I knew that the safe had just over R10 000.00 in it, which was insured. He had risked all of our lives, and that of an unborn child, for that! Fucking unacceptable. He was no longer a friend of mine.
When I went home that night, I was in a bad head-space. I had thoughts of taking my sniper rifle, climbing up one of the billboards, and taking pot-shots at taxis. All the gunmen had been black men and in this country it is sometimes VERY hard not to be racist. I called my friend Charmaine and we went out to supper instead; good thing I was still on coffee. With some vodka in me…. who know what I would have done?

Extract from The Chronicles of The Mexican Horse Thief II.
You may obtain a copy of The Chronicles of The Mexican Horse Thief I here.

1 Sunrise- Sunsets Series

As I was doing permanent night Ops in a Rhino Anti Poaching Unit I saw a LOT of sunrise and  sunsets. Some were spectacular and I took too many photographs for just one post. So, I thought I would share them “one a day” with you.



I am also a writer, but have yet to write The Chronicles of this chapter of my life. You can however find my very first written Chronicles here; they took place, in another lifetime, many years ago.

The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola.

On the whole we saw very little wildlife of the larger variety, mainly insects of the extremely large variety. A few guys had to be casevaced because of spider-bites and scorpion stings.

One morning, very badly hung over, I was too lazy to put my boots on and stumbled barefoot along the path to the mess for coffee. I suddenly felt an excruciating pain in my little toe, as if someone was putting out a cigarette on it. My first thought was that I had stepped on someone’s cigarette butt, then I saw a whitish, small scorpion scuttling off. Strangely enough my scorpion sting, while painful, did not upset my nervous system as it did the other guys who got stung; they all got seriously ill. I waited for the inevitable, but, apart from minor swelling where my little toe became my big toe, nothing really happened. It must have been all the vodka acting like a serum! On a scale of pain it was high up: much worse than a bee sting, about three times worse than a wasp, but Mickey Mouse when compared to an adder bite. So far those are the only references I have managed to collect, but I am still working on it.

The grossest insect-related thing I saw, and thank God it didn’t happen to me, involved little white worms. There we were, minding our own business on the shooting range. Some of the guys were complaining about these painful pimples they had developed. One artilleryman had a lovely beer belly and was digging at a pimple on his stomach with his none-too-clean fingernails. Much to everyone’s disgust, an ugly little worm-thing wriggled out. It was highly amusing to watch all these rough and tough soldiers, who had similar pimples, run screaming like a bunch of frightened women to find the medic. I suppose it was only funny because my skin was a lovely brown colour and free of blemishes! Brian, the medic, spent the afternoon digging out these horrible little worms.

Extract from: The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola

Scorpions

Scorpions are predatory arachnids of the order Scorpiones. They have eight legs and are easily recognized by the pair of grasping pedipalps and the narrow, segmented tail, often carried in a characteristic forward curve over the back, ending with a venomous stinger.
From Wiki
Apart from snakes, scorpions have also been  of great interest to me. So a lot of combined snake and scorpion catching missions were made by me. You can see this in the cover of my book, The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief,  that I designed and drew.

Here are a few photos of real scorpions for your perusal.

My Photograpy: Study In Rust III

 Well worth a look at!



My Photograpy: Study In Rust III: Diamond shaped detail of a manhole cover. As mentioned in other posts about Rust, there is the decaying beauty in rust, that keeps fascinat...

Story of a clinic in Africa!

Mozambican Street Art

Ziggy and I are doing the roof with paper thin corrugated iron, the wind is howling and the sheets are being flung around. Vaughn is not interested, just get the job done. The inevitable happens. Ziggy get hurt, the wind blew a sheet off the roof and he grabbed for it, it sliced his thumb to the bone. There was a lot of blood. I got the first aid kit out and put a pressure bandage on. He needed more than my basic first aid skills. I asked where the hospital was. I found out Mozal runs a clinic a few short kilometers up the road. I tell Ziggy to hang in there and I will go and get a bakkie’s keys from Jay or Vaughn. I tell them what happened and Vaughn is pissed off, he does not give a damn about his worker that is hurt, he actually refuses to give me the keys. He reckons Ziggy should just carry on working.

I get pissed off. Always a bad thing, I tell him off and just take the keys, collect Ziggy and head out. The clinic is not bad looking, a surprise. It consists of a small building with two consulting rooms. It has a neat garden and a long waiting bench under a veranda. It costs 1 Metica to join the queue. (R0.30.)  We get to the front and go into the consulting room with a sister, the doctor is in the other one. Problem is this sister is very young and she is very nervous. She is a black lady so hard to see if she went pale as she undressed my crude dressing, but her hands started shaking. The consulting room consists of a bunk covered with foam, no clean sheet of paper or clothe, the wall that it is up against has all sorts of stains I do not want to think about. Ziggy does not go that way, he is lead to a small three legged stool, a dirt bin half full of other stained stuff I also don’t want to think about is put under his hand. He is dripping blood. Next to the stool is a table with the usual patch up tools, except no sterilizing basin, no hot water even. This is bad. The very nervous, young sister, threads a curved needle, I know these things.

 I have seen the local anesthetic bottles and syringes but she proceeds to push the needle through the skin. Ziggy is moaning in pain, and definitely a shade or two lighter that his usual colour. I tell Ziggy to ask her for an injection first! He translates, the poor girl forgot!
Must be the worst fumbling job I have ever seen with a needle and syringe follows. She also wants to start sewing immediately. Again I get Ziggy to tell her to wait a few moments for the bloody stuff to work. He translates. She seems grateful for the advice. It got worse. The poor untrained girl, and Ziggy, suffers through putting in three of the 5 needed stitches, she has never done this before, of  that, I am sure. Even with the injection, Ziggy stops her from trying to do the last two. I help her bandage the wound. It cost 10 Metica. (R3.00.)  We get back on site and Vaughn does not even come to see if Ziggy is ok. Jay takes the keys and says we better finish the roof on time. I have no time for my cousin and his wife, maybe even before this incident but definitely after.
Extract from the soon to be published: The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief II.
You may purchase a full copy of Part II HERE

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Night Adder One

The Coin Security Fiasco.

I had answered an ad in the paper and set up an interview in Sandton. As I was still working part-time with the pet shop guy, and thought the interview would not take long, I took along two snakes to be delivered and my girlfriend. I parked in the underground garage in the posh Sandton city and, dressed in my suit, arrived on time for the interview. Something made me leave my gun with my girlfriend.

In the middle of the interview the manager that was conducting the interview got an emergency phone call. He was told that there had been an accidental shooting at the barracks in Midrand, and asked if we could continue the interview in the car on the way there. I said that would be fine. I had no cell phone to tell my girlfriend of the developments, but she was always a very patient person.

We drove through to the barracks and as we drove through the gates two security guards slammed them shut and chained them closed with a padlock. I had no idea what was happening, but knew enough to know we had just fallen into a trap! This idiot manager had been fooled into coming out here. There had been no accidental shooting; these guys just wanted a larney in their hands.

READ ON...

Extract from The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief II, to be published soon.
The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola is available HERE

The Vital South African Dictionary

A
abba – Carry a child secured to one’s back with a blanket. From the Khoi-San.
amasi (pronounced um-ah-see) – A popular drink of thick sour milk. From the isiZulu. An alternative name is maas.
ag (agh) – Generally used at the beginning of a sentence, to express resignation or irritation, as in: “Ag no man! What did you do that for?”
B
babbelas (bub-buh-luss) – A hangover.
bagel (bay-gell) – An overly groomed materialistic young man, and the male version of a kugel.
bakgat (buck-ghut) – Well done, cool, awesome.
bakkie (buck-ee) – A pick-up truck.
bergie (bear-ghee) – From the Afrikaans berg, mountain, originally referring to vagrants who sheltered in the forests of Cape Town’s Table Mountain and now a mainstream word for anyone who is down and out.
biltong (bill-tong) – This South African favorite is dried and salted meat, similar to beef jerky, although it can be made from ostrich, kudu or any other red meat.
bioscope – A cinema or movie theatre, originally a defunct international English word that has survived longer in South Africa because of the influence of the Afrikaans bioskoop.
biscuit – In South Africa a cookie is known as a biscuit. The word is also a term of affection, as in “Hey, you biscuit”.
bliksem – To beat up, hit or punch – or a mischievous person.
blooming (blimmin) – A variation on very, as in: “That new bakkie is blimmin big.”
bobotie (buh-boor-tee) – A dish of Malay origin, made with minced meat and spices, and topped with an egg sauce.
boerewors (boor-uh-vors) – Literally, farmer’s sausage. A savoury sausage developed by the Boers – today’s Afrikaners – some 200 years ago, boerewors is South African food at its most traditional.
boet (like book, with a t) – A term of affection, from the Afrikaans for brother.
boma (bow-mah) – An open thatched structure used for dinners, entertainment and parties.
bonsella – Surprise gift, something extra, or a bribe. From isiZulu.
bosberaad (borse-bah-raad)- A strategy meeting or conference, usually held in a remote bushveld location such as a game farm.
braai (br-eye) – An outdoor barbecue, where meat such as steak, chicken and boerewors are cooked, served with pap and bredie.
bredie (brear-dee) – A traditional South African mutton stew, first brought to the country by Malay immigrants. It now refers to any kind of stew.
bru (brew) – A term of affection, shortened from Afrikaans broer, meaning “brother”. An example would be “Hey, my bru, howzit?”
bunny chow – Delicious and cheap food on the go, bunny chow is curry served in a hollowed-out half-loaf of bread, generally sold in greasy-spoon cafés. Perfect for eating on the side of the road while backpacking across South Africa.
bushveld (bush-felt) – Taken from the Afrikaans bosveld (“bush field”), the bushveld is a terrain of thick scrubby trees and bush in dense thickets, with grassy groundcover between.
C
café (kaf-ay, kaff-ee or kayff) – The ubiquitous small neighbourhood convenience store, often found on street corners and stocking cigarettes, cold drinks and newspapers.
china – To most people China is the country with the largest population in the world, but to a South African it can mean something entirely different. China means good friend, as in “This oke’s my china”. It’s one of the few Cockney rhyming slang words to survive in the country, coming from “china plate” = “mate”.
chommie – Friend, from the English chum.
cooldrink, colddrink – This is the common term for a soda, such as Coca-Cola. Ask for a soda in South Africa and you will receive a club soda.

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The Blue Waxbill

The blue waxbill (Uraeginthus angolensis), also called blue-breasted cordon-bleu, is a common species of estrildid finch found in Southern Africa. The powder-blue face, breast and flanks are diagnostic. Female is dowdier than male but also shows blue underparts. Call is a soft 'seee-seee', often repeated as bird flits through the lower parts of bush and scrub.^[2] It has an estimated global extent of occurrence of 3,600,000 km².
It is found in Angola, Botswana, Burundi, the Republic of Congo, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Kenya, Malawi, Mozambique, Namibia, São Tomé and Príncipe, South Africa, Swaziland, Tanzania, Zambia and Zimbabwe. The status of the species is evaluated as Least Concern.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Snakes from Above

12 hours after getting cobra venom in the eye

I was working and living at Badplaas Mechanical Services, the workshop was about 4km from that sorry excuse of a town. Nice view of the mountain and grasslands all around me, I was content. My room was powered from a couple of batteries and an inverter, as Eskom was broken.
Rigged above my bed was an LED light, because I do love to read at night. The building was not in a good state of repair and between the wall and the ceiling were large gaps, this did not bother me much, until one night.
I was sitting on my bed playing a computer game, very focused on it. Something brushed against my shoulder, thinking it was one of the huge moths they have there I absently slapped it away. Instant pain in my left eye! Caught only a glimpse of the Mozambique Spitting Cobra, I had just slapped, slithering under the bed.  The pain was intense; I stumbled to the bathroom and washed out my eyes.
By now the left eye was totally useless, the right not much better, as a miniscule about of venom had gotten in that eye too. My nose was a runny mess, and as I said, the pain was incredible.  There was no way I could catch that damn snake in my condition. Fortunately I had met the resident snake catcher, Geoff. Not having his number I call my friend Nick, owner of the workshop, and told him to get him here, quickly!
Soon the whole workshop was full of people; Geoff did his thing and caught the rather large snake. The people could not believe that I thought this whole situation was hilarious; I mean who the hell other than The Mexican Horse Thief has deadly snakes falling on their head while they are in bed, FFS?   The snake had come out of the ceiling and slithered along the light’s cord, falling and landing right on top of me.  I took some Grandpa Headache Powders, and chased everyone away, after thanking Geoff, of course. A bad, bad, painful night was had. The next day, the light hurt my eye; I put a patch on it. Geoff arrived with the snake and we took it into the bush next to the river and let her go.
I took one photo, not a good one at all, only excuse is I was still suffering from a lot of pain at the time. The patch came off the next day, but my vision was still blurred. For about six months after that if I was tired and did not get enough sleep my left eye would go red and weep.
Lesson learned? DO NOT slap a Mozambique Spitting Cobra.
My Guardian Angel? Hard at work, if that snake had bitten rather than spat, even my hand, I do not think I would have made the hour’s drive to the hospital. Face, neck or head bite? Would have been dead in an hour or less.

Maybe next time.

The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief I – Angola…… a short story.

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The Chronicles of the Mexican Horse Thief