Felix Baumgartner is an Austrian skydiver and BASE jumper.
He holds the world record for the highest parachute jump from a building when he jumped from the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur.
He set the world record for the lowest skydive ever when he jumped just 95 feet from the hand of the 'Christ the Redeemer' statue in Rio de Janeiro.
In 2003, he became the first person to skydive across the English Channel.
He has a number of other skydiving and BASE jumping 'firsts' to his name, the latest of which, weather permitting, will be his 'highest sky dive' world record attempt, which will see him jump 120,000 ft from a helium balloon, becoming the first parachutist to break the sound barrier in the process.
And yet, despite all these indisputable achievements, I just find it impossible to get past the fact his name sounds like 'Bum Gardener'.
Sorry, Felix.
You can watch Bum Gar...sorry, Baumgartner jump out of a giant helium balloon here, assuming there's not a tiny gust of wind scuppering the whole thing.
Sources: Wikipedia. My own childish mind.
N.B. It's also worth mentioning that this man exists.
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
As Meatloaf almost said, four out of five ain't bad...
His face was entirely golden but for a white muzzle and two lighter yellowish patches just above the eyes, giving the impression of eyebrows set in a permanent frown. A pink nose flecked with black spots sat atop a jet black mouth that hung open lazily, while thick brushstrokes of auburn framed his features perfectly. As he squinted against the late evening sun he looked for all the world as tame and approachable as any house cat, but the merest glimpse of his off-white canines betrayed the true nature of this beast. This is what I had come to see. The most majestic animal on the planet. Panthera leo. The King of the Jungle. And here he was, right in front of me.
Shame it was only on a bloody postcard in the gift shop.
After two fantastic days at Kruger National Park, one of the largest game reserves in Africa and covering 7,332 square miles, we had yet to see any big cats. We'd ticked off three of 'The Big Five' (a phrase coined by hunters which refers to the five most difficult animals in Africa to hunt on foot) in the first few hours. The elephant was the first to greet us as we stopped to watch a solitary male, just feet from the road, bathe himself by drawing muddy water up through his trunk and spraying his cracked-clay skin. His ears wafted gently over his eyes and back again as the trunk weaved it's way around his sun-bleached tusks. We would encounter several more elephants at close quarters over the course of the next two days but I would never tire of sitting in silent awe of these kind-eyed bohemoths.
The buffalo were naturally intrigued by our presence. There is something intensely amusing about seeing an entire herd of buffalo turn their heads towards you, a confused look on each of their faces, with ears and horns that stick out horizontally while the latter meet at the top of the head, giving the impression of a very slick centre-parting and pig-tails. A red bow on either side would not look out of place.
We saw the rhino at the very end of the first day. The low evening sun accentuated the loose folds of his slate grey skin and made the pointed keratin horn at the tip of his nose cast a shadow across his face. This was a White Rhino (not actually white, but so called due to a mistranslation from the original Dutch word wijd, which means wide, referring to it's wide lip compared to the Black Rhino's pointed lip. Don't ever say you don't learn a thing or two reading this blog), usually seen in groups of about 10 - 15 so to see one alone was something of a rarity. Not for the first or last time, I felt truly privileged.
Then came giraffes, zebras, hippos, wildebeest, crocodiles, jackals, hyenas, and baboons. We even met some African Wild Dogs - an extremely endangered species, there are only 350 of them in Kruger, an area one and a half times the size of England, and we saw five of them just basking in the sun at the side of the road. But no leopards, no lions. Until, that is, the night drive.
For a couple of hundred rand extra we were able to clamber in to an open-topped jeep and be taken around the park by an experienced guide to see the wildlife at dusk, witness a stunning African sunset and, hopefully, see some big cats at their most active. It was a beautifully serene evening and the zebra herds, baby giraffes and those magnificent elephants were a photographer's dream in the fading golden light. Then, after an hour or so, the driver came to a halt. Collectively, we looked around for what he might have stopped for, but I could see nothing. Then he said it. 'Lion!' Directly ahead, lazily ambling down the road towards us, was an adult lioness. She seemed unfazed by our presence and didn't break her stride as she got closer and closer to the jeep. Half a dozen cameras clicked and whirred simultaneously as she strolled right up to us, passed with a cursory glance and continued on her way. We followed her for half an hour or so, taking pictures every time she stopped to look over her shoulder at her persuers, each time deciding that they bore her no threat, until she left the road and became lost in the long grass.
At that point I could have gone home happy. Four out of the Big Five ticked off. Only the leopards let me down. Spotty, camera-shy bastards. 'Sod 'em.' I thought, 'That'll do me'. But a couple of hours later, just as we were heading back to base at the end of the drive, we met two more lions. This time they were males, an adult and a juvenile. By now it was pitch black so we were relying on the spotlights, but as they both walked past us just feet from the jeep I could still see their incredible size. Adult males can exceed 39st in weight. They're big. Being attacked by an adult lion would be like being mauled by a very hungry Rik Waller in a wig.
We spent the next twenty minutes watching these incredible animals as unobtrusively as we could. Years ago my grandfather used to tell me the story (completely fabricated, as it turned out) of when he and his three brothers went hunting in the jungle and were confronted by a lion. I still remember to this day his description of looking the lion 'square in the eyes' and 'feeling his breath' on his face. When the spotlight caught the reflection of the adult male's eyes it took me back to that story, back to my childhood and reminded me of happy times with my grandfather. Thankfully, my story doesn't end with cocking a gun and shooting the poor lion right in the head, but then my grandad's generation were a bit less concerned with conservation than ours...
Finally, the two males reached a crossroads where the adult glanced in each direction before emitting an almighty roar. Not the sort of roar Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer would have you believe lions make, more a guttural grunt, but powerful enough that I felt it reverberate in my chest from 50 feet away. They both glanced at the jeep for one last time before disappearing in to the night, and it was then I realised something I should have years ago. It was so obvious I could have kicked myself. It was staring me right in the face.
Lions have the same haircut as Pat Sharp.
Shame it was only on a bloody postcard in the gift shop.
After two fantastic days at Kruger National Park, one of the largest game reserves in Africa and covering 7,332 square miles, we had yet to see any big cats. We'd ticked off three of 'The Big Five' (a phrase coined by hunters which refers to the five most difficult animals in Africa to hunt on foot) in the first few hours. The elephant was the first to greet us as we stopped to watch a solitary male, just feet from the road, bathe himself by drawing muddy water up through his trunk and spraying his cracked-clay skin. His ears wafted gently over his eyes and back again as the trunk weaved it's way around his sun-bleached tusks. We would encounter several more elephants at close quarters over the course of the next two days but I would never tire of sitting in silent awe of these kind-eyed bohemoths.
The buffalo were naturally intrigued by our presence. There is something intensely amusing about seeing an entire herd of buffalo turn their heads towards you, a confused look on each of their faces, with ears and horns that stick out horizontally while the latter meet at the top of the head, giving the impression of a very slick centre-parting and pig-tails. A red bow on either side would not look out of place.
We saw the rhino at the very end of the first day. The low evening sun accentuated the loose folds of his slate grey skin and made the pointed keratin horn at the tip of his nose cast a shadow across his face. This was a White Rhino (not actually white, but so called due to a mistranslation from the original Dutch word wijd, which means wide, referring to it's wide lip compared to the Black Rhino's pointed lip. Don't ever say you don't learn a thing or two reading this blog), usually seen in groups of about 10 - 15 so to see one alone was something of a rarity. Not for the first or last time, I felt truly privileged.
Then came giraffes, zebras, hippos, wildebeest, crocodiles, jackals, hyenas, and baboons. We even met some African Wild Dogs - an extremely endangered species, there are only 350 of them in Kruger, an area one and a half times the size of England, and we saw five of them just basking in the sun at the side of the road. But no leopards, no lions. Until, that is, the night drive.
For a couple of hundred rand extra we were able to clamber in to an open-topped jeep and be taken around the park by an experienced guide to see the wildlife at dusk, witness a stunning African sunset and, hopefully, see some big cats at their most active. It was a beautifully serene evening and the zebra herds, baby giraffes and those magnificent elephants were a photographer's dream in the fading golden light. Then, after an hour or so, the driver came to a halt. Collectively, we looked around for what he might have stopped for, but I could see nothing. Then he said it. 'Lion!' Directly ahead, lazily ambling down the road towards us, was an adult lioness. She seemed unfazed by our presence and didn't break her stride as she got closer and closer to the jeep. Half a dozen cameras clicked and whirred simultaneously as she strolled right up to us, passed with a cursory glance and continued on her way. We followed her for half an hour or so, taking pictures every time she stopped to look over her shoulder at her persuers, each time deciding that they bore her no threat, until she left the road and became lost in the long grass.
At that point I could have gone home happy. Four out of the Big Five ticked off. Only the leopards let me down. Spotty, camera-shy bastards. 'Sod 'em.' I thought, 'That'll do me'. But a couple of hours later, just as we were heading back to base at the end of the drive, we met two more lions. This time they were males, an adult and a juvenile. By now it was pitch black so we were relying on the spotlights, but as they both walked past us just feet from the jeep I could still see their incredible size. Adult males can exceed 39st in weight. They're big. Being attacked by an adult lion would be like being mauled by a very hungry Rik Waller in a wig.
We spent the next twenty minutes watching these incredible animals as unobtrusively as we could. Years ago my grandfather used to tell me the story (completely fabricated, as it turned out) of when he and his three brothers went hunting in the jungle and were confronted by a lion. I still remember to this day his description of looking the lion 'square in the eyes' and 'feeling his breath' on his face. When the spotlight caught the reflection of the adult male's eyes it took me back to that story, back to my childhood and reminded me of happy times with my grandfather. Thankfully, my story doesn't end with cocking a gun and shooting the poor lion right in the head, but then my grandad's generation were a bit less concerned with conservation than ours...
Finally, the two males reached a crossroads where the adult glanced in each direction before emitting an almighty roar. Not the sort of roar Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer would have you believe lions make, more a guttural grunt, but powerful enough that I felt it reverberate in my chest from 50 feet away. They both glanced at the jeep for one last time before disappearing in to the night, and it was then I realised something I should have years ago. It was so obvious I could have kicked myself. It was staring me right in the face.
Lions have the same haircut as Pat Sharp.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Another reason to hate meetings
The attack came from the right, swiftly and silently. In the corner of my eye I could see branches swaying, as if they had been disturbed. I felt a weight on my right calf. I twisted my upper torso around quickly, just in time to see the canines plunge in to my leg the second time. Instinctively, I swung the stick in my right hand at my attacker and scored a direct hit on the temple. There was a hollow thud and it was enough to cause him to let go and scamper back in to the undergrowth. I looked down to survey the damage. I could see the skin was broken quite badly, torn, as if slashed at by a razor blade. For a brief moment there was no blood, but then it came. And how. A torrent of dark red made it's way quickly from the open wound, gushed down my calf like a waterfall and soaked in to my right sock and shoe. I was told later that it took almost two hours to clean that shoe. Two hours before it could finally be rinsed and no trace of blood could be squeezed from it.
I began to hobble back towards the enclosure doors. The worker I was accompanying, whom I was ironically there to protect while he cut back the grass inside the enclosure fence, stopped me and told me in broken English to take off my sock and tie it around my leg to stem the blood flow. This I duly did, before slipping my bare foot back in to my soaking wet shoe and continuing out of the enclosure and down to sickbay.
People began to gather as word got out of my injury. Mild smirks turned to wide-eyed shock as the full extent of it became clear. In the surgery room I was treated by the on-site veterinary nurse and strapped up as well as possible. Upon seeing the cuts for the first time her reflex response was to utter an expletive. When I joked that as the nurse she wasn't supposed to show alarm at a patient's injuries she simply replied, 'But I'm not a nurse for HUMANS'. Fair point.
There followed what seemed a long drive to the medical centre in town, where the doctor occasionally broke off from his relentless joking-but-not-really-joking about hating the British by inspecting the wound and attempting to stem the blood flow under local anaesthetic. This he failed to do, so it was explained to me that I would have to go to hospital and be operated on under general.
For the first time, I felt nervous. Until now I think the shock and the adrenalin had kept me from thinking the worst, and I have always naturally been someone who believes that 'things will be alright in the end'. But of course, sometimes they aren't. I'd never had an operation before, never had to go under general anaesthetic, least of all in a foreign country.
The drive to the hospital took all of 3 minutes and I was surprised to see that they were ready for me with a bed. I remember feeling relieved that this was going to be dealt with quite quickly. Oh, how wrong I was. First there were the forms to fill in (I had begun to fill some out at the doctor's surgery, but the profuse bleeding from my leg persuaded the receptionist that I was better off going in to theatre immediately, rather than make a mess of the waiting room). Endless forms asking for every single piece of personal information. I filled them in as best I could, including my insurance information. Unfortunately, that was just the first obstacle to being admitted. Although the doctors and nurses had so far displayed complete competence, the same could not be said for the administrative staff. I was told they were unable to get through to my insurance company because they didn't know how to dial internationally. A frustrating hour passed with a confused looking man intermittently entering the room, scratching his head, apologising, but they just could not get through. The doctors were in theatre, waiting for me. I was faced with a choice of either paying R10,000 (about £1000) up front to cover costs, or just not being operated on. By this time, the adrenalin and local anaesthetic were starting to wear off and there was a dull, throbbing ache growing within my bandaged right leg. The prospect of not fixing it right away was not attractive.
And then, suddenly everything changed. I was admitted without having to pay a deposit and without the hospital being able to get past the international dialling code. 'We'll deal with it in the morning' they said. Finally, I was on my way to theatre. Or, so I thought...
In the surgery the doctor had joked that he had a meeting at 6pm and it just couldn't wait so they were going to have to leave me in the corridor with my leg hanging off until it was over. Yeah, GOOD ONE, DOC. Unfortunately, the long wait to be admitted had meant it was now 5.45pm. As soon as the doctor began to say,'You know earlier when I joked about the meeting..?' my heart sank. He had to go he said. He was chairing the meeting. A very important one. There was no getting out of it. I had to wait.
I have been in some pretty long meetings in my time. I am not a meetings person. I swear, every single one I've been to could have ended at least a half an hour before it actually did, such is the procrastination, worthless discussion and coverage of old ground that goes on. But this meeting, a meeting I wasn't even present at, felt like the longest meeting since God himself first created the Microsoft Outlook planner. The pain was now unbearable. The throbbing had given way to all out fire in my calf. I shifted constantly, groaning, humming, swearing, singing, anything to take my mind off the burning beneath my right knee. Eventually a nurse took pity on me and called the doctor for advice on painkillers. I heard him on the speakerphone, answering in Afrikaans. All I understood was '100mg IVI'. I didn't know what IVI was, I still don't, but it sounded brilliant. I wanted it to be my friend. Five minutes later, I had never been so pleased to have a needle pushed in to my left buttock by a middle aged woman in all my life.
From then on, everything was well with the world. The pain was still there, but now manageable. The doctors soon emerged from their meeting, scrubbed up and wheeled me in to theatre. There, I had to defend the Welsh rugby team until the anaesthetic took hold. Before I knew it, I was awake in the ward outside the operating theatre again. An hour had passed. I remember thinking before going in that the first thing I would do after waking would be to check that my toes still moved. I don't know why, but not being able to seemed like the worst case scenario. I looked down at my right foot, it was still there. 'Good start' I thought. I took a deep breath and tried to flex the muscles. They moved with ease. Phew.
There followed a couple of days recovery in hospital where I was fed, watered, brought biscuits and sexist magazines, and was able to catch up on some English football. The pain was managed by painkillers from an intravenous drip, along with antibiotics to stave off infection. I have since returned to the foundation where the care hasn't ceased. Staff and volunteers have been making me food and bringing me water to drink as I'm still out of action. The leg is healing nicely though and I'm glad I have enough time here to get well and contribute in a meaningful way again. In the meantime, there is quite a lot of admin to be done...
My attacker, by the way, was an adult male vervet by the name of Smeagol. He is apparently not that keen on humans and I was told afterwards that we shouldn't have been in the enclosure in the first place. The worker had misunderstood and thought we would be safe. A mistake on his part, but I bear him nor Smeagol no grudge. Afterall, I now have a great story to tell and hopefully an impressive scar to match. And how many people do you know that have been bitten by a monkey? Hmm?
The answer, by the way, is 'none', and if it isn't you are a LIAR. So there.
I began to hobble back towards the enclosure doors. The worker I was accompanying, whom I was ironically there to protect while he cut back the grass inside the enclosure fence, stopped me and told me in broken English to take off my sock and tie it around my leg to stem the blood flow. This I duly did, before slipping my bare foot back in to my soaking wet shoe and continuing out of the enclosure and down to sickbay.
People began to gather as word got out of my injury. Mild smirks turned to wide-eyed shock as the full extent of it became clear. In the surgery room I was treated by the on-site veterinary nurse and strapped up as well as possible. Upon seeing the cuts for the first time her reflex response was to utter an expletive. When I joked that as the nurse she wasn't supposed to show alarm at a patient's injuries she simply replied, 'But I'm not a nurse for HUMANS'. Fair point.
There followed what seemed a long drive to the medical centre in town, where the doctor occasionally broke off from his relentless joking-but-not-really-joking about hating the British by inspecting the wound and attempting to stem the blood flow under local anaesthetic. This he failed to do, so it was explained to me that I would have to go to hospital and be operated on under general.
For the first time, I felt nervous. Until now I think the shock and the adrenalin had kept me from thinking the worst, and I have always naturally been someone who believes that 'things will be alright in the end'. But of course, sometimes they aren't. I'd never had an operation before, never had to go under general anaesthetic, least of all in a foreign country.
The drive to the hospital took all of 3 minutes and I was surprised to see that they were ready for me with a bed. I remember feeling relieved that this was going to be dealt with quite quickly. Oh, how wrong I was. First there were the forms to fill in (I had begun to fill some out at the doctor's surgery, but the profuse bleeding from my leg persuaded the receptionist that I was better off going in to theatre immediately, rather than make a mess of the waiting room). Endless forms asking for every single piece of personal information. I filled them in as best I could, including my insurance information. Unfortunately, that was just the first obstacle to being admitted. Although the doctors and nurses had so far displayed complete competence, the same could not be said for the administrative staff. I was told they were unable to get through to my insurance company because they didn't know how to dial internationally. A frustrating hour passed with a confused looking man intermittently entering the room, scratching his head, apologising, but they just could not get through. The doctors were in theatre, waiting for me. I was faced with a choice of either paying R10,000 (about £1000) up front to cover costs, or just not being operated on. By this time, the adrenalin and local anaesthetic were starting to wear off and there was a dull, throbbing ache growing within my bandaged right leg. The prospect of not fixing it right away was not attractive.
And then, suddenly everything changed. I was admitted without having to pay a deposit and without the hospital being able to get past the international dialling code. 'We'll deal with it in the morning' they said. Finally, I was on my way to theatre. Or, so I thought...
In the surgery the doctor had joked that he had a meeting at 6pm and it just couldn't wait so they were going to have to leave me in the corridor with my leg hanging off until it was over. Yeah, GOOD ONE, DOC. Unfortunately, the long wait to be admitted had meant it was now 5.45pm. As soon as the doctor began to say,'You know earlier when I joked about the meeting..?' my heart sank. He had to go he said. He was chairing the meeting. A very important one. There was no getting out of it. I had to wait.
I have been in some pretty long meetings in my time. I am not a meetings person. I swear, every single one I've been to could have ended at least a half an hour before it actually did, such is the procrastination, worthless discussion and coverage of old ground that goes on. But this meeting, a meeting I wasn't even present at, felt like the longest meeting since God himself first created the Microsoft Outlook planner. The pain was now unbearable. The throbbing had given way to all out fire in my calf. I shifted constantly, groaning, humming, swearing, singing, anything to take my mind off the burning beneath my right knee. Eventually a nurse took pity on me and called the doctor for advice on painkillers. I heard him on the speakerphone, answering in Afrikaans. All I understood was '100mg IVI'. I didn't know what IVI was, I still don't, but it sounded brilliant. I wanted it to be my friend. Five minutes later, I had never been so pleased to have a needle pushed in to my left buttock by a middle aged woman in all my life.
From then on, everything was well with the world. The pain was still there, but now manageable. The doctors soon emerged from their meeting, scrubbed up and wheeled me in to theatre. There, I had to defend the Welsh rugby team until the anaesthetic took hold. Before I knew it, I was awake in the ward outside the operating theatre again. An hour had passed. I remember thinking before going in that the first thing I would do after waking would be to check that my toes still moved. I don't know why, but not being able to seemed like the worst case scenario. I looked down at my right foot, it was still there. 'Good start' I thought. I took a deep breath and tried to flex the muscles. They moved with ease. Phew.
There followed a couple of days recovery in hospital where I was fed, watered, brought biscuits and sexist magazines, and was able to catch up on some English football. The pain was managed by painkillers from an intravenous drip, along with antibiotics to stave off infection. I have since returned to the foundation where the care hasn't ceased. Staff and volunteers have been making me food and bringing me water to drink as I'm still out of action. The leg is healing nicely though and I'm glad I have enough time here to get well and contribute in a meaningful way again. In the meantime, there is quite a lot of admin to be done...
My attacker, by the way, was an adult male vervet by the name of Smeagol. He is apparently not that keen on humans and I was told afterwards that we shouldn't have been in the enclosure in the first place. The worker had misunderstood and thought we would be safe. A mistake on his part, but I bear him nor Smeagol no grudge. Afterall, I now have a great story to tell and hopefully an impressive scar to match. And how many people do you know that have been bitten by a monkey? Hmm?
The answer, by the way, is 'none', and if it isn't you are a LIAR. So there.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Monkey magic
So, as promised, here is the first edited installment of my 'Monkey Diaries'. Apologies it's taken a while to put anything up but I've been 'otherwise engaged' over the last couple of days. More of that in the fullness of time. For now;
Monday 10th January, 2011
10.15am
I am on the coach to Tzaneen having landed at Johannesburg airport this morning. My first ever long haul flight was not a disappointment. For someone who is used to the 'Easyjet' way of flying, something as simple as being able to watch a film while 35,000 ft in the air is like living in 'Tomorrow's World', except without the terrible 80s hairstyle or the robot butlers we were promised.
The flight also gave me the chance to sample my first ever airline meal. The general view on these things seems to be that they are an affront to God himself, such is their poor standard. I have to say I enjoyed my chicken with celeriec mash, followed by a vanilla fudge sundae and washed down with a G&T and glass of Argentinian red. However, the full English breakfast this morning was a TRAVESTY. There was a chewy, salty slab of something resembling bacon, a forlorn looking sausage, an object I believe once used to be a tomato and what my tastebuds just about managed to tell me was scrambled eggs, but my eyes could not find any previous reference. I'm almost ashamed to say that I wolfed it down though, as my hunger won out over my food snobbery.
So far the journey as a whole has been a breeze. A pleasant enough flight ('Breakfast of the Damned' aside), a minimal amount of time going through the passport check - which made a mockery of all the paperwork I had brought and was told I would categorically need - and even a minor hiccup when my taxi driver, Henric, couldn't find me at the airport hasn't spoilt things.
I have made one friend already. A kindly looking silver-haired lady from Holland, who is volunteering at the foundation for 6 weeks. She seemed surprised and a little jealous when I said I was there for 3 months. I resisted the urge to say 'Yeah, that's right. Hardcore.' as we do not know each other well enough yet for her to be subjected to my less than subtle attempts at humour. I shall have to wait to find out more about her as we have opted to sit in seperate aisles for this journey. To be honest it suits me as I only managed an hours sleep on the flight and after two straight nights of 'farewell drinking' it was far from ideal. Time for some shut-eye I think.
1.10pm
Over the last hour or so I have been introduced to the world of Leon Schuster. His deeply unfunny, almost certainly racist world. Leon is an 'funnyman/entertainer', though I use those terms loosely, and the passengers on the coach have had to sit through a film in which he 'stars' called 'Mama Jack'. The premise of this film is so tedious I cannot begin to bring myself to explain it, but it involves Mr.Schuster's character, a white man, disguising himself as a black woman, before wading through a series of woefully predictable situations where his true identity is almost revealed. It was awful. And Lenny Henry did a much better job of it years ago with 'True Identity'.
The one positive to Leon's prattling about keeping me awake is that I do get to enjoy the view. South Africa is stunning. As we've ambled northwards away from Johannesburg we've left behind the office blocks, garishly 80s-looking shops and roadside tradesmen (I have never seen so many people on the side of busy roads before - either handing out leaflets for their business, just having a sit down or, most alarmingly of all, answering the call of nature, seemingly oblivious to all the traffic whizzing past behind them) and I'm now seeing the Africa I've seen on the television. Rolling hills, vivid green valleys and scorched red earth, all under a white hot sun.
It will be interesting to see how I deal with the heat. For a long time now I have been convinced that my core body temperature is a couple of degrees higher than most people's. I have been referred to as a 'boy-radiator' in the past. In hot restaurants or bars, it has not been uncommon to see me 'get a bead on'. This is a completely different level of heat altogether, but I did buy a new hat at the airport so I'm sure it'll be fine. It has 'World Cup South Africa 2010' written on it. I have never looked more of a tourist in all my life.
Tuesday 11th January 2011
9.55pm
The end of my first full day at the foundation. Today I have been taken through the orientation, which consisted of a talk on what to do (essentially, be nice to the monkeys, don't get bitten by snakes) and what not to do (not be nice, or stand between a mother and her baby, apparently) and a tour around the site. My God, it's massive. They have over 550 vervets on site, including 12 orphaned babies (so far). The monkey troops are kept in different enclosures that are surrounded by high electric fences. Bolted on to these enclosures are 'introduction cages' where previously orphaned monkeys are put to, as the name suggests, introduce them to the troops in the hope they will eventually become integrated. Some are occasionally allowed in to the main enclosure to see how they interact with the troop. Monkeys are often wary of newcomers so it's a very slow, gradual and often painstaking process. Often monkeys just will not be accepted, either because the troop doesn't want them or they have certain traits, usually due an event that happened to them before coming to the foundation, that mean they find it difficult to interact with other monkeys. Or, as one member of staff put it in her thick Australian accent, 'Some of 'em are just arseholes'.
There are three main sections at the foundation. The 'Top Section', 'Middle Section' and 'Bottom Section'. Not the most imaginative, granted, but fairly practical. My first real shift was on Middle Section. Tasks included cutting grass with a hand-scythe to feed the monkeys with (manly), refilling water bowls, distributing dry food (a sort of wheat-based pellet) and disinfecting the introduction cages with a natural pesticide. I was told to taste it, along with the pellets, and I can honestly say that, despite the bitter after taste, I would rather eat monkey food and natural disinfectant than ever have another British Airways breakfast.
After the shift on the middle section came the fun part. Sitting in with the orphaned babies. They need more or less constant attention, 24 hours a day. During daylight hours volunteers and staff feed them, treat them for any ailments and of course play with them, while at night two volunteers have to sleep in the baby cabin (thankfully, the babies are placed in carry cages overnight) and are on hand should any of them awake and require feeding or care.
I was warned that the babies are more intimidated by men than by women and that it may take some time for them to accept me. When I arrived at the cabin, sure enough the babies made a bee-line for a member of staff, looking for her to protect them from this strange, scary man. I sat down next to another volunteer whom I was replacing on shift. She had two orphans on her lap, Nicky and Milko, curled up asleep and hugging each other for dear life. She lifted them up and, still asleep, placed them on me.
A few minutes of total monkey bliss ensued. Me, grinning from ear to ear at finally meeting these delightful creatures face to face, Nicky and Milko, blissfully ignorant of the whole situation. The others remained wary. One would come up to nibble at my toe (they see the toe as the furthest part from your face, a tail of sorts. If intimidated by or unsure of another monkey, they will 'test the water' by grooming the tail first as it's the part furthest away from the face and, of course, the teeth) then, a baby I have since come to know as Ruby, took exception to me touching Nicky and Milko and jumped on top of them to protect them. The staff member told me to let her do her thing, then after a while try stroking her. This I did, and after an unsure couple of minutes, Ruby fell asleep on my lap. I was ecstatic. Earlier, during my orientation tour, an adult female called Colin (I know) had offered herself for grooming. The staff member had said she'd never seen such a positive reaction to a stranger before. You can imagine my pride...and now this. But, just as I was about to pronounce myself some sort of Doolittle-esque monkey charmer, Ruby stirred from her slumber, groggily looked up at me, screamed in sheer terror and bolted to the other side of the cabin. I have since learnt that raising your eyebrows at the monkeys is seen as a sign of aggression. It's natural for us, well me, to raise our eyebrows when talking to animals, so this is something I'm going to have to remember. I'm back with the babies first thing tomorrow, so hopefully my blossoming friendship with Ruby will continue.
Monday 10th January, 2011
10.15am
I am on the coach to Tzaneen having landed at Johannesburg airport this morning. My first ever long haul flight was not a disappointment. For someone who is used to the 'Easyjet' way of flying, something as simple as being able to watch a film while 35,000 ft in the air is like living in 'Tomorrow's World', except without the terrible 80s hairstyle or the robot butlers we were promised.
The flight also gave me the chance to sample my first ever airline meal. The general view on these things seems to be that they are an affront to God himself, such is their poor standard. I have to say I enjoyed my chicken with celeriec mash, followed by a vanilla fudge sundae and washed down with a G&T and glass of Argentinian red. However, the full English breakfast this morning was a TRAVESTY. There was a chewy, salty slab of something resembling bacon, a forlorn looking sausage, an object I believe once used to be a tomato and what my tastebuds just about managed to tell me was scrambled eggs, but my eyes could not find any previous reference. I'm almost ashamed to say that I wolfed it down though, as my hunger won out over my food snobbery.
So far the journey as a whole has been a breeze. A pleasant enough flight ('Breakfast of the Damned' aside), a minimal amount of time going through the passport check - which made a mockery of all the paperwork I had brought and was told I would categorically need - and even a minor hiccup when my taxi driver, Henric, couldn't find me at the airport hasn't spoilt things.
I have made one friend already. A kindly looking silver-haired lady from Holland, who is volunteering at the foundation for 6 weeks. She seemed surprised and a little jealous when I said I was there for 3 months. I resisted the urge to say 'Yeah, that's right. Hardcore.' as we do not know each other well enough yet for her to be subjected to my less than subtle attempts at humour. I shall have to wait to find out more about her as we have opted to sit in seperate aisles for this journey. To be honest it suits me as I only managed an hours sleep on the flight and after two straight nights of 'farewell drinking' it was far from ideal. Time for some shut-eye I think.
1.10pm
Over the last hour or so I have been introduced to the world of Leon Schuster. His deeply unfunny, almost certainly racist world. Leon is an 'funnyman/entertainer', though I use those terms loosely, and the passengers on the coach have had to sit through a film in which he 'stars' called 'Mama Jack'. The premise of this film is so tedious I cannot begin to bring myself to explain it, but it involves Mr.Schuster's character, a white man, disguising himself as a black woman, before wading through a series of woefully predictable situations where his true identity is almost revealed. It was awful. And Lenny Henry did a much better job of it years ago with 'True Identity'.
The one positive to Leon's prattling about keeping me awake is that I do get to enjoy the view. South Africa is stunning. As we've ambled northwards away from Johannesburg we've left behind the office blocks, garishly 80s-looking shops and roadside tradesmen (I have never seen so many people on the side of busy roads before - either handing out leaflets for their business, just having a sit down or, most alarmingly of all, answering the call of nature, seemingly oblivious to all the traffic whizzing past behind them) and I'm now seeing the Africa I've seen on the television. Rolling hills, vivid green valleys and scorched red earth, all under a white hot sun.
It will be interesting to see how I deal with the heat. For a long time now I have been convinced that my core body temperature is a couple of degrees higher than most people's. I have been referred to as a 'boy-radiator' in the past. In hot restaurants or bars, it has not been uncommon to see me 'get a bead on'. This is a completely different level of heat altogether, but I did buy a new hat at the airport so I'm sure it'll be fine. It has 'World Cup South Africa 2010' written on it. I have never looked more of a tourist in all my life.
Tuesday 11th January 2011
9.55pm
The end of my first full day at the foundation. Today I have been taken through the orientation, which consisted of a talk on what to do (essentially, be nice to the monkeys, don't get bitten by snakes) and what not to do (not be nice, or stand between a mother and her baby, apparently) and a tour around the site. My God, it's massive. They have over 550 vervets on site, including 12 orphaned babies (so far). The monkey troops are kept in different enclosures that are surrounded by high electric fences. Bolted on to these enclosures are 'introduction cages' where previously orphaned monkeys are put to, as the name suggests, introduce them to the troops in the hope they will eventually become integrated. Some are occasionally allowed in to the main enclosure to see how they interact with the troop. Monkeys are often wary of newcomers so it's a very slow, gradual and often painstaking process. Often monkeys just will not be accepted, either because the troop doesn't want them or they have certain traits, usually due an event that happened to them before coming to the foundation, that mean they find it difficult to interact with other monkeys. Or, as one member of staff put it in her thick Australian accent, 'Some of 'em are just arseholes'.
There are three main sections at the foundation. The 'Top Section', 'Middle Section' and 'Bottom Section'. Not the most imaginative, granted, but fairly practical. My first real shift was on Middle Section. Tasks included cutting grass with a hand-scythe to feed the monkeys with (manly), refilling water bowls, distributing dry food (a sort of wheat-based pellet) and disinfecting the introduction cages with a natural pesticide. I was told to taste it, along with the pellets, and I can honestly say that, despite the bitter after taste, I would rather eat monkey food and natural disinfectant than ever have another British Airways breakfast.
After the shift on the middle section came the fun part. Sitting in with the orphaned babies. They need more or less constant attention, 24 hours a day. During daylight hours volunteers and staff feed them, treat them for any ailments and of course play with them, while at night two volunteers have to sleep in the baby cabin (thankfully, the babies are placed in carry cages overnight) and are on hand should any of them awake and require feeding or care.
I was warned that the babies are more intimidated by men than by women and that it may take some time for them to accept me. When I arrived at the cabin, sure enough the babies made a bee-line for a member of staff, looking for her to protect them from this strange, scary man. I sat down next to another volunteer whom I was replacing on shift. She had two orphans on her lap, Nicky and Milko, curled up asleep and hugging each other for dear life. She lifted them up and, still asleep, placed them on me.
A few minutes of total monkey bliss ensued. Me, grinning from ear to ear at finally meeting these delightful creatures face to face, Nicky and Milko, blissfully ignorant of the whole situation. The others remained wary. One would come up to nibble at my toe (they see the toe as the furthest part from your face, a tail of sorts. If intimidated by or unsure of another monkey, they will 'test the water' by grooming the tail first as it's the part furthest away from the face and, of course, the teeth) then, a baby I have since come to know as Ruby, took exception to me touching Nicky and Milko and jumped on top of them to protect them. The staff member told me to let her do her thing, then after a while try stroking her. This I did, and after an unsure couple of minutes, Ruby fell asleep on my lap. I was ecstatic. Earlier, during my orientation tour, an adult female called Colin (I know) had offered herself for grooming. The staff member had said she'd never seen such a positive reaction to a stranger before. You can imagine my pride...and now this. But, just as I was about to pronounce myself some sort of Doolittle-esque monkey charmer, Ruby stirred from her slumber, groggily looked up at me, screamed in sheer terror and bolted to the other side of the cabin. I have since learnt that raising your eyebrows at the monkeys is seen as a sign of aggression. It's natural for us, well me, to raise our eyebrows when talking to animals, so this is something I'm going to have to remember. I'm back with the babies first thing tomorrow, so hopefully my blossoming friendship with Ruby will continue.
Monday, 8 November 2010
How low can you go?
I feel a little in limbo at the moment.
As you all know by now I'm off to bother monkeys in South Africa in January, after which I might finally tackle the career crisis I've been putting off for ages and try to work out what I want to do in life. But until then, I'm just...waiting.
I'm also in the middle of buying a house. Anyone who has been through this excruciatingly drawn-out process will know that it involves a lot of hanging around waiting for other people. Waiting for a survey to be done, waiting for the sellers to find somewhere else to live to complete the chain and waiting for the solicitors to do whatever it is they need to do to justify all that money I'm sending them. This is just adding to the limbo state.
I can't really complain of course. Plenty of people would love to be in my position and I am truly lucky, but it has left me with a slight lack of focus. I've found myself cruising along at work, which is not surprising I suppose, but I'm also not doing much with my evenings. For example, months ago I promised myself that I would start writing something, anything, before this year was out and that I would read more than I have been. I've achieved neither and I'm angry with myself about it.
I'm hoping that when things finally start moving with the house and the new year comes around I'll snap out of it. It will probably be around then that I'll start panicking when I realise all the things I should have been doing while I was cocking about in limbo haven't been done, so maybe I won't have a choice but to become proactive.
Like my friend Dennis here;
As you all know by now I'm off to bother monkeys in South Africa in January, after which I might finally tackle the career crisis I've been putting off for ages and try to work out what I want to do in life. But until then, I'm just...waiting.
I'm also in the middle of buying a house. Anyone who has been through this excruciatingly drawn-out process will know that it involves a lot of hanging around waiting for other people. Waiting for a survey to be done, waiting for the sellers to find somewhere else to live to complete the chain and waiting for the solicitors to do whatever it is they need to do to justify all that money I'm sending them. This is just adding to the limbo state.
I can't really complain of course. Plenty of people would love to be in my position and I am truly lucky, but it has left me with a slight lack of focus. I've found myself cruising along at work, which is not surprising I suppose, but I'm also not doing much with my evenings. For example, months ago I promised myself that I would start writing something, anything, before this year was out and that I would read more than I have been. I've achieved neither and I'm angry with myself about it.
I'm hoping that when things finally start moving with the house and the new year comes around I'll snap out of it. It will probably be around then that I'll start panicking when I realise all the things I should have been doing while I was cocking about in limbo haven't been done, so maybe I won't have a choice but to become proactive.
Like my friend Dennis here;
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Just so you know
I handed in my notice today.
It felt good.
It felt right.
It felt fantastic.
That is all.
It felt good.
It felt right.
It felt fantastic.
That is all.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
All lines are now closed. You may still be charged.
I really cannot begin to explain to you how much I hate The X-Factor.
Just thinking about it sends acid coursing through my veins. It's a despicable mixture of glorified karaoke and freak show, designed solely to make money out of the poor deluded souls who just want to be famous and who seem to make up the majority of the British public these days. Those with a modicum of talent might end up winning it, but after the inevitable Christmas number one they either disappear in to obscurity, 'panto' as it's otherwise known, or just blend in to the mind-numbingly bland world of pop music, until eventually you find yourself watching a Leona Lewis video and asking; 'Now, was she on X-Factor or Pop Idol? Or was it Stars in Their Eyes? Either way, this sounds awful...STOP BLOODY WARBLING...'
But then, the people who watch it know this. They know how it works. They know that the chances of seeing any of these acts on television ever again are on a par with seeing The Beatles reform with Noel Edmonds on lead vocals for a one off performance on The National Lottery's In It To Win It, and yet they still tune in. They still get emotionally involved. They still vote. I will never understand why.
I think the worst thing about it is that it's almost impossible to escape from. I can't walk past a newsagents any more without seeing Cheryl Cole's hideous orange face weeping back at me like an open sore. I haven't seen a single episode of this series, I'd rather watch a deaf amateur dramatic production of Schindler's List in a pub car park, and yet I could probably tell you the names of at least two of the acts. Cher and One Direction. There, told you.
HOW DO I KNOW THIS INFORMATION? I don't WANT to know it. I must have absorbed it somehow. It must be in the air. Like anthrax, only much, much worse.
Twitter and Facebook have become no-go areas on Saturday and Sunday evenings. For example;
@Miles_Str Omg I love Wagner. #xfactor (Alas, Miles was not referring to Richard or even Robert)
@ZBieberFan (alarm bells should already be ringing) Wish #Xfactor was on everyday :D x
(Pray that Z never stumbles across a magic lamp)
@NMaher Wonders how long people talked about #xfactor in work today? We did a good 30mins (My God, the atmosphere in that office must be electric)
@r_tone Just re-watched the #xfactor version of "Rhythm of the Night". That group performance really is the highlight of my week. (For fuck's sake)
These are just a few examples of the brain-dead witterings of the damned you have to put up with.
This is a pointless rant really. I've given up trying to make people see things my way, there's no use. I can see myself eventually going insane and becoming one of those people you see on street corners in the movies, all grubby faced, wearing fingerless gloves and a sandwich board prophesying the end of mankind. I'm resigned to the fact that as a race we are doomed and in centuries to come a futuristic version of Baldrick out of Blackadder will make a television programme about our time;
'And you say they worshipped their Queen, simply because she got malaria and cried a lot?'
'From these records, that would appear to be the case, yes. She also married and subsequently divorced a moron, who took photos of his pants and sent them to other women. That seemed to make her quite popular.'
'Right...'
'It's a miracle they survived as long as they did really. But, as we all now know, they were the architects of their own downfall. Then again, how were they to know that voting for Jedward to form a coalition government with Gamu would lead to a nuclear holocaust? Their Vanilla Ice routine gave no clues of the horrors to come...'
Just thinking about it sends acid coursing through my veins. It's a despicable mixture of glorified karaoke and freak show, designed solely to make money out of the poor deluded souls who just want to be famous and who seem to make up the majority of the British public these days. Those with a modicum of talent might end up winning it, but after the inevitable Christmas number one they either disappear in to obscurity, 'panto' as it's otherwise known, or just blend in to the mind-numbingly bland world of pop music, until eventually you find yourself watching a Leona Lewis video and asking; 'Now, was she on X-Factor or Pop Idol? Or was it Stars in Their Eyes? Either way, this sounds awful...STOP BLOODY WARBLING...'
But then, the people who watch it know this. They know how it works. They know that the chances of seeing any of these acts on television ever again are on a par with seeing The Beatles reform with Noel Edmonds on lead vocals for a one off performance on The National Lottery's In It To Win It, and yet they still tune in. They still get emotionally involved. They still vote. I will never understand why.
I think the worst thing about it is that it's almost impossible to escape from. I can't walk past a newsagents any more without seeing Cheryl Cole's hideous orange face weeping back at me like an open sore. I haven't seen a single episode of this series, I'd rather watch a deaf amateur dramatic production of Schindler's List in a pub car park, and yet I could probably tell you the names of at least two of the acts. Cher and One Direction. There, told you.
HOW DO I KNOW THIS INFORMATION? I don't WANT to know it. I must have absorbed it somehow. It must be in the air. Like anthrax, only much, much worse.
Twitter and Facebook have become no-go areas on Saturday and Sunday evenings. For example;
@Miles_Str Omg I love Wagner. #xfactor (Alas, Miles was not referring to Richard or even Robert)
@ZBieberFan (alarm bells should already be ringing) Wish #Xfactor was on everyday :D x
(Pray that Z never stumbles across a magic lamp)
@NMaher Wonders how long people talked about #xfactor in work today? We did a good 30mins (My God, the atmosphere in that office must be electric)
@r_tone Just re-watched the #xfactor version of "Rhythm of the Night". That group performance really is the highlight of my week. (For fuck's sake)
These are just a few examples of the brain-dead witterings of the damned you have to put up with.
This is a pointless rant really. I've given up trying to make people see things my way, there's no use. I can see myself eventually going insane and becoming one of those people you see on street corners in the movies, all grubby faced, wearing fingerless gloves and a sandwich board prophesying the end of mankind. I'm resigned to the fact that as a race we are doomed and in centuries to come a futuristic version of Baldrick out of Blackadder will make a television programme about our time;
'And you say they worshipped their Queen, simply because she got malaria and cried a lot?'
'From these records, that would appear to be the case, yes. She also married and subsequently divorced a moron, who took photos of his pants and sent them to other women. That seemed to make her quite popular.'
'Right...'
'It's a miracle they survived as long as they did really. But, as we all now know, they were the architects of their own downfall. Then again, how were they to know that voting for Jedward to form a coalition government with Gamu would lead to a nuclear holocaust? Their Vanilla Ice routine gave no clues of the horrors to come...'
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