The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet

I don't write reviews and this isn't really one. The only time I wrote anything remotely resembling a review, was a book report for a high school English class and I got an appalling mark for it (a C if you're wondering. I never felt the need to apply myself in languages).

I first spotted The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet in Exclusives Books in Domestic Departures at Cape Town International. It's my habit to browse bookshops in airports but despite my warnings to myself that I rarely leave bookshops empty-handed, that I have no more space for books, that Exclusive's books are generally overpriced and that I cannot afford an overpriced book and that I already have a pile of unread books, I still ventured in. To browse. Just browse. Right?

I'd already noticed several books that peaked my interest (the new Niffenegger, the new Mieville) but luckily their exorbitant price tags frightened me off.

It was the cover of The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet that grabbed my attention (see above).* A few times I've been attracted to books with appealing covers but luckily, unlike some terrible wines I've picked based on attractive labelling, I'd never bought a book that was terrible but had an attractive cover and decided to have a closer look. I turned the book over to read the synopsis. It was the first part of the first sentence that sold the book:

T.S Spivet is a genuis mapmaker...

I glanced down at the price tag hoping beyond hope that it wouldn't frighten me off as was the case with the other books despite knowing subconsciously that I had to have the book no matter the price. Surprisingly, and to my relief, the price wasn't all that frightening and the fact that I had a R20 discount voucher in my wallet was enough justification to leave the bookshop less than empty-handed.

I was drawn into the book by the unconventional style it was written in. The illustrations are not just for the benefit of the cover but compromise about two-thirds of the book. Margin notes and illustrations are lead off from the main text by arrows and often serve as more than mere footnotes, containing integral information about both story and character.**

While I might enjoy reading their stories, there are few dysfunctional (and young) characters I identify and empathise with to the extent that I did with 12 year old T.S. Spivet. I make maps but I'm not a genius at it (or anything else for that matter). I've come a long way since 12 too.

There was more empathising than identifying with T.S. We have mapmaking in common, albeit of a different sort. We're both incredibly observant of the world and analyse it neurotically. We find adult behaviour quite strange (often I find my own adult behaviour quite strange). And T.S. is surrounded by people that don't quite understand him. But that's it as far as similarities go. T.S. is very odd and uses his obsessive mapmaking, which goes beyond that of your typical topographical map, as a coping mechanism for his lack of understanding of the world. He's also not your average 12 year old. His vocabulary is far too large and so is his grasp of philosophical and metaphysical concepts, and he has insight that most adults lack.***

T.S.'s story is one of inquisitiveness, discovery, imagination, and adventure but is also filled with longing, melancholy, loneliness and guilt.

The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet is by no means a perfect debut for writer Reif Larsen and I was quite surprised (and sometimes confused) by the turns the book took in the second and last thirds but I accepted the story the writer wanted to tell and the open-ended conclusion. It's a sad ending**** despite T.S. apparently finding the belonging he was looking for. The saddest ending for me since Flowers for Algernon, A Scanner Darkly and Firmin.

I'm grateful to the author for writing a book in an original, quirky style and for writing such a rich character. The book, despite its faults, is important to me***** but I cannot really convey in words what it means to me. It was something to with the oddities of people, life and the world in general and how we all try and make sense of it in our way.

* This was my first introduction to the book. It was after finishing the book and looking it up online that I discovered that there was considerable hype surrounding the release of the book last year. I was quite surprised that I was completely oblivious to it.

**Some reviews have noted that this is distracting. Especially when having to turn the book sideways to read them. I loved it though. I found it engaging and it made me feel a bit like a kid again to be honest.

***Well, he is a genius after all. While it might seem unrealistic, I felt that this further emphasised T.S.'s oddness but made it easier for me to identify with him than other young characters.

****This is open to interpretation.

*****The reason for this blog post.

For proper reviews go here and here.

http://www.tsspivet.com/

Plan, plans, planning

At some point I decided it would be cool to work in museum. Not right now. But someday when I'm a suitable age to be an eccentric museum curator. Yes, I've even created a persona for myself. It involves wearing tweed, bow ties, and smoking a pipe (I don't really like pipes so I'll substitute the pipe with a fake one. Possibly one that blows bubbles. Come to think of it, I don't really like tweed or bow ties either. Ok, clearly the persona needs some work).

I applied for a museum job once. The museum interview was a few days before the interview for my current job and it went horrible. All my carefully planned answers went down the drain once seated in front of the interview panel. I can't explain why I was the nervous, stammering wreck that I was that day compared to a few days later when I breezed through the interview for my first job at the company I work at now. The pop psychologist in me says that I wanted that job more and screwed up the museum one purposely.

Lately I was thinking how different it would have been if it'd been the other way round. Well, there are plenty of ways it would have been different but more importantly I realised that I wouldn't mind working in a museum (especially when I reach that enigmatic, suitable age). Alas, I also realised that I'm not suitably qualified to work in a museum. Sure, I have a more than suitable degree (Archaeology), but that's part of the problem. I only have one degree and most museum curators have some postgraduate qualification. Which got me looking at museum qualifications. Yes, this does exist as a valid degree. You can even get multiple degrees in it!

Just, not in South Africa. Museum studies are not offered at any South African institutions. I knew this already and my first line of inquiry was internationally but was none the less disappointed when double-checking the local universities.

Studying overseas is quite a long-term plan and a convenient way of realising a vague aspiration to live overseas for a bit provided I can scrape together some A LOT! of money (donations welcome). And volunteer experience since quite a few of the postgrad programs require work experience.

I emailed the local museum (the national one) and my first volunteer shift was this morning. And yes, I was doing glorified sorting and packing but, man!, did I love it. I'm volunteering in pre-colonial archaeology and it was just marvelous (I reckon my eccentric museum curator would use the word 'marvelous') being surrounded by all the artefacts. The stone tools, the ostrich egg shells, the unidentified fauna fragments. I had a thought that archaeology can be a morbid profession, studying the remnants of someone's life and the items that once gave it meaning.

The store room at the museum is massive and smells like cardboard (the boxes everything is packed in) and dust and is filled with the excavated remains of all those significant archaeological sites that I read about in so many articles but never visited. I even found a few boxes whose contents my old professor dug up.

Even if my long term plan of studying overseas doesn't happen (long term is, well, long and things can change, especially my mind), volunteering at the museum would still be an amazing experience. As I exited through the museum, past the whale exhibition, just shy of the dinosaur one, I felt exhilarated.

Yes, museum, this the start of a beautiful relationship.

SoTD/LoTD

The Arcade Fire - Ready to Start

Businessmen drink my blood
Like the kids in art school said they would
And I guess I'll just begin again
You say can we still be friends

If I was scared, I would
And if I was bored, you know I would
And if I was yours, but I'm not

All the kids have always known
That the emperor wears new clothes
But to bow to down to them anyway
Is better than to be alone

If I was scared, I would
And if I was bored, you know I would
And if I was yours, but I'm not

Now you're knocking at my door
Saying please come out against the night
But I would rather be alone
Than pretend I feel alright

If the businessmen drink my blood
Like the kids in art school said they would
Then I guess I'll just begin again
You say can we still be friends

If I was scared, I would
And if I was pure, you know I would
And if I was yours, but I'm not

Now I'm Ready to Start

If I was scared, I would
And if I was pure, you know I would
And if I was yours, but I'm not

Now I'm Ready to Start

Now I'm Ready to Start
I would rather be wrong
Than live in the shadows of your song
My mind is open wide
And now I'm ready to start

Now I'm Ready to Start
My mind is open wide
Now I'm Ready to Start
Not sure you'll open the door
To step out into the dark
Now I'm ready!

Shameless self-promotion

Memento Vivere readers meet The F Number (hint: click on the link).

The F number is my photography blog where I will post daily (hopefully!) photos. I started it in an effort to use my camera more and to improve my photography.

Have a look around and please comment.

I biked here!

Woah! 2 posts in one day! Well, when I saw the video below I had to share it. As well as an incredibly embarrasing video of me riding a bike in Utrecht. Thankfully traffic wasn't as bad when I was riding. Good thing since I almost went over the handle bars every time I stopped, crashed into a pavement once (I managed to get off the bike before falling) and couldn't turn left (mental block?!). The traffic in Amsterdam is worse.

The weekend that was

It started innocently enough. It always does doesn't it. But in all fairness we did take a cab to Long Street so that I can avoid drunken driving. I shouldn't be surprised by how it turned out.

"Can you take a picture of us" was how it started. This was after we'd already had 3 drinks including tequila shots but we were still fairly well behaved. Foreign accents are always a conversation started and I guess that's why we ended up in conversation with 3 local guys who probably wanted to know where my housemate is from (US by the way). While uhming and ahhing a lot about heading to the Pink Strip in Green Point more drinks were bought by our new friends as well an American tourist who felt the need to buy us Jagermeisters for some reason or the other.

Wait. I'm leaving out some details like a new lesbian friend trying to score the straight guy and straight guy remarking what a terrible lesbian she makes. Sister Mary James promoting his her new show and freaking out Jagermeister American. Jagermeister American being pregnant, balancing a drink on his pregnant "belly" and giving birth somewhere in Cape to Cuba (the baby didn't make it he told us). None of this was strange to us at that point.

Eventually terrible lesbian convinces us to go to Beaulah's the lesbian club in Green Point and the only one in Cape Town. 7 of us pile into a cab. It's a Tazz. Yes, that's right. Seven. In a Tazz. The driver has to take back routes to avoid being stopped by the cops. I'm sitting in the front on the lap of one of the guys. The music was pumping and I briefly thought about dancing but that would've been highly inappropriate in the lap of a married man. Also, I couldn't really move being scrunched up against the ceiling. Some very unflattering pictures were taken that you won't be seeing on this blog but might pop up on Facebook some time. At some point I wondered exactly what the hell we're doing but didn't care too much since all the double whiskeys, tequilas and that one Jagermeister had entered my bloodstream by then. Eventually we reached Green Point and married guy opened the door while he assured me that he was not trying to touch my arse and I, quite gracefully, tumbled out of the cab, landing on my feet.

Terrible lesbian was adamant that Friday nights are the best nights at Beaulah's but when we got there it was quite empty. Very few lesbians in sight but my couchsurfer managed to attract immediate attention from the few that were there. Terrible lesbian got upset that straight guy wasn't into her. He has a valid reason though. He has a girlfriend and he's faithful. I stuck to the bar and chatted to the boys and my new housemate while others braved the dancefloor. I'll be damned if I can remember what we talked about though. The naughtiness scale was mentioned. Someone claimed to be a 10 but I contended that I am a 3.

I did brave the dancefloor but not for long and soon afterward found myself being swung around on the empty bit where people would've been dancing had there been more than 10 people present. This was despite my protests that I cannot dance. I'm not entirely sure how I'm was still able to stand at this point never mind handle being swung around.

Terrible lesbian had left with another guy but she wasn't to be the only one with that title for the evening. When alcohol and high heel thresholds were reached and just before we headed home I ended up snogging a guy. Yes, trust me to score a guy in a lesbian club. And thus, I was the butt of jokes on the cab ride home.

The hangovers the next day were severe and our plan to leave early for a trip to the winelands didn't quite materialise. We had delicious pizzas at Bohemia in Stellenbosch (next to the famous Mystic Boer) with lots of water to drink with our meal. I'm was so dehydrated that despite all the water I've had I didn't need to pee. We were too late to go to wine farms since most of them closed at 4pm but managed to find one still open. The wine tasting was unsuccessful since all of our bodies rebelled against the smell and taste of anything remotely alcoholic. It wasn't so much a drunken weekend as a drunken Friday night but the booze we drank was enough for an entire weekend.

The winelands were peaceful as always except for a flock of noisy ibises. We left, me a bottle of Quoin Rock Chardonnay richer, to have an alcohol and meat free braai at home.

Sunday was uneventful, my surfer left much to my disappointment and my housemate was working. I slept for most of the day and tidied up the mess that had accumulated over the week, later settling in to read and watch TV while I waited for my next surfer.

28 years

28 years ago (give or take some seconds) I was born into this world. I've always identified with (and lived vicariously through) the Dresden Dolls' Girl Anachronism. I wonder if I would've been different had I been born naturally (not that that was an option anyway).

you can tell
from the scars on my arms
and cracks in my hips
and the dents in my car
and the blisters on my lips
that i'm not the carefullest of girls

you can tell
from the glass on the floor
and the strings that're breaking
and i keep on breaking more
and it looks like i am shaking
but it's just the temperature
and then again
if it were any colder i could disengage
if i were any older i could act my age
but i don't think that you'd believe me
it's
not
the
way
i'm
meant
to
be
it's just the way the operation made me

and you can tell
from the state of my room
that they let me out too soon
and the pills that i ate
came a couple years too late
and ive got some issues to work through
there i go again
pretending to be you
make-believing
that i have a soul beneath the surface
trying to convince you
it was accidentally on purpose

i am not so serious
this passion is a plagiarism
i might join your century
but only on a rare occasion
i was taken out
before the labor pains set in and now
behold the world's worst accident
i am the girl anachronism

and you can tell
by the red in my eyes
and the bruises on my thighs
and the knots in my hair
and the bathtub full of flies
that i'm not right now at all
there i go again
pretending that i'll fall
don't call the doctors
cause they've seen it all before
they'll say just
let
her
crash
and
burn
she'll learn
the attention just encourages her

and you can tell
from the full-body cast
that i'm sorry that i asked
though you did everything you could
(like any decent person would)
but i might be catching so don't touch
you'll start believing you're immune to gravity and stuff
don't get me wet
because the bandages will all come off

and you can tell
from the smoke at the stake
that the current state is critical
well it is the little things, for instance:
in the time it takes to break it she can make up ten excuses:
please excuse her for the day, its just the way the medication makes her...

i don't necessarily believe there is a cure for this
so i might join your century but only as a doubtful guest
i was too precarious removed as a caesarian
behold the worlds worst accident
I AM THE GIRL ANACHRONISM

Some photos

I have not blogged in a long time. I have no valid excuses and will make none. Have some photos instead (I've discovered it's much easier to blog in photos).

A while back I announced the acquisition of my DSLR (at last!). Since then I have taken many many photos but have not necessarily uploaded them to my blog (some can be found on my Picasa account).

Since acquiring the camera I've gotten more and more into photography. I hate calling myself a photographer though because that's not what I am. I just happen to own a camera and I like taking pictures. Lately, I've been reading a lot about photography and studying other people's work. I've become a little obsessed. Only a little. I'm starting to worry about myself.

I recently attended a photography roadshow and *gasp* enjoyed it. What a geek thing to do. I'm drawing the line at joining a photography club though. Seriously, that would be the absolute worst. I mentioned reading a lot about photography and one of the sites I spend a lot of time on it Digital Photography School. It's an excellent resource. They have weekly themed competitions on their forum. I haven't uploaded anything yet and didn't think about it until I saw this week's theme: toys. Yes, last night I spent hours sitting in my kitchen taking pictures of a pair of horror smurfs I bought in Swakopmund. I also had a great idea for last week's theme: Film Noir. I've resigned myself to being 80% geek after uploading the toy pictures to the forum. i'll only be 100% upon joining a photography club).

And for good measures I included some photos of a merry-go-round at Ratanga Junction where the photography roadshow was held. I will spare you the technical details of the photos but most have gone through post-processing (At some point I will sing the praises of Photoshop Lightroom 3 Beta 2).

Don't these horses look just terrified?!

LotD/SotD

Peter Gabriel - Mercy Street


looking down on empty streets, all she can see
are the dreams all made solid
are the dreams all made real

all of the buildings, all of those cars
were once just a dream
in somebody's head

she pictures the broken glass, she pictures the steam
she pictures a soul
with no leak at the seam

lets take the boat out
wait until darkness
let's take the boat out
wait until darkness comes

nowhere in the corridors of pale green and grey
nowhere in the suburbs
in the cold light of day

there in the midst of it so alive and alone
words support like bone

dreaming of mercy st.
wear your inside out
dreaming of mercy
in your daddy's arms again
dreaming of mercy st.
swear they moved that sign
dreaming of mercy
in your daddy's arms

pulling out the papers from the drawers that slide smooth
tugging at the darkness, word upon word

confessing all the secret things in the warm velvet box
to the priest-he's the doctor
he can handle the shocks

dreaming of the tenderness-the tremble in the hips
of kissing Mary's lips

dreaming of mercy st.
wear your insides out
dreaming of mercy
in your daddy's arms again
dreaming of mercy st.
'swear they moved that sign
looking for mercy
in your daddy's arms

mercy, mercy, looking for mercy
mercy, mercy, looking for mercy

Anne, with her father is out in the boat
riding the water
riding the waves on the sea

Introducing Abra

So for a fairly long time I was browsing through the kitten section on Gumtree and a few times I actually took the next step to see if the kitten was available for adoption. Usually they weren't and it took a really long time to actually adopt; there are tons of kittens available for adoption but it turns out I'm quite picky about cats. 

I've had Abra for 3 months now and didn't blog about him due to the laziness aspect but also he doesn't sit still long enough to get a decent picture of him. Now, however, with my new, improved, super camera I managed to snap some decent pics.

Abra is quite possibly the 
biggest asshole cat on the
planet. I original got him as
company for Noname but I
fear Noname is suffering more
at the hands, er, paws, claws
and teeth of Abra. Abra is still little and Noname wins most of the fights but soon Abra will be big and that might not be the case anymore. I'm sorry Noname. I thought I was doing a good thing.

Abra doesn't just pick fights with Noname. My hands and feet bear the scars. At one point so did my face and neck. Abra feels the need to hide under cars outside when it's time to go inside. He's especially good at this when you're in a hurry. And lets not mention the waste product this cat produces. I swear he just waits for me to get home or to start eating before squatting down. For some bizarre reason he feels the need to announce to the world what he's about to do. Perhaps he's apologises for the stink he is about to create. Perhaps it's a "Fuck you, muthafuckers. I'm gonna stink it up in here". Who knows. 

Threats of putting him up for adoption don't work. I'm trying to sell him to cover the cost of my camera.

Photos have been edited in PS Lightroom 3 Beta 2.

Sunset Chasers

Driving home from Langebaan* on Monday we witnessed the most spectacular sunset. We weren't able to get any photographs since by the time we stopped at a suitable location the sun had for the most part already disappeared below the horizon. Yesterday, not willing to risk missing another remarkable sunset, my housemate** and I set off to the best. This was of course a perfect opportunity to test drive my new camera. The sunset was less than spectacular and my shots aren't the greatest since I was still testing out the camera. I also took some shots other than the sunset and with the 55-250mm zoom lens finally managed to get decent photos of the moon.

The sunset chaser herself

* I didn't blog about this because I was too lazy. My housemate wanted to go kitesurfing so we went off to laze on the beach while she got dragged around by a kite. It was a really nice day despite getting sand everywhere (yes, everywhere) and getting sunburned.

** Yes, I have a housemate now. She moved in end of January and will be staying until end of April.

I have a new toy!

I am now the proud owner of a Canon 450D. I didn't have the money to purchase it but saving R4 000 on an extra zoom lens, 8Gb memory card and a bag meant I just had to do it. Where did I get the money you ask? I sold my body you say? No. I stole some cocaine from a Colombian drug lord and sold it at an inflated price to some desperate ad execs you say? No.

I have the best mother in the world. And I will be selling my soul cats in order to pay her back.

Photos, lots of them, to follow.

The Tell-Tale Heart

And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled.
Was it possible they heard not?
Almighty God! -- no, no?
They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW!
They were making a mockery of my horror!
This I thought, and this I think.
But anything was better than this agony!
Anything was more tolerable than this derision!
I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer!
I felt that I must scream or die!
And now -- again -- hark!
Louder! Louder! Louder! LOUDER!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more!
I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks!
Here, here! -- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

The Tell-Tale Heart is one of favourite tales. I came across this short story from 1953 which disappointingly does not contain the lines above.

Another one of my favourites, the EBM track by Diorama does contain the demented ending to the Poe story (no official music video).

SoTD/LoTD

I've got news and interesting things to share but I've been too lazy/tired to post. So here, have some lyrics instead. Check out this bands. I really like 'em.

Shout Out Louds - Walls

You just know it there's a wall and you just ran through it
You had too much to drink and all those telephone bills but it´s worth it.
Victoria I knew I would end up in Victoria
I took too many pills and wrote my will just to get to you
So go

I need a pencil
Piece of paper
Lock and a cage
Feels so much better now getting rid my rage
I'm suspicious
So suspicious
Can't get my mind straight
I just see them when I sleep nowadays
So sleep now
And go

It's so new
Being the one building all the roads
Can't wait to crack all of your codes
Learn to ally
Allies know how they love
And show you how it looks up there but it looks like a bug
So go

Whatever they say we're the ones buildings walls
Whatever they say we're the ones who never say no
To get to know yourself you gotta run away
Never trust anyone so run away
Run run run run run run

The weekend that was, in photos

Day 5 & 6: Final days

I decide to sleep in today being tired from going to bed after 5am. Again, I'm surprisingly not hungover. Astrid's already gotten up so I have the tent to myself. The previous night we were moved to a bigger tent with proper beds at no extra charge.

The sun is up and it's getting hotter but I'm reluctant to leave the bed even though sleep is proving elusive. I toss and turn and eventually in my frustration I start to cry. Not because I can't sleep but because I have to leave the next day. Because I'm so incredibly grateful for, but also in disbelief of, this wonderful experience.

At around lunch time I pull myself together and head towards the communal area. We've booked a basket weaving workshop and horse riding for the afternoon. I'm still tired and lazy and I welcome Astrid's to not go basket weaving anymore. We would need to walk to the workshop and I'm just not up to it. However, some American Peace Corps volunteers are also going and I figure if I can get a ride in their car I'd still go. But they're walking. So I sit down, get myself a drink and order some lunch. When it starts raining the Americans return to fetch their car and I change my mind again since I can now get a lift with them. I give my drink away and leave instructions to have my lunch boxed.

The baskets in the workshop are gorgeous and I have brief dreams of making something similar. There's a reason my dreams were so brief. It's not easy. It's also slow and monotonous and the Americans don't seem to talk much. I get a bit bored after the first hour and realise that I'm not going to have much of a basket at the end of the workshop. I shouldn't trade my day job for basket weaving just yet. After 3 hours I have a "basket" about 5cm in diameter. I'm all the more appreciative of the beauty of the baskets knowing the time and hard work that goes into it.

Yes, it took me 3 hours to make this

After the workshop we head back to the backpackers so that I can yet again take on something I've never done before: horseriding. Again, I'm terrified and asking myself why I'm doing this. Again, I don't chicken out. We're driven to the horse stables in a big ol' Landy. The roads are muddy with big pools of water in the road. Thankfully the Landy handles the mud and pools a lot better than Americans' car did.

My terror has not subsided by the time we get to the stables but I get on the horse anyway. It's a lot easier than I thought it would be. I'm given instructions on how to handle the horse (be firm, show him who's in charge, etc) but it doesn't help that I got the most stubborn horse ever and my firmest command only reluctantly gets him to move.

We take the route along the river. I'm getting the hang of it and am slightly more at ease. What? The horse, San, is afraid of water? I'm regretting the decision to go along the river. At some point we have to go into the river to avoid thorn trees. San seems intent on sticking to ground and doesn't give a damn about the rider being scratched to shit.

We head back through a smallish forest. There are brilliant flashes of lightning in the distance. We're on solid ground so San is handling better. But not for long. He seems to be reluctant to even walk through the pools that formed from the early afternoon rains. Bastard. Again I'm heading for thorn trees except now I'm at risk from more than a few scratches as a branch wraps around my throat. The more I'm trying to steer the horse away the closer he goes to the tree. I have brief visions of my throat being slit be the vicious thorns until I finally decide that it's in my best interest to remove the branch wrapped around my neck with my bare hands before getting the horse under control. After all, some punctures in my hand is preferably to punctures in my neck. I managed to get San under control and he seems more complacent now. Probably since his attempt to murder me failed and he's given up until next time. There won't be a next time.

Back at the stables I dismount ungracefully. In fact, I wouldn't even call it dismount. I'm congratulated by the owner on handling the murderous horse so well. Is she being sarcastic? I should sue.

Back at the backpackers I take a shower to rid myself of horse smell. Halfway through there's a power failure and I'm left showering in the dark. Now, I'm not afraid of the dark. Or of the frogs and lizards that share the outdoor showers. But I am afraid of stepping on a frog or lizard in the dark, falling and breaking my neck. And probably killing the frog/lizard to boot. Luckily my shower is incidentless.

I head to the bar to get something to eat. Have to line the stomach before the Last-night-in-Maun celebrations starts. Jens thought it appropriate (and so did I for that matter) that we say our goodbyes with bottles of booze. The power is still out and I'm annoyed. And it really has nothing to do with darkness or my perceptions that the bar service is slow or that I might miss dinner because the kitchen has no power. I'm annoyed because I'm sad. I'm sad because I'm leaving.

I work through my annoyance with a drink, delicious ribs and mash (thank god for gas cookers) and some ice cream. The power comes back on, there is much rejoicing and Jens goes to fetch the first bottle of booze. Thankfully (for my liver) he only got 2. Also thankfully, the American Peace Corps volunteers join us. We start with the tequila and having it with pineapple instead of lemon or lime since it's better this way. Everyone's a bit skeptical but after the first shot and segment of pineapple we're all congratulating Jens on his genius pairing of pineapple and tequila. Astrid initially did not want to drink but I made up the rule that the pineapple can only be had with tequila and well that was it.

We work through the tequila quite quickly after my suggestions to take it slowly were shot down. I've managed to develop the alcohol resistance of professional drinker. Graham hasn't and is drunker than anyone else. Much hilarity ensues, mostly at the expense of Graham (or Gray Ham as he affectionately became known).

Everyone is quite exhausted and soon after finishing the second bottled (Spiced Gold) we say out goodbyes and head of to bed. I feel sorry for those who have to get up early to leave and I'm grateful that I'll be able to spend a few more hours staring lazily and melancholically at that peaceful river.

I'm fairly well organised the next morning (it's no longer a surprise that I'm not hungover) and manage to pack everything without having a nervous breakdown. I got a few extra hours of sleep after Astrid left which helped a lot. Our goodbyes were short. I'll see her again in Cape Town before the year ends.

After breakfast and another nap it's time to go. I've accepted the inevitable and am no longer harbouring fantasies of abandoning my normal life. I don't even take it as a sign that I should stay when our plane breaks down right before we are to leave and have to wait for a further 2 hours for another plane to arrive. Ok, well maybe I consider it a sign for at least a second or so.

This was the last entry. I wrote this mostly for myself even though I've forced a few of you to read it anyway. I wrote it in case I forgot. And because I thought that something this special should be recorded somewhere. But I doubt I'll ever forget and this trip came at the perfect time to cement what I've learned about the world and myself over the last year and even taught me that I'm capable of more than I thought previously.

Day 3 & 4: Mokoro Trip

I'm terrified. And at this stage I'm not afraid to admit it. They make us sign an indemnity form before departing and I exclaim loudly: I'm going to die. I tell anyone who cares to listen (they don't have much choice) what to do in the event of my death. I want a gravestone, even if there are no remains. If I'm crushed by hippos, my gravestone must state this. If I'm eaten by crocodiles, my gravestone must state this. In the all too likely event that I'm crushed by hippos and then eaten by crocodiles, well, you get the picture.

We're going to be spending 2 days in mokoros, canoes dug out from trees. The evening we'll be camping in the wild. As in, where wild animals roam. I pray that the mokoro doesn't sink or capsize. We head off to the mokoro station in a motor boat loaded with all out camping gear. On the way I finally manage to snap that fish eagle.

The are people moving from one village to another and they've got their goats tied up on the banks ready to load into their mokoros.

At the mokoro station, at the first glimpse of mokoros filled with water I ask myself: Why am I doing this again? Time and again the answer: For the adventure, to do something new and exciting, just isn't enough. But I can't chicken out. I won't let myself.

If I thought getting in and out of the motorboat without losing my balance was challenging, getting into the mokoro - especially when you have to use other mokoros as 'stepping stones' to get to yours, is a downright nightmare. I manage to get in without any mishaps. Our guide is Andrew who is incredibly sweet. We have 4 mokoros for a 5 people, 1 for luggage. The guides need to go back to their village to fetch their overnight bags. Everyone else gets out to go view the village. I stay put since I'm not up for the incredible mission that is climbing out and back in again.

We set off. My terror has subsided to mild nervousness. Little movements set the mokoro swaying but Andrew assures that the mokoro is quite steady and won't tip over. Not like the newer fibreglass ones. We got the authentic, carved-from-a-tree ones that won't tip over but that also leak and water occasionally needs to be scooped out. I trust Andrew and relax a little and start to appreciate the experience. The delta's dead silence is interrupted only by the buzz of insects, the gurgle of water and the varied calls of the many bird species. And occasionally our singing including Björk's It's oh so quiet and german christmas tunes from Jens.

After about an hour we reach the island where we'll be camping. I'm greatful since the sun has really been beating on me. The guides set up the tents and start making a fire. They also set up the toilet. I'm incredibly grateful for the toilet. I won't have to squat. Technically, it's not ours but belongs to the 'British' couple, Marg and Pete, who we met on the sunset boat ride the previous day and decided to share the trip with. They'd taken the catered option, which comes with toilet, duvet, pillows, food and cook. We only share the toilet with them.

Astrid, Jens and I have our tinned food and some bread for lunch which we share with our guides. Marg and Pete's cook brought sandwiches from the backpackers for them. Marg is Scottish and Pete is Manx but they both sound English since they've been living in England for 40 years. I never knew the Isle of Man was independent.

After lunch and some rest we set off for a game walk. The game is scarce (wrong time of year) but the birdlife is abundant. We see and hear storks, kites, herons, plovers. We see lots of spoors but the animals responsible for making them have moved on either the night before or early in the morning before the harsh sun made an appearance.

Warthog

Hyena

Marg and Pete's guide, Pilot, is incredibly knowledgeable. I reckon he must be the smartest man in the delta. He knows all the birds, insects and spoors. The walk is long and it's hot. I remind myself that next time I will opt for a game drive instead. The flatness of the delta is broken intermittently by tall palm trees.

We keep walking and spotting other people out on their walks. We notice a bunch of them crowded around a pool but we're not walking in that direction. I want to tell Pilot that we should go in that direction since I'm sure there's a hippo there. I'll be damned if I'm going back without seeing any animals. Although I could do with seeing animals less ferocious than a hippo. Pilot hears a hippo call and we finally head in that direction. Soon we're standing less than 50 metres away from a territorial hippo. He knows we're there and putting on show telling us to steer clear from his pool. At some point it looked like he was coming out of the water and I was ready to make a break for it despite the rule to keep still.

Pilot tells us we have to get going since the sun is setting and we don't want to be here when it's dark. Well, that's encouraging.

We get back to camp safely. Not even a catered trip comes with a shower so I settle for changing my shirt and dousing myself in deodorant. The mosquitoes come out in full force after sunset and I start applying insect repellant. Big mistake. On the game walk I'd gotten sunburned without realising. The flesh is being seared off my cheeks. That's what it feels like anyway. It's still burning even after rinsing with water. Trust something like this to happen to me. I decide to quit all use of insect repellant. Eventually the burning stops. I am, however, being eaten alive by mosquitoes.

We eat our tinned food: spaghetti in tomato sauce with cheese. Marg and Pete get freshly cooked spaghetti bolognaise. We chat and sing camp songs. Except I don't know any camp songs.

The sky is a mess of stars and I even manage to spot a satellite orbitting and 3 shooting stars. Pilot points out Orion's Belt, Pleiades and other stars to us. There are fireflies in a nearby bush trying to mimick the sky.

We retire to bed after Pilot discusses the plan for the next day with us. I'm exhausted, happy but exhausted, and briefly protest getting up at the ungodly hour of 5am. I'm contemplating letting everyone else go on the early morning walk while I sleep in but I'm too scared to stay at the camp by myself.

We still don't see any animals on the walk the next day except for more birds and some bugs. Including a dung beetle that tried to use Jens' shoe as a hiding place when we wanted to take photos.

We'll leave early from camp to avoid an incoming storm. The storms here are short but it rains hard and you don't want to get caught in it. Astrid and Jens go to swim but I'm too lazy. Also I'm not keen on muddy water filled with reeds. And then there's the ever problem of hippos and crocodiles even though the guides make sure it's safe to swim.

We head back to the mokoro station in the late afternoon. By now I'm quite comfortable walking from mokoro to mokoro to get back on land. Upon getting into the motorboat I spot a coolerbox that's not one of ours (our luggage went on another boat) and the boat driver says the magic words: There's cold beer in the coolerbox. I'm ecstatic. After spending a night in the wild, a night with no booze mind you, an ice cold beer couldn't be a more perfect bonus.

Back at the backpackers, David, welcomes me with a tequila (after I've helped myself to another beer from the boat). And so starts an epic night. My dear Romeo is at the bar. He's there everyday and if you're there early enough, he might still be sober. I wasn't that lucky when I met him on my first night there. He is the most belligerent drunk I have ever met and my tattoos seemed to upset him and for some reason made him think I was lesbian. He still bought me a drink though. I tell him this now but he can't remember. I've moved on to Savanna now and David instructs the barman to ring the bell. I've been waiting for this since my first night here. Ringing the bell means everyone at the bar gets a free round. So I have another Savanna.

We meet some filmmakers from Johannesburg who've smuggled 12 bottles of Spiced Gold from South Africa through Namibia and into Botswana. They have 4 bottles left and we help them finish it. I'm so wired from all the coke I had with the Spiced Gold that I cannot sleep and stay up til 5am with an Aussie, and one of the filmmakers that I've taken a liking to. I give up on the idea of him after I find out that he's 21. The security guard comes round multiple times to shush us and I decide to go to bed before the sun rises.

I still can't sleep and neither can Astrid so we stay up chatting for a while but manage to fall asleep eventually.