Inside South Africa
FR

Translated into English.

VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Several passages through Lesotho... with 4 meters of snow!

If you love passes, here’s a new route for you. Located on the southwest border of Lesotho, north of Rhodes but entirely in South Africa: the High5. The five highest mountain passes in South Africa.
MI Michel85200 Globetrotter ·
Hi there, I'm in! After tackling Die Hel and Baviaanskloof from end to end... I'm ready. Well, I hope so I’ll need you to map out the itinerary and be a bit more specific... So I can start planning my trip for... next year! Either way, southern Lesotho and Sehlabathebe are calling my name.

Cheers,

Michel
michel85200
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Cars 😎😏 all look the same. 😉

Probably because form follows function. In France, I drive a supercharged suppository (1) that I’ll soon have to trade in for a pedal car with a triple braking system—one of which is satellite-linked to the Prime Minister’s office.

(1) Notes for Dolma 😇: In automotive slang, a *suppository* is a very streamlined, elongated car (you can also spell it *oblonde* 😊), like a Jaguar E-Type, and *supercharged* means it’s powerful and responsive.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
I hope you find the most surprising paths with your new steed.😉

And when the Pathfinder has discovered even the roads I wasn’t looking for, I’ll set the cruise control on a Land Cruiser.
MI Michel85200 Globetrotter ·
For the passes...

Let's not forget that I'm neither a Landcruiser nor a Pathfinder level, just a humble Hilux.
michel85200
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Seriously, do you have a globe with animal pictures on it? Where'd you buy that?

I've had it since third grade. Those were the good old days when one teacher was enough for all subjects. She designed this globe thinking that making us sweat over geography while learning natural sciences would pay off. She was half Montessori. Did you notice there are two others in the same series in the background—one ebony and the other ivory? The next year, her colleague told us the history of the globe as written by elephants—who were the winners. She taught crafts in her spare time. The girls sewed bicorn hats, and we traced Africa’s internal borders with a chalk line, like real colonists in short pants (see photo).
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
I don’t think we say it enough, but it’s simply possible to take real pleasure in reading beautifully written texts,

That’s exactly what my ghostwriter is thinking now—the cheeky one’s reading over my shoulder. Usually so discreet and reserved (those are part of the job description), he’s puffing up with your support and demanded a significant raise this morning, threatening a "work-to-rule" strike: instead of his usual random punctuation, he’d now punctuate—between! Every, word. We’ve reached the stage of hurling epithets. I’m going to offer to lower his (contractual) quota of ruler taps on the fingers.

(And it’s me who thanks you)
KA Kate Globetrotter ·
Those were the good old days when one teacher was enough for all subjects.

No way, I’m dreaming! 😇
Mes photos sur Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/153304262@N05/albums "Le Temps nous égare. Le Temps nous étreint. Le Temps nous est gare. Le Temps nous est train".
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Post-Treatment Lesotho

Don’t expect me to present some miserable AI-generated cliché under this title—it hasn’t reached that level yet. Proof in the voice notes below. What we’re dealing with here are intelligent, adventurous bacteria that, as autumn arrived, sensed and beat the rush to come down from the high pastures. And why not by car? Anything to break the monotony of leapfrog. What they didn’t bargain for was ending up a thousand kilometers away, in the desert. Can these critters even conceive of revenge? With no future, dying, they gift me a half-disabling pneumonia as a birthday present. The laid-back retired doctor here sends me off laughing at his joke. He’s just explained—almost demonstrating—how a woman should check a man’s temperature. Between the consultation and the antibiotics, I’m out a good week’s gardener’s wages. I won’t run into him here. Especially since none of this is reimbursed, even though the meds are counterfeit. *

The Male Malady

They share a massive, muscular body, but just like their austere, pious masters, recreational sex isn’t on the agenda for these rams. Yet they’re the very lifeblood of these places so dry that tears leave nothing but salt. So you see them listless, looking depressed, pacing in cramped pens. Not even a fight to lock horns over—what would be the point? In a few months, they’ll have to double down, one for fifty, virgins or not, racing across thousands of hectares, covering the same ground over and over to get the job done. And fighting like there’s not enough to go around, even though we’re not exactly in China. Enough with the infernal pace! Stop exploiting the male animal!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_sLDQaAcsk *

Always Fleeing

Mary’s father was raising dairy cows in Zimbabwe when President Mugabe, independence hero, decided—faute de mieux—to hand farmland over to his army veterans. For his family, like many others, the choice was simple: leave on their feet or feet first. They settled in neighboring Zambia, starting from scratch. There, malaria soon took her father. What was left of the family moved to Johannesburg, where Mary spent her teens. Meanwhile, the veterans occupying the farms had eaten the dairy cows. A La Fontaine fable in reverse. (The new Zimbabwean president, as pragmatic as his predecessor was dogmatic, is now offering White farmers the chance to return—not with full ownership of land they’d taken by force and later relinquished under the same pressure, but on long-term leases. Where will the world be in a century?) Well-married, Mary traveled with her husband’s postings, including a few years in Atlanta where one of her children was born. Then she changed her mind, changed horses, and here she is, freshly in love and settling in the Karoo. It’s been a year since this well-worn couple decided to leave Johannesburg. With their house sold in a depressed market, they arrived here last March. In February, stepping out of a restaurant they frequented—like it was the last time—between the doorman and the car, they each had a gun to their temple. No choice but to let themselves be robbed. Josi wasn’t about to let them go without one last tribute. They used to live in a meticulously kept 800-square-meter home; their cottage here is 80 run-down square meters. They’re as happy as refugees who think they’ve finally reached safe harbor. *

Breton Touch

I’d never witnessed such a phenomenon in the continental Great Karoo. Sure, we know those sudden storms that wash away our topsoil, leaving us even more exposed. This time, it’s been raining nonstop for over twenty hours—47 millimeters so far, which is a whole quarter’s worth of rainfall back when they still measured it. *

Beautiful Sea

It’s my birthday. We’re heading to the sea to ride the waves. She hasn’t changed—still as loudmouthed as ever. Hissing, steaming, fuming. Roaring nonstop. I’m glad I didn’t fall for a siren, because with a mother-in-law like that... In the desert, we have a pretty hardy plant, a bit invasive and not very pretty. Sometimes we move it, and out of respect—or is it pity?—we replant it with feigned care. Its common name is ‘mother-in-law’s tongue.’ We also have a silent cactus the size of a jump seat, shaped just like one. Covered in spines, it’s called the ‘mother-in-law’s chair.’ *

Boxes

Saturday mornings are a colorful race in the kopjie. The township kids come in droves for the fun of it, maybe, but also to get a ride into town and earn a little reward. This week, Barbara—a wealthy, idle, but generous part-time resident—is in on the action. When she parks her Jaguar in front of the Saturday Market and opens the doors, one, two, three... seven, eight, nine kids spring out like jack-in-the-boxes. She’s just warmly greeted the cops, who didn’t bother counting seatbelts. At the market, the little geniuses swarm Pandora’s stall. Of Greek origin, she makes all kinds of delicious vegetarian treats. She opens her boxes, and like magic, they’re empty in five seconds flat. The rest of the week, she dedicates herself to various community projects. *

Big Coca



This young man, dressed in rags, was born after apartheid. He digs through McDonald’s trash, salvages what’s edible, and burns the packaging to keep warm. The new President of South Africa was a bigwig in the African National Congress, Mandela’s party. Sidelined about twenty years ago, he reinvented himself in business with the backing you’d expect. He built a fortune as colossal as it was quick by snapping up, among other things, the McDonald’s and Coca-Cola franchises for the country. Now he’s expected to act.

Little has truly changed here—unless you consider changing the color of money progress in itself. Inequality, violence, racism, corruption, spatial segregation, incompetence, unemployment, obesity—these problems and others are more acute today than yesterday, and by these measures, South Africa often tops—or is it bottoms?—the rankings.

This country tears me apart just as it’s torn apart. *

(If the Air France pilots—whose only power is to disrupt—would kindly suspend not their flights but their outrageous demands, I’ll soon be up there.)
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
Hope you're recovering well if this isn’t old news already. I assume the couple that got robbed came out of it without any physical harm.

It’s a good thing the rain showed up—I hope it doesn’t cause too much damage.

Safe travels back to France, and thanks for the photos! 🙂
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.

"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela

https://www.en-voyages.fr
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
I assume the couple who got robbed came out of it without physical harm.

True, they’re seasoned. In this context, most of the time, if you let yourself get robbed, you’ll walk away with your life. But that’s not always the case, especially in situations without witnesses. You know it: the first victims of violence in this country are the residents of the townships.

Hope you recover soon if it’s not already old news.

I got back with a raging fever. Proof: most of the horse races scheduled in western France this May were canceled due to equine rhinopneumonitis.

Welcome back to France

Thanks to Air France’s pilots, the direct 11-hour Cape Town-Paris flight turned into a 20-hour Cape Town-Dubai-Paris detour. The delay would’ve been bearable, but it was on Emirates, one of the best airlines in the world. Except I avoid flying Gulf carriers like the plague: paying extra for oil to guys just because they’re sitting on it, only for them to turn around and screw us over? No thanks. I’m not sure Air France will compensate me for the moral damage—otherwise incalculable.
AT Atila Globetrotter ·
I'm not sure Air France will agree to compensate me for moral damages—immeasurable as they are, anyway

You’ll have to settle for the 600 € per passenger covered by the EU regulation. Perfect timing—it’s exactly the price of a round-trip Air France ticket to Joburg. There’s your next trip sorted… 😉
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
May the reader in search of exploits, and the adventurous soul, forgive me: what follows are just tiny tales of an intermittent expat.

News from the donkeys On either side of the historic city, to the north, a township of eight thousand inhabitants, and to the south, a refuge where around a hundred donkeys—no longer wanted or affordable for their owners—now thrive. Both share roughly the same space, a few dozen hectares, though the donkeys’ land is more fertile. The price of donkeys has quintupled since the Chinese began using their skin in traditional medicine: the remedy is said to be a sovereign cure for insomnia. A bitter and belated revenge for an animal famed for sleeping standing up. Recently, at an auction, the refuge—calling itself a sanctuary—stepped in to buy two hundred new residents, which, due to lack of space and resources, it now seeks to rehome. Without this intervention, the donkeys would have ended up as pet food in slaughterhouses. It’s now possible to adopt a donkey virtually, just like sponsoring a child in poverty. I’m torn between Thyme, Rosemary, and Parsley—with names like those, they’d make a decent bobotie. *

The Beam At the entrance of this coffee shop, a haven on the edge of what’s left of a sea-turned-desert, a sign announces that from now on, you’ll have to sip your milkshake without a straw: « Plastic straws are the main source of ocean pollution—let’s do our part. » Here’s hoping the gesture lasts. For me, it’ll be a full English breakfast, with cutlery, please. *

Proust the Market Gardener I once had a house on an island, deserted in winter, where only ornamental gardens remained. Every week, a market gardener from the mainland would arrive by post, announcing himself in the villages with a booming « caaabbages, caarrooots! »—a cry that became his nickname. He was always accompanied by a young helper, who often changed. The idle islanders, hungry for gossip, drew their own conclusions. Now, when I come here to South Africa, at the edge of a desert that feels like a sea, I never miss savoring an excellent coleslaw (shredded cabbage and carrots in sauce). The madeleine effect is instant. *

I Brought You... Is it because the late spring has kept the flowers away that this tall red-haired woman, invited to dinner, brings green asparagus—thin, firm, and precious? A rare gift, grown by Sue, the guru of the Karoo. She’s made the most of the barren sand and scarce water. Another of Sue’s quirks is raising tilapia in mountain-water pools. I hope they won’t be the next gift. The bunch of asparagus is tied with raffia and paired with a bar of dark chocolate. What else? *

Black Ants, Red Ants In the middle of a moonless night, in long, silent processions, they colonized the hillside from the east, opposite the house, where the dogs wouldn’t notice them. Better equipped than others for the occasion, they didn’t even need to blacken their faces with soot. The women carried their meager bundles on their heads: a few clothes, a pot, a potjie. A child clinging to each hand, some with another on the way. The men bent under planks and sheets of corrugated iron. Others shouldered spears, picks, and hammers. All had a knife in their pocket. By morning, the police counted four hundred. Already, they’re digging. Already, the first posts of a new town are rising. There will be no running water, no electricity. These settlers had the decency to settle beyond the vineyards, where the slope grows steeper and the cold sharper. Yet no floor, no bed frame will offer them horizontal nights. The distraught winemaker watches, powerless, as a colony takes root on his ancestral land. The age-old struggle for land, settled only by force. The law is on his side, but he hesitates. Will he call the Red Ants, these private security brigades whose members, dressed in red overalls (less messy), helmets, and armed with batons, clear squats in a matter of hours?

In the end, backed by the authorities—don’t municipalities use them too?—he gave in. The Red Ants arrived in full trucks. Helmeted, Benalla-style but in red with visors down, wielding long crowbars, protected by shields, they evicted the inhabitants from their makeshift shelters and methodically destroyed them without mercy. One carried two children in his arms as he cleared them out. They operated under police supervision, who stood back. Several occupants were arrested for resisting or throwing stones.

One of the squatters’ leaders is named Zola. A newspaper headline reads: « The Soul of the Red Ant » A little jazz: www.youtube.com/watch?v=EByHobAn3hw *

Thunder from Brest! The evening is mild, the first spring trade wind from the Indian Ocean playing leapfrog over the mountains. Suddenly, in the distance, paired lightning flashes, long and soft, their thunder inaudible. After a few minutes, a deep, round, constant rumble reaches us. As a child, my father taught me how to calculate the distance to a storm’s epicenter based on the time between lightning and thunder. Here, it doesn’t work. Hemisphere change? Local quirk? The light becomes continuous, the roar grows louder: it’s a 4x4 speeding down the track. *

“Export Quality” This label takes on diametrically opposite meanings depending on whether it’s stamped on a product made in a rich country or a poor one. The offal of a Breton chicken labeled “export quality” would find few buyers in France but will do just fine in Africa, where, seasoned with EU subsidies, it undercuts local production. Conversely, South African fruits labeled “export quality” are the best the country has to offer. *

The Wheat and the Tares The track runs alongside the property for a few hundred meters, as does the small canal—a pitiful moat—bringing mountain water. This canal, poorly cemented, often cracked or collapsed, waters spontaneous flora, from palm trees to alfalfa, that wouldn’t stand a chance a root’s depth away. Old Shaun came from far, from the township where his parents were relocated. He pulls a tiny cart with a large, still-flat sack. Armed with a small sickle, he cuts the flowering alfalfa at the base, on the peasant’s side. The sack fills quickly, a nine-minute pregnancy. The few rabbits he raises in his yard aren’t housed any worse than he is, but their sustenance is assured for days to come. Meanwhile, in the ornamental garden that feels like an insult, alfalfa is a stubborn weed. I was born on the right side of the moat—a Mediterranean divide—I’m not proud of it. I approach him carrying canvas bags that once held potting soil, imagining he’ll put them to better use than I ever could. I offer them, and he’s overwhelmed with thanks. To ease my discomfort, I tell him it’s not a gift: now he has to fill all those bags. We laugh.
DO Dolma Globetrotter ·
I'm neither thirsty for exploits nor in search of adventure, so there's nothing for me to forgive you for! All I need is to read your tiny yet perfectly crafted stories to delight me and whisk me away on a journey...

Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
MA Max68 Globetrotter ·
Such a beautiful way with words, thank you! 🙂 😛
https://apprentisvoyageurs.com
ZA Zabazou ·
Finally back with these "little stories" that we love so much. They’ve been few and far between, but "shh"—I’ve got no right to complain, since I hardly post on the forum myself. Thanks again for sharing them with us.
Ghislaine
BO Boulwai Regular ·
Yes, but no. I just got back from ten days of 2x1 (a bike for newbies), backpack on, when I think some people actually enjoy this 😉, the time to identify the breakdown (another hose story), find the part (in Durban, finally), send the payment, receive it, and install it. In the end, the Defender fits perfectly with my idea of travel: room for the unexpected.

Hello Mr. Jean, I’m starting to think that deep down, you don’t actually mind cycling that much. After all, to do it for 10 days, there must be a little desire somewhere! You and a few others have really inspired me with some amazing places to ride, and I haven’t given up on convincing you of the joys of two wheels. By the way, you and Michel have already shaped our next trip: Swartberg and Die Hell... While I’m at it, here’s a little tip for MTB newbies: even with good cycling shorts, on long distances, you can sometimes get some chafing on the "thing" that sits on the saddle. Yes, at some point, you might feel like your butt’s on fire. It’s a good idea to apply a little Vaseline or something similar. But who carries a tube of Vaseline in their bag? Nobody sane. However, especially in South Africa, we all have a tube of Labello melting in the sun... and guess what, it does the trick! There’s a MacGyver tip for you 😉 After that, everyone handles the multi-use aspect of the miracle product as they see fit.

Well done on the Nissan—it’s still a solid ride. I should’ve followed my gut from the start and invested in a Japanese car instead of ending up stranded with the Discovery! But hey, it let me test the South African solidarity in the most remote parts of the country and make a few friends who are apprentice mechanics or pros at improvising in tough conditions 😉 I’m also part of the silent majority who reads your tales, so keep it up, sailor! Finally, since I’m trying to read between the lines—and out of sheer curiosity—I’ll officially ask: are you living in South Africa? That’s one of those wishes this tadpole of a Santa never granted me. See you soon, Mr. Jean!
Rêver est déjà un beau voyage.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
You're a reader for whom words are enough on their own, who doesn't need a story for them to exist. You're a reader enchanted by their melody when they scale the notes. A poet.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
You, who sometimes give me the impression of an African missing home, who tries out other places but always comes back—thanks for stopping by while you wait to head all the way south on the continent.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
You see, I really can't spend my life telling stories here.

I still laugh thinking about our wild adventures on Saint Helena. The wind that blew our hats right off! I owe you a tiny story pulled out of a hat (though it might be a bit far-fetched).

The men here, when they're farmers or bushmen, wear wide-brimmed hats made of leather or sweat-stained canvas. City guys sport branded American-style caps, while the stylish ones trust only Panama hats with their precious selves. The ladies often go bareheaded or wear wide-brimmed hats—material, shape, and colors revealing a bit of what they protect.

When they're not in charge, the men shield themselves from the relentless sun under woolen beanies. The boldest ones rock the iconic rastacap. Women in leadership sometimes wear headscarves but often go bareheaded with styled hair—unfortunately, often from the human hair trade: straight hair imported from Asia. No veils, no Chinese-style hats—yet.

At the very bottom of the ladder are the sheep, shorn of their insulating fleece at the start of summer and born nearly bald. Since no one knits them a beanie, they cluster in the bare fields, each tucking its head between another’s legs. That’s why they all face the same direction.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Your tip really caught my attention, but I’m wary of multi-purpose products. So I’ve decided not to plan any long-distance bike trips.

Do you live in South Africa?

I’m a one-third part-time traveler... 🤪

I’m also part of the silent majority who reads tales, so keep steady, sailor!

Aye, Captain!
BO Boulwai Regular ·
I'm a part-time traveler... 🤪

.. And like those in showbiz, you're an artist too... in your own way😉
Rêver est déjà un beau voyage.
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
Your writing is still so beautiful—I’m learning new words just by reading you! 🙂

Did you end up going to St. Helena now that it’s connected by plane? It’s a destination that really sparks my imagination, more for what it represents than for what there is to do.
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.

"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela

https://www.en-voyages.fr
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
No, I haven’t been to Saint Helena, but in a discussion about the opening of the air link, Zabazou and I had a bit of a laugh about it. Even though there hasn’t been a message for a year, that thread is still at the top of the dedicated section on VF.

Here’s a bunch of words to keep you busy this weekend.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Sexism The Pataugas is to the sand surveyor what the Land Rover is to the dune jumper. They’re from the same generation and both had disappeared—shoes first, the car three years ago. But both are phoenixes. The shoe came back first, and the vehicle will return next year. Except the future Defender will be a plain old car, and the new Pataugas is fragile: I’ve got a home tester who wears them out in less than two years. When it’s time to replace them, it turns out only sizes 41 and up are still in the catalog (luckily, my tester isn’t Berthe or a geisha), meaning they’re more often suited to the runner that man used to be than to Lucy’s little feet. So, as if a bird of prey knew anything about shoemaking, we fall back on Aigle, which shamelessly copies its failing competitor. A very stylish copy, but it misses one essential point: the tread. The lugs are too deep and straight-edged, whereas the original sole had tapered ones. Pebbles get stuck in them. As a result, my tester comes back from the desert sounding like a mining truck. In ten years, I’ll have enough material to build a new house. *

Ah! It’ll Be Fine, It’ll Be Fine, It’ll Be Fine (Hikers are running out of steam, but they’ve got a Plan B: the bike plan. At this rate, they’ll finish the five-year term in a company car.) Here, in the old world, walking isn’t an option for most people. They walk by default. At dawn, clad in work boots, workers trudge along the paths where a few women in pink, toned and bouncy—cute, but not always—cross their paths. The wealthier of the poor mount old bikes, their fluttering rags their only brakes, and get overtaken by flashy athletes in tight gear, with long calves and frog thighs, pecs like wind tunnels, revving up on titanic machines. *

Collector Tall, with long dark hair and rebellious curls, pale blue eyes and a distant gaze, dark skin and Indo-European features—something of Henry Fonda’s son and Pocahontas combined. That’s how Ivan introduces himself, the man we’re renting unused space from while he waits for his own, where he’ll settle in the small town after coming from Cape Town. This already vintage quadragenarian is a collector and supplies museums across the country. His specialty? The mechanical casting for film shoots—preferably motorized scrap metal. To unwind, he competes in motocross. On the shelves, boots, suits, and helmets—one set per motorcycle brand—are neatly arranged. When it comes to cars, he goes all out, and I’m considering either tripling the rent or demanding payment in kind. Here’s the rig he had the audacity to visit me in!



*

Camouflage At the Blue Whale, from the narrow terrace that ends in a stern and forms a poop deck, we scan the Indian Ocean in vain for the mythical marine mammal. The blue whale chose this color to escape the not-so-peaceful harpoons of the neighboring ocean. It’s quite effective: even the best Zeiss binoculars come up empty. No white, no gray, no hump. They’re playing hide-and-sperm-whale. The moon was intensely present, increasing the chances of spotting a hundred-ton beauty at midnight, but can you ask everything of the moon? *

War or Peace A pair of pigeons in Brittany? Fine. Here, three pairs? Hello, damage. You can’t even hear yourself coo anymore, and when these critters advance, the rest of the feathered crowd takes off. Pigeons harm diversity. Almost everywhere in the world, columbids have adapted and take up a lot of space at the expense of other species—any resemblance... Here, they’re at home. They were here before me and will still be here long after I leave. A small dozen specimens, whose social organization I struggle to decipher—it seems to shift—have claimed my property. When I ask about their rights, they coo. When I chase them with my slingshot, aiming for their knees, they squawk, fly off, and... come back. At dawn, in absolute silence and fleeting coolness, as I savor black tea and crunch on blond shortbread, they’re already at work, noisily pacing the tin roofs. They’re at home, like stubborn nationalists. The resistance nest is at the junction of two roofs, sheltered from the prevailing winds. Plus, it’s covered by an overhang, as if to protect against rains that no longer come. I’ve tried everything, including the flailing scarecrow act. Nothing works, and I can’t spend my life hunting them. Taking advantage of a long ladder that was passing by, I stuffed the budding nest (it’s spring here) with a bouquet of acacia and plump aloe ferox leaves. Go nest somewhere else! The next day, I see my defenses have been visited, but the enemy has retreated. The day after, there’s no doubt: the lines are moving. On the third day, my camouflage is cleared away, and the wind brings it back to me like a trophy.

Later in the day, a delicate dove lands on a clothesline, calm, confident, not at all startled even though I keep my distance. At dusk, a large hawk plays with the air currents between the mountain and the valley before diving.

In just a few hours, like in the Oval Office, hawks and doves have taken turns. For now, I continue this petty war. Ecce homo. *

Curriculum This new business is trying to carve out a share of the booming local property maintenance market. After a long list of skills so varied it raises doubts, the brochure concludes with the slogan: “honesty, reliability, low prices.” If the third point is so universally trivial, the first two are less common. Is this comparative advertising? Does it imply that established businesses are dishonest and unreliable? Can you imagine such an ad in France, where these qualities seem so natural that no one would boast about them (and yet...)? And Facebook, for example—could it even claim the first two? *

Bagdad Café A neighbor whose boundary for quirks is fortunately far from my terrace is passionate about local culture. Yet—maybe that’s why—he’s worked all over the world for multinationals but retired young. Among his quirks are windmills, though he’s no Don Quixote—though he’s got some of that in him. He can’t live without having one of those Meccano-like structures in his line of sight, pumping water into tanks with the wind. He’s just put one up that serves as my weathervane and anemometer. Those lucky enough to travel through vast, hot, and arid regions, where people still endure, can easily picture this iconic machine—like a sign for thirst, while its Dutch cousin is a sign for hunger. *

“Jesus for All” That’s the title of the invitation to gather at the municipal park in the evening. It’s recommended to bring your own picnic, but alcohol—reserved for the officiants—is prohibited. Not convinced by the universal ambition, it’s an opportunity to see how it plays out in this rainbow Babel teeming with denominations. The park is in the township, and something’s off as soon as you arrive: I recognize parked cars that don’t belong to the residents of this part of town. Confirmation inside, with about thirty white people sitting on the ground or in their camping chairs. The Africans, whose ancestors inhabited this continent before Europeans got the travel bug, number over five hundred. If the proportion reflects the country’s, this mix—which isn’t a melting pot—isn’t so common outside big cities. On stage, children’s choirs—cannon fodder—friendly rockers, hallelujah finales, but no sermon.

The following Saturday, members of the New Apostolic Church came from far away to sing God’s praises. About forty forty-something men form the main choir of this Christian chapel, the vast majority of whose members are African. They’ve got lungs, even if the T-shirts are a bit tight under the pecs. They sing loud and well, dancing a little with hip rolls. It’s actually quite moving. *
KA Kate Globetrotter ·
The weight of words... from Voyou. The shock of the photos... a car 😕
Mes photos sur Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/153304262@N05/albums "Le Temps nous égare. Le Temps nous étreint. Le Temps nous est gare. Le Temps nous est train".
AT Atila Globetrotter ·
You would’ve preferred: The shock of the photos... the rascal? 😉
KA Kate Globetrotter ·
Yes.
Mes photos sur Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/153304262@N05/albums "Le Temps nous égare. Le Temps nous étreint. Le Temps nous est gare. Le Temps nous est train".
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
I really tried to stick to a proven framing technique: the three-quarter rear shot. 😛 I don’t take photos anymore (the Lumix stayed in France). Just a few quick snaps on my phone, like we’d do with a lasso.

I think I already posted a selfie in a previous travel journal (I was at the fork of a tree, in full Tarzan-doubting-himself mode).
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Fairground Songs

Until now, the annual book fair was held in a historic estate, one of the most beautiful in the city. We’d wander from the gardens to the salons, canapé in hand, sitting in the shade of century-old ficus trees, and the talks took place in the small private theater. This year, it’s happening at the fairgrounds, where just two weeks earlier livestock was auctioned off and people strolled among agricultural machinery stands. The goal is to broaden the event’s audience. Sure, the barbecues were overheating, along with the country bands, but despite the arrival of big-name authors—and in their wake, some lovely women—literature hasn’t exactly expanded its reach. *

Blacksmith

Where is good, where is evil Black as the devil Hot as hell Elusive Warlord (B. Lavilliers)

He’s only half Black, his name isn’t Smith, and yet Kashief is a blacksmith. In the old small Catholic church, now too big for the handful of parishioners, he’s set up a hellish forge. Thick tawny leather apron, muscles bulging like a sledgehammer, he pounds a flat iron on the massive anvil when I appear at the threshold of his den. He pauses and smiles. He sculpts scrap metal, gives his birds car-wing feathers, shapes used plowshares into flowers, and his gates look like grasses swaying in the savanna. Kashief is Muslim, not many around here. He practices his faith as best he can and lives freely with an ivory-white weaver. *

Hell

(Forgive me, aesthetes and romantics—it’s about cars again, but not just that) It happened on Die Hel (Hell) track in the Black Mountains, which isn’t even a red-rated trail. A warning light came on, signaling a door wasn’t properly closed—one bump and it might’ve flown off. After checking, everything seemed fine, but the light stayed red. The infernal vibrations wore down the heavy wiper stalk, which slipped a notch, leaving the wipers stuttering under the sun. I brace myself. A door must be open or closed. My natural intelligence sees them shut, but the artificial one insists they’re open. It controls the electric locks, but the doors must first be mechanically closed—which they are—but it refuses to acknowledge it. So, it’s impossible to lock the car, since on these models there’s not even a key-accessible lock. Only the computer can identify and locate the fault.

The nearest dealership is on the other side of the mountain. I leave as night falls, climbing as the sun sets. The dashboard thermometer drops. It hits zero just as I cross the pass and stays there for much of the descent down the south face, which never sees sunlight. At opening time, 7:30 AM, the car is taken in, and the receptionist assures me it’ll be fixed in two hours. When I return, no mechanic has even looked at it. Another hour passes, the doors are open but still won’t close. Then they leave it there. Finally, at noon, the computer locates the issue: a simple electrical connection shaken loose by vibrations. Of course, you can only access it after dismantling this and that, but in an hour, it’s sure to be fixed. This dealership has about ten salespeople and as many admin staff, but that day, only five mechanics. All employees are White, which is rare now—except for the two cleaning staff. When you represent such a brand, there are two ways to improve performance: hire Black mechanics or flip the sales-to-technician ratio.

I had plenty of time to shop for things to spice up my meals. Fresh fish, including an angelfish weighing nearly 3 kg—like an angel without wings, but heavier. Goat’s milk cheddar aged 18 months. Strawberries, fennel. Plumbing fittings for irrigation.

By the end of the day, I head back through the mountains, leaving Die Hel track to my left, shaking the car to test the repair. The angelfish will end up as tartare. Suddenly, the stereo plays Omar Sosa’s African Sunrise: my phone, charging in the glove compartment and probably craving good vibrations, puts on a show. But it’s got the time wrong. *

US Go Home!

First, I saw her walking—sleek in indecent, unseemly tights. 1.85 m tall, 60-60-60, 52 kg when wet (though it never rains here), built like a rail, skeletal BMI, not my type. Long dark hair, closed-off face. Cheetah-slim legs, pacing the trails and streets from dawn to dusk with borrowed grace, wearing some kind of turned-fur après-ski boots. A too-visible stick insect. Then I learned she had her eye on my house. Oh, come on! She recently bought land nearby, bordering friends’ fields and within their line of sight. Should we fear a construction that mirrors her image? She owns and runs a chain of yoga studios. She’s American. *

With Time

It’s an ancient track leading from the plateau to the river, carved by elephants that knew how to move five tons with the strength of their calves. Long after their extermination, people realized the intelligence of this path and widened it with a bulldozer. Abandoned and forgotten, all that remains is the gash on the escarpment’s flank. We’ll have to clear a thirsty acacia felled by a gust of wind in the gorge and fill in the ravines more than once. Springboks bolt as if a leopard were on their heels (the leopard is at the top of the food chain here), baboons watch with that falsely indifferent, slightly condescending gaze of theirs, and patient raptors circle (the prey’s a bit too big, though). When I reach the river, I’m glad I didn’t bring a swimsuit: its bed is a thicket of fynbos, and all the way to the retention dam, we drive through the memory of a lake. *

Lost Causes

At first, they set out to restore the Anglican church gardens, trimming and replanting, watering on Sundays. It was their temporary Eden—and temporary it was: without support, they gave up. It’s an English garden again.

She tries her hand at running the Scrabble club, which has five members: a paraplegic still grieving her late husband, playing at the speed of someone who’s lost track of time. A little lady laying down small words that rack up points. A retired diplomat placing only words as long as a speech. The club’s founder, wearing a hat that must slow his neural flow. He exhausts himself fundraising for the township’s chess club, using his old tricks, for fewer players than there are pieces on a chessboard. After ten years here, at seventy-five, they’re considering returning to Johannesburg. *

Organized Fraud (Black Friday)

The country’s top furniture retailer, a bank, and an insurance company combine their expertise for an offer bundling furniture, credit, and insurance. You covet a sofa with a cash price of 10,000 rands but can only buy it on credit. Over three years, on top of a 1,000-rand down payment, you’ll pay 627 rands per month. Nowhere does the interest rate appear (it’s too abstract for customers), but the total cost is buried in fine print: 22,572 rands. In three years, you’ll have paid 2.2 times the price of your sofa. Enough to knock you off your feet! In this package, even if you’ve been unemployed for ages, you’re still paying job-loss insurance—just in case you find work in a country where the official unemployment rate hovers around 30%, roughly the same as the “service fees” applied to your sofa. Even with 7% inflation, the difference is unjustifiable. Despite warnings from state agencies and media campaigns, the business continues.

P.S. An ad in a French newspaper informs me I can buy a Renault financed at 0.99% interest (clearly, the boss is locked up in Japan). Who said you only lend to the rich? *

Expedition

With friends, we set off in a convoy (two 4x4s—one too many) toward a distant destination (a few hours’ drive on rough roads), a place where there’s nothing. He’s obsessed with mountain biking, on a bad slope. She’s a yoga professor emerita. Two activities that instantly wear me out. We need to be prepared and cautious. Brainstorming, checklists, and all that. It’s serious. I don’t go to this much trouble for three months on the road. *

Missed Rendezvous

Tonight, the Moon rises in the northeast. It’s a host in the chalice of a pass—how do rituals begin? We’re in the Antarctic cap; the sun, not yet set, flashes at it. The Moon blushes. It continues its course, and soon it pales. *
DO Dolma Globetrotter ·
And there we go! First page of the travel journals!

These words are still so much nicer to read than the ones in yellow—and often black—that have been thrown at us from all directions lately!

Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Tricolour

It’s a tasting organised by a connoisseur. Tapas and wines. We start calmly with a white, a Chardonnay from Ataraxia paired with kingklip rillettes. Next up, a Pinot Noir rosé from Fat Bastard, chorizo, and feta. Tongues start wagging when the Petit Verdot red from Plaisir de Merle vineyards arrives with kudu biltong. The trick then is not to cross the Rubicon—and to make sure you don’t go too far. *

Sad Rainbow

Beanies, vests, shirts. Brown, yellow, red. The sans-culottes have thrived over the past two centuries. Here, many are still without trousers, and the political professionals who promised them the Blood Moon to secure their own nests—and make a living speaking on their behalf—wear red overalls when they sit in Parliament, where they’re quick to throw a punch. Ruffians whose revolutionary hopes stand no chance of being backed by foreign powers, who’ve been put off by the Zimbabwean adventure. The goal is to cut the gentlemen in tailcoats down to size, but where demagoguery makes its bed, democracy unravels. *

JoJo’s Good Fortune

Since the rain stopped in the Great Karoo, people have installed gutters connected to plastic tanks that look like boils on the houses. A curse the few drifting clouds ignore. JoJo’s trucks crisscross the countryside loaded with these useless canisters. For the same reasons, rain gauges are popping up everywhere. Still, the wind doesn’t let up. I’m thinking of handing out anemometers. *

Somewhere Else If I’m There

Until recently, they stood at the entrance of the only local supermarket. A few disabled people, old folks, the sickly. All clearly unable to work—even if there *were* jobs—they begged for a coin or some bread, which people gave willingly. The new management, hailing from cities where you pay security guards to patrol shopping centre parking lots, decided enough was enough. That it was disturbing customers’ peace. Banned from the premises, they’ve retreated to the petrol station-cum-grocery store, but it’s far less lucrative, and they’re insulted when they block the forecourt. *

Christmas Market

We’re invited to the opening of the annual exhibition organised by the thirty or so local painters, kicking off a week of open studios. Everyone’s polished to perfection—women with manicured nails, men scrubbed clean. Stiff brush, soft bristle, knife-sharp face, ink portrait, ochre makeup, exfoliation, or sponge. Show me your face, and I’ll tell you your work (and be wrong almost every time). *

Immanuel

Five forty-something men, an a cappella quintet with voices as complementary as strings. United like the fingers plucking them. Since we won’t be here for Christmas when they’ll perform for the first time at the city theatre, they’ve agreed to let us sit in on a rehearsal. It’ll be the first time they sing together. The township has more churches than banks but fewer than shebeens, and each church prides itself on its choir. These guys are the choir masters of theirs. In a spirit of ecumenism, they’re bonding through laughter between songs they perform as solemnly as popes. The intensity of the first one is overwhelming. I know one of them well—he’s a house painter by day. Last week, he asked me what was happening in France. What did the yellow jackets want, and what would President Macron do? He teases us that the next song is Immanuel (roughly: *If He is with us, who can stand against us?*). *
MA Magryelle Regular ·
Five forty-something men, an a cappella quintet, voices as complementary as strings. As united as the fingers that pluck them.

Lovely prose as always, and this one especially—5 voices like the lines of a staff and 6 strings on a guitar. I’d have loved to hear them. The Karoo in the rain must be quite a sight. Flowers? Anyway, happy holidays to you all!
mayrig
KO Kola Globetrotter ·
Hand-stitched with silk thread or barbed wire, tightly embroidering new patterns onto this contrasting tableau: poverty amid abundance, the moon in a stormy sky, the brotherhood that unites voices, the metallic gaze that lashes out at those (but especially those who) have the misfortune to displease, the hope for rain... and always a skeptical eye turned toward the country to which one must return.

Pigeons, red ants, the small creatures have replaced the big ones—some no less dangerous—and beneath the domestic troubles, the melancholy of wide-open spaces lingers. Sedentary life is also an adventure, but perhaps tinged with nostalgia, the nostalgia of the time of wandering... aimlessly and in places where silence could still drown out the world’s cacophony.

Over there (or here), yellow is a bright, peaceful color, showing off in the savanna, lighting up sparkles in the eyes of felines and stars in the night. Here (or over there), yellow is the peaceful weapon of sincere despair, the color of revolutions that bloom on the pavement before shattering against cynicism.

You’d say that the little of here is often more than the much of over there, but should we measure the wealth of some by the torment of others and condemn those who, here or over there, try to forge different paths? Or should we simply lean into events, watch them pass as attentive observers, and with each journey, pull a few silken threads from over there that will enrich, here, this travel journal—and so much more—where every unfinished page hints at a new departure...
AS Asaa ·
Hand-stitched silk thread...

What a lovely discovery, this silk thread! Lapsus or not?
DI Diamina Globetrotter ·
Hey there...

I think I already posted a selfie in a previous travel journal (I was at the fork of a tree, in full Tarzan-doubting mode).

I remember a photo of you with a blissfully clueless ostrich face in the middle of a horde of ostriches...
Nord Chili, NOA, Sud Lipez, La Paz août 2012 https://voyageforum.com/forum/mois_dans_andes_peripeties_en_altitude_D5526293/ Apologie du southwest en hiver https://voyageforum.com/forum/apologie_sud-ouest_etats-unis_en_hiver_D5851267/ Impressions d'Afrique et de Namibie
DO Doppio Regular ·
Wow! You write so well—every sentence is a piece of an epic. It’s lyrical and fantastic, all these little things that magically turn into nature’s masterpieces, things that most people wouldn’t even notice.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
5 voices like the lines of a staff

A staff where notes that transport nest...

The Karoo in the rain must be quite a unique sight.

While in Brittany it’s common (in the Karoo, three months without a drop except to gather dust; since arriving in Brittany three days ago: three days of non-stop rain). It’s the change.

(www.birdsdessines.fr)
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Thanks for your kind and attentive reading of my scribbles. 🙂

Since returning to this navel of the world, I’ve read analyses and met Yellow Vests, especially at a roundabout in a posh Parisian suburb (I brought them chestnuts, a turkey gave me some sweet chestnuts in return).

and always a skeptical eye turned toward the country we’ll have to return to.

This perspective seems shared by most foreign observers or expats. I’m probably ethnocentric without realizing it.

Over there (or here), yellow is a color (…) that shines in the savanna,

In South Africa, I’d heard the information without paying much attention. It was only upon returning, skimming a report over the savanna of that country, that I grasped the scale of the problem. Two ways of life at odds, competing for resource sharing. Skirmishes turning into pitched battles. Looting. Deaths. Provisional toll of the conflict of interest between herders and farmers in Nigeria: 3,600 dead. Incomparable, indeed, with the current situation in France.

You’d say that the little here is often more than the much over there, but should we measure one’s wealth by the others’ struggles?

Isn’t comparing the very reflex of the French, the one that makes them jump? Can we consider purchasing power? While the tax percentage in price formation is much lower, a liter of fuel in South Africa costs a minimum-wage worker (say, someone maintaining roundabouts) 60 minutes of work. In poor France, the same purchase would take only 8 minutes of their time...

Here (or over there), yellow is the peaceful weapon of sincere despair,

Peaceful? After intimidation of the press, xenophobic, sexist, homophobic, and antisemitic remarks, it’s painting reality in rosy hues. The movement’s protean nature doesn’t absolve it of responsibility. Éric Drouet? A stew that democracy can’t digest.

the color of revolutions that bloom on the pavement before shattering against cynicism

Against reality.

Or should we simply lean into events, watch them pass as attentive observers and...

...and stay silent? That would be more comfortable, indeed. And I admit the futility would be the same.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
What a lovely discovery this thread is Lapsus or not?

It’s rare to catch Kola making a spelling mistake. Two in the same sentence would be a stretch! 😇
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
I remember a photo of you with a blissful ostrich face

Animal mime is my job. I was thinking of the photo below (from a 2015 travel journal, I think) that I’d considered using as an avatar for the V-shape formed by the branches. 😉
DI Diamina Globetrotter ·
hi V...ou

I was thinking about the photo below (in a 2015 travel journal, I think) that I’d considered using as an avatar for the V shape formed by the branches.

I burst out laughing when I opened the photo!!!! 😏😄 An avatar for the V or for the cheeky side!!!😛 Monkeys are such fun animals!!!
Nord Chili, NOA, Sud Lipez, La Paz août 2012 https://voyageforum.com/forum/mois_dans_andes_peripeties_en_altitude_D5526293/ Apologie du southwest en hiver https://voyageforum.com/forum/apologie_sud-ouest_etats-unis_en_hiver_D5851267/ Impressions d'Afrique et de Namibie
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
Monkeys are really super friendly animals!!!

You weren’t saying that at Pilanesberg when one tried to snatch your food, though 😛
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.

"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela

https://www.en-voyages.fr
DI Diamina Globetrotter ·
You weren’t saying that in Pilanesberg when he tried to steal your food

Well... because I’m a lioness, and I don’t tolerate being bothered, especially when it comes to snatching my hard-earned meal. But when it’s about their attitudes... they’re just too cute... 😉

Anyway, to all of you... happy holidays and big hugs
Nord Chili, NOA, Sud Lipez, La Paz août 2012 https://voyageforum.com/forum/mois_dans_andes_peripeties_en_altitude_D5526293/ Apologie du southwest en hiver https://voyageforum.com/forum/apologie_sud-ouest_etats-unis_en_hiver_D5851267/ Impressions d'Afrique et de Namibie
AS Asaa ·
What a lovely discovery this thread is! Lapsus or not?

It’s rare to catch Kola making a spelling mistake. Two in the same sentence would be tough! 😇

Yessss, it’s tough—but Candy Kola?
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
On the way!

I had to book the tickets at the last minute, and the intercontinental transfer wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Who else but a Breton heading for distant lands gets the chance to stop over at Marne-la-Vallée station? A stopover, you say? More like a stay: fifty minutes between two trains. I drag myself to the cursed square, where the station itself looks quaint. The view of the attractions is like an invitation. A blimp rises, held by a cable. It must be possible to release that mooring, but the wind is blowing from the south. Flying over the poles to get to South Africa—even for the romantic vibe—doesn’t exactly thrill me. I call on Harry Potter, who fails to reverse Aeolus’s breath (his so-called powers are just hot air!), and Buffalo Bill refuses to help me hijack the circus balloon. Many—kids with mitigating circumstances, but not just them—leave the place with an extra pair of ears, either fake fur or plastic: what’s going on between those four ears? *

Class struggle

The economy class on the first plane is only three-quarters full. Business class is even worse (or better, depending on how you see it): six seats occupied out of about twenty available. Paradoxically, on this route, the least unprofitable class for the airline is first class—except it doesn’t exist. The second flight is packed: Ethiopian, which is at home in Addis, crams us into a much smaller plane. *

Bzz bzz buzziness

South of Addis Ababa, about twenty buildings are under (mediocre) construction. Packed tightly together, each stacking ten floors with around fifty units. Thousands of female workers who used to forage in the savanna will soon be crammed in there. In ten years, when their competitiveness fades, the world’s factories will move on. They’ll be left behind, their wings atrophied. *

Breaking the ice

In chic Stellenbosch, I walk with a bouquet in hand. It’s a simple, elegant, and minimalist arrangement of proteas and fynbos that seems everlasting. A magical bouquet that earns me smiles from women aged seven to seventy-seven—smiles I never get when my hands are in my pockets (apparently, they don’t like one-armed guys). It feels so good that I catch myself smiling. Until a young man whispers, "You’re so romantic!" *

The world as it goes

Not even in inclusive writing would I tell you about that transgender organic farmer turned GMO salad manufacturer in a vertical farm built on the side of a building. Transgression isn’t my style.

On school forms, the terms "father & mother" have been replaced with: parent 1, parent 2. Parent alpha, parent beta—but reversible.

In Brittany, in the estuary below my place, the beautiful sea bass no longer spawn undisturbed, bothered by the constant back-and-forth of floating plastic—boats.

Here, in supermarkets, fruits, vegetables, poultry, and pork are inedible from having lost their roots.

Last trip advisor: The funeral home asks the orphan to fill out a satisfaction survey. She tells them to go to hell. *

Your kind!

At Addis Ababa airport, adjacent departure gates for two flights to South Africa, taking off twenty minutes apart. Without counting the Indians (we’ll get back to them), to Cape Town: 70% white, 30% Black; to Johannesburg, the opposite.

In Cape Town, sixteen border police counters open for a 300-seat plane. For the first time in a dozen years, I see a white woman in one of the booths.

The Swartland vineyard (black country) produces mediocre-quality wines. Despite its promise of plum and banana, this rosé (a hybrid?) Blanc de Noir is no exception.

On a campaign poster, the liberal candidate for Premier of the province promises equitable access to employment. Here, for a quarter-century, affirmative action has favored Black applicants for public-sector jobs—officially, even if it means hiring less qualified candidates. The candidate is white; his name is Winde (wind).

Everywhere, history is being revisited. Statues are being promoted, then torn down. Now, another victim: Gandhi. The global icon is criticized for remarks he made while a lawyer in South Africa—and later. He considered it "undignified" for Indians to be lumped in with natives rather than whites and argued that Europeans and Indians were of the same stock. *

6... 9... 12 mm

It’s not the calibers lined up on the rack but the result of the deafening rattle of hailstones on tin roofs, methodically peppering the sheep’s floor. For the first time in months, 12 mm of rain fell in less than an hour. What would slide off a gull’s feathers in Brittany is a blessing here. *

The Chinese women

Of course, there’s Mrs. Zuckerberg. But isn’t it a Western conspiracy against China—where there’s a well-known gender deficit—that the son of John the Irishman and Sonia the South African, and the son of Philip the South African and Mariejke the Flemish, both globe-trotters like others take the bus, are married to Chinese women? *

Dagobert

On the street, the paleness of his thighs streaking his black jeans—pre-ripped in China—crosses paths with his Yin: a young woman whose long black legs stripe her white jeans, just as shredded. If they swapped, the poverty would still be less visible.

When a burly Afrikaner drops off a pair of pants he’s tired of at the charity shop, the San seamstresses split them again to clothe their little tall men, slender as arrows. *

S.O.S. Plumbing (flight as a crime)

"Flight" sums up Zimbabwe’s missteps over nearly four decades (this country at the end of the last century is what Venezuela is at the start of the 21st: sitting on natural treasures, ruined by dogma). First, the flight of farmers, then the capital that followed, dragging millions of inhabitants to neighboring countries. The dictator-president’s headlong flight. And now, the flight of artworks: half the collections at the MOCAA (Museum Of Contemporary Art Africa) currently on display are by artists from this country and are loaned (actually, rented) by government museums from what was once Southern Africa’s breadbasket. It’s heartening to see that the extinguisher hasn’t snuffed out the creative flame, and that against a government with no vision, lines of flight persist.



*

Volatile: poultry and the gases that bind us

On the streets of Paris, a pure white goose brandishes this slogan: "Fewer penguins on the ice floe, fewer in government." Here, we don’t have ice floes, but we do have penguin colonies (you should see those in Betty’s Bay wandering through the village deserted by humans). Plus, an enlightened government is taking climate action: electricity is cut off for several hours a day. Such injustice between north and south is indeed revolting. *
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
Ah, it's been a while since I last enjoyed the witty remarks of our Breton traveler—a treat as always! 🙂
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.

"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela

https://www.en-voyages.fr
JA Jakatite Veteran ·
Cooome ooon, for once before the groupies chime in... But what to say, what to write??? So I’ll just keep quiet while thinking it’s divine, and the wait wasn’t in vain!
MU Muriel18 Globetrotter ·
Thanks Jean-Luc 🙂 ...it's always a little (big?) pleasure to read your writing. Muriel
Si tu diffères de moi, mon frère, loin de me léser, tu m'enrichis (Saint Exupéry)
MA Max68 Globetrotter ·
Hello there, traveler,

Thanks for these kind words that take us on a journey 🙂
https://apprentisvoyageurs.com

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