Zambezi Kiwi

Reblog: Do your thing

April 8, 2024

The views on a recent road trip to New Zealand were amazing.

I was staring at a blank screen.

For a writer, this is usually the dream. Blank screens are full of potential, life, meanings not yet messed up by words.

But something had changed. All I could think as the cursor blinked silently was how useless writing was. Nurses saved lives. Teachers changed them. Accountants kept them financially afloat.

But writers…what were they any good for?

I had been feeling discouraged for months as I freelanced and job hunted, but that day was different. I distinctly remember, for the first time in my life, doubting the value of what I loved. Doubting that I could do anything worthwhile with it. Wondering if I should just give up.

And so, I had sighed, and picked up a stack of yellowed papers. They were my grandmother’s old speeches, from when she had toured New Zealand and Australia as the president of CWCI. She had also achieved minor celebrity in church circles as a frequently published poet. Writing had always been our special connection, so I had asked if I could write her biography in between freelance jobs. She’d given me the papers as a start, a random dash-and-grab from the massive wardrobe full of her work.

I smoothed a hand over the typed words.

“You have asked me here today to speak about why I write poetry, and how. The how I cannot answer. It simply comes. But the why I can. I write because it is my talent….”

I put the speech down, slightly flabbergasted, and picked up the next one. It began in almost the same way.

“I often get asked why I write poetry, and how. The how I cannot answer. It simply comes. But the why I can. I write because it is my talent. In Matt 25:14-30 Jesus tells us that we are to use our talents, not hide them away….”

On and on it went, speech after speech on why my grandmother wrote. And always, she came back to the fact that God had given her the ability to write, so write she must. They were words written for an entirely different audience, sixty years earlier, but they spoke with just as much power as when they were first penned.

Power that reminded me when the Father places a talent in our hearts, it has value.

Whether or not we see the difference it makes.

Whether or not we are finding it easy.

Whether or not we do it in secret, as we go about our ordinary lives, or in public should the chance come along.

By the end of that afternoon, I was in tears. My Heavenly Father had gently but persistently reminded me that He had given me a gift, and that alone gave it value, and meant I must use it.

Because, it turns out, He is responsible for taking what we offer up with those talents and weaving them into His beautiful love story for humanity. We simply trust him and get on with our little part.

So, wherever you are today, whatever your talent, don’t hide it away. Do it with all your heart, whenever you get the chance, and the Father will weave it into something beautiful.

The Creator

He takes the little we can give,

A drink, a loaf of bread,

And with it makes a royal feast

Where hungry hearts are fed.

He takes a warm and open home

Its welcome, and its rest,

And gives a wealth of fellowship

That blesses host and guest.

He takes a humble widow’s mite

Too small for men to see,

And tells its worth in Heaven’s gold

For all eternity.

He takes each loving gift we bring

And lifts it to His face,

And in a holy alchemy

Transforms it by His grace.

And we shall marvel when at last

We see, and understand,

How he has used the humble things

We gave into his hand.

-Joan Suisted, aka my amazing grandma

This blog was originally published on https://scribblingwildgoat.com/.

Revenge of the Chickens

March 26, 2024

As I blogged a while ago, we gained a flock of chickens. It didn’t quite go as planned, given that the chickens lost “survival of the fittest” quite badly to the dogs.

But, after a rough settling-in period, I have good news to report. The tables are turning, and the chickens are breeding like, well, rabbits.

We learned the hard way that new baby chicks need to be separated from the main flock, so when we discovered a cluster of eggs that seemed to be hatching, Kepler and Mlah quickly whacked up a chicken-mesh extension to the front of our dog house. The mother hen was popped inside with her eggs, and later that day, we had our first little chick running about the “yard”. The next day four more followed.

Ella was desperate to hold one, and Kepler wanted to put muffin cup tutus on them as per a video his Ouma had sent him, but the mother hen was VERY protective, and would fluff up and peck at us when we even tried to look at her chicks.

We should have known breeding wasn’t the only way the chickens would maneuver themselves to the top of the garden pecking order at that point.

But we were oblivious, and thought only about how we’d better abandon any idea of contact until such a time as the hen moved out of “over protective” post-partum mode.

Not a week after that, another hen went broody, and another lot of eggs looked close to hatching, so up went another coop, and out popped another five chicks.

In one fowl swoop (pun intended), we almost doubled our numbers from 11 chickens to 21. Suddenly, the work the dogs had done in reducing chicken stock (also intended) that first few weeks was eradicated, and I think they were getting slightly concerned at the changing odds.

Jamie and I were now discussing the problem of the chicks. What to do with them all? At this rate we’d be overrun with chickens before the end of the year. We could give some away, of course, but there are only so many chickens you can force on your friends before they reach saturation point. There was always the option of quietly getting rid of some of the big chickens, but how to do it without Kepler noticing?

The dogs were obviously thinking the same way, and the other day I saw Simba sneak quietly up to one of the new coops. Unfortunately, he choose the coop which had an extra hen hanging around outside it. I suppose one of her eggs got stolen, so she had been diligently doing her duty from beyond the mesh and waiting for the sweet moment of reunion when her chick was finally released.

Simba, however, didn’t noticed her until she flew at him in a pecking rage. The next thing I knew I was watching a chicken chase a dog around my garden. In those short few seconds I realized we were far too late. The pecking order had changed. The chickens ruled this garden now, and they were not going to let go of that hard-earned victory without a serious fight.

Even I felt a little intimidated as I watched the hen settle her feathers from the chase, and started the march back.

“Revenge” she seemed to be saying as she strutted towards her chick “is sweet.”

THROWBACK: Taking sides

March 16, 2024

When it comes down to it, which side are you on?

This post was originally written in March of 2017. Somehow it slipped through the cracks and never got published, but it gave me a giggle reading it so I hope you’ll all enjoy the reminder of what it’s like to be a new parent too.

Which side? Which side? The words are buzzing desperately through my mind as I stare at the mini mountains of paperwork in front of me and reach for the crying baby at my side.

I’m supposed to be listening to the lawyer currently droning on about critical pieces of information while shuffling said mountains around the table like it is a geography lesson.

But I’m rather distracted by the problem of which side bub last fed on, and hence, which side we are up to now.

The baby seems as focused on the lesson as I am, which I tell myself is forgivable since we are both only three weeks into this family gig.

That means my brain is currently a toxic mix of sleep deprivation, hormonal tsunamis and terrifying new instincts that take over my body at any given time.

Which side? Which side? Why can’t I remember which side?!

I’ve got bub out of the baby seat now, and I’m holding him over my shoulder while I “listen” and frantically try to remember.

The young female lawyer keeps droning anyway, endless details about decisions I’m in no state to make, and endless bits of information we should probably remember but that I definitely won’t.

I notice she’s speaking fast. She’s pretending not to notice my screaming child, but it’s obvious we all want this to be over as soon as possible.

Especially hubby. It feels like we pay by the second to be here.

Which side?! And why did we decide to buy a house at the same time as having a baby? I think to myself.

Oh, and to switch banks while restructuring our them. It turns out all of these things take time and some of them take lawyers.

Two different lawyers, in two different towns, in one afternoon, with a three-week old.

Note to self, remember to resist hubby’s powers of persuasion in future.

Lawyer lady is still droning, and is now elbow deep in one of the mountains, presumably giving a lesson on the impacts of mining as she “takes us through” them.

“Um, sorry,” I interrupt. “He’s hungry, I just need to breastfeed him.”

A look of pure, unadulterated fear flicks into her eyes and she tries, but fails, to keep her face neutral. She’s too young for this, it says, and besides “what to do when your client wants to breastfeed” wasn’t covered at University.

“Yes, of course, go for it,” she says.

All I hear is “No! Please don’t uncover any parts of your anatomy!”

Who cares which side. Just go for the right and get this over with.

I set my screaming little boy into position: head and body snuggled on my right arm, left arm free for support and crisis management.

He latches straight away and I cover up. There is a collective breath of relief.

“Ok,” says lawyer lady. “So I just need you both to sign these papers, then we’ll need to initial every page. Then we’re done,” she finishes, looking up with a strained smile.

I stare at her. I stare at the mountains.

I’m right handed.

There’s only one thought emblazoned crystal clear in my mind:

l should have gone for the left.

Adventures in Africa

March 9, 2024

If there’s one thing I love about Africa, it’s the adventure of living here. That goes from the everyday little delights, like whether or not there will be power, to the great mysteries, like who, exactly, built the ancient ruins scattered across Zimbabwe’s gold seam.

The every day-type adventures keep you on your toes. They mean that, no matter what, one day WILL NOT look like the next. Were there raisins at the supermarket last year? YES! Are there any now? No. Is the USD legal tender? YES! Will it be outlawed in the middle of major building contracts agreed to in USD? YES!

Some days, you laugh.

Some days, you cry.

But the big mysteries are so much more fun in Africa because rules or regulations are, let’s be honest, more theoretical than practical. In New Zealand an historic site would be carefully managed, with fenced paths along which you could walk and signs telling you not to touch anything. Now, this is wonderful, because it means the site is preserved beautifully and available for future study.

In Zimbabwe there’s a guy sleeping somewhere out back whom you wake up so you can pay your entry fee, then you go bush bash through the site, clambering over the walls, making ghost noises in all the tunnels (while mum tells you to be careful of snakes), and running your hands over the rocks that make you wonder about the hands that put them there in the first place.

It’s wonderful in an entirely different way; the site isn’t being preserved as it deserves to be, but there is a freedom to explore and interact with history that makes anything else feel sterile and boring in comparison. No one else is around, and you are generally miles and miles off the beaten path, feeling exactly like an explorer pushing aside a branch and seeing the ancient stones stacked one upon the other for the very first time.

There’s also, and you’ll have to forgive me here, a freedom to postulate and observe that makes the whole thing feel like a real, genuine adventure of discovery. That freedom isn’t really available to you in the West anymore. There are accepted versions of history that we all sort of have to stick to, or else be ostracized. You can’t get through a site without a guide to tell it to you, and signs to reinforce the currently accepted version of events.

Even when there are very real questions that aren’t answered by those theories. It’s a shame, because we should always be able to ask questions. How else can we discover more about the past?

But you can escape the guide and discuss your thoughts or observations freely here, and the results can be beautiful. I’ll give you an example.

The very best person in the world to explore an ancient ruin with was Oupa. He had spent a lifetime visiting the sites, and at 90 still had enough excitement about them to propel him to the top of the kopje they were invariable built upon, so that he could observe very carefully the genus and species of all plant life visible, the type of rock and manner of construction of each site, the lay of the land and resources nearby (like rivers).

His style, as we went along, was to point out what he was observing, and raise questions about it. Have you noticed the very ancient lemon trees scattered about the ruins in the Mazoe valley? They are the same genus as those from Israel, and not a native plant, how did they get here? Do you observe the rock used in the construction of this ruin is different to the rock found in the area? Who brought it here? From where? How? And what could make such a massive undertaking worthwhile?

Most importantly, he would ask, do you see how each of the ruins is built on top of a carefully selected and shaped Kopje, within signaling sight of at least one other ruin, if not more, and that this chain runs unbroken across the country ‘s 1400 known ruins?

With each question the mystery would build, and past seemed to unravel itself before your very eyes. Before you knew it you were swept into ancient history and it seemed as if there was nowhere more interesting to be.

Certainly, Oupa’s theories were not accepted history. But then again, accepted history refused to answer so many of his questions, except, perhaps, to call them chance, so it’s no wonder he gave up on it.

We were in the middle of one such adventure with Oupa at Khami Ruins, when we made our most exciting discovery. Kepler was clambering over ancient walls on top of the main ruin with us, Will and I were trying to count the number of ruins that would be within signaling distance of Khami (the answer is 14), and Oupa was looking at the famous cross carved into the ground right on the edge of the hill.

“But I’ve been thinking,” he said, “no one would cut a cross into stone flat on the ground like this. You know? A cross is a sign that goes on a wall, it stands up. So I’ve got an idea. Does anyone have a compass?”

We duly got out our phones and opened the compass apps.

“Now,” instructed Oupa, “hold them over the cross.”

We gasped as we realized that the cross was three degrees off the points of the compass- not bad considering that it was a cement repair to the original carved in actual stone beneath it. Official history says its just a cross carved into the ground.

“There, you see?” said Oupa, quite victorious. “So from this platform you can clearly send a signal to the main hill over there. You can let them know accurate location data with something as simple as the reflection from a shining surface.”

As we walked around the site with our compasses out, we discovered the walls were all built along the points of the compass, too, or just off. It was an incredible moment, born of being able to meander around rubble and muse.

We later discovered that the same holds for the ruins at Jabulani, where there are walls built facing each of the cardinal points, as there are at Great Zimbabwe Ruins. We hadn’t thought about compass directions when we visited the other three sites we’ve seen.

But that’s why I love adventuring in Africa. You never know what you’ll discover, or whether the ruin will even still be there when you set out with no map and only a vague description of how to find it. You also don’t know if you’ll break down and have to decide whether to wait possibly months for a rescue, or make your way through snake and lion-infested bush with no weapons and dwindling supplies in order to get out.

It all makes Indiana Jones utterly boring.

But, as my amazing hubby likes to quote, “life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”

Spots of wisdom

March 2, 2024

I went to Harare for the my annual health checks recently. It’s a habit I want to form because more local health care has its limits. The doctors are great, but the sonographer I last saw took almost 45 minutes to check me. When I asked why he said he had to memorise what he was seeing because the photographic paper had run out.

That was after he unceremoniously ushered me into a room that I thought was a cleaning cupboard, thanks to the crumbling ceiling and water leaks, then stood there and told me to strip off while he watched.

It wasn’t that he was being creepy. It’s just that bedside manner isn’t really a priority in a public hospital that can barely afford to keep the lights on. Improvement is slow, but thanks to the work of groups like Mummy’s Angels and Matter, it is happening.

Still, I was quite keen on having photographic paper this year, so off I went to Harare.

While I was there, I decided to see a skin doctor for some pesky spots waging war on my leg. The heat here means that everything grows faster than it should and I was feeling rather a deep grief at watching one of my few assets get assaulted.

I walked into the appointment and outlined my complaints. I had nice legs, once upon a time, I said. But now there are horrible warts growing on one of them, I said. Could she blast them to smithereens for me?

The doctor ushered me behind a curtain to change out of my jeans and into a hospital gown in privacy. Then, she helped me climb onto the bed and get comfortable. Things were looking up, until she got out her portable microscope.

She checked once. Then she checked again.

At last, she looked up at me and said: “I’m afraid those aren’t warts, my dear. In Greek they’re called “spots of wisdom”.

She smiled charmingly at me, as if everything made sense.

“What?” I replied.

“They’re age spots, my dear.”

I stared at her as if she was from another planet. Age spots? At 36? That couldn’t be right. I asked her to check again, and she did. In fact, I asked her to check so many times that she eventually Googled them and showed me comparative pictures, so I could see for myself.

At last I was forced to concede that they did, indeed, look like spots of wisdom.

The announcement threw me into a turmoil that lasted until I got home. Why, I thought, do I have age spots already? And how, I wondered, could I possible have earned so little wisdom in 36 years? But then again, do I want any more wisdom if that is what it does to you? Perhaps wisdom is overrated.

I was struggling to reach a conclusion until I remembered a breakfast we had gone out for a few weeks earlier. I had been sitting with Kepler minding my own business, when I ran my fingers through my hair, as is my habit. A hair caught in them, and I lifted it up to look at it, as is not usually my habit.

It was grey. Now, I had known the little fellas were hiding in there for some time, but so far none of them had dared reveal themselves so boldly.

Kepler, oblivious to the sensitivities of the moment, had looked at it and laughed.

“Mum, you’ve got GREY HAIR!” he almost yelled.

Then, suddenly, a divine sense of bliss overcame me. I looked at him calmly and smiled broadly.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s because I’m old enough to have grey hair.”

Kepler’s eyes flicked from the hair to my eyes, and back again. I think he was wondering if I’d gone senile, too.

“Not everyone gets that privilege,” I finished.

The moment passed, and Kepler had gone back to his food, but I was left wondering where on earth that had come from. It seemed so…profound.

Perhaps, I thought as I reflected on the moment, that is how I should think of my age spots, too. As evidence that I have had the privilege of living, and am alive.

In the words of my grandfather, “we have so much to be thankful for.”

It’s only one spot of wisdom, but it seems like a good one to me.

Chicken diaries

February 28, 2024

We recently inherited a flock of chickens from Bulawayo. Well, our son Kepler did. Now, I know this sounds idyllic, and in theory I suppose it is. Chickens produce eggs, are pretty low maintenance, and make you look super sustainable. In fact, the subtitle of the book Kepler got to learn about chicken care was “A touch of the good life”.

Given that we live in Africa, however, nothing about getting chickens went as planned.

It began with trying to work out how to get the chickens up here. We discovered our inheritance in April last year. The chickens arrived in September. The months in between were made up of Kepler asking repeatedly when his chickens would arrive, and his parents discussing frequently how on earth to get them up here. After all, Bulawayo is a good six hour drive away, on a road that, properly maintained, would take four hours to drive. Nobody drives it for fun.

When it became apparent that his father would bite the proverbial bullet and bring the chickens up in September, Kepler was over the moon. He instantly began working on the chicken coop, right up against our fence line, fabricated with whatever he could find in the general area. We ordered a professionally made one, but knew it may not arrive in time, so Kepler’s Coop was a precaution.

He spent hours in the scalding heat, sweating like a stuck pig, putting up bits of wood between the tree and the fence, asking our gardener to hook chicken mesh on branches, and inventing miniature obstacle courses for the chickens inside it. He didn’t want them to get bored.

Now, at this point I want to say that I was apprehensive at the idea of chickens. Despite his best efforts I wasn’t convinced Kepler’s Coop was up to scratch, and I was feeling a little underprepared on the “how to integrate dogs and chickens” front. It also needs to be said that these pure-bred Bantam chickens had previously lived a VERY sheltered life in an retirement village of such serene beauty and peace that you can scarcely imagine it. They were doted on by all the oldies and tucked safely into their coop every night, living lives free from the fear of predators, lack or violence of any kind.

But I sucked up my reservations for the sake of my son and looked forward to the arrival of our feathered friends with trepidation.

The feeling was prophetic.

The LONG awaited day arrived at last, with dad driving in dusty and hot, but with a car full of chickens. He didn’t even get to take his bags out before Kepler was begging him to take the crates of Bantam’s down to their coop.

So we did. And it was a disaster.

Upon their release into the lovingly-crafted coop, all chickens instantly escaped thanks to our use of large chicken wire. It turns out chickens are actually 95 per cent feather, making them a LOT smaller than they look.

This resulted in manic scenes as chickens scattered, followed closely by the dogs, followed closely by our gardener Mlah, then Will, then Kepler. I was buzzing Beau’s shock collar (sorry for those who don’t believe in them) randomly in the hopes of subduing him. Instead, apparently, he simply looked like he was bipolar as he tried to choose between instinct and obedience.

Miraculously, all the chickens were eventually recovered and dogs were subdued. While the Bantam’s waited patiently in their crate we patched up Kepler’s Coop with small chicken mesh, then carefully opened the crates.

But they could fly, so the rest of the day was spent bringing various breakouts under control, one of which occurred after the chickens PRETENDED to be roosting, and, when we had walked away, busted out through BARBED WIRE.

I realised I was calling them Houdini’s Chickens in my head.

By the end of day one, we were down three chickens, had two frustrated parents, one child in tears, and a whole lot of trauma to process.

I wish I could say it got better, and truthfully, it did. Things just had to get a little worse first.

We had spent two weeks trying to keep the chickens in the coop (with limited success) and the dogs out (with better success). Our professionally-made coop was taking forever, and, overnight, all of the chickens managed to escape. They DUG their way out. Unfortunately, two succumbed to our overly-defensive dogs.

Thankfully, Kepler was still asleep when Will discovered the scene. He recovered the scattered remains and hid them, then ushered the rest of our wayward chickens back to the coop.

Like all good parents in these situations, we decided not to tell our child, and to rather try find replacement chickens that look quite similar. Will spurned work, spending the whole morning in town, and returned with three fully grown hens of a different breed. His new plan was to tell Kepler they’d had a growth spurt.

That afternoon Kepler sauntered in from school as usual, and went to check on his chickens. He didn’t say anything when he came back in. I wondered why I was sweating so much, but decided not to say anything either. Let the boy bring it up.

A little later he did.

“Hey mum,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered, the lump already rising in my throat at the thought of his tears when I confessed why his chickens had been replaced.

“Two of my chickens had a growth spurt. They’re doing really well here. You should come see.”

I stared at him with my mouth open, then nodded dumbly. The ruse had worked.

The final hiccough came when I got a message from our neighbours pointing out that the coop against the fence was directly in line with their bedroom window. It turns out that the rooster is an early riser and was often trying to coax them out of bed at 4am. The rooster got locked in an old dog house at the other end of the property, and we called the welder about the coop every day for a week.

Finally, the coop arrived, and the chickens were moved.

By now there were only three original chickens left, but between the chickens our gardener donated from his village (he felt so sorry for Kepler that he got us some spares, just incase), and the ones dad managed to find, our total was at eleven. Sure, there may have been road runners mixed in with pure-bred Bantams, and sure they look nothing alike. But Kepler was happy. And that was the point.

So it is that we now sit, every evening, on our veranda and watch a flock of mixed chickens scratch around the garden happily, the dogs having made their peace with the new residents, and our sweet boy blissfully unaware of the trauma involved in creating our “touch of the good life”.

Finding the good life

February 23, 2024

Kepler and I enjoy the view near Matopos

Kepler’s chickens have got me thinking. Well, not the chickens. The book Kepler bought in the tiny NZ town of Opotiki over the holidays. It’s entitled “A beginners guide to keeping chickens: A touch of the good life“.

It was the only thing he picked out of an entire room full of books.

I thought nothing of it until I was flicking through the other day, and stumbled across the author’s reasons for such a subtitle. After an entire book full of advice on cleaning coops and beating common ailments, feed at different points of a layer’s cycle and controlling rodents (read snakes, for Africa), I was wondering what on earth made having chickens part of “the good life”. It just seemed like a lot of work to me.

But dear Lee Faber, the author, seemed endlessly enthusiastic about the idea as she gushed over the satisfaction that comes from rearing ones own chicken and eggs. I wondered if she was talking about what a good life chickens have when they are properly cared for, but it seems not. The end of the book is a series of instructions on how to kill, pluck, gut and cook a chicken. So I’m fairly certain she thinks having chickens gives us humans “a touch of the good life”, rather than the other way around.

Anyway, the subtitle has been slinking around my brain for weeks now. It’s just so beautiful. After all, who doesn’t want a touch of the good life? But do we really need chickens to have one?

I suppose I’ve been thinking about it, too, because of the sheer number of friends that I’ve spoken to recently who seem to be struggling with a sense that they were on track for the good life, then had it swiped from under them just as it should have come to fruition.

In fact, that was the overwhelming theme of our conversations in New Zealand. Modern, first-world life, it seemed to us, had created a mass of listless, disappointed, depressed people busy wondering what happened and why. They’ve paid off the mortgage, got plenty of material comforts, can afford to go on nice holidays and drive nice cars…but they were all looking for something.

And that’s why I’m starting to wonder if Lee Faber isn’t onto something. Because not one of them owned chickens.

The point is far more serious than you might realise. You see, chickens require two things that, as any decent happiness study will tell you, are essential to a satisfying life.

First, they require a good amount of work before you get any reward (called delayed gratification). Second, they require the right kind of work, and that links to what Viktor Frankl taught us about meaning.

You can see where I’m going with this, can’t you?

Perhaps the problem we’ve all got is that modern life has tricked us into thinking the good life is about instant gratification, all the time. When we get into marriages we’re interested in what we will get out of it. When we discover that it takes work to maintain trust and good communication, we start taking short cuts, and ten years later we wonder why we’re desperately unhappy with each other.

No one really teaches us that you have to repeatedly plug away at things that don’t seem to be achieving much in the moment in order to reap the reward years later. But chickens will teach you that.

It’s the same with doing the right kind of work. In Man’s Search for Meaning, the psychiatrist and psychologist Vikto Frankl wrote a first-hand account on how to survive Auschwitz. His conclusion? People with purpose lived. Their health, their physique and their social status were nowhere near as powerful as having a reason to keep on living. According to one of the longest studies on adult life, millennials mostly run after wealth and fame…but strong, healthy relationships are the greatest indicator of happiness and health in old age.

We’re doing the wrong work. But chickens’ll fix that for anyone.

Because you learn pretty quick that when your Bantam chicken’s face is so badly infected that it can’t even see, there is very little purpose in just feeding it. It will soon die. But there is a great deal of purpose in cracking open the expired bottle of antibiotics you had on standby for your children, and forcing random amounts down its throat with a syringe. You might save its life.

(Or you may overdose it, but thankfully, in this case, the chicken survived on our estimated dosages).

Chickens teach you that there has to be meaning to what you are doing, in order for there to be a satisfactory result. They teach you that you have to be paying attention to them, caring about them, connected to them, in order to enjoy good eggs.

So you see, Lee Faber was right all along. The problem with the West, or anyone entertaining its highly gratification-focused, individualistic ethos, is that there are far too few chickens.

And that is why I would like to recommend her book as a modern philosophical tome of the highest order, filled with all the advice anyone needs not just to touch the good life, but to live it.

The attempted writer

February 16, 2024

Deep in the bowels of editing, before my baby goes off to the wonderful Beta readers who will rip it apart.

When people ask what I do with my time, I say it’s quite simple. I’m an attempted writer, which is like an attempted murderer. We are both trying to achieve something, but haven’t quite got there yet.

Usually, it deflects people from the awkward question of what exactly I am writing. It’s not awkward because I’m unproductive. Quite the opposite. I can often bang out 4000 words in a morning. It’s awkward because it is so very unexpected, and I see disappointment ravage the faces of almost everyone who asks.

The simple truth is that I’m writing a sci fi, and I love it.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the genre, along with fantasy, but I never realized it until the story that popped into my head five years ago fit the category. I think it disappoints people because they see me as a sort of classy literary girl, made for writing quirky, modern, Pride and Prejudice novels or something along the lines of Out of Africa.

I understand that, because my reading tastes veer dangerously towards the classic. I’m in the middle of the Iliad, bolted my way through Beowulf, couldn’t stop talking about Tale of Two Cities, and still have only the established classics adorning my lounge bookshelf.

But the truth is once I start reading a good fantasy or certain sci fi novels, I cannot put them don’t. So I limit my reading severely, for the sake of all who love me. I read them when I’m sick and bed-bound, or on holiday. Otherwise I burn dinner because I’m reading while I cook, neglect the children because I’ve forgotten they exist, and starve my husband of all love and affection because I can’t tear my eyes from my page.

It’s not pretty.

Which brings me back to my sci fi. She’s called Primal, and she is beautiful. A healthy little novel coming in at 96,000 words, just as she should. She finally emerged, fully formed, on November 27 last year after a five-year-long labour, interrupted by actual labour and the arrival of a real child, along with two lodge builds. Both writer and book are doing well.

To quote my blurb:

“Sixteen-year-old Zac has never fit in on Tenebris, and he’s now on the run for murder, in a city he can’t escape.

When a flickering light beyond the safety of the city wall beckons to him, Zac takes a chance, and finds himself in possession of an ancient scroll that reveals deadly secrets. Secrets many people would kill for. But smuggling it is the price he’ll have to pay for help.

Those secrets follow him no matter how far across the galaxy he goes, and Zac is soon in a desperate fight to discover what the ancient scrolls are, how they’re linked to the mysterious sickness that plagues Astrum, and why he is the key to it all.”

Fun eh? But writing the actual book is, it turns out, the easy part. Just like with a real baby, the work starts once they’re out in the world. So, while my AMAZING beta reader beats my novel into shape (Jamie Small, I love you. His editing business is Wordshop if you need any done. Hat tip to Mark Vrankovich too), I’m researching literary agents, discovering their requirements for submission, looking them up on Publishers Weekly, reviewing their wish lists on Manuscript Wish List, taking classes on the business side of the book world with Writing Workshops, and generally trying to get my head around strange happenings in the industry (subscription box anyone? Audio book booms?) on Writers Digest or The Bookseller.

Yes, I hear you say, yes it is a lot of work. And yes, yes it is crazy that anyone would put a full year of part-time work into something that may never get published. Sigh. The burden of being a creative.

But, for better or for worse, this is the path that I have chosen. Or rather, it has chosen me. So maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll be able to call myself a convicted writer, and claim publication proudly.

The day I wrote the last words of my first draft. — Deep in the bowels of editing, before my baby goes off to the wonderful Beta readers who will rip it apart.

Snake weather

February 10, 2024

A visit to the Victoria Falls Rainforest in dry season will still get you wet.

One of the facts you must accept in order to successfully live in Africa is the presence of snakes. You don’t have to like them, you don’t have to spend time with them, but you have to concede that they belong as much as you do…more if you are an immigrant I suppose. Which I am.

In six years, I have seen scores of snakes. Thankfully, most of them were in glass cages at the Natural History Museum of Bulawayo (well worth a visit for the bird and antelope sections alone, just take a torch in case the power is off). The remaining four were on my property. Oh, there have been rumours of Black Mamba‘s slithering over the fence, and sightings of giant tree snakes shunting between us and the neighbours, but only four have dared make their presence fully known. And they paid with their lives.

The first was, according to my husband, and innocent brown house snake, discovered wriggling under a rock remarkably close to our front door. Manu, then our gardener, looked to me for instruction.

“Kill it,” I said, heartlessly.

The next two, claimed hubby, were innocent green grass snakes. But, as with the brown house snake, I reasoned that we couldn’t REALLY know until they were dead, and their bodies available for a full autopsy. What if they were deadly green mambas? It didn’t matter to me that they aren’t found in our region. The point is they could get here. After all, they live in the SAME COUNTRY!!

After that my taste for snake blood was satisfied, and the way in which the snakes were killed was part of why things changed. Without going into too much detail for my more sensitive fans, no gardener worth his salt wants to get too close to any snake, poisonous or not, because a bite is a bite. It hurts. So rocks are thrown, or long sticks used to beat. And it really isn’t pretty.

In fact, so un-pretty was it that by the time a deadly Boomslang was cited in our trees, I deliberated as to whether or not we should do anything about it. They’re tree-dwellers, I thought. It’s highly unlikely the thing will want to come down into the garden and face two savage dogs, and humans. My husband couldn’t believe his ears, and gave the kill order himself, then berated me for my inability to save innocent snakes, while feeling sorry for the deadly one.

Fair enough.

All of that was now five years ago, and in the interim I have seen a total of zero snakes in the wild. I’d almost forgotten they still lived there, except for the odd reminder from a friend who lives close to the bush line, and discovers Black Mambas on her property every so often. They are one of the most deadly snakes in Africa, and she never gets anyone to kill them.

Oh no. Apparently, what locals do is call a snake catcher, to CAPTURE them and then release them far, far into the wild. I was shocked by the news that killing a snake was seen as socially unacceptable at first. But then, after a half dozen calls for the snake catcher on our community Whatsapp group every year, it started to seem normal.

Then, snakes started to have feelings, at least in my head. My son is a nature “fundi” (that means expert) and all his talk of animal behaviour, combined with the “do no harm” philosophy of the locals here, got me thinking about how snake attacks are generally always because the snake is feeling scared. I hardly even noticed this subtle shift in thinking, this brilliant example of Stockholm Syndrome. But it was there, and it was taking root far, far deeper than I ever could have imagined.

I realized this when I was driving home from my grocery shop last week. My husband had earlier made a comment about how the hot, humid days were “snake weather” and it was making him jumpy. I was busy daydreaming about my long list of life admin when I did, in fact, notice a long, thin snake of a light green complexion wriggling frantically across the road. The first thing I thought was how beautiful the movement of its body was. The liquid, seamless slither that got it so quickly from one spot to another. The next thing I thought was “oh, hang on, I’m going to hit it.” As my car roared closer I saw it’s mouth open as if in desperate scream.

“Sorry!” I called back and swerved dramatically to miss it.

To MISS a SNAKE? I actually even glanced back to see if it had survived, and felt sorry when I saw the ropey body lying still. Suddenly, and with crystal clarity, my condition became apparent to me.

I was no longer a normal kiwi. I was an Afriwi. A mortal caught between two worlds, but increasingly comfortable in the norms and culture of my adopted homeland. Why didn’t I see this happening? Why didn’t someone warn me? Would I ever fit in to New Zealand again? Did I want to? WHO WAS I?

And so, my friends, I find that it is true. Immigration changes you. It may seem obvious, but I hadn’t thought about it, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about being used to “snake weather” or unafraid of insects, or quite familiar with local beauacracy. I’m losing that lovely, innocent Kiwi girl somewhere in the sands of time, and a strange, unfamiliar woman has replaced her.

I’m not sure how this is going to go, or whether I’ll fit back in to New Zealand anymore, but I’ll let you know. And even if I don’t like the Afriwi, at least our local snakes will be feeling relieved at the change.

A quiet and domestic life (Return of Zambezikiwi)

February 5, 2024

A number of my fans have contacted me lately asking how I am, given the radio silence on my blog.

All two of them were wondering where things were up to with life in Zimbabwe unde and whether we were still alive.

To ease the worry in both of their minds, I thought I’d better do an update, and publish all of the drafts I’ve had sitting around waiting for attention for the past couple of years, because, frankly, life in Africa hasn’t gotten any more boring.

It never does.

What happened…

My goal for 2020 was to live “a quiet and domestic life”, in which I could focus on being a mother and a wife. It was also a challenge to the parts of me shaped by a culture that sneers at such domesticity, and “communal identity” as impotent and unimportant. As I pondered over the words I had chosen for 2020 I was struck by how powerful the lives of those who live in contentment really are in our day and age.

That was the kind of impact I wanted to have on my world, I decided nobly. Yes, yes indeed.

Well, 2020 hit, along with Covid, and I am pleased to report that I had my most quiet and domestic year ever.

I would like to also report that my character, amidst suffering, uncertainty, and fear, remained as steadfastly content. But that would be lying, and confusing myself with my husband.

Instead, while he worked himself to the bone trying to keep the lodge going so we could be the welfare system for our staff (there’s no national one), I had minor meltdowns over our ever-shrinking budget, and the growing list of things that needed repair around the property.

While my husband messaged people to check in on them, and sneakily caught up (judge us if you must) with people struggling with mental health during the pandemic, I winged and moaned about how hard done by we were.

While my husband started groups to reinvigorate tourism, and ready the town for the return of that oh, so rare animal, the tourist, I fretted over the food bill and wondered whether my children would survive a week without cheese.

I’m not proud of it, I’ll admit.

But at least I have a hubby to be proud of, and I’m HOPING some of that selflessness, ceaseless care for others, and fight to keep moving forward against all odds will somehow, magically, rub off on me. Miracles do happen.

Where we are now…

I think a bit of it has. Since 2021 we have built another lodge, renovated our leaky house, started several other businesses, run an Alpha course with an AWESOME group of people who became friends, turned that Alpha group into a Bible Study, done church and Sunday school, been on many family adventures around Zim and a couple around the world, had things like tick-bite fever and HORRIBLE tummy bugs, survived a toddler, done online schooling, done real schooling, written a book…and I’ve hardly melted down at all.

So yes, we are still alive, and yes the lodge is still going. And now, with the house renovation behind us, and my toddler now a fully-grown “four years old”, I finally have enough TLC left over to put into this blog again.

There will be some throwbacks (reading over some of my half-written posts was a laugh and a half), there will be some commentary, and most of all, there will be the adventures of a little kiwi living in Africa.

Enjoy!