Have you met Miss Bo...

A brief musical interlude with Miss Bo and I... (original music courtesy of Richard Rodgers, original lyrics, not the ones below, courtesy of Lorentz Hart). Please play the audio clip, it jollies up this post no end...

Villa Beau Bo/Palais du Bo/Casa Bo/Peep Palace
A home by any other name

Have you met Miss Bo?

Have you met Miss Bo? Someone said as we shook hands,
She was just Miss Bo to me.
And then I said, Miss Bo, I'm a girl who understands,
You're a fowl who must be free.
And all at once, she peeped, and all at once she meeped,
And all at once I felt I knew Miss Bo intimately.
And now I've met Miss Bo, and we'll keep on meeting till she flies,
Miss Bo and I.



Have you met Miss Bo? Someone said as we shared worms.
By then Miss Bo and I were family.
And then I said, Miss Bo, you're a girl without concerns,
you know one day you'll be free.
All at once Miss Bo pecked my hand, and all at once Miss Bo took the stand,
And all at once I realised Miss Bo owned me.
And now we know how things between us stand,
Miss Bo and I.

"What," asked Granny Were, nudging me with her beak in a way best described as indelicate, "are you feeding this chick? Huh?"
"Mixed grains, seed, crushed peanuts and the odd crushed and shelled snail," I replied, quivering under her beady gaze.
"What? No worms, no bugs, no beetles, no grubs?"
I shook my head and chewed my lip.
"Shame on you!" squawked Granny, clipping me roundly about the ear. "Get yourself out there and start looking for bugs and beetles this minute!"

Since that conversation, D and I have spent and inordinate amount of time grubbing in the compost heap, cultivating mealworms and darkling beetles, and hunting down slugs. And Miss Bo has proved to be a right piggy. As soon as she sees one of us appear with the jar, she's over like a shot and the poor unoffensive beetle is wolfed down before you can say mopani worm! You'll get the idea from the pictures below...

Grubbing in the compost

Ooh bugs!

Wait, Bo, I'll give them to you.

Don't worry, I'll take them right out of the jar! Darkling beetles, yum-yum!

A bird on the shoulder is worth two in the, er...

An evening cuddle, Miss Bo and I.

"Closing Doors" - a short story

You are about to read something completely different today, a short story, (an experiment in writing in the second person, present tense). It's a bit dark, so don't say you haven't been warned.



Dark fingers wreath the lawn, merging as twilight descends to create a veil between day and night. In the distance you hear the screams and cries, the chanting of the advancing mob. Now and then an explosion rattles the glass and you feel the reverberations rise through your feet. As darkness hurries towards you, you see the glare of golden light and smell smoke and fire on the breeze. The acrid stench of burning flesh singes the hair of your nostrils. It won’t be long now.
You turn away and gaze at the room, once so familiar and comforting, now a prison cell. Doors that once opened to the garden are barred. Doors that led to other rooms are closed, having shut gradually over the past months as the house offered fewer options for protection.
You turn and gaze at him as he sits, head in hands, staring, without sight, at the floor.
How different it could all have been.
You told him several years previously that you had no faith in the shifting sands of government. You saw the people’s hunger and their lust for blood. You said, “See, this is how it is, this is how it will become.” But he looked at you and said, “I believe you are making more of this than is real.” You shook your head because you knew, even then. You could feel it in your bones, see it looming because this was your way, you saw things that others did not, would not. You watched the signs, reading them as they appeared in the stars, on the breath of the wind. But you knew too that fear does strange things to men, blankets their minds in shrouds of denial, rooting them to the earth in which they believe they were born. It was like this with him and you knew it, had always known it. But you believed in change, forgetting that he did not. Not realizing that he looked to you to change, to his way.
“They’re coming,” you say, your voice dry as the dust that gathers in the corners of the room. “We have one last chance before it’s too late.”
He doesn’t answer you, remains motionless, his shoulders hunched.
One door remains unlocked and you look at it, knowing it was never what you would have chosen when the choices remained wide open.
You had such big dreams, such attainable goals. You knew what you wanted and how to achieve it. You even set the plans in motion, moving step by step towards the opportunities that life was offering, knowing in your heart that you had finally found your path, but knowing too that timing was everything.
You had watched as he turned away, unwilling to follow you, deadlocked by his own fear. You had tried to reason with him, encourage him, all the while knowing that he would always choose his own way because his fears were greater than your knowing.
As the years passed you watched the advance of all your own fears - growing, bearing the fruit of terror and strife. You’d had to close up the house, locking the doors one by one as the danger increased and opportunities fled before it.
You remembered how he had first asked what you were doing. You had taken a crayon and written on the back of one door. “Too late, opportunity gone, door closed”.
He had stared at you reproachfully and you had tried not to feel guilty, because you knew you were right. Your sight gave you that.
A scream shatters the darkening air. The shrieks of the unleashed mob swim through the trees, shredding the leaves, destroying the stillness that had once been. A child wails… is silenced mid cry. A momentary stillness flits through the garden before the mob advances again.
“It’s now or never,” you say. “This time I will go alone, if I must. I will not become a martyr to your fear.”
“I don’t deserve you to rescue me,” he murmurs, his voice cracked and rasping. “Not now, not after all I’ve…”
“I am not rescuing you, I am saving myself,” you say, “and I am willing to do this one last thing, to take you with me. But it’s up to you, your choice, as it has always been – only this time I will not subject myself to the results.”
“You don’t know what’s down there,” he mutters.
“I don’t need to know. I trust, as I have always done. There is a path.”
“No,” he says, as you expected he would, “I don’t believe they will harm me. I fought on their side many years ago, they know me. They are only coming for the ones filled with greed – I’ve never been one of those. I will take my chances, rather than risk where you are going – into the unknown.”
You nod, trying not to think of all the times before when his words had contained the same hope and fear. You move towards him, go down on your knees and enfold him, one last time, in your arms.
“I love you,” you say. You kiss the top of his head, rise, and move away.
You are on your own now, as you have always been, as you have always known you would be.
You pull the heavy handle, dragging the door upwards and open. You feel his eyes on you but you do not turn around. He never believed that you would finally go; he always believed that you would stay with him, fearing that you would leave, but praying you would not.
“Wait,” he calls out.
You turn and look at him, as the gates splinter and crash open. A wreath of smoke billows past the window.
“I…” he says, but words fail him.
He stands, moves towards the window.
“Come away,” you call, “don’t stand there.”
But he ignores your words, stands in front of the glass and raises his arms.
There is a single crack. The glass shatters and tinkles to the floor. For a moment he sways, turns to you, a look of surprise in his eyes. As the baying floods through the window, his lifeblood stains the white cloth of his shirt and he starts to fall.
You turn away, step onto the stairs beneath the floor, dragging the last door closed over your head.

Oh by the Great Corncob... Uninvited Houseguests!

Chicken with Attitude... and on a rescue mission. Oh boy...

I was gently swimming towards consciousness after a good night’s snooze when I heard a huge splash outside. Something had fallen in the pool. But it wasn’t a small something, like a squirrel, no this was much, much, much bigger. My heart quivered. I’d heard that kind of splash once before. It was the splash of something round and silver and about the size of a… well, the size of a Novapulsian spacepod. I knew, in the interest of intergalactic relations, I should get up and help but I couldn’t bear the thought. Instead I pulled the duvet over my head and pretended to be dead.
The front door opened, and someone clicked across the tiles and headed towards the bedroom.
“You can come out of there!” snapped a voice.
“I’m ill,” I muttered, “And it’s contagious.”
“Don’t lie to me, ever. You know I know when you’re telling porky pies!”
The duvet was unceremoniously yanked off my trembling form and I found myself staring into a pair of dark glinting eyes.
“The word is,” rasped the voice of Atyllah the Hen, Chicken with Attitude, dangerously close to my ear, “that you’ve kidnapped and are holding captive a young fowl. I don’t know what you were thinking Vanilla, but this is not acceptable. It contravenes every multiversal code we ever taught you. Shame on you!”
“I didn’t…” I began, and then realised that it depended entirely from which perspective you looked at Bo’s rescue. “Look,” I said trying again, “It’s not like that.”
“Oh really,” said Atyllah, “then explain to me how it is.”
Somewhere down at the other end of the house I heard a loud, PFRRRRT! The fruity smell of ancient beans drifted up the passage.
“Oh you didn’t!” I exclaimed.
“Couldn’t be helped,” said Atyllah, gazing at a well-manicured claw. “When she heard what you’d done, Granny Were insisted on coming along so she could help set things to rights.” She gave me a wily and knowing look down her beak and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“She’s not cross, is she?” I mumbled.
“What do you think?”
I groaned. “Honestly,” I said, “it’s really not how you think it is.”
“So you said, and I’m still waiting for the explanation.”
I heard the kitchen cupboards open and the sound of scuffling.
“She won’t find any beans or corn in there, you know,” I said.
“It’s not going to stop her from trying,” remarked Atyllah.
“I don’t suppose you brought Great-Aunt Aggie with you,” I asked hopefully, praying for some “balance”.
Atyllah sighed. “You know full well that Aunt Aggie took on the altered form of a pure energy being when she joined the Andromedans.”
I nodded.
“But of course, she can join us telepathically.”
“Oh good.”
“I’m still waiting you know.”
“Look, there was a storm, this chick wasn’t fledged,” I said hurriedly – speaking loudly so that my voice would travel down the passage to the kitchen. “The others had fledged the day before, had taken to the trees. This poor mite was still grounded and she was just not going to survive the storm. We did the decent thing. We rescued her, took her in. By the time the storm had passed, her family were gone – and it turned out later that only two chicks, the biggest, had survived the storm. If we’d left her out there she’d never have made it.”
“Uhuh. And you’ve kept her, why? You’re not thinking of fattening her up for Christmas, are you?” Atyllah shot me a beady look.
“Of course not. At this point she’s abandoned. She’s tiny and she still can’t fly properly. We’re doing what we believe is the decent thing. As soon as she’s big enough, we’ll set her free.”
“You know if it was any other human telling me this, I wouldn’t believe them.”
I sighed, relieved. “Thanks, Atyllah.”
“Oh, don’t think you’ve got off that lightly. If there is a young fowl to be raised, you’re not doing it alone. It’s going to be done properly.”
“What do you mean?” I asked nervously.
“It means we’re staying to help.”
“Both of you?” I asked, groaning inwardly.
“Uhuh.”
“Oh.”
“Oh pul-lease, don’t look so miserable, anyone else would be grateful for the assistance.”
“Yes, they would,” crowed a voice from the doorway.
“Hello, Granny,” I said weakly and tried to pull the duvet over my head again.

So there you have it. And I thought D and I were getting along just fine in raising little Bo. Now Atyllah and Granny Were have turned up from Novapulse and are weighing in with their expert advice. Oh by the Great Corncob, as if I needed more drama. Will someone just remind me when we come up to full moon. We’ll need to truss Granny to keep her out of harm’s way. Harm to everyone else that is. I don’t even want to think of the effect on Bo when Granny goes lunar and does the full werechicken number. Still, the old bird might come in handy in dealing with the sparrowhawk… and Mrs Stroppy. Now that could well be a sight worth witnessing.

Villa Beau Bo - Bo's new accommodation - we hope she likes it!
And yes, it's been a weekend of sawing, hammering, planing and varnishing.

Scatty Vanilla, Bo update and a book meme

Yes, so, where are the nuts?

If this post makes no sense, don’t say you weren’t warned. And if you’re wondering why blog posts are a bit scarce, I suspect it’s because I’ve forgotten I have a blog! I rather fear that a few brain cells have gone walk about these past couple of days leaving me beyond scatty. So far I’ve tried to unpack the dishwasher into the fridge. I’ve managed to knock over an entire pile of magazines in the supermarket. I’ve mowed down an elderly lady with my shopping trolley, I’ve forgotten my physio appointment, nearly closed the garage door on my car, forgotten a samoosa in the microwave for so long it caught on fire (I’m not kidding – only the smell alerted me), and I’ve been caught talking to myself on several occasions (not that this is particularly unusual). I’ve decided the best thing to do is to go back to bed and not emerge until D has certified me fit human company. Do you ever have days like this? Please tell me I’m not alone, or that I’m not irretrievably losing my last remaining marble.

Not a guinea fowl - but a rock pigeon

In other news, Bo has taken a huge leap forward – or should I say upward. She (or he - I’m starting to wonder if I’m not also suffering from a bad case of fowl gender confusion), has given up on Gilbert and has taken to roosting on the bamboo roads I poked through the bars of the dog traveling cage. The rods are half a meter up, which means, despite playing possum during the flying lessons, she can in fact fly a bit. She’s also developing an attitude, which means when I fish her out of her cage in the morning to go into her “day room”, she bites me. I do not mean a peck, I mean beak clamping down over the soft folds of skin on my hand. Clearly this is a fowl with not fur and fangs, but feathers and beak. Granny Were would be proud of her. This weekend D will be building her a much bigger pen and I think she’ll be able to start sleeping outdoors, after all, we don’t want her becoming soft and foppish. She’s also discovered that sitting on my shoulder isn’t a bad idea. I hope this isn’t something that’s going to last into adulthood. I mean a parrot on one’s shoulder is one thing but a fully grown guinea fowl? I think not!
I should add that presently Ms Bo is perched under a sun umbrella – all that’s missing is the pina colada… and her family who seem to have disappeared.

You lookin' at me?

And then Karen over at Border Town Notes tagged me for a meme… Memememememememeeeeeeeeee… (Sorry about that, just remember I warned you in the first paragraph…)
So, in this meme I’m supposed to recommend four essential reads. Hoo boy.

The rules are:

(a) Fiction book
(b) Autobiography
(c) Non-fiction book
(d) A fourth book of your choice from any genre.

Explain why the books are essential reads in no more than 30 words per book. Ooh er…

a) Fiction Book – actually it’s a children’s book (now come on, don’t tell me you’re surprised): The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge.
As a child I found this book inspirational woven as it is with magic and gentle words and plenty of imagination. If there was ever a book that encouraged me to write for children, this was it. Oops, passed the 30 word mark, oh well.

b) Autobiography – I’m not a great fan of autobiography’s so perhaps the book that comes closest is Wild Swans by Jung Chang.
As a student of Chinese politics in my final year at university, when I later came to read this book I found it full of the realities of what China was really like for the majority under the leadership of Mao and following on the Cultural Revolution. It’s also a very vivid story and well told.

c) The Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu – discovering the Tao has made such a fundamental difference in my life that not mentioning it would just be, well, all wrong. It is wise, insightful, mysterious, but if you take the time to really feel the words all sorts of truths are revealed.

d) On a lighter note, and because laughter is the best medicine, pretty much any of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series – perhaps running at present favourite is Wintersmith, a close second is Wyrd Sisters. I love Pratchett’s humour, his imagination, characterisation and the easy flow with which he writes. I also love the way he parodies the world - and I think it’s utterly tragic that he has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

I’m not sure how many people I’m supposed to tag, but I’m tagging:
Lane
Baino
Jane
Fire Byrd
Crystal Jigsaw
Laquet
Ropi
and Rambler

Actually, you know what? Just all consider yourselves tagged – I’d hate any of you to feel left out!

Right, now let me see if I can find my way to the garden without getting lost.

The peeping armpit peeps...

Two little chicks

The peeping armpit peeps, and having peeped, peeps on…

Our zoologist friend said one of the best things we could do to calm Bo was to put her inside a shirt so that she could absorb body warmth. D has thusly become designated Guinea Mother… And Bo once under the shirt has shown an inclination to head towards an armpit – from whence she peeps and peeps and peeps. Mind you, this only happens in the morning when she is desperate to be OUT!!! At night, she preens and falls asleep.

It’s been an interesting couple of days… and not without drama. I’m also wondering how it is that my blog has turned into a chronicle of guinea fowl tales and not much else. This is going to have to be rectified. But what with life revolving around a single guinea chick, article writing and manuscript editing it’s not like I have a lot to say anyway.

The guinea pig pen now lives permanently in the garden and is Bo’s “dayroom”, at night, she sleeps in the dog traveling cage. On Sunday, her family turned up again and so sweetly spent the day with her – first in the sunroom (!!!) and then out on the lawn, the chicks perching on top of the pen and mum hanging around nearby. It soothed Bo no end, but set her off something horrible each time they wandered off.

Guineas in the sunroom...

Bo's siblings are double her size...

A family visit - mum and siblings

Additionally, Stroppy Old Fart and his missus turned up – and what a miserable pair they are. They harassed Bo something rotten and Mrs SOF insisted on trying to peck Bo through the bars of the pen. And so started the Great Guinea Fowl Chase as I proceeded to shoo the SOF’s away. First of all herding them around the pool and then running at them until they took off in a flurry of wings and screeches. Not that it stopped them; they just came back for more. Mr SOF had shoes flung at him and Mrs SOF was inspired to do a very impressive vertical take off when cornered at the edge of the pool by D and me. I suspect it might have been worthy of an Animal Capers award…

The Stroppy's harass Bo

Mrs Stroppy

Yesterday Bo made a bid to escape - and succeeded. She’d woken up in a feisty mood and full of “views” and as D was putting her into the pen, she gave a mighty wriggle, fluttered from his hand and disappeared into the depths of the shrubbery, muttering “Ha!” and intent on not being caught. So we left her to it, wondering if her family would return (they didn’t), or whether the sparrowhawk would fly in for a quick snack (he didn’t). She spent the day pootling around the garden and periodically pretending to be a dove. The two guineas that appeared in the garden studiously ignored her. Come evening, we decided to try and catch her again to get her inside and finally cornered her amongst the mother in law’s tongues. I swear I heard her mutter “oh #@%$ it!” as I nabbed her. But it had clearly been a busy day because as soon as I put her under my shirt she went to sleep and once on top of Gilbert, aside from another “&%$#@ off!” she didn’t emerge until this morning.

Bo finds her wings
(developmentally, she seems to be about three weeks behind her siblings, but what she lacks in size, she makes up for in spirit)

As I type this she is peeping in her indoor cage while the garden service tidy up the mess that has become the garden. Given that she still can’t fly properly, on the weekend D will make a bigger addition to slot alongside the guinea pig pen and Bo will have more room of her own. Tonight he plans to get her to fly - don't ask, I'm not. Let it not be said that we’re neglecting our guinea duties… I’m wondering, quite honestly, if any semblance of normality will ever return or whether I too will soon start ba-kaaking…

All together

Bo Peep and a weirdly, randomly meme

Bo gets a visitor - no, this isn't a member of her family

Apologies for a being a tad absent at the moment, but life’s been a bit silly and the next stage of editing is beginning, which means I’m off with my head in a story. Meanwhile Operation Bo continues and when we last saw the family, they were down to two chicks – meaning another had disappeared overnight. We think the majority of the chicks were taken by the howling storm that hit the south western Cape on Tuesday night and lasted for two days. It was the worst storm in 30 years, had wind speeds that went right off the graph, and caused massive flooding and destruction. While the storm raged, Bo, much to her indignation, was kept indoors and today was the first day we moved the guinea pig pen, now the guinea fowl pen, outdoors and onto the grass. Although it didn’t stop her from trying to escape, she’s a much happier little bird for being outside. Meanwhile the old dog traveling cage, big enough to house a large Golden Retriever, has been pressed into service as the inside guinea house. It’s high enough to give her space to fly a bit and we’re trying to encourage her to use her wings. As an aside and working on a hunch, I’ve also discovered she’s particularly partial to freshly squished snail…and made a right piggy of herself guzzling it down. The plan is to release her as soon as she has her wings (the sparrowhawk’s forays into the garden notwithstanding) at a time when her family is here. By comparison to the two remaining chicks, Bo remains very small, but she is growing. D reminded me of a bulldog pup his mum bred some years ago – a runt, so tiny as to be pathetic, yet after a year he grew into the biggest bulldog they’d ever seen. I’m hoping Bo will make it to Guinea Queen!

Bo munches on a snail

Guineas aside, the lovely Val over at Monkeys on the Roof (do go and read her blog, it’s wonderful) has tagged me for the Seven Weird or Random Things About Me meme. I’ve been tagged for this once before and that chicken was “good enough” to do said meme. I guess this time I’m just going to have to answer it myself.

The idea is to reveal seven random and or weird things about myself. Hmm, I hope you’re up for this…

The rules are:
1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself - some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blogs.

So here goes nothin’…

1. I have met and embraced death and look forward to going home.

2. At the tender age of 47 I’m pleased to say I can still do the splits and can still get my forehead on the ground while sitting with my legs stretched out to the sides.

3. I’ve had two close encounters with leopards in the wild.

4. I’ve eaten a wide variety of weird and wonderful things from elephant to giraffe, mopani worms to snails, frogs’ legs to snake, crocodile to shark.

5. I weigh the same now as I did at 23 years ago – which I figure isn’t too bad.

6. I wrote my first play when I was eight and charged the neighbourhood kids 5 cents to watch it. It was set on rollerskates, thus predating Starlight Express by several years. Performed on our back porch, it ran for precisely one day.

7. I have travelled most of the world, though strangely have never been to the USA.


Now, to tagging… I tag:

Gaye
Lori Ann
Miladysa
Janey
Lane
Ello
Megan

Oh go on, ya know you wanna… :-)

The Guinea Fowl Chronicles - Lil' Bo Peep SOS

Little Bo Peep

I was planning on showing you flying lessons pics today, but flying appears to have come to no good. What I mean is that on Monday there were 13 or 14 guinea fowl chicks. Now there are three. I cannot for the life of me believe that the adult flock has managed to lose literally all their chicks overnight. I’m hoping that perhaps the flock have split up but I’m thinking that might be a frail sort of hope.

On Tuesday there were about seven chicks. On Tuesday night only Bo and her sibling Mo’ (as in Mo’ Peep ie More Peep) were in the garden. A hellish and very unseasonable storm was brewing. The temperatures had plummeted and the wind was howling. We wondered if we should try and catch Bo and Mo’ but decided nature should be left to take its course… The rest of the guineas had leapt the wall by then and these two were left all alone to find a place to sleep on the ground. By Wednesday morning I heard Mo’ in the driveway, but when I tried to find him, he ducked away, never to be seen again. Meanwhile, another chick fluttered out of the trees from seemingly nowhere and joined little Bo. It was pissing with rain, freezing cold and the garden was sodden – and not an adult guinea was anywhere to be seen. Two adult stragglers who appeared in the garden were totally soaked and miserable and I didn’t think there was much hope of Bo or the other chick surviving without adult attention – or human intervention. See, here’s the thing about Lil’ Bo, she just isn’t very big. The other chicks from the same hatch are two to three times her size, and although she is strong in spirit, size-wise, she’s just not making it.

I decided, having splashed around the garden for a couple of hours, that it was time to get involved. Left on her own, unable to fly, she would just not survive. I called D at work and asked him to come home and help with Operation Bo.

We eventually cornered her behind some planters and put her and Gilbert in a box. Literally five minutes later, the adult flock appeared with the princely number of two chicks - two, out of the original fourteen that had been around on Monday. They managed to round up the third chick, who, by force of necessity had learnt its wings but who was cold and shivering and who kept trying to huddle under an adult for warmth, only to have the adults walk away.

When D came home from work he was carrying a large guinea pig pen. Guinea pigs, guinea fowls… It’s about a meter square and 47 cms high. We laid down paper, warmed up Gilbert, put in a small towel, food, water and a few logs and popped Bo into her new abode and covered the pen with towels and left her to it.

The guinea pig pen, Bo's temporary sheltered accommodation, which now fills up most of the sunroom...

Introducing Gilbert

The idea is that as soon as the weather improves and Bo has found her wings, we’ll let her go. The poor mite is not very happy being caged and I don’t blame her but until she can fly off with the adults and roost in trees she stands little hope of survival. Of course, this assumes the adults will come back for her – they may, they may not. They were here this morning, with three chicks. They ate, huddled, scratched in the ground a bit and then left. I’m hoping that if they return regularly, I can eventually let her out when they’re here. They seem to “know” she’s here, they can hear her plaintive peeping and she obviously knows there’s a whole world out there.

Lil' Bo Peep Leap...

I hate having intervened, I’d prefer for nature to take its course but this little bird is quite unique. Aside from being so tiny, she is very feisty and yet stoic. She’s a free soul and has a strong spirit. She’s often scuttled around the garden alone, unconcerned when the rest of her flock have mooched on to another corner. I don’t know if we’ve done the right thing, I don’t know how long my head will survive the plaintive peeping and the sight of this small creature so desperate for her freedom, no matter the cost. I’m hoping that long term interests will win out ultimately over short term concerns and that Bo will have her freedom and reach adulthood. One can but try, I guess.

Lemme out!

There has to be a way to freedom

Guinea fowl in guinea pig pen...

Bo Leap...

The Guinea Fowl Chronicles - Cat Attack!

Where did they all go?
(Bo Peep in front)

I am not a cat person. Aside from making me sneeze, I think they’re cunning and cruel. And I’m fast coming to the realization that the only good cat may be a cat who’s had a good throw in the pool, especially when said cat has come hunting guinea chicks in my garden.

There we were in front of the TV last night when I heard a guinea fowl hecking – an agitated, shrieking warning.

“Cat!” I said to D and we shot out the back door to the yard. It had to be cat as it’s the only predator around at that time.

The guinea was in a lather and the cacophony soon increased as the other three guineas who make up the adult flock minding the chicks chimed in sounding off like live rounds of blistering machine gun fire. We switched on the outside lights, checked around and found nothing. The guineas seemed to settle and we went inside.

Half an hour later, I was sitting at my pc when the hecking started up again, and near the window I heard a strangled shriek of a small peep.

“D!” I yelled, “Come quick!”

Out the door again and this time we knew there was trouble. Several terrified chicks were scattered across the yard. One ran up and down, one desperately tried to break through the door to the garage, one was perched on a window sill and three were huddled next to the wall. There was no doubt about it, the cat I’d seen the other day had come hunting. The adults were all up in the trees, hecking and ba-kaaking while the chicks on the ground, those who aren’t yet fledged, were so silent as to make it eerie.

“I’ll check around some more,” said D and headed towards the front garden.
He was back a couple of minutes later. “There’re two in the pool,” he said, holding out his hands. “Take this one, I’m going back to get the other.”

The poor mites were terrified and freezing. Their little bodies trembled as I held them, wrapped in hand towels, close to my chest, the heater on and trying to warm them up. D went and organized a box and there we sat, nursing the two tiniest chicks of the flock.

The one, whom I’ve now christened Bo-Peep, is clearly the runt. I’m assuming she’s female but I may yet be proved wrong. Where the other Peeps have grown and flourished, this little mite, though strong in spirit, has hardly grown, isn’t nearly fledged and constantly struggles. There are days when I think she’s just not going to make it, days when her eyes pale and she struggles to keep up with the rest, stopping periodically to rest or to warm herself in the sun. And then she surprises me with her boldness and her zest for life on another day as she zips around, chasing bugs in the grass.

Little Bo Peep

Once the trembling had stopped, Gilbert was brought to the rescue. Gilbert is a hot water bottle that lives inside a “doggy” casing. Gilbert has done the job of nursing guinea chicks before. The two small peeps were put into the box, on top of Gilbert, and covered with a small towel. Then the search for the rest continued.

We weren’t sure how many were out there still, but we figured there had to be at least five. We knew there were about seven in total who weren’t properly fledged. It was pitch black and our torches are hopeless, but we managed to find two in the woodpile. One, was having nothing doing with being caught and who once nabbed by the arch guinea chick nabber (that’s me…), he issued strident and heartily protesting peeps. Into to the box he went. The last one was easier to grab and D caught it in the depths of the woodpile and into the box it went too. My view was the more chicks in the box, the warmer they’d keep each other and the more offer security they’d offer one another.

I had a sleepless night, one ear constantly alert for sounds of peeping or hecking and come first light, when I heard Mother Guinea trying to gather the remnants of her brood, I roused D and we took the box outside.

It was strange; it was as though Mother Guinea knew we had her young. She drew closer as D opened the box, watching him cautiously uttering soft calling ba-kaaks. Chick #3 flapped out of the box as soon as it was open, fluttered across the pool and up into the Mexican Trumpet Vine. Chick # 4 followed, flapped out the box and scuttled towards his siblings, those chicks who are fledged and who spent the night in a tree. The two smallest peeps weren’t remotely interested in leaving. Bo-Peep was sound asleep, snuggled up against Gilbert and would, D felt, have much rather stayed with us. But that’s not what you do, you have to return them and so we sent her off to Mum.

Maybe if I jump and flap a bit...

The adults have been very careful this morning, the flock has stuck together. Father Guinea has even been seeing off the squirrels. But now, as I sit here typing this, I can hear strident peeping again and bugger me if the adults and the fledglings haven’t all gone over the wall, leaving the six yet unfledged chicks mewling pathetically in the yard. The worst is, you know there is nothing you can do and you just have to let nature take its course, knowing that before long Mum will be back.

I’m not sure my nerves can’t take this and I have a feeling I might have to leave home if I’m to survive the raising of this brood! And as for that cat… I’ve got plans for it, just as soon as I can get my hands on the bloody thing.

Made it to the top of the wall!

Postscript: The next post will be in pictures - guineas learning to fly... I hope your nerves are up to it - mine are shot, after one sleepless night and another spent worrying after we had to take in abandoned chicks, who again, have been let out in the morning... I'm giving up this goddessing business, it's just too hard.

Come for a drive, go for a walk

Susan asked in the comments the other day if I lived in paradise. Some would say I do, though it's a funny sort of paradise. As I've said so often before, it's a strange juxtaposition - magnificent natural beauty sat alongside rampant crime, violence, inequality, poverty, xenophobia and corruption.

Anyway, you've seen plenty of shots of the natural beauty, you've heard plenty about the crime and violence and poverty, (if you haven't, take a stroll through the archives...), so today I thought I'd show you around the roads I travel daily, the routes I amble along on weekends. Most of these shots are snapped whilst driving, with the small Pentax - so I make no excuses for poor quality.

So, to start, the avenue where I live...

From one direction and from the other...


And then we'll go off to the supermarket, just two minutes by car, up the road... to the traffic circle, hang a left at the posh golf estate...


The small "village" shopping centre - on a Sunday afternoon. It has two small versions of two of the primary supermarkets in it and a whole lot of chi-chi boutiques, most of which seem to close as fast as they open. But there are some really nice restaurants and what can you say about the view...


Now we'll travel the road towards the city, which is on the other side of the mountains. The flat topped mountain is Table Mountain (seen from the "side"), the peak to the right is Devil's Peak. This motorway lies alongside the greenbelt (left of pic) which is at the end of the road where I live. To the right of the picture is a small dairy farm, where the cows graze right to edge of the motorway.


Constantiaberg Mountain, for now covered with pine plantations and vineyards - my backyard, so to speak...


Coming down Bishopscourt hill. The white wall to the left hides the Indonesian embassy. This area, which is a five minute drive down the motorway, assuming the traffic is flowing freely, (half an hour if it's jammed) is an old moneyed suburb and home to many embassies. And yes, the motorway cuts right through it...


This is one of my favourite views if I'm driving into town, or anywhere in that general direction.


The same road, at the next intersection. Getting stuck in traffic here really isn't a problem with a view like this. No matter what the season or the weather.


Here we come over the mountain from the other side, having been to watch the whales on the east coast of the Cape peninsula. The road in the pic below is known as Ou Kaapse Weg (literally translated as, Old Cape Road). It cuts right through the Table Mountain National Park which runs from north to south from the city centre to the tip of the peninsula. The Park, which is the most unique of wild and urban parks in the world covers a distance of approximately 60 kilometres and many of Cape Town's suburbs, including the one where I live, border it. It's one of the reasons why, if pickings are lean in the winter months, we get baboons in the neighbourhood...


Coming down the other side, False Bay lies ahead, filled at this time of year with whales. All year round though, great white sharks, ragged tooth sharks, sand sharks, seals and a variety of fish and sea creatures are plentiful.


Following the next bend in the road, as it zigzags down the mountain, the southern suburbs of Cape Town lie sprawled along the edge of the mountains which make up most of the Table Mountain National Park.


But enough driving, let's get out and walk awhile, following the streets in the neighbourhood and into the Park...

Shots taken of the stream around the corner...

And then into Table Mountain National Park - a mere five minute amble from my front door...

The area has been densely forested with pines for the past 100 years. Now, however, conservationists are striving to remove all the pines and eucalypts in the hope that the indigenous vegetation, known as fynbos, will resuscitate. So far, it's only geraniums that have sprouted with a vengeance... Mostly, for now, it's invasive aliens and lots of weeds that are making the most progress. The felling of the plantations has been hugely controversial, but let's not get me started on that topic again...


So, there you go, a day out with Vanilla, just going "round and about". And now I suppose you'd like me to invite you in for tea? Well, since you are there and I am here, my suggestion is a virtual tea party. I'll make a lemon meringue pie, and serve up some vanilla flavoured Rooibos tea, what are you bringing?