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Three Day Stiffness Disease
"You mustn't hesitate Ralph, just stick it in and watch out for the reaction."
I can just see my ex colleague Carol chuckling to herself as she reads the title and start of this blog so I will hasten on to point out that the words of our friend Isaac above were, obviously, advice about injecting cattle!
Three Day Stiffness Disease (stop it Carol) is apparently something that can afflict cattle in South Africa (and presumably anywhere else they happen to travel!) The fact that one of Isaac's cows had the symptoms (stiff limbs for…er…. you've guessed it, 3 days) explains how I know about it, but doesn't explain why yours truly should end up plunging a needle the size of the Eiffel Tower in to the hindquarters of a belligerent bovine.
I'm still puzzling over that one myself! One minute I'm watching Isaac give the cow a penicillin jab, the next minute I'm trying to keep hold of the syringe and depress the plunger as half a tonne of cud chewing aggression, stiff limbs suddenly forgotten, tries to mangle my arms in the appropriately named "crush", the narrow metal shute which is doing a pathetic job of restraining her.
Just as an aside wouldn't it be great if all diseases were described in such refreshingly simplistic terms as this one. If the doctor just said "I'm sorry Mr Spilsbury but you have 'Profuse Pain, Breathing Difficulties and then Death Disease" you could fly to Las Vegas and hit the tables.
Last January, a UK physiotherapist attempted what I thought was diagnostic simplicity by announcing that I had Potato Puff Tendonitis. Instantly feeling guilty, I confessed to a somewhat excessive diet of Cheesy Wotsits (NikNaks in the Southern Hemisphere or Cheezos, I think, in the USA).
After surmounting a slight communications barrier (I couldn't understand Uzbek and he couldn't understand English), it turned out that I had damaged the rotator cuff in my left shoulder, a nasty consequence of walking around our house for 6 months with a 10-litre paint tin dangling from my arm. (I added that last point to remind Angela of my heroic DIY work in 2009).
Anyway back to Kokwaan Farm in North West Province, South Africa. Having mastered the art of farming, it was somewhat disappointing to find out that these skills were not required when Isaac & Liesel went on holiday and left us to "caretaker" the farm in their absence. It transpired that our main task was to turn out of bed before 7am and greet the farm workers as they started each day. This proved harder than we thought given that the temperatures at 1224 metres altitude in the African winter can and did drop to -6C at night.
South Africans naturally assume that Brits are used to cold weather but there is a big misunderstanding here. We are actually used to mild, wet weather, and prior to the temperature dropping below freezing we tend to put on a thing called "the central heating" to keep us warm.
As our J'burg friend Stuart recently explained to us (whilst stood outside in shorts and turning blue with cold) South Africans don't accept that they have a winter so they don't see any need to install heating systems or even insulate their homes. To prove they don't have a winter they also open all their doors and windows to welcome in weather that, 3 days earlier, was freezing the arse off penguins in the Antarctic.
At this point they (the South Africans, not the penguins) realise they are somewhat cold and re-emerge wearing clothing that would have kept Scott alive until the relief party turned up! In the meantime Angela and I sit there in our summer clothes, bluffing it out with comments like "keep the door open please, it's positively tropical in here "
Staying on the weather theme, South Africans pass off these -6C temperatures as a "cold front". After four years we have finally understood that winter in South Africa (June to Sept) is a permanent onslaught of cold fronts, relieved by the odd day where it is warm enough for the mosquitoes to de-frost and bite you.
Two other essential tasks have occupied our time at Farm Kokwaan, running the shop and walking the dogs. The shop is provided for the farm workers (the nearest actual shop is 45 minutes by car or 3 hours by donkey cart), and it is fascinating.
I can't think of anywhere in the UK (or anywhere else we've been) where you can buy horse shoe nails, snuff, Epsom salts, whips, frozen chicken portions and beer powder in the same place! The beer powder is mixed with yeast, sugar and 10 litres of water then fermented overnight in a bucket to produce an interesting brew, best left to those used to it!
Walking the dogs is a misnomer, Bobby and Tsegadi are pit bulls and they effectively dragged us down the gravel road towards the sunset every night. The occasional encounter with jackals and kudu enlivened the process and proved instant physio for our potato puffs injuries (not to be outdone Angela got right shoulder tendonitis just before we left for Africa). It was always a relief to return to the farmhouse with our limbs, the leads and the dogs still joined in the right sequence!
One unscheduled task that will remain in my mind for a long time was to take the 1980s 'farm workhorse' Toyota Hilux to the town of Reivilo to replenish a 210 litre drum of paraffin (used for cooking). The euphemism "farm workhorse" conjures up the image of a lovable old trusty vehicle, nurtured, coaxed and maintained with love and attention, part of the extended family.
The reality was a chassis with wheels, two of which aligned with the Planets rather than the steering wheel. Sitting in this jalopy gave me an understanding of why Japanese game shows are so vicious and humiliating, the Japanese acquire a taste for sado masochism the moment they sit in their first Toyota!
I use the word "sitting" deliberately, driving this jalopy is another matter. Isaac, in his continuous assault on LandRovers, is keen to emphasise how little this Hilux costs to maintain (about £5 a year).
Once driving it you can see and feel where the money hasn't been spent. The breeze ruffles your hair (the windows drop open by themselves) the speedometer needle (the only remaining part of the dashboard) wafts at imaginary flies (real ones are too scared to stay around) and the fabled Toyota leaf suspension helps you imagine what Parkinson's Disease feels like.
At around 60 kph (just guessing as the speedometer doesn't actually work) you could pass out and crash thanks to the vibration. This is where the ingenious Driver Alert warning system trips in, the gear stick smacks your left knee cap and you are brought back to semi consciousness by the intense pain.
Above I used the words "once driving" as though that is a natural thing to do with a car. It is, normally, but as I found out, this car is not normal. Starting this car requires a certain chain of events, which, if you are lucky, result in the engine firing. Starting the car on the farm took 4 of us and a set of jump leads.
Arriving in town I was so relieved to come to a halt and rest my internal organs that I naturally turned the engine off before popping to the PO Box to check for mail. Big mistake! Isaac later pointed out that putting on the hazard warning lights (incredibly they still work) would have allowed me to remove the key from the ignition and leave the engine running. Of course it would, you are stupid Ralph!
There is nothing quite like turning an ignition key in a strange vehicle in the middle of a strange town in the middle of a foreign country and hearing that lovely sweet sound of……nothing! Forget the AA, this is the edge of nowhere! Fortunately Isaac had given me the solution to what he had warned was an "intermittent" electrical fault, "open the bonnet, waggle the red cable to the battery and try again".
As the gathering of locals grew to Soccer City Soweto proportions (there is not much on TV in Reivilo, in fact there may not be a transmitter mast) I strolled nonchalantly to the bonnet and spent 10 increasingly desperate minutes trying to find the bonnet clasp release, all the time pretending I was actually glancing up the street to identify someone I thought I recognised. Giving the red cable an affectionate waggle like a handshake with an old friend I casually got back in the car, acknowledged the admiration of the audience, turned the key……and nothing happened.
It took another 5 minutes to realise that the Toyota key on the ring was not the ignition key, the ignition key was, of course, marked Mann Diesel. In switching between keys I inadvertently managed to engage the steering wheel lock! To the casual observer (and there were plenty) it might have looked as though a crazy desperate white man was trying to wrestle the steering wheel off the column, I was of course in complete control and after a good work out for that Potato Cuff I soon released the steering wheel.
So then, 30 minutes in to the impromptu street theatre and I was back at the beginning. All I needed to do now was start the car! With smug satisfaction I regarded my audience for the final time and turned the key…. and, boy oh boy, nothing happened, not a click, a clunk, nothing!
With heart and sphincter commencing a co-ordinated fluttering, it was then that I remembered Isaac's Plan B…. "Give any part of the engine that looks electrical a good thump" Now this turned out to be a real crowd pleaser, marquees began to appear and street vendors were soon doing a roaring trade in "pop" (corn meal porridge) with gravy.
I have to admit I did enjoy the engine thumping routine, it was akin to Basil thrashing his car in that memorable episode of Fawlty Towers! Brimming with confidence after venting my frustrations on every part of the engine, (for good measure non-electrical as well as electrical), I skipped back in to the driver's seat, turned the key, and the suitably chastened Toyota spluttered to life, hah ha! Got you, you b*stard and then it……….died!
The crowd, sensing an interval, took the opportunity for a 'comfort' break and more sustenance, I slumped over the wheel and appealed to every Deity I could think of (admittedly not many, that 'Ungraded' mark in Religious Knowledge O'Level always comes back to haunt me!)
It was then that I remembered Isaac's last instruction regarding the "farm workhorse", "Don't forget to press the little black button hidden underneath the dashboard, this overrides the anti-theft fuel cut off device". ANTI THEFT DEVICE?????? If I was Isaac and I encountered a car thief who could start this motor in less than 45 minutes I'd employ him or her as the farm mechanic and let them keep it!
Finding the "little black button" was akin to the hunt for the 'G-spot'. Many a time I thought I was pressing it, only to find I was in the wrong area (tell me about it says Angela). Eventually by kneeling in the road and adopting a very appropriate praying posture I found the G-spot, I mean the little black button! Much to the disappointment of the street vendors the Beast, now with a fuel supply and for the moment at least, an electrical connection, finally started.
Laughing inanely with relief and adopting the countenance of a 'been there, seen it done it' Afrikaans cattle farmer, I happily drove down back down the single street that makes up the sleepy town of Reivilo. They don't call me Ralphie the Mechanic for nothing, that showed them, streetwise or what Ralphie? OK so it may have been the biggest event in town since the Lead Mine closed but I was on my way again.
The Wesmark Farm Co-Operative building, with it's distinctive grain silos, soon loomed in to view so I drove in, confidence brimming, picking up the mail was a distraction, it was time to fill the 210 litre drum with paraffin.
Being a law abiding Brit I naturally noticed and obeyed the big red lettered instruction sign on the containment wall holding the paraffin tank…….
"Please Turn off Your Engine"
Footnote:
Before we returned to the UK over a year ago I wrote about how we were going to sell the LandRover and buy something cheaper to run. A Toyota Hilux would be cheaper to run…..um…..I think we'll be keeping the Landrover!
Thanks time:
Thank you Isaac and Liesel for letting us store our car & trailer and equipment on the farm, thank you for all your hospitality, for letting us use the Guest Farmhouse as a second home and for making us feel very much at home. It is always a pleasure to be at Farm Kokwaan (except when it entails a certain Toyota Hilux!) and we hope nothing went too awry when we were "caretakering" for you. Apologies for buying 200 litres of paraffin, until you told me I had no idea that quantity is about 4 years supply of cooking fuel.
Next stop, the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park then Botswana, Zambia and Malawi
- comments
Joseph and Sonja Thank you so much for your anecdote. We both were sitting in front of the computer and laughing with tears running down our cheeks. Thank you very much for a happy hour.
Dave Lewis Ralph, that last blog was hilarious - one of your best ever! It's hard to imagine you and Angela as farmers - a more unlikely pair of Afrikaans son (and daugther) of the soil is really challenging to visualise.
Carol Oh Ralph! You know me so well. Hilarious!
Sheri O'Neal Thanks for the laugh Ralph!
Phil Salton Hilarius Ralph, get a publisher!!, cheered my day up no end!
Ralph Hi everyone Thanks for comments, much appreciated.