On our last night in Ithala a large spider sat beside Mary's bed. The girls debated how to kill it. I insisted that it be left in peace. The following day we visited a chemist to pick up lozengers for Eimear's throat. The pharmacist immediately asked Mary when she had been bitten by a spider. Seemingly, the spot on her fae was a gift from incey-wincey. 'Not to worry', she was told, 'the egg will hatch quickly'. Since then I have been enjoying excellent sleep in the kennel.
On Wednesday we arrived in the Drakensbergs. I drove like a maniac to get us from Ithala in time for a concert by the Drakensberg Boys' Choir. They had been highly recommended to us by another traveller. They did not disappoint. The concert comprised two parts. The first half was a mix of pieces by the great composers interspersed with some classical adaptations of pop songs. The second half was all traditional African songs. I have never been so moved by a performance. It provided great hope for the possibilities of the rainbow nation.
Apart from the boys' choir, the Drakensbergs are famous for two reasons. Most visitors come to walk in the stunning mountains. Others are drawn to the area by the history. In among the peaks are battlefields from the Anglo-Boer Wars. Not 100km from our accommodation was the place where Winston Churchill was captured and also the bloody fields of Spion Kop. My intuition told me the girls probably wouldn't want to spend much time visiting these. I will return another time.
Instead, we hiked. Two days of walking in the Ds was relatively painless for me; the girls had a wonderful time. The second of our ambles was in the direction of Tugela Falls - the second highest waterfall in the world. This created some excitement for me. A waterfall of that height must be spectacular. Except that it wasn't. Our walk ended with a partial view of two sections. Very underwhelming. I think only continuous falls should be allowed to count in the record books. Time to start a petition.
Much more exciting was a set of canopy zip wires running threougth a nearby section of forest. Eimear and I both spent a morning swinging high above the trees. My antics hanging upside down gained me the name 'infeme' from the locals - meaning baboon.
Tonight we have scheduled one more game drive. We discoverd that there is a lodge nearby containing lots of cats. We are trying to arrange for Eimear to see a lion during her visit. This will be the last chance.
Tomorrow we have a long drive to Lesotho. Plenty of time to listen to our Dberg choir cds.
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Pursuit of the yellow jersey
Some quite extraordinary experiences with Mary and Eimear in the first half of our two week break. Thus far we have spent the time viewing animals. We have visited both Huhluwe and Ithala Game Reserves. In both we have seen an abundance of life (but no cats and no leopards!)
Though Ithala has much less game than Huhluwe, it is situated in a very mountainous area. Dramatic cliff faces provide the backdrop for viewing the animals. This made our days their as memorable as our time in Huhluwe. The absence of animals also forced me to take more notice of the birds. I am starting to be able to get slightly (but not much) beyond saying - 'small bird', or 'colourful bird' or 'big bird'.
Our camp in Ithala was open to the animals. They made full use of their rights of access - especially the monkeys and baboons. These close relatives prowled round our accommodation trying to find a way inside. Once, Eimear very gently ushered one out of the kitchen (done with such Irish charm that the beast didn't take anything with him). Shameless burglers, each time we left our accommodation, we watched the apes 'casing' our rondavel. (Theft, it seems, is an alien concept for them; the moment Mr Monkey takes something he considers it his.)
In between our safari trips, we spent a night at Kosi Bay. Mary and I have been there before but wanted to return with Eimear to go turtle spotting. November to December is when they lay their eggs. Kosi Bay - with short beaches and high dunes is the preferred location for loggerhead and leatherback turtles to bury their soontobeborn. To borrow from a London gangster movie - it was emotional.
The process begins with the turtles (we only saw loggerheads) allowing themselves to be washed ashore. The giant shelled creatures then 'walk' approximately 40-50 metres and park themselves high on the dunes. If satisfied with the sand quality, they begin preparing the site. This includes digging a hole approximately 80 cms deep for their eggs. If disturbed at this stage, they return to the sea.
Having designed their nesting spot, the female begins firing ping-pong sized eggs - sometimes six at a time - into the sand. This lasts around 20 minutes. Once finished (they usually deposit 100-200 eggs), they tip sand gently over the hole using their back 'flippers'. With their remaining energy they struggle back into the sea - visibly exhausted. So amazed were we by the spectacle, we have already booked ourselves in for hatching time in February (Eimear has pledged to return).
Our next destination is the Drakensberg Mountains. Here 'we' plan to do lots of walking. The only complicating factor is that our schedule has begun to take its toll. Eimear has taken an involuntary vow of silence - having lost her voice. My stomach is doubling up for a vuvuzela having eaten some dodgy impala pie. And Mary is tired from her long hours of work. I have pointed out to Mary that even Tour De France cyclists get a rest day. I'm not sure if this will make much of a difference.
ps - I must thank Tricia for sending Mary's sun hat. Not only does it look very fetching but she also now resembles a character from an Agatha Christie drama. I am enjoying doing regular Hercule Poirot impressions.
Though Ithala has much less game than Huhluwe, it is situated in a very mountainous area. Dramatic cliff faces provide the backdrop for viewing the animals. This made our days their as memorable as our time in Huhluwe. The absence of animals also forced me to take more notice of the birds. I am starting to be able to get slightly (but not much) beyond saying - 'small bird', or 'colourful bird' or 'big bird'.
Our camp in Ithala was open to the animals. They made full use of their rights of access - especially the monkeys and baboons. These close relatives prowled round our accommodation trying to find a way inside. Once, Eimear very gently ushered one out of the kitchen (done with such Irish charm that the beast didn't take anything with him). Shameless burglers, each time we left our accommodation, we watched the apes 'casing' our rondavel. (Theft, it seems, is an alien concept for them; the moment Mr Monkey takes something he considers it his.)
In between our safari trips, we spent a night at Kosi Bay. Mary and I have been there before but wanted to return with Eimear to go turtle spotting. November to December is when they lay their eggs. Kosi Bay - with short beaches and high dunes is the preferred location for loggerhead and leatherback turtles to bury their soontobeborn. To borrow from a London gangster movie - it was emotional.
The process begins with the turtles (we only saw loggerheads) allowing themselves to be washed ashore. The giant shelled creatures then 'walk' approximately 40-50 metres and park themselves high on the dunes. If satisfied with the sand quality, they begin preparing the site. This includes digging a hole approximately 80 cms deep for their eggs. If disturbed at this stage, they return to the sea.
Having designed their nesting spot, the female begins firing ping-pong sized eggs - sometimes six at a time - into the sand. This lasts around 20 minutes. Once finished (they usually deposit 100-200 eggs), they tip sand gently over the hole using their back 'flippers'. With their remaining energy they struggle back into the sea - visibly exhausted. So amazed were we by the spectacle, we have already booked ourselves in for hatching time in February (Eimear has pledged to return).
Our next destination is the Drakensberg Mountains. Here 'we' plan to do lots of walking. The only complicating factor is that our schedule has begun to take its toll. Eimear has taken an involuntary vow of silence - having lost her voice. My stomach is doubling up for a vuvuzela having eaten some dodgy impala pie. And Mary is tired from her long hours of work. I have pointed out to Mary that even Tour De France cyclists get a rest day. I'm not sure if this will make much of a difference.
ps - I must thank Tricia for sending Mary's sun hat. Not only does it look very fetching but she also now resembles a character from an Agatha Christie drama. I am enjoying doing regular Hercule Poirot impressions.
Monday, 15 November 2010
Eimear’s arrival
Tomorrow I head down to Durban to pick up Eimear from the airport. We are then on holiday for two weeks. We will let you know about our adventures. Of course top priority is to see a leopard.
Race Day
Race day. And what a relief. Opening the curtains early in the morning we were delighted to look out upon a relatively cold and grey scene.
Arriving at the race registration point we were quickly joined by sixty-two other athletes. This too provided great relief. It meant that we had the biggest ever field for the event but not too many for our free t-shirt supply. Of the athletes, fifty-one wanted to run the 10k race. Nine men, including ‘yours sadistically’, opted to run the 21k race. Suffice to say that none of my competitors were Caucasian. Equally madly, Mary opted to run the 21k race (one of two females).
I made a breathtaking start to the men’s race. For about 25 metres I was the clear leader. And then very shortly I was at the back. Having run the distance several times in recent weeks I felt relatively confident about my ability to cope. I had run the second half of the course several times so knew what to expect. Typically, the part I hadn’t seen was Himalayan. For the first 10.5km the race went almost entirely uphill.
Well, I completed the race. The winner finished in 1 hour 30 minutes. I finished in 1 hour 55 minutes (sixth out of nine). I managed to run the entire race except for the last hill. By the time I got over the line I had nearly lost the power of speech. I sounded like Lord Prescott at his most incoherent.
Meanwhile, my wife was battling it out against the other female runner. Behind for most of the race she overtook in the last stages and triumphed. Having just about recovered at the finish line, I was able to watch her complete the last few metres. Her time was 2 hours and 21 minutes.
After the race we held an awards ceremony and bbq. Everyone seemed to have a good time. And I got to present Mary with a newly made statuette of a giant golden female lady made out of coat hangers. (My description doesn’t do it justice; it is a terrific trophy and sits on the kitchen table.) Embarrassingly she also scooped the amazing prize of a weekend for two in a luxury hotel. (She has yet to confirm who she will be taking!)
Since the race we have both been in agony. Despite many hot baths we are still walking like clowns on stilts. Mary has the added enjoyment of badly sunburnt shoulders. But they are receiving expert treatment from her doting husband.
Manic Friday
Despite meticulous preparations for the half marathon, last Friday was chaotic. Knocking off at 1300 from school, I had prizes, food and drink to collect.
First stop was collecting the prizes. A number of local companies made very generous late donations. This included a voucher for 300 bricks (worth £300 apparently; not sure how many Godfather Robert could get for that) from Nyawo Stone. This became top prize for the men’s race. Tiger Lodge, a 4/5 star hotel stumped up an all inclusive weekend away. This became top prize for the winner of the women’s race. Lesser prizes included the previously mentioned red wheel barrow, and also a river cruise and picnic. All told, we now had a prize list fit to grace a 1980s British TV game show (Blind Date, Big Break, Blockbusters – you pick).
Laden with prizes I began my food stops. First, I collected 60 loaves of bread, 12kgs of chicken and 200 bottles of fruit juice. Then I picked up the water sachets. Except I couldn’t. Because they had been forgotten. By the supermarket delivery man. Somewhere in Durban. Time now was 1700.
Feeling an A-team moment, the half marathon committee met. Without any cigars, I set out the problem. How could we purify a lot of water very quickly and where could we find lots of small drinks bottles? Authentically (as the A-team), we had a quick solution. All we needed were several giant containers, sodium hypochlorite (bleach) and a water source. Using the hospital’s resident dietician we added the appropriate percentage of bleach to containers of water. We then decanted the contents of 100 of our juice drinks into yet more containers and refilled them with H2O. Job done. Once again, Colonel Decker had been thwarted.
The rest of Friday was spent sorting out logistics such as ensuring we had enough vehicles to transport the athletes to the start line on Saturday.
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Working on Isolation Ward
This week is my fifth week of being the doctor in charge of our Isolation Ward. It is where the sickest patients in our hospital are resident. Most of the patients have HIV and are in the last stages of the disease so are very sick. They come in marginally better than dead and my job is to try and keep them alive. I first check to see if they have TB (the most common cause of serious illness here). Once confirmed, most patients go home. A few cannot (for instance the amount of blood they have is so low that they are too weak to walk, etc). Some of these I transfer to TB ward. Others I keep an eye on. At the moment I am monitoring a nine year old boy who is so sick and thin from stage 4 HIV that I cannot send him home. On my first day, I thought that he must have a multi-drug resistant (MDR) TB and this past Friday, I found out he did. I should transfer him but he feels safe with the nurses and me and we would all like to keep him (it is very sad – he has no family visiting him – often the case – children get abandoned here). I also have a 21 year old man who came in completely breathless on my second day on the ward. I carried him to x-ray myself where I discovered that one of his lungs was not inflated and the other was riddled with what looks like TB. Surprisingly, he is HIV negative and every day, we chat and I try to help him with his homework (the resilience in these patients is amazing).
Unsurprisingly the mortality rate in my ward is very high. The most difficult patients to treat are those with a combination of MDR TB and HIV. Fortunately, the medical manager, Dr Heese, is a TB expert and always available. I enjoy discussing and solving occasional cases with him.
Henry and I leave for holiday with our friend Eimear in two weeks time and I will miss the ward. By the time I return there will be many different faces – equally sick. And so it goes on.
Monday, 8 November 2010
The joy and fun of running near the sun
The ‘world’s most spectacular half marathon’ event, is now under a week away. Huge excitement is building in Ingwavuma. Or at least it is in the Toulson household.
We have had plenty of dramas so far. We have had villainy in the form of Ithala Bank. (They promised to be one of the sponsors for the event. And then they broke their word. Despite threats that we would change the name of the race to, ‘Running against Ithala Bank’, they have not changed their mind. We plan plenty of negative publicity on the day.) We have had near catastrophe as we faced the prospect of no race t-shirts. (These are being picked up today in Durban.) And we have had lots of generosity. For example, the local supermarket and the nearby DIY store are both giving us cash. The DIY is also stumping up our ‘wow’ first prize – a very handsome red wheel barrow. We are assured that it is highly sought after.
Plenty still remains to be done before the weekend. Prayers are being said daily and, increasingly, with Islamic frequency (by Mary Muezzin). Remaining headaches include, planning without numbers (anywhere from 4 to 400 people could turn up); arranging transport for the competitors; sorting out the water stations and organising the braii (bbq) for after the race.
Time is also being set aside for prayers to hotus and humidius the twin Ingwavuma weather gods. The course designer, a certain M. Nature, has said she is hoping to, ‘test the participants (she preferred not to use ‘athletes’) to the fullest. Flat is dull. I prefer hills and spills’.
Mary, due to work restraints has trained less than me. She is debating whether to do the 10 or 21k race. I am confident I can get round the 21k course and may even be the first white man home (no others have yet declared themselves). However, the willingness of the bookies to offer a price on my victory owes largely to the remote possibility of a Foinavon scenario. At 100,000-1 I have yet to attract any money. The bookies are though shortening the odds on two Olympic standard runners in the field.
I will, of course, let you know within how many hours I finished of them. And Mary will report on her race experience. Now time for more prayers.
We have had plenty of dramas so far. We have had villainy in the form of Ithala Bank. (They promised to be one of the sponsors for the event. And then they broke their word. Despite threats that we would change the name of the race to, ‘Running against Ithala Bank’, they have not changed their mind. We plan plenty of negative publicity on the day.) We have had near catastrophe as we faced the prospect of no race t-shirts. (These are being picked up today in Durban.) And we have had lots of generosity. For example, the local supermarket and the nearby DIY store are both giving us cash. The DIY is also stumping up our ‘wow’ first prize – a very handsome red wheel barrow. We are assured that it is highly sought after.
Plenty still remains to be done before the weekend. Prayers are being said daily and, increasingly, with Islamic frequency (by Mary Muezzin). Remaining headaches include, planning without numbers (anywhere from 4 to 400 people could turn up); arranging transport for the competitors; sorting out the water stations and organising the braii (bbq) for after the race.
Time is also being set aside for prayers to hotus and humidius the twin Ingwavuma weather gods. The course designer, a certain M. Nature, has said she is hoping to, ‘test the participants (she preferred not to use ‘athletes’) to the fullest. Flat is dull. I prefer hills and spills’.
Mary, due to work restraints has trained less than me. She is debating whether to do the 10 or 21k race. I am confident I can get round the 21k course and may even be the first white man home (no others have yet declared themselves). However, the willingness of the bookies to offer a price on my victory owes largely to the remote possibility of a Foinavon scenario. At 100,000-1 I have yet to attract any money. The bookies are though shortening the odds on two Olympic standard runners in the field.
I will, of course, let you know within how many hours I finished of them. And Mary will report on her race experience. Now time for more prayers.
Celebrating Henry’s Birthday …
Although I treated Henry and me to a lovely weekend at Kosi Forest Lodge two weekends back, I still wanted to make a bit of a fuss on his actual day. I could not bring him to Fancy Stitch for lunch as I was away in the bush attending two of our ten clinics. So, instead we had a pudding party. These are regular events here at Mosvold. As the name suggests, they involve everyone bringing a pudding. I made a chocolate cake with candles for the birthday boy. It was a great evening with loads of people from all different ages from our community here in Ingwavuma. We played the name game which was great fun. Outside entertainment was provided by a magnificent lightning storm. At one point we began to doubt whether Henry would see much of his 31st year as one of the forks hit a tree not 10 metres from our house. A few verses of ‘favourite things’ (Sound of Music) helped settle the nerves. Gradually the storm subsided.
Monday, 1 November 2010
Wheels of misfortune
We planned to spend the weekend diving in Sodwana Bay. However, car problems intervened.
Leaving later than planned on Friday night, darkness quickly descended upon us. Driving from Ingwavuma to Sodwana in daylight is difficult. It involves lots of swerving to avoid potholes and cattle. Driving at night requires lightening reactions (think skiing at night by torchlight). Mary gave a clear warning the need to drive slowly. Then she fell asleep. She was awoken not many minutes later with an almighty thud. Henry had hit a wide and deep pothole travelling at c. 90 km/h. Result = burst tire, broken wheel rim + angry Mary.
As a form of penance, I got out of the car and began to change the tire. Worryingly the spare looked almost equally flat. We drove the rest of the journey extremely slowly and, mercifully, we managed to get to Sodwana. There we were able to inflate our ‘spare’ tire.
Having dived in Sodwana Saturday morning, we set about trying to buy a new wheel. We were reliably informed that we would need to go to Huhluwe – a distance of 80km. Off we went. The atmosphere in the car was remarkably cordial. Again Mary reiterated the importance of not driving too fast. Another pothole accident would leave us with three tires.
Guess what happened next. No, we did not hit another pothole. Hooray Henry. Well done. Except… with all my focus on the road, I hadn’t spotted the petrol gauge. Half way towards Huhluwe I suddenly did notice our fuel ‘situation’. In a colour, it was ‘red’. Then how to tell Mary. I longed to be back a week in time faced only by a black mamba.
Having uttered a prayer to the patron saint of petrol stations (St Shell?) I briefed Mary on the situation. Silence descended. At a loss for better ideas I decided that we would have to drive on until the car conked out. 4km later the car was conking its heart out.
And then a wonderful moment. The last revolutions of our fuelless car brought us into the tiniest of towns. Surely they must have petrol. Please St Shell!
Hallelujah. No they did not have a petrol station. But they did have a lady selling ‘green’ and ‘red’ containers of petrol. Which did we want? As on ‘Who wants to be a millionaire?’ we decided to consult the audience. The locals surrounding us thought we should go for green. And so we did.
Now how to get the green petrol into the car. Our petrol vender had a ready made solution. Out came a broken vuvuzela. It acted as an excellent funnel.
Five minutes later we were continuing our journey. I felt more content than Lawrence must have done after crossing the thingamy dessert to attack the Turks.
In Huhluwe we found a tyre place (of sorts). We then headed for an evening game drive at Huhluwe National Park; we stayed the night in a local backpackers and enjoyed a game drive in the morning. Still no leopard. But we had a contented cat (albeit minus a few lives) at the steering wheel.
Leaving later than planned on Friday night, darkness quickly descended upon us. Driving from Ingwavuma to Sodwana in daylight is difficult. It involves lots of swerving to avoid potholes and cattle. Driving at night requires lightening reactions (think skiing at night by torchlight). Mary gave a clear warning the need to drive slowly. Then she fell asleep. She was awoken not many minutes later with an almighty thud. Henry had hit a wide and deep pothole travelling at c. 90 km/h. Result = burst tire, broken wheel rim + angry Mary.
As a form of penance, I got out of the car and began to change the tire. Worryingly the spare looked almost equally flat. We drove the rest of the journey extremely slowly and, mercifully, we managed to get to Sodwana. There we were able to inflate our ‘spare’ tire.
Having dived in Sodwana Saturday morning, we set about trying to buy a new wheel. We were reliably informed that we would need to go to Huhluwe – a distance of 80km. Off we went. The atmosphere in the car was remarkably cordial. Again Mary reiterated the importance of not driving too fast. Another pothole accident would leave us with three tires.
Guess what happened next. No, we did not hit another pothole. Hooray Henry. Well done. Except… with all my focus on the road, I hadn’t spotted the petrol gauge. Half way towards Huhluwe I suddenly did notice our fuel ‘situation’. In a colour, it was ‘red’. Then how to tell Mary. I longed to be back a week in time faced only by a black mamba.
Having uttered a prayer to the patron saint of petrol stations (St Shell?) I briefed Mary on the situation. Silence descended. At a loss for better ideas I decided that we would have to drive on until the car conked out. 4km later the car was conking its heart out.
And then a wonderful moment. The last revolutions of our fuelless car brought us into the tiniest of towns. Surely they must have petrol. Please St Shell!
Hallelujah. No they did not have a petrol station. But they did have a lady selling ‘green’ and ‘red’ containers of petrol. Which did we want? As on ‘Who wants to be a millionaire?’ we decided to consult the audience. The locals surrounding us thought we should go for green. And so we did.
Now how to get the green petrol into the car. Our petrol vender had a ready made solution. Out came a broken vuvuzela. It acted as an excellent funnel.
Five minutes later we were continuing our journey. I felt more content than Lawrence must have done after crossing the thingamy dessert to attack the Turks.
In Huhluwe we found a tyre place (of sorts). We then headed for an evening game drive at Huhluwe National Park; we stayed the night in a local backpackers and enjoyed a game drive in the morning. Still no leopard. But we had a contented cat (albeit minus a few lives) at the steering wheel.
Ntabayengwe Netball tournament
Apologies for the absence of blog articles over the past week. There is now much for you to catch up on. The first big news item concerns the rip roaringly successful Ntabayengwe Netball tournament. This was a four team contest consisting of four local schools, including my own. Each school entered two teams – one under 11 and one under 13. Tournaments create great excitement in the schools and mean a half day of lessons. They are taken very seriously by the teams involved. They train hard during the week of the event.
I helped prepare the Ntabayenge teams, assisted by Miss Ngobese. Miss Ngobese is a formidable woman. She, like all the female teachers at the school is traditionally built. She walks everywhere with a stick in her hand to remind pupils of the perils of transgressing. And she has a ferocious bark (to match her bite). I am happy to say that she is always sweetness and light with me.
In advance of the tournament each coach was asked to check the ages of their players to ensure fairness. This was not entirely straightforward. It took some time to find a register with all the details of our pupils. Then there were issues with the credibility of the data. For example, one of our sets of identical twins apparently had birth dates two years apart.
Sadly, the information that we could find told us that two of our star players were ineligible. The Principal and Miss Ngobese were not amused. ‘But they must still play’, they told me. ‘Nobody sticks to the rules’, they assured me. ‘The other teams will all be playing older girls. It will be madness not to play Zethu and Nondumissu.’ I stood firm and insisted that ill gotten victory would taste sour. My colleagues were utterly unconvinced.
Our tournament began spectacularly well. We were 8-0 up by half-time in our first U13 game. Our brilliant forwards were scoring almost every time they shot. At the interval I was keen to bring on both of our weaker reserves. Miss Ngobese was horrified. ‘We must not make any changes. The reserves are very weak players. They are very bad. They will make many mistakes.’ Insisting on the changes, our two reserves, now brimming with confidence, entered the action.
We did not lose the match. But we only drew the second half. Miss Ngobese felt absolutely vindicated in her half-time assessment. She was not entirely happy with me. Worse was to follow.
Our second Under 13 game pitted us against Mpontshini Primary School. As foretold by my colleagues some of their players looked distinctly ineligible. Indeed a couple of them had the physique of NBA (USA basketball league) superstars. Our girls were obviously much smaller but I still felt we could compete.
By half-time we were a number of goals to the bad. Several of our team were arguing with each other. Miss Ngobese looked livid. I tried to lift their spirits with lots of inspirational platitudes. I insisted that we were as good as them. That we just had to believe. That we mustn’t criticise each other. Unfortunately my words were immediately drowned out by the following exchange:
Miss Ngobese: We are not good.
Principal: Yes. I smell defeat. I smell it very strongly.
Sadly the Principal’s nostrils were aromatically accurate. But we won our last game. And the Under 11s performed excellently. Still an air of post tournament tension existed in the staff room. I couldn’t help hearing reference to the giraffes from Mpontshini. I escaped as quickly possible for the weekend.
I helped prepare the Ntabayenge teams, assisted by Miss Ngobese. Miss Ngobese is a formidable woman. She, like all the female teachers at the school is traditionally built. She walks everywhere with a stick in her hand to remind pupils of the perils of transgressing. And she has a ferocious bark (to match her bite). I am happy to say that she is always sweetness and light with me.
In advance of the tournament each coach was asked to check the ages of their players to ensure fairness. This was not entirely straightforward. It took some time to find a register with all the details of our pupils. Then there were issues with the credibility of the data. For example, one of our sets of identical twins apparently had birth dates two years apart.
Sadly, the information that we could find told us that two of our star players were ineligible. The Principal and Miss Ngobese were not amused. ‘But they must still play’, they told me. ‘Nobody sticks to the rules’, they assured me. ‘The other teams will all be playing older girls. It will be madness not to play Zethu and Nondumissu.’ I stood firm and insisted that ill gotten victory would taste sour. My colleagues were utterly unconvinced.
Our tournament began spectacularly well. We were 8-0 up by half-time in our first U13 game. Our brilliant forwards were scoring almost every time they shot. At the interval I was keen to bring on both of our weaker reserves. Miss Ngobese was horrified. ‘We must not make any changes. The reserves are very weak players. They are very bad. They will make many mistakes.’ Insisting on the changes, our two reserves, now brimming with confidence, entered the action.
We did not lose the match. But we only drew the second half. Miss Ngobese felt absolutely vindicated in her half-time assessment. She was not entirely happy with me. Worse was to follow.
Our second Under 13 game pitted us against Mpontshini Primary School. As foretold by my colleagues some of their players looked distinctly ineligible. Indeed a couple of them had the physique of NBA (USA basketball league) superstars. Our girls were obviously much smaller but I still felt we could compete.
By half-time we were a number of goals to the bad. Several of our team were arguing with each other. Miss Ngobese looked livid. I tried to lift their spirits with lots of inspirational platitudes. I insisted that we were as good as them. That we just had to believe. That we mustn’t criticise each other. Unfortunately my words were immediately drowned out by the following exchange:
Miss Ngobese: We are not good.
Principal: Yes. I smell defeat. I smell it very strongly.
Sadly the Principal’s nostrils were aromatically accurate. But we won our last game. And the Under 11s performed excellently. Still an air of post tournament tension existed in the staff room. I couldn’t help hearing reference to the giraffes from Mpontshini. I escaped as quickly possible for the weekend.
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