Blogging for Africa.

Puns by the yard - each post - just a whim away.  

Duty full.

One last chance to get that wooden voodoo mask, the paper knife with a rhino on the end or the crocodile that doubles up as the fire andirons. 

Just desserts.

Scuttling up for our last supper in Africa, Flames at the Four Seasons made sure we didn't leave the resort any lighter. 

4 seasons.

Flips that flopped on the day they were actually purchased, let alone after a decade or two of hard labour. I asked him to speak to these jandals and see if they'd rather remain in Africa. It turned out they would and so after many seasons of service they are now destined to live out the rest of their days in just 4. 

Sink or Swinn.

An awesome night with a dear old (young) friend from Sydney. Terri was brave enough to flit to Sydney to take up the challenging post of being Nigel's mini consultant. But even though officially she belonged to him, unofficially she was all mine. We shared a passion for David Jones sushi ie not proper bona fideee sushi' - just the canned toona ones with a bit of rice wrapped round them. Plus we were even more passionate about the hot chocolates from Lindt (basically heaven in a cup - her's milk, mine dark). Not every day but but certainly those days with a Y in them, one of us would look intently at the back of the others head, burning a hole in it, until the yearning look made it through to the frontal lobe. And then a small raise of an eyebrow, a flick of a pony tail and without a word, we'd make our way to my Mini Cooper parked in the garage, jump in, cackling loudly about the losers back in the office not invited to this 'honket'. I would then drive like a maniac to each of the necessary venues, we wouldn't even stop, Terri would just be rolled out while the engine was still running to make the agreed purchases. Sushi and chocolate securely stowed - we'd then hot foot it back to the office so that we were present and correct for the removal of the next strip Nigel would tear off us. 

Love you my girl and miss you so much.  

Support for the chef.

What tit made these?

And then there was light.

Not an aimless rome after all. Well done - Maximus effort. Maximus result.

Not in Rome.

Finally the Hasselblad is unveiled right at the bottom of the 54 floors. And photography's answer to the gladiator gets to work in South Africa's version of the colosseum. 

Yet another flight.

If you take 1 more shot of this bollocking building, this is where you'll be heading. 

What a hassle.

A right palava this was, for a shot Nigel had deemed worthy of the Hasselblad. A building in one of the most crime infested areas of Joberg - Ponte City. Something about it having a staring role in District 9. We went through no end of checkpoints before getting to this final gate - lucky we had a lovely driver who spoke the local lingo and paved the way for the Hasselblad to enter. Here's Nigel showing the guards proof that he used to be an All Blacks supporter but definitely isn't anymore. 

Sprung Bok.

We snuck into Joberg - our final stop before the long haul home. We had to wear moustaches, beards and a Jilbab each because if they knew 2 All Black supporters had arrived for 2 nights, there would have been hell to play. 

Paw memory.

Every now and again we email the lovely folks looking after 'The Jack' to check on his well being. We are told he is in rude health and when asked about us - he was said to have said - "Nigel and Olivia?" "Never heard of 'em". 

Salamu.

A little bit of Morocco, a soupcon of Bali, and a sprinkle of India - gives you a whole lot of Zanzibar.