We went camping at the weekend. That’s what you do when you live in a suburban Outpost (an anomaly, I know); you escape to the great outdoors to remind yourself that you do actually live in the middle of nowhere in Africa.
We camped at the big dam – our water supply.
We share it – naturally – not just with other offical water rate paying residents of Outpost, but with the fishermen and the herdsmen. I wonder, often, what UK’s Health and Safety would make of that: hundreds of skinny cattle traipsing through the heat and the bush to the dam to drink, leaving evidence of their visits at the water’s edge.
We pitched the tent, built a fire, made tea, walked the dogs. Hat found a tree to climb whilst we admired the sunset.
And in the morning, before we drove home, we bought a couple of old fishtraps from one of the fishermen. To add to the retired dugout we’d purhcased on a previous trip. Hat shook her head in disbelief as I battled to squeeze two traps into the car alongside her, dogs and camping paraphenalia. I told her she would thank me for my lessons in shopping one day; I told her retail therapy plays a valuable part in feminine sanity and that geography must never be allowed to thwart it.
Not quite new shoes, I know, but adds a certain something to verandah decor?