On safari with a green milkshake

The lime green milkshake caught my attention first. It just seemed so incongruous to be drinking such a bright green, milky drink with a huge seafood platter – prawns, crayfish and all. I wondered what flavour it was – lime, as its colour suggested, or cream soda, as its colour could also suggest. I wondered if she’d like to join us but looked at her face as she sucked some green milk up and decided, perhaps, she didn’t wish to be disturbed. Her face was not one that invited conversation.

Dressed in camoflauge clothes that shouted “I’m a tourist”, she sat alone in the restaurant. Well, not exactly alone – she had her green milkshake, and the company of various well-cooked creatures of the sea. Again, I was compelled to make conversation, but saw her sullen face, and decided not. I wondered if I was being silly and she was just genetically doomed to have a sour look. It just seemed impossible for her not to at least look vaguely happy about the feast before her, not to mention the cheerfully-coloured (if incongruous) green milkshake.

For some reason there’s a type of tourist that come to The City Beneath the Mountain and insist on wearing safari gear, even to the most cosmopolitan of shopping malls, such as the one we were unlucky enough to find ourselves last night. It’s as if they think they may need to hide behind a bench in one of the passages in case of an elephant seeing them as they walk out of the Louis Vuitton shop, new handbag hanging off their trunk.

And that's when I decided why she looked so unhappy – perhaps she had been misled somehow and was cross about not finding an elephant shopping for a Louis Vuitton handbag, or a giraffe looking for a long enough tie in the Hugo store (I had to look that up… my designer clothing knowledge leaves a lot to be desired.)

I just hope she’s going to go out into the African wild, all got up in her safari gear, to see the real deal… where designer gear is not only unnecessary, but is simply ridiculous.

Lucky Fish

While we were in Spain I left The House in the Middle of the Street with The Siamese Princess, Big-Boned BabyCat and The Big Black Dog in the capable hands of my friend, The Pond. When I landed in The City Beneath the Mountain after our trip to Spain I turned on my phone, as one does. There was a message from The Pond:

Hello, it’s me. Everything is fine at your house. Call me if you have any questions about the dog or cats. Or fish. Byeee.

Fish? I wondered if I’d heard right, having just flown and my ears being slightly blocked. I was sure I’d misheard, so left it at that, choosing to make numerous happy-I’m-home phonecalls all starting with the obligatory “Hola! Como estas?” that is necessary after a Spanish holiday.

On entering my kitchen I realised that my ears had not in fact been that blocked. There on the kitchen table in what I can only explain as an enormous champagne glass was a lone goldfish, swimming around and around, as goldfishes are meant to do.

We nodded (well, I nodded, he kind of waved a fin) in slightly embarassed acknowledgement of each other’s presence, not really knowing what to say, and I sidled off to wash airport off me, not seeing him again until the next morning.

In between time I called The Pond and exclaimed my horror of her not telling me the name of my houseguest, and therefore causing the embarrassed encounter.

His name is Lucky. I introduced myself at breakfast while he eyed my oatmeal porridge. The Pond says I may not give him any, no matter how much he looks at it. I enquired whether a boiled egg and toasty soldiers were a better option and she tutted and mumbled something about coming to collect him, possibly within minutes.

In the meantime, I’m to give him only three little flakey things each day. All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not a goldfish, even one called Lucky Fish.

The Visa

G needs a visa to go to Spain. Being organised by nature, I called the embassy two months ago and was brusquely given an appointment, a month later. 11:40, on the said day which was the ‘earliest possible’ I was told by the man on the phone, busily. The day was last week.

We had checked the website and read up on the hundred-million things needed, got them all together, filled in forms in duplicate, photocopied them, photocopied the photocopies, had pictures taken (turn left, turn forward, face front), showing her ears, in colour, 0.2mm white border, no-more-no-less, photocopied them, drew blood from her finger to smear on them for DNA, cut a lock of her hair to stick on the visa application, put her toe nail clippings in the envelope provided***, got all the letters from the people we’re visiting in Spain declaring their allegiance to the country, etc.

We checked and rechecked and arrived at the embassy’s big wooden door in the city and rang the bell in the wall, early, at 11:20.

Voice in the Speakerphone: Yes?
Us: Hello, we’re here for a visa appointment.
VitS: Who are you?
Us: G and Shiny.
VitS: You’re late. Your appointment was 10:40.
Us (with tone of shock and abject apology): Oh no! Sorry, we were told 11:40.

The speakerphone seemed to sigh. Bzzzzt. The door was opened by a smiley, very unSpanish-looking (pure South African) man who welcomed us through. Let’s call him Ben, so as not to get confused. Ben ushered us through the doors, through the metal detector, which obviously doesn’t work as it was stonily silent despite my knowing I have metal in me that sets them off, and through to a large room with seats around the edges and a post office-style counter with two windows at one end and a door on the side leading to some fancy stairs. There was a very Spanish-looking man at one window, the other was empty.

A couple was at the window with the man and the room was otherwise empty. Ben pointed at the seats and told us to wait our turn, we’d be called, smiled, and disappeared through the door. A minute later he popped up at the window looking oh-so-serious. Another minute and G was called by him. He showed no sign of recognition as he bureaucratically asked for the forms, toenail clippings and the gazillion South African rands this whole process costs. Dead pan. It was at this point we realised we’d left half the forms on my desk at home.

G and I tittered to each other, trying not to get too stressed by this situation while Ben very seriously stamped what forms we’d given him. Finally we admitted our error. I phoned B, asked her to bring the forms and Ben told us it was fine (still unsmiling), as long as everything was there by close of day. If all was fine, the visa was to be collected a week later, between 11:45 am and noon. This I am not exaggerating. The window of opportunity is small.

We took ourselves out and over the road for a cup of coffee while we waited for B to return with the errant Important Documents. About fifteen minutes later we saw the big wooden embassy doors opening and out popped Ben. He saw us, waved, and smiled, friendly as can be. Then he walked down to a very large BMW with diplomatic plates, got into the driver’s seat, and sat. G and I discussed what we were going to do when the Important Documents arrived – give them to him in the car or take them to the other dude inside? It was a wasted conversation because another ten minutes later he drove the big BMW to the wooden doors through which an important-looking Spanish man emerged and climbed into the back seat. This all happened within a meter of us, his driver’s window open to us. He looked at us, unrecognising, and did up his tinted window.

A multi-tasking man. And so serious in all his official roles! Thanks to Ben, we are now in possession of necessary visa and ready to leave for Spain on Sunday!

***Some of these requirements may be slightly exaggerated.