In any case I was up well before the rest of the gaff and began a lively but humid stroll to the local Catholic Church. I was overdressed for the weather in my shirt, shorts and flip flops and was dripping with sweat upon reaching the pews at 0800. The kind of sweat that does not dry and continues to seep - no, run once you step indoors. A veritable cascade from between the shoulder blades down the hollow of the spine and deep past the leather of the belt.
Tiny Catholic Church, Mtunzini.
Mass was uneventful really - a small congregation of maybe 40 or 50 in a small ground-floor chapel. Mostly locals with a very even racial make-up. Things ran a little differently from a typical Irish mass (and perhaps had some Anglican flavour to it) in that we had to sing from the hymnbooks ourselves at certain intervals. Being the only non-regular here and first-time hymnster, the whole affair really was a proper Mr Bean "Halleluuujah!" job, peering over into my neighbour's (a tiny ould black nun) hymnsheet.
The priest was a jolly bald blackman, who really didn't look too unlike Jacob Zuma I must unfortunately note. He was quite the booming orator though, keeping the congregation hanging onto his message simply with clever play of vocal tones and sweeping hand gestures. So powerful was his voice and smiley his demeanor that his harsh lisssp and pronunciation impediment* passed almost unnoticed.
*(Note - a very bizarre impediment where he used the "ch" sound for any word ending in "d" or "t". The death of Jesus Christ thus became The deach of Jessuss Chrisch.
Lech uss greech one another was another gem.
Post-mass pre-breakfast Cornetto. My God was it muggy out.
I walked home after mass, just missing the rain, and back to another great breakfast braai-up with the Smuts's, who were now up. I reckon it was the first time I had fresh watermelon for Christmas.
A grand Xmas brekfast on the stoep.
A long nap after brekkie ensued (up to around 1300) whereafter the leithreas was revisited, this time in a more dramatic fashion.
We passed the mid-afternoon the way I guess most families do at Christmas - by drinking too much and playing boardgames.
Sizeable pot-plants: The Raffia Palm, which grows for 20 years, fruits once and instantly kicks the bucket.
At one stage we took a drive to see the local patch of Raffia Palms that apparently housed the very rare Palmnut Vulture. The palms were enormous, with the largest leaves of any plant in the world (up to 25m long). In fact I had run among these colossal Calameae a day earlier without once looking up to see what they were. We also took a showery walk around the protected mangrove swamps at the lagoon, having a laugh at the strong-armed fiddler crabs and the stalk-climbing mangrove snails.
Delights of the mangroves: A matrix of (shy) Fiddler Crabs' holes and those crazy climbers, Mangrove Snails
After a fairly long but entirely unsuccessful drive around the parish looking for a pub to have a few drops in we headed back home, a little wearied after the afternoon of humid sweating, dodging showers and looking at things. Back home the lads got as many braais going as possible for the meat while I browsed through the stockpile of SA 4x4 magazines that Santa had kindly brought the men of the family. Here I gladly spent an hour or so with my beverage reading the details of Eric Jackson's record breaking 1963 London to Cape Town run in a Ford Cortina - a 13 and a half day record which would remain unbroken until 2010. Mighty stuff.
A dinner of braai-roasted leg of lamb and a side of gammon was served at sundown. Absolutely delectable meat - nothing beats a braaid roast. Again, a Christmas dinner reminiscent of those back home - roast spuds, good meat and plenty red wine. Another bout of family rivalries ensued after dinner in the form of Pictionary and the South African favourite "30 Seconds".
The gang: Smuts folks, Smuts brothers and one missus. And me.
After fruit cake and custard and maybe a brandy we were all well and truly stuffed. Wrecked, we all retired early - even before midnight I'm sure. Faced with ever-challenging bowel activities I had to resort to catching up on these here memoirs while flitting to-and-from the kakhuis.
Merry Christmas to all!
