Dispatches

Rule #2 | Rule #3 | Rule#4 | Rule#5 | Rule #6

Travel Rule #1: What can go wrong will go wrong. Suck it up.

JFK to Heathrow, 3,000 or so miles of high altitude sailing over the Atlantic...or at least that's how it's supposed to go. But for us the wrenches start jamming the gears early, in the last third of our leg. We're roused from earphone oblivion with a rather calm pilot calling for a doctor to treat a rather sick lady three rows in front of us. Uh-oh. More calls. Uh-oh. Down comes the oxygen mask. Uh-uh-oh. No doctors on board, but a nurse miraculously appears. On goes the oxygen, out comes the news: Ladies and Gentleman, we are diverting to Shannon Airport.

About 40 minutes later we're cruising over the varying shades of checkerboard green farms that make Ireland's countryside so famous. Landing goes well, on comes a crumpled looking Irish doctor in tweed (of, course) and two very hefty EMTs. Out goes the sick lady.

All told, we lose two hours before heading on to Heathrow. Our original plan of going into Paddington to have lunch is scrapped. Not enough turn around time. Instead, we leave the airport for some fresh air and wind up in a bus depot snack shop, then eventually some benches where we sit and people watch....weariness is starting to set in. There's a distinct whiff of dread at the impending 10 hour flight ahead that will later prove prescient.

Find a decent place to eat in the airport and then head for check-in. Some kind of confusion at the gate and we're asked to go through security again. A jar of makeup that wasn't picked up the first time around is questioned the second time by a new security person. She's quite a nasty thing, slams the bag down hard, has some snide comments for Mike (who has some right back for her) and this goes on and on. Bag goes through again. This time she finds a rusty old beer can opener I somehow forgot was in my bag.

"And what's this for?" she asks, raising an eyebrow in the stupidest expression of gotcha I've ever seen. What does she think I'm going to do with it? Open someone to death? Anyway, she takes that too. Fine. But when she starts a lecture on whether Mike and I had paid enough attention to the signs that does it.

"Look," I tell her, "I don't mind you taking my things, but you are very rude. You slammed my bag..."

And then it's her turn and then my turn and then it's silly beyond belief. I send Mike away before he loses it but I stick around to lodge a complaint with her supervisor. When he finally shows up I get to talk to a 20-year-old British dude of Indian descent with enormous circular eyes that rolls like bowling balls from side to side every chance he gets. He comes with a mantra too, one distorted by a cockney accent, "Right, right, customer service." Screw it. That concept is dead.

We forge on to our terminal where British Airways promptly announces that the air conditioner is broken. Engineers are on the way, they assure us as we make the ascent into Dante's first circle of hell. To say that it's about 90 degrees inside the plane wouldn't be too much of an exaggeration. Everyone is sweating. Women are stripping their kids to the diaper. First class is cooler and we begin to hate the rich with a passion that rivals the French in 1700s when they drove out the bourgeoisie and beheaded Marie Antoinette. Mike decides to film everyone disintegrating into puddles before our eyes. There's talk of a nasty letter and free flights.

Two hours pass in this same fashion before we finally take off. The air kicks in about 30 minutes later. Flight gets rerouted, we make up for lost time by flying faster and get to Johannesburg only about a half hour late. Our hotel shuttle is there, so's a rental car. Plan is to follow the shuttle driver. Problem is, he doesn't know where he's going. So, we drive around and around and around. He pulls over, we pull over. He drives, we drive. He pulls over again, we pull over again. Streets look a little sketchy. Window rolls up, window rolls down. Pull over, drive.

Long story short (not really) we've arrived. Hotel is lovely. Off to shower and catch some zzzzzzzzzz. Completely shot.

Travel Rule #2 --- Get the wax out of your ears. Listen.

There's what sounds like a cluster of old Jewish guys in the trees outside our hotel window.

Soooooooolllll

Whaaaaaa????? go the cries.

And out fly some of the ugliest dull grey birds, redeemed only by irridescent rainbow colored wings. They've got long, hooked beaks for noses --- see, told you they were Jewish --- and busy themselves yakking it up and drinking poolside. Too bad there's no gambling here.

Others join the winged symphony. There are little peeps, big ones, loud chirps and the occasional piercing, Caaaaw, Caaaaw! It's springtime in South Africa and we're promised an influx of all kinds of migratory birds once we head further south. Think we're doing pretty well in the aviary department already.

Strange, but not a single sound from the big city penetrates the hotel grounds. No honking horns, trucks unloading, garbage collection belching.

Mike's milking the quiet for all he can. Wakes and then rolls over for more shut eye. Who can blame him? The hotel's a true oasis – impeccable little gardens, immaculate pools, neat white-washed cottages, bend-over-backwards-to-please staffers. We're nestled behind five foot concrete enclosures lined at the top with barbed wire, the cherry on this sundae a security guard closeted in a wooden booth who never seems to be where he's supposed to be (ie, guarding the front gate). So far, we've spied him exiting the dining hall with a newspaper tucked under his arm and strolling the neighborhood with a friend and a gargantuan smile.

Around the rest of the neighborhood it's more of the same. Houses are tucked behind their own fences, also laced at the top with barbed wire. Looks like it's important to keep whatever's beyond these enclosures beyond and live it up in self imposed exile.

Sent some emails last night to the charities Mike's interested in and have already received enthusiastic responses. Can't wait til he hears the news. He'll be so excited.

Well, off for some coffee. I'm up but can't wake up.

Rule #1 | Rule #2 |Rule#4 | Rule#5 | Rule #6

Travel Rule #3: Know when it's time to give people the Full Monte.

Time for the Full Monte, folks. Put those the doubtful thoughts aside, you know the ones --- Are they crazy?, What are they going to do to help people in Africa when Stacey still hasn't helped out by mowing the lawn and Mike doesn't even have time to pick up the dry cleaning? --- those thoughts!!!

Here's the pure, unadulterated reality of what we're doing in South Africa: Picture women and children marching up to seven miles of unpaved road to get to the nearest watering hole, where they fill a plastic utility bucket with water only to turn around and trek another seven miles to get the water home. The buckets weigh about 110 pounds filled and sit on tired shoulders or weary heads, wrecking skeletal systems...in many cases it's the children who also fetch water, missing school in the process. By United Nations estimates tens of millions of Africans get their water this way. Not only is it unhealthy for their bodies, but it's a colossal waste of time.

Enter Grant Gibbs, who runs a company that produces a product called the Hippo Water Roller. (See photos at: http://www.hipporoller.org/) For about the cost of a decent meal out in the States --- $70 to be exact --- people in Africa can buy the Hippo Water Roller. It's a plastic drum that has a detachable handle. When the handle is in, the drum sits on its side and can be rolled, or pushed like a baby stroller. Women, kids, and old folks can take their Hippos to watering holes, fill them and roll them home. Saves on time, cuts fatigue and keeps the kids in school. (In an odd karmic twist, the South African man who developed the rollers did so as a member of the Defense Ministry during the Apartheid years, when blacks were barely sniffed at.)

Women in one village who received rollers used the extra time to retrain themselves as seamstresses. The ladies were then able to make a living that had been unimaginable before.

But the thinking caps didn't come off with the rollers. Gibbs helped developed something even more remarkable --- a cheap drip irrigation system that costs only about $200. With it, a family can grow enough vegetables to sustain themselves for a year and sell the surplus food at a profit. So, for far less than an American might spend on a shopping spree at Old Navy, H&M or Macys, an entire African family can eat well, save time and make money with these devices.

Only one major obstacle remains to getting the systems into everyone's hands --- ten percent deposit is an unthinkable sum for most rural South Africans. They simply can't spare $7.

Given all of the above, it's with great pleasure that I announce Michael's partnership with Grant Gibbs. We met with him today for two hours. Michael is buying three irrigation systems and a heap of rollers. We go to the factory Tuesday to film the production facility and then on Wednesday we head four hours or so due north of Johannesburg to distribute rollers and irrigation systems in a rural village. We'll be with Gibbs, filming and interviewing all the relevant people involved. Full disclosure: ten years ago, CNN international did the story. We are hoping to update it with footage of the new drip irrigation system...and another little secret Gibbs is working on.

The grand plan is to get the story into the right people's eyesight back in the States, which would keep Gibbs' operation afloat. Dare we say Oprah? The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation? George Bush? Scratch that last one. What were we thinking!

Rule #1 | Rule #2 | Rule #3 | Rule#5 | Rule #6

Travel Rule #4 – When you are going through hell, keep going. (Okay, so we stole that line from Churchill. Consider it poetic license induced by stress. See below.)

Like accountants in tax season --- except we're no good with numbers --- it was crunch time these past few days. Mostly, because we shove off tomorrow in a lorrie, headed for a small village five hours north of Jo'burg. We're told it will be hot, dusty and teeming with people.

In they'll stream from 19 different rural locations to pick up rollers and two irrigation systems that, once set up, should provide veggies for a good number of people. Those Michael most anticipates meeting are the spattering of orphans who live in foster care type situations.

In a nutshell (or maybe one large nut's cranium) here's why we haven't been filling your inboxes with sights and sounds: Two days ago, we asked Grant of Hippo Roller fame to ask Clara, the woman in charge of the 19 communities fame, what the kids most need.

"Clothes," she told Grant. "T-shirts and shorts, but don't feel obligated to bring enough for everyone."

"How many are there?" Grant asked.

"400."

[Imagine a loud horn here or a piercing bell, as in the sound of racehorses leaving the gate]

"And they're off!!!!"

Telling someone like Michael not to bring something for every single orphan is like expecting a hospital low on blood not to run a drive. And drive we did. First, Michael hired Eppy to take us to various local stores to price out clothes. Most of what we saw ran upwards of $2-5 US per item. Times that by 400 and ....well, I already warned you we're not very good at math, but even we knew that was well over budget.

"Too expensive."

"Ooh, that's a lot."

"Nah, too much. Put it back."

Phrases of the like are pretty much all Eppy heard when we weren't shaking our heads ferociously from side to side.

"Discount."

"No, wholesale. This is retail."

"Yeah, wholesale. We need wholesale."

On we forged from shop to shop, a gloomy Eppy trailing in our wake. By 4 p.m. we'd pretty much given up. The problem was that we had already spent a good part of the day trying to wire funds into the Hippo Roller account --- a veritable nightmare when you're transferring money from your debit card. With most of the day eaten up, we had Eppy only for a few frustrating hours before he had to pick up his friend from computer school and head back to the hotel. One very nice thing he did do for us --- but he really may have done it for his own sanity --- was to drive us around Nelson Mandela's house. The man who finally toppled apartheid is living large, deservedly so. And let's leave it at that.

When we pulled into the hotel, Eppy couldn't scamper away fast enough, even after Michael greased his palm with Rand enough for four.

A little forlorn, we got back into our car and headed for a new hotel where we would spend the night. Our original crash pad --- Garden Place --- had overbooked so we were shuttled to a dismal poured concrete structure in a fashionable part of town, where we quickly sniffed out some good restaurants. Food here is cheap. You can get a great meal, great by even a finicky New Yorker's standards, complete with a couple of drinks and tip for about a little over $20 U.S. God is good. No, make that great. God is great. (Atheists please sub "The universe" for god)

Really, we were numb, behind schedule and without previous illusions of how easy it would be to put this whole trip together. In short, bumbed, we were completely bumbed....that is until the Jewish Holiday That Saved Our Skin. Because security is so tight, there are guards in front of most major entrances, including the synagogue up the road. We spotted a nice, middle aged Jewish guy guarding the gate.

"Pull over," I said, grabbing Mike's arm. "If anyone will know textiles, it's going to be this guy."

Bingo. He turned us on to China City, the part of Jo'burg where few dare to venture but where bargains rule the day. He even called another fellow over to give us good directions. We immediately phoned Eppy, who immediately declined to be available.

"So, we'll go ourselves, right?" Mike asked.

"Yeah, how hard can it be."

So we thought. Nearly everyone we asked about going to China City put on the same strange grimace, had the same vague warning, tried to instill the same frigid fear.

We were going anyway.

With that set for the following morning, we headed to the supermarket --- one that would rival a Sam's Club or a B.J.s Huge, simply cavernous, a city unto itself, really.

Candy. That was the item dancing like sugar plums in Michael's head.

"How can you show up at an orphanage without candy?" he asked, almost to himself.

"But Clara said they needed clothes."

"Oh, of course. We'll get that too but I want them to have candy," he insisted.

"But maybe they need band aids and medicines, you know, things that are hard to get," I offered.

"Oh, of course. We'll get that too, but..." he trailed off, already down the candy aisle. "These...look! Pinpop Sour Lollies. Strawberry Fizzers. Candy Ice Cream Pops.

And on it went down each aisle.

His shopping complete nearly an hour later, Michael left with:

- 4 large plastic storage containers
15 soccer balls
86 bottles of nail polish
96 pinpop sour lollies
500 strawberry fizzers
566 candy ice cream pops
960 baby wipes
4 large bottles of aspirin
4 large bottles of extra-strength aspirin
9 jars of antiseptic ointment
164 bars of soap
Almost 1,000 assorted types of band aids, including Superman for boo-boos
10 industrial size jars of baby formula
3 industrial size jars of fruit cocktail
1 industrial size jar of apricot halves
1 industrial size jar of peach halves
1 industrial size jar of pineapple rings
2 industrial size jars of kidney beans
2 industrial size jars of tomatoes
2 industrial size jars of butter beans
1 industrial size jar of green beans
2 industrial size jars of canned corn
2 industrial size jars of peas

Four full shopping carts at check out later, we passed the happy cashier a 50 Rand tip that caused her to literally shout out in glee before tucking her treasure under one over-sized African breast. Hopefully, she'll remember to put it away before her husband finds it.

All in all --- and without accounting degrees --- we managed to manage the money situation pretty well.

Coming up....a rollicking ride to China City.

Rule #1 | Rule #2 | Rule #3 | Rule#4 | Rule #6

Travel Rule #5 --- Travel gives new meaning to "off the beaten path"

For the sake of mothers who have children who travel --- and even for the sake of fathers who have a little mother in them --- much of what transpired today will remain off record. In the vaguest terms, it's best only if you know that we got lost A LOT. We won't mention the wheres (too risky) or the whys (too ridiculous), but suffice it to say we eventually found our way to China City, where the only thing Chinese were the letters and some very tight-fisted merchants hawking cheap clothing.

On the first go around Michael could get nary a soul to budge a Rand on most wares. We circled the place like sharks at least three times before we finally cracked a Buckwheat-headed South African and his greasy-cheeked boss, who we'll fondly call Dragon Lady. After much back and forth, we were able to snag 150 boys' shorts, size 8 and up for 13R each. Once word got out --- who knows how --- shopkeepers scurried from stalls the way roaches come out of hiding when you shine a flashlight at them.

If this sounds mean-spirited, it's only because what we mostly got were even meaner-spirited salespeople, with the exception of a kid who is headed to UCLA next fall. (But even he wouldn't budge much on prices.)

Around the bend a squat, short-haired lady tried to sell us t-shirts --- the catch was the purple striped ones were full of dirt. "Why?" She shook her head, pushing them at us. "All take, 7R."

"But we don't want the dirty ones."

"All take, 7R."

"How much for these?" Michael says, pointing to colorful, long-sleeved t-shirts.

"12R"

"Come onnnnnn," Mike hisses, hand on hip now. "We can get them in the store for that much."

"12R"

"Even if we're buying 200?"

Calculators fly. Fingers blur.

"11R."

Michael's getting impatient and lets her know by creeping closer to the exit. "You're telling me that's the best you can do?"

"Ok, ok. 10R."

"Give us 200."

We've got the boys' shorts down, the girls' t-shirts done, but still no girls' shorts and no boys' t-shirts. The clock is speeding around the dial at a blistering pace. We only have another 30 minutes or so before we have to leave to meet Grant, get to the Hippo Roller factory and deliver the rollers to his house.

We circle the place again. Back we go to UCLA boy, who has dresses to offer for 5R, but only 100. We forge on, hitting a corner where a lady in skintight black pants refused to negotiate earlier that morning. But now that word got out, she got a bit more sensible. We snag 200 boys' t-shirts for 12R. That leaves only girls shorts and ten minutes left on the clock. Around we go yet again.

Somehow all the years of shopping at a glance pay off. We spot some very cute girls shorts in bold colors and with elastic waists. Back and forth. Yes. No. Best price. Orphans. (Zero sympathy factor there)

"7R. Best price."

We take 200. Done. From all directions clothes come as if our small Volkswagon rental is a magnet. Shorts get stuffed in the trunk, under seats, t-shirts pack the back, girls' shorts slip behind wheel wells. There's almost no room to see out the back. In case of car accident, don't stop for help. Open a children's department store instead.

The race is on to get to Grant to get to the factory to get to see the Hippo Rollers where they're born.

We merge onto the freeway. We get off the freeway. We make a u-turn. We go straight. We turn. We grind gears.

"Let's call Grant."

We say we understand now. We drive. We make a U-turn. We go straight. We make a right.

"I think it should have been a left, Stace."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, remember we drove by that Markos sign?"

"Did we? Oh, yeah."

Nothing looks familiar. We call Grant.

"Oh, okay. Okay. Got it. Ok. Now I know where we are. Ok. We'll be there in five minutes."

Who knows how long this goes on...15 minutes, 30 minutes? Call, say we get it. Hang up. Get lost. It feels like days.

Meet, we finally do. Poor Grant. He's almost as ragged as we are. Thankfully, he's patient or this would never work. We leave our mini-department store in the parking lot of the real thing, hop in his truck and trek to the factory.

Won't bore you much with what goes on there. Lots of sweaty men, testosterone, cigarette smoke. We film. We pack the rollers. We leave. Back to the mall for our car, then to Grant's house to consolidate everything but the stuff we got at the supermarket.

In comes the wife, the kids, the dogs, a snake, a chicken. In case you're wondering, the last two on the list live outside. It's Africa but it's not a jungle. Well, maybe for the roads.

Goodbyes all around. Printed directions courtesy of Grant. Off we go.

"Was that the left?"

"No. I think it was up there."

"Where?"

"See where that white van just turned."

"Which white van. There are about fifty in front of us."

"Should we go this way?"

"Yeah. Try it."

We get on the freeway. We get off. We make a u-turn. We pass a familiar looking billboard ---again. Grant calls. We reorient.

We make it back in about triple the time it should normally take. What happens in between? You'll have to get Michael to re-enact when we're safely home.

In the meantime, tomorrow we've hired a driver.

A last African moment to leave you with:

Grant's gardener Isaac reveals a lot while waiting in the mall parking lot earlier in the day. He's a refugee from Mozambique, where there's been a terrible civil war raging for years thanks to President Mugabe. Mugabe staged a military coup when the elected Prime Minister went on a diplomatic mission. How convenient.

Anyway, Isaac is awonder at the idea of opposite seasons. Here in South Africa it's spring. In New York, it's fall. He asks about time.

"There's about a six hour difference between where we live and where you live."

He looks at his watch, "So in America someone is dreaming now?"

Rule #1 | Rule #2 | Rule #3 | Rule#4 | Rule#5

Travel Rule # 6 --- Go native whenever possible.

Bounce along the road. Careen left. Plod behind a truck stuffed with petrified cattle. Brake suddenly. Search in desperation for a clean public toilet. Listen to the hum of rubber on pavement. The road trip trance sets in --- the one where the hours pour out in a blur of trees, mountains, headlights, tail lights. The one that makes you at once philosophical and nonsensical. The one that calls for giggles one minute, silence the next. The one that churns the brain in a way only a road adventure can.

Inside the steel cab of Grant's SUV life is drawing us down its own road. Out flies the existential magnifying glass. We wonder where the hell are we, who the hell we've been with, what the hell just happened, how...and why. Not any of it in a bad way. Four hours or so from Jo'burg we've emptied ourselves --- literally and figuratively --- in a small rural community called Kgautswane (pronounced like you're about to hack up a lung for the 'K', about to say 'tsk, tsk' for the t and about to add a French flourish at the ending "eh". The Americanised version: 'Katz-swah-neh').

But before Kgautswane comes to life, let's take a detour at the next off ramp, into the heart of South Africa to meet the locals who make or break trips like this.

Starting at the airport we're greeted by a kind man in his sixties, dressed for his American charges in brown polyester pants and a freshly ironed checked shirt. He's a got a proper side part, combed over to hide some thinning at the top and an accent that sounds something like an Englishman choking on a wad of chewing gum. We think his name is Ben, or maybe Bin? We're pretty sure he's telling us to look left before we cross the street. And maybe he's advising us to not make a full stop at traffic lights if the area looks bad. Poor old Ben or Maybe Bin and his big beer belly looks like everyone's favorite retired Uncle __________. Every time he speaks, Michael gives a frantic nod at me, all eyebrow language. I shrug. Who knows what Ben or Maybe Bin is saying. All we keep repeating is, "We're following you, right?" Right.

Ben or Maybe Bin gets us off to a pretty good start before he gets us lost. We pull over. Drive. Pull over. Drive. Pull over. Drive. Five times, at least, before he leaves us at the gate of the hotel, a million "Sorry, sorry, sorrys" to follow. Exit Ben or Maybe Bin....and some our confidence that the task before us will go smoothly.

Grace comes when we need it most in the form of Mike, owner/operator of Garden Place, the little oasis we come back to nest in after some harrowing days spent in search of ___________. A savvy Jewish South African with a load of common sense and even more properties, Mike's our go to guy. Have a question, he's got the answer. Need a helper, he knows the guy. The best part is, after Ben or Maybe Bin, his diction's as crisp as potato chips. No slurs, whirs or vocal acrobatics. He's tall and slightly stooped with the most alert deep blue eyes, strong nose, overgrown brows and cheeky smile. Puts you right at ease. Most of the day, he pops in and out, always with a genuine, "How's everything?," followed by a few precious seconds of talk before he vaporizes.

When we can't get Mike, we're fortunate to have Lindo. She's a South African hotel management student doing a six month internship here at Garden Place. Competent to the nth degree, she's there every morning, perky in long skirts and intricately braided hair that snakes in little rows around her head. She offers smiles galore and genuine concern for how we're getting about, with whom and what our itinerary is. This morning --- well, actually we slept until afternoon --- as soon as Lindo realized we were up she had lunch brought to our room and coffee at the ready. We practically inhaled the lightly breaded fish, potato, squash, coleslaw and fruit custard. Hotel Mike advised our Michael to tip everyone at the end of our stay, but Michael's been plying Lindo with Rand, reaffirming her choice that, indeed, the tourism industry will be very good to her.
It's through Lindo that we meet who I think is Michael's favorite South African so far --- aside from Grant and his family --- and that would be Alfred the driver. A tall, broad, distinguished fellow, he entertains us with childhood tales and some of his basic life philosophy. With a deep, soft voice and an elegant to the extreme demeanor --- think Sidney Poitier --- Alfred tells us how he grew up in a rural community called Natal that's not too dissimilar to the one we encountered in Kgautswane. At 15, Alfred left a life by the sea to join his father in Johannesburg where, in his own words, Alfred says he, "quickly realized the value of education."

He became a pharmaceutical assistant before some turbulence in the industry led to a lay off.

"But you can't cry over things," he tells us. "You have to get busy. You have to work hard. I believe that."

So the financially struggling Alfred buys a small Volkswagen and starts ferrying university students to and from classes.

"I saved and saved and worked hard, hard, hard," he says. "A business is like that. People choose you because they trust that you are the one who can take care of them."

Another car soon follows, and another and the spacious minivan we sit in. Blood, sweat and tears later, Alfred owns a fleet of cars and has two other men working for him.We ask him if he worries about security and driving around the city late at night. But he seems more disappointed in his people than afraid of them.

"It is greed," he says, "that makes a man want to take from the hand of another man who works hard. You see me...it is late at night and I am still working, but another will see this car and will want it and envy me but won't work for it. This is the problem. Some don't care how they take as long as they have."

Taking and having is a big problem in today's South Africa. Michael's favorite South African, Grant Gibbs --- he runs the Hippo Roller project --- tells us about the security hardships Jo'burgers live with on a daily basis. Car windows are tinted because it's not uncommon for thieves to head butt a window at a red light if they see a handbag on the passenger seat. And the tales go on and on. Best left to tell when we're back home.

Grant. How to describe him? A shaggy, blonde haired angel? Nah. But close. He's truly kind, extremely patient, completely devoted to whatever he does...from family to work. You have a friend at home exactly like him. One who you can tell the bad, the ugly, the agonizing. He's the friend who won't reveal to others your most wrenching moments, who won't judge or condemn, who dissuades calmly while watching you walk towards what could be a moral train wreck. He and hotel Mike share the same alert blue eyes, but where hotel Mike is business-like in his detachment, Grant gets down and dirty with you if that's the kind of South African experience you want.

Picture him 20 or so years ago (before he got married), as a bachelor on the Dating Game:

"Grant enjoys dinner parties with friends, good conversation and the company of like-minded souls. He adores family life and is eager to make a great mate. His idea of an excellent evening is a home cooked meal (he'll do the cooking) eaten by candlelight, followed by cuddling on the couch and watching a foreign film."

Okay, if this is too personal here's all you really need to know about Grant --- He emits not a single restless vibe. He's a man content on the African continent.

Ditto for his13-year-old son, Ryan, well, except for the restless part. Ryan --- or "Rhine", as Grant and his wife pronounce it --- interacts so easily. Up in the village he becomes an indispensable part of our operation, taking still photos for Michael when Michael's busy handing out clothes, running to move a stray tripod or fetch a fresh battery, playing with the kids when we need to distract them. Of course, the kid's happy as hell not to have to be in school, which puts him in great spirits. But having dealt with lots of kids, we suspect Ryan's in great spirits most of the time anyway. Good parenting, we decide.

Last, we've left our favorite four-legged fellow, Carl. He's Grant's big, black dog. There are a lot of Carl's kind around because most thieves are afraid of big, black dogs here. But what a mush! Carl's in his element if he can get a kiss on his enormous wet nose and a good throw of his stick. He's joined by a Jack Russel type mate --- I'm forgetting that fellow's name --- who likes to chase and chew on rocks. The little guy bullies Carl, who can only get true peace when he's swimming with his stick in Grant's pool.

You've now met all the key players on the journey so far. The hardest part of this adventure will come in the next posting. Be prepared to meet a few of about 400 orphans as they struggle to survive in the rural mountain towns of Kgautswane.

They will both break and win your heart.