Clever Livia

Ok, this completely random, but my friend Olivia is the cleverest person in the world. I asked her this morning for an example of early international scientific collaboration for my Guardian column. This is what I got back, about ten minutes later:

Well Kepler and Gallileo used to correspond and share stuff. That’s from about 1600-1615. and an italian with a german protestant #(weird sect –you will have to check I can’t remember)…

The thing is that it is hard to know in ancient times (ie the hellenestic age of science) who corresponded with whom but there must have been correspondance and in those days scientists/philosophers were often teachers with their band of disciples. There was almost certainly correspondance but I don’t know if anyone can cite particular examples of what was corresponded about..

After the hellenistic and roman ages, there is nothing to speak of in science until the growth of the abbeys (begin to be founded around early 4th century with the important scholastic orders being benedictine and franciscan). It is these orders/abbeys that became the first universities. I think the earliest interesting science correspondance might be in the end of the 11th beginning of the 12th when Robert Grossteste who I believe trained in Paris went to Oxford and became Roger Bacon’s teacher…or he may have been Bacon’s distant mentor in Paris but I think if you look this two guys up on the St Andrews history of maths/science site you might get something. If Bacon and Grossteste were both always in Oxford then clearly there is no correspondance but if one were in Oxford and the other in Paris there is a good chance of some correspondance on optics. Also, Bacon wrote to the Pope and said that someone should write an Encyclopaedia (not in those terms but basically that) and he was hoping that the Pope woul give him some cash for his work but instead he wrote back saying ‘good idea for this book thing- you write it’. which kinda put him in it a little.

Another one that might have some possible correpondance is Parcelsus writing to someone or other- maybe the rich and famous.

Kepler used to ask gallileo for telescopic observations and would share some of his data also. So it was communication about celestial observation.

I think that something to stress is that the roots of science in monasticism meant that science grew up in a culture of writing letters and associations with distanmt insitutions. And then from 1500 onwards if you want to do science you have to get cash which means at the very least doing a few lectures, writing letters or pamplhlets dedicated to trich folk. Also if you want to do science you need to know where everyone else was at before wasting your time. Another source of keeping distant relations with people is alchemy. So you might find some alchemists corresponding in some garbled way before 1600. Otherwise look up the people who lectured in anatomy at Padua at the end of the 16th just before Harvey. Begins with ‘V’.

But really all people who could write nad had an intellectual mission wrote letters and sought out like minds of which there were very few before 1650. so maybe the kepler galileo one is best because most people have heard of them and telescopic observation is pretty basic stuff. However I should say that the greatest science corresponder, might also be that greatest of science’s wheeler and dealer’s, Robert Hooke, curator of experiments at the RS before Newton took over the presidency. Without hooke’s spreading of correspondance the steam engine might have been a lot longer in coming. He shared knowledge between pretty much all scientists but the steam engine story c omes about via correspondance with Denis Papin (french and then I think became one of Boyle’s experimentalists) and on the English side I think Newcomen but it maybe Newcomen’s technological precursor, I cant remember.

Oh but you remember so much, my dear.

I'm embarrassed to say that this is what made it into my article:

Kepler and Galileo used to correspond about their findings, and scientists haven’t stopped talking across borders since.

View my flat

I moved in on Saturday to my lovely new house. Hurrah! Therefore, this post will be littered with photos like this one of the view from my balcony.



Yes those are mountains in the far distance. And in between is the bay. This photo does not do the views justice. They are breathtaking. I could stand and stare for days. Actually, that is pretty much what I did yesterday. The aspect is due north, which is good in these parts. I get sun from when the sun rises until the sun sets (well, almost. Signal hill is in the way in the West. But the sun does not disapppera behind it until 5 in the winter. Probably after 6 in the summer.

As far as the flat goes, it's still a bit bare, but filling up quickly (at the same rate as my bank balance is diminishing, fancy that!).

I also have a master bedroom with views. The bed in there is going in the spare bedroom later, but until my container arrives from the UK (which is delayed 14 days and won't be until end of June, surprise surprise) I'll be breaking it in.

This is a taster of the bedroom views. You can see all of Table Mountain, sort of 'from underneath'.... You can climb up to the top from my 'back garden' but it's a little bit dangerous. People disappear on the mountain every year.

There are also the "Bergies" - the people who live on the mountain. Before you go too far the Wes Craven association route, these are pretty harmless drunks who come down from the mountain every now and then to go through your rubbish and recycle anything useful. Plastic, cardboard, any old stuff. They serve a pretty useful purpose - although I wouldn't wish their fate on anyone.

Here is also the spare bedroom. It's empty now. And very blue! It should do for the sister, as well as others who want to come and stay. It doesn't have views of the mountain (well not if you don't lean out the window) but beggars can't be choosers. And it's not as blue as...

...my lounge. Which is pretty damn fab. It's got some seriously funky wallpaper on one wall. (you can just see it) but have it from me, it works! Door on the right leads to the bathroom. Which is green, just in case you were wondering. Although not the porcelain, thank god!

Then there's the kitchen/exit to the garden and balcony. And that's pretty much it for this time! I'll post a booking sheet so that everyone who wants to come and stay can book their slot... ;-)

Singing in the Sun

Another thing that strikes you as odd when you first arrive here in South Africa is that people actually pay attention to the weather forecasts. "There is a cold front coming in on Saturday afternoon at four-oh-three, give or take, so we should plan to have the BBQ food done by four-oh-two at the latest."

Ok, so I exaggerate. But the fact is that the forecasts are reliable. Days in advance! So now, for example, I know that the weekend will be rubbish (again - check here for why that is) and that Friday will be wet, but saturday and sunday are unlikely to be.

Which makes a difference from London, where torrential rain at noon not neccessarily means wellies and waterproofs needed at one.

Of course, the weather of Cape Town has a reputation for being good - and its people are of an outdoorsy persuasion. So it matters, more, here. They worry about it (see previous posts about moaning). And, I am starting to realise, so do I. Last weekend I couldn't care less about the rain. But I'm slowly connecting to the local mindset, tuning in to the vibes, and right now, as blue sky domes unbroken over the city with its stuffy office buildings, I can hear it whisper 'Dang. Another weekend watching re-runs of Law&Order'.

Yes, they really show it here. Prime time.

I've given up

This week I'm getting a feel for the connectivity of the continent. For two hours now I've been trying to find out the coordinates of a certain Lidia R Arthur Brito, the former higher education minister of mozambique. After failing to reach either the ministry or her university over the phone (they seem to have changed area codes in reality if not on the websites) I emailed the central contact address for the ministry in desperation.

This is the reply I got from the server:

Hi. This is the qmail-send program at smtp2.teledata.mz. I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message to the following addresses. This is a permanent error; I've given up. Sorry it didn't work out.

Who gave Marvin a job?!?! God help me.

Lost

It's time to own up. Cousin and I have been spending the past 10-odd evenings racing through episode after episode of abc's mind-numbingly cryptic desert island series, and last night we reached the end of series one.

Today, our minds reel with questions. Who are the others? Why hasn't Hurley lost weight? How come they're all so impossibly hot? What's up with the baby? And when, goddam it, will Jack and Freckles EVER GET IT ON?

Sorry, but in the twilight, with the rain lashing at our windows and beaches not dissimilar to the ones depicted on my laptop screen just around the corner, the boundaries between what's real and what's fictional blur... In fact, I swear I saw Sawyer driving a red pick-up truck past my taxi on the way in to work.

This is all just as well, however, as South African television leaves a lot to be desired. Of course, having been spoiled by the BBC et al (who, let's face it, do the best TV on Earth, largely due to the complete shitness of the weather and the general misanthrophy of the population) I am falling from a lofty height...

In fact, I think I just won't bother with getting a TV for my new flat. I've turned Cousin's on every now and then, only to see the United Colours of Benetton slugging it out in about three different languages (one of which involves clicking your tongue) in the ubiquitous soaps that litter the channels.

Then there's your usual american relity TV nonsense, and some unintelligible chat shows where a black magic priest, a lawyer and a christian preacher will battle it out over some gruesome topic like child abuse, managing to do nothing more than to illustrate the entrenched positions of the vastly different cultures that inhabit this country side by side.

I've now written a job description for the reporter that will join me, hopefully from August. It will be advertised as soon as possible, and I'll do interviews in the last two weeks of June, just after the first issue is published. It's another thing I've never done before, but how hard can it be? Interviewing, I can do.

Still haven't heard from the Today programme about my interview. Maybe the whole Blair leaving furore took precedence. That's too bad, but these things happen. "That's showbusiness" as my Guardian editor used to say.

So heaven knows what my Cousin and I will do from now on with our evenings. At least until you can spend them on the beach again, which is a good three months! Maybe we can start a knitting club, or something.

Views

It appears that over the weekend I've caught bird flu with a side order of lethargy. My brain seems to be operating at a tenth of its normal capacity, and therefore there will be no large posting today. Instead, I leave you with a picture - the view from Cousin's balcony at dusk.



If you're bored, and speak Swedish, check out this new blog by my partner in crime, Monika: http://diverse-krafs.blogspot.com/

Twosomes

Walking down to Long Street yesterday afternoon I was asked out on a date by some guy who works in my building. He just came running after me in the rain (very Four Weddings) and wanted my name and number, and asked if we could have coffee some time.
I said yes and gave him my number. Declining him would have been rude, especially since he went to such trouble.

But it will be ruder still when I ignore his phone calls because I actually have no interest in going for coffee with him.

The problem is that I have no idea how to deal with these situations. In London, if you like someone, you usually try to work out whether they like you back before you make any kind of move. Here, the guys pounce.

But then, it seems that the locals regard any 27-year old unmarried girl as a bit of a freak. 'You don't have kids? No husband? Why?' Well, where do you want me to start?!?

It's going to rain all weekend. The garage is flooded. Everything is wet. Quite nice, really.

Hectic

The mot de choix of Cape Town's under-25s also serves to describe my reaction to the thought that I'm no more than four weeks away from my first press day. The thought came to me at about half ten last night, and lasted until well after midnight.

As a result, I got a lot of work done today. What with my flat sorted and all, I'm pretty much on home stretch as far as settling in is concerned so I can finally concentrate on the paper properly.

A very good lunch meeting with a chap from the SA Humanities Sciences Research Council left me with a much clearer picture of what I want to do with the mag, and how. The focus should be on empowerment for African scientists and the nitty-gritty that researchers have to deal with every day. Boosting excellence, building a team spirit, that sort of thing. Then, there will be scoops, there will be scandals, and I will cover them. But they will come. Core at the moment is to understand what researchers in this country need to know to improve their performance and pack a stronger punch on the world stage.

Then I had an encouraging couple of emails waiting for me in my Inbox when I got back from lunch. One of them was from none other than Calestous Juma, an influential Kenyan academic working out of Harvard who wrote a report for the UN on science and developing Africa a few years back, before Live 8 and all that crap. I'd met him at a conference in Manchester just before the publication of his report, and he'd sent me an advance copy to scoop.

I'd thought of him to write an opinion piece for the first issue - a 'two years down the line - what's happened' type story, hopefully not too forgiving on the international community on whether or not it has been making good on their promises. As it turns out, he remembers me! We had a nice chat over email, and he promised to write me something next week, as he has a long flight to Japan during which he'll have time to kill (!). All of which is excellent news.

He also asked me whether my name meant the 'little Nord' (see post from a few days ago!!!) and I explained about the Afrikaans interpretation but said that in Swedish it didn't mean anything. At least not that I know, but Onkel Olle might be able to put me right on this count!

He then told me that he'd met another Nordling in Kiruna when he'd been there one some experiment that brought equatorial region reporters to the far north of the world to give them a hands-on idea of the potential effects of climate change (fancy that!) and he'd drunk himself silly on Aquavit at some restaurant called 'Dirty Dishes'. Sweden saves all her fun for the foreigners.

Hopefully, he'll mention it all in the article. But I doubt it. Either way, I'll sleep better tonight. But it may be also due to the frozen margarita I just drank with Caite while waiting for the computer guy to set up a backup schedule. Ole!

I Predict a Riot

Some complain that I update this blog too often - "it's like watching 24" one exhausted lady told me. Well, how can I refrain when so many things are happening at once! Cape Town was in flames yesterday. Blocks from my work, security guards (who have been on strike for a week or so over low pay) were going on a rampage, burning cars and smashing windows. A friend of Cousin's captured it all on camera:

It's weird, the people employed to keep others safe causing such danger. But as usual, the main danger is to themselves. Some people crossing the picket line have been mutilated and thrown off trains. A life is not much worth down here.

Blocks away, however, I was busy falling in love with a flat. And this morning, I found that my application (you have to apply to be allowed to sign a lease - usually this involves credit checks, but since I've only been here a week they just had to go on my good word and offer to pay up double deposit, which wasn't neccessary) had been accepted. It's a beautiful Art Deco house up in Vredehoek, on the slopes of the mountain, with mountain views from the master bedroom and amazing city views from the kitchen/lounge with a beautiful balcony. There is also a communal garden (shared by four flats) with barbecue area and three dogs, which is good for security but may throw sticks in the wheels for any plan to share the flat with a cat called Gris, Sofia.

The downside is that Vredehoek has a reputation for being windier than other parts in the summer. But even from inside, the views are so breathtaking that I don't care. It's just about on budget, and best of all I can move in next weekend.

It's also about time that I start writing about my work. It's been a mess until now as I've been trying to do it at the same time as finding flats and cars and god knows what else. But as with everything else, it's slowly falling into place.

My first press day will be on the 13 June - a Tuesday. What that means is that by that day, I'll have to have a 16-page paper with words on every page, proofread and ready to send to the printers by that evening. As we start monthly, for the first three or four months I'll be doing most of the writing myself, so I've managed to find a young Norwegian lady who used to work as night editor for The Guardian online, who hopefully will be helping me out with copyediting and proofreading a day or two next month.

As for what to fill the pages with - that's up to me! I've already got a bunch of stories, and have commissioned a few opinion pieces. But there's a lot of politics involved in balancing the news coverage between stories about South Africa (of which there are many) and the rest of the continent (which are harder to come by as their governments' communication systems are not as developed as the South African ones). There's an issue with not appearing too didactic and condescending, especially since I'm a white person writing it, and the project is funded with UK money.

Then there's the freelance situation. I've got to hire a reporter, someone who will be intended to take over my job at the end of the two years that my contract is for, and that person should be on the team hopefully by the time we stop handing the paper out for free and start charging for it (September, it's said). The person should be non-white (for equal opportunities reasons) and perferably come from outside of South Africa.

After mailing editors in Botswana and following other routes, I've a pile of emails in my inbox, some of which are written in very poor English (which sets alarm bells ringing) from journalists offering their services. There's no shortage of people wanting a job, unsurprisingly. But how to sort the wheat from the chaff?

Since the African Union is based in Addis Ababa in Ethiopia, it would make sense to find a good stringer working out of there. Science is one of the areas discussed in the Union as a tool for developing African nations. But the journalism college in Addis has a dodgy website, and I've yet to hear back from the Dean about contacting their graduates. Communicating with the continent is like pouring water down a leaky pipeline. Only a fraction of it ends up with the recipient, it seems.

And here I am writing this into the ether, hoping somebody out there reads it... It's a strange world.

Mise en scene

I do realise I've been sloppy in describing some of the people mentioned in this little tale, and will aim to put this right pronto.

At work, I've got Paul and Diana. Diana is my boss, and I've written about her daughter Caite (not Kate, slapping wrist) who is the same age as me. Diana is actually based in the London office. She moved there when the Research Africa project started. It's up to her to wrangle with William (old boss) about all sorts of things from whether we should use light or heavy paper to the price bands for different African countries to access our services (a headache as far as I can gather).

Diana is here for a month or so, which is nice for me as she makes my job easier and is a bit of a surrogate mother of sorts. She also talks to the printers and helps me out with a lot of the setting up stuff.

Paul, who I've mentioned before, is our sales person. And that's really what he is. If you'd look up 'sales person' in a dictionary, you'd find a picture of him. He's the kind of guy who's done everything. He lived and worked in London for a while, then moved back here with his English wife and 4-year old son a few months ago. Like most South Africans he's a bit of a lad, he loves his extreme sports (although at 34 he's giving up surfing because of the sharks). If you talk to him about anything, he'll try to one-up you. 'So you went to see the Libertines at one of those infamous gigs when Junkie Pete was just about to go off the rails? Well, I knew the bouncers to all the clubs in London, and got VIP guestlist...' Bla bla bla. He can talk, can Paul.

However, for all his bravado, he's a bit of a paranoid android also. He doesn't like flying, I found out when we took off bumpily from Jo-burg International last week. And he worries about things. Bless. He makes a big deal out of worrying about me - but so do all South African men. 'You sure you'll be alright? Call me anytime if you're in trouble... I was so worried when you didn't call... You went to Long Street? Oh no, that's dodgy at night...' Just because he was offered to buy a gun in one of the clubs there one time. Nah, you'd get more hassle if you entered a hip hop club in Brixton than you do in these clubs.

There's Cousin, of course. She's the real Cape Town deal by now, she's lived here for five years and knows what's hot and what's not. She tends to be much more chilled out about the safety aspects of the city. She's never got into trouble, and she's like five foot three and blonde. She's freshly out of a long-term relationship with a South African, who she met in Belgium just when she was deciding where to go for University and moved down here with (a very common story down here - almost every foreginer seems to be marrried to a South African). As a result, she's developing a bit of a tail of suitors. But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were them. I get the feeling that she has a couple of things to work out for herself...

We get along splendidly, however. We tend to speak Swedish to each other, but when we're agitated, or after a drink or two, we'll launch into this patois involving english and swedish and anything else we can get our hands on. I know she does the same with her brother, but with English and french. Aren't we the cosmopolitan ones...! I'm secretly hoping she won't move back to Europe this time next year (maybe to the UK for a master's degree) as I'd be sad to see her go.

And then there's Andre. I think that's his name, I've never seen it in writing. He's my part-time chauffeur, car fixer-upper, temporary flat finder - you name it. His Afrikaaner accent is so strong that sometimes I don't understand what he's saying. At first I thought he had a speech impediment. But then I found out that a few people speak like that down here. I met him on my first Monday, when I needed a taxi into town. He's not a taxi, more of a chauffeur. And then he offered his services to me at discounted rates (100 bucks to get into town - what you'd pay for a bog standard taxi), drove me to the airport at 5 am last week without a grubmle, he put me in touch with his friend who I can rent a car from for 120 bucks a day, and he's currently chasing this flat on Buitengracht St where I work that he thinks might be available soon. He's a real trooper. Another of those 'call any time you like' type guys. So what if he's making money at the same time?

This week he's in Pretoria, though, so I've got a normal taxi in to work. I planned to get one of the minibus taxis that cost 3 rand from the shopping centre by Marie's as I was dropping off some laundry. Or, well, I was dropping off four plastic bags full of the stuff! Walking across the taxi ranks (the entrance to the shopping centre only used by those without cars ie those not white of skin) I felt like a bit of a bag lady, which suits me fine. I don't mind the walking, the carrying, the lugging, or the taking of communal taxis or mini buses crammed with people. Especially if it's only 3 rand one way into town. What I do mind of course is getting into trouble while doing it. But it's so frustrating that you can't have decent public transport in this place. Safe, reliable and so on. If everyone just left their cars behind one day and started taking minibuses and trains, there'd be safety in numbers. But now you're at risk of being singled out. But, said Cousin, taking the minibus to work every now and then at rush hour should be perfectly safe.

Anyway, the bus didn't leave for another half hour so I called a normal taxi. The guy who came turned out to be the same guy who had given me a ride in town the other day. I seem to be providing the core business for half of Cape Town's taxi services!

Cousin's car is still conked out, poor lass, and she towed it yesterday to the garage. They'll see what's up with it today and hopefully she can pick it up this evening. I do hope she gets it sorted. But it's like they say, you buy an old car, you buy - problems.

Serendipity

A serendipitous sequence of events involving among other things Cousin's car breaking down in the Southern Suburbs, me lacking a ride from the V&A Waterfront after dinner with a new friend and a prodigious phonecall from a certain English gentleman from Saturday night just as I was about to call a cab conspired to make me a) late for work today and b) a little distracted. I have a pile of work to get through from last week's conference, but the motivation is just not there. Maybe lunch will sort me out.

I'm looking at a couple of flats in De Waterkant tonight before I go home. And then later on I'll audition for my car rental guy - it's private so I guess I need to get his confidence. HOpe it's a little car. Otherwise parking will be difficult tomorrow morning.

Wednesday is Norway day, and this girl I've been put in touch with (friend of a friend) has invited me to celebrations in Observatory - the boho, studenty neighbourhood. Will see if I can make it, Cousin might want to join, but there is an issue with transportation. She has to tow her car from the suburbs tonight, and then it will be fixed - hopefully. But then, I might have my car then so we can go celebrate Syttynde Mai (or however you spell it).

Laters!

Last night

There’s a patch of sun the size of a large turtle on Cousin’s balcony, and as it shuffles slowly across the tiles I follow, writing this, listening to The Strokes and feeling slightly bored. Today is not a fun-filled day, and without a car there’s not much to do.

Maybe that’s lucky, as last night was a little raucous and this morning heads were sore all round. I met up with two chaps from England that I met at the conference in Pretoria, who had extended their trip to the Cape for a few days hoping to find sea, sun and fun.

Well, they found the latter. Cousin joined us and we headed off to Long Street where the Brits were introduced to the joys of one-quid bottles of lager and (well one of them) flexing his tongue around some complex Swedish expressions (and perhaps the odd flame-haired native).

The weather’s gone bad again. Yesterday the Mountain covered her modesty with thick fog soup. Only her head stuck above the clouds – a striking image from Cousin’s balcony in Century City. Today, she’s exposed in all her glory, but the air is still cool. Now, when I say cool, it means 20 degrees at midday and 14 at night – a decent summer’s day in Europe in other words.

Yesterday morning I took a huge step forward in the process of settling in. I opened a bank account. Cousin wanted to apply for a credit card, and we got up early to beat the queue that always forms on a Saturday. A notice in the waiting area said that after a trial period of being open on Sundays, they had decided to ditch the new service due to a lack of demand. Of course they didn’t get any business, said Cousin. They never told anyone about the Sunday openings, and now the banks have wasted money piloting the scheme, and we have lost all hope of ever having Sunday opening. As Cousin says, however, one trip to the bank is always two trips to the bank. They’re a bit like IKEA in that respect. There’s always a bolt missing.

Sure enough, we ended up not having the right documents with us, so it was back to the flat to pick up Cousin’s lease. I needed proof of address so Cousin got to sign a letter saying that I was staying with her. Still, I now have a bank account! It’s a crap one, with sky-high charges and not a buck of overdraft (which would come in handy right now) but it will do for a while. Then, in three months’ time I’ll be able to upgrade it to a graduate account with a credit card, a personal advisor at the bank and probably a slave or two, I would have thought.

With that, and a little over a week of South Africa under my belt, I think I can sum up what I’ve learned so far. Firstly, any fears of not finding people from other African countries to write for my mag were exaggerated. From the trip to Pretoria, I’ve got plenty of contacts from Daar es Salaam in Tanzania (pronounced Tansay’nia by some people here) to Uganda and beyond. Not journalists, mind, but people who can do unpaid opinion pieces. Which is good, because my freelance budget is not large.

Secondly, in contrast to their arsehole image back home, South Africans are warm and generous, if somewhat whingey. They moan about the weather, any waiting they have to do for more than 15 seconds and having to walk too far from where they’ve parked (anything in excess of 10 metres will be the cause of much sighing and circling of street blocks).

Then, of course there is the race thing. No surprises there, really. There are exceptions, but as a rule the following applies: The whites stand in front of the tills credit card in hand, the coloureds (mixed race Cape dwellers whose community dates back hundreds of years) are behind the tills working, and the black people either work as security guards in the parking lot for 10 rands an hour (minimum wage, around 1 pound) or are having to walk for water in one of the settlements in Khayelitsha or Gughuletu outside town. It certainly makes your morning croissant stick in your throat. I hope I never get used to it.

Now the sun is setting, and it’s so beautiful. I’m meant to be going in to town later on today again, and then I’ll be able to publish this from work. (And that is where I am now, while I'm pushing the publish button. Good night!)

West Cape Boys

Paul and I managed to get back to CT by the skin of our teeth this morning. I set the alarm for an hour later than intended, and he was hung over after drinking beer until the small hours at the hotel last night. I managed to blag my way past the 40 minute check-in queue like it was nothing. Paul was very impressed.

Last night's drinking session (which for me ended at midnight rather than at 3 am) was interesting. The two lads were capetownians born and bred, in their thirties and with young kids at home.

You always get a certain kind of conversation going when there are two guys and a girl having drinks together. On the one hand, they both try to impress you with their antics. And they want to protect you, treat you like a woman. But if you don't play along, they'll gang up against you. Apparently I had been giving them a hard time on issues ranging from strip clubs to game hunting, but I thought I'd been really diplomatic and laissez-faire. I can't wait to have a go at the braii (barbecue) - a traditionally male domain.

Paul was going game fishing this weekend. His friend has a boat which goes out for marlins. Very Hemingway. If the marlins aren't biting, they'll start chumming - with a horse's leg apparently - and start to fish for great whites. The hooks for these monsters are a foot long. But you don't take those fish out of the water, you let them go after you weigh and tag them. A little bit of science, I think. However, he promised to bring me back a tuna steak the size of a dinner table if he caught one.

This weekend it's going to get colder again and rain. I'll try to get myself a car for monday. I drove almost all the way to the Sheraton hotel last night for the conference gala dinner, and even Paul had to admit that I was doing well. I'll be overtaking on the left like the best of them in no time...

Miss you all.

Death in a tin can

I agonised about whether to be honest in this post. But I will. Mum, look away now.

Just drove a 20 min bout across Pretoria to interview this guy. And it was the scariest thing I've ever done in my life.

Reading the map at the same time as trying not to forget to change gears, and getting lost... Man it's good everyone here drives badly.

I stalled at this T-junction that was going onto a very busy road, and nearly ended up in the face of oncoming traffic. And that wasn't even the motorway. The motorway I promised Paul I'd drive him back to the airport on tomorrow...

I think it's just nerves rather than incompetence. And driving a new car - no two are alike I'm discovering.

On the bright side, my reverse parking was spot on, twice, and I've never done that when there have been cars on both sides before. Always something.

Luckily, coming in from Century City where Cousin lives will be really slow as there are massive queues. I can do that, having learned to drive in London. So I'll rent a car of my own from Monday and cross my fingers. Can't get better without practice. And Cape Town driving is more chilled than Pretoria driving, they say.

I sure hope so.

Pretoria part deux

The research-africa.net is working again, praise be. But there's still 100 email-hungry conference delegates battling it out over this one computer, so connectivity is - let's say - a problem. From Friday lunchtime, I'll be back in the Cape.

Pretoria

Fact: The 'Innovation Hub' conference centre in Pretoria has no means for delegates to get online using their own laptops and one - 1 - desktop PC for general use. Needless to say, it's the one I'm hogging.

I'm skiving off from a few sessions at this research managers' conference (a little bit of a yawn, but good for business) to bring you this message of dispair and frustration.

I found out yesterday that my mobile (for no apparent reason) is refusing to accept overseas SMS. So if you've sent me something, consider it disposed of in the giant waste paper bin in the skies. Ok, so maybe I shouldn't buy discounted SIM cards in future. But a SIM is a SIM surely?

Secondly, however, and doubly infuriating, my new email address (that ends in research-africa.net rather than the old ending) is not being forwarded properly to my Outlook. So I've missed god knows how many messages from colleagues, sources, and most distressingly, friends and family.

To be safe in future, send to my old email too...

Pretoria is cold, hardly ten degrees, although the skies are bright blue. In cape town, it's projected to hit 30 degrees today.

Driving to interview a key source tomorrow afternoon, then going back on Friday morning hopefully in time to have Friday afternoon sundowners with my colleagues at the waterfront. That's the life.

De Waterkant

Had a property pep talk with Kate, the interim offfice manager, who also turns out to be the daughter of my boss and the same age as me. She drove me to De Waterkant, the Greenwich Village of Cape Town (yes, and as gay) with super cute rows of houses, sea views and (she said) totally affordable if you know where to look. She told me over a glass of chilled vino bianco about 'hospital bend', the road I should avoid driving on until I get more experienced that leads out of town. It is actually called that because there is a hospital there, rather than from the range of accidents that happen, but let's just say that the hospital was prodigiously located.

I've set my sights and my heart on this little sliver of land between Devil's Peak and the sea now. Screw compounds with swimming pools and gyms - this is the life. Let's hope it can be done.

The Little Northener

Our interim office manager, Kate, tells me that my name - Nordling - in Afrikaans means 'little northern person'.

Room with a view

Yesterday everything went right. Today, everything is going not so right. Yesterday, the plight of finding car, flat, etc seemed a piece of cake. But then I saw a couple of flats today, one that was not nice enough and bang on my target budget, which made me determined to up it a little. Then I saw a flat with the most ridiculous view over the whole bay, with large windows to take it all in. But the flat was too big. The lounge was like a ballroom, with a floor to ceiling mirror at one end. It had something of 1970s bachelor pad over it, which is not quite what I want to emulate.

Well, maybe I can sleep in the office for a while...

As for transport, I had some guy from a garage (don't ask how he got my number) phone me up and start going on about how I was screwed if I didn't have credit records. Ok, so what do I do? He said, build up a paper trail. Get credit rating. But it was the way he said it that made me annoyed. He - as we say in Swedish - painted Satan on the wall. Voice dripping with schadenfreude, he explained that the whole starting up business like a baptism of fire that all expats need to go through before settling and boy did I have some uphill struggles ahead. I didn't need that. Just tell me the best way to get round all the difficulties, and I'll get on with it, thanks.

It's hard to concentrate on 'real' work when everything is so up in the air. Tomorrow I'm going to Pretoria for 3 days, hopefully that will give me space to get some stories and contacts down. I do have a newspaper to set up...

Bandwidth Barn

Yesterday was a good winter day - that means 22 degrees and sunny at noon, but chilly at night. I can live with that.

The good news is that the computer is up and running, the office is great, it's even hotter today (25 degrees and sunny) and the desks have arrived. The bad news - well, they're more 'pending' because there is a lot to do to get settled in, and I'm sure half of it has the potential at least to go wrong.

I drove Cousin's car yesterday. She was brave to let me, I've only ever driven in a dual control car. In total, I reckon I've clocked up about 35 hours behind the wheel - in total! But the roads here are wide and well signposted. And everybody drives like lunatics so at least I'm not the worst driver around. Hopefully I can soon get my own car. And hopefully, it will be younger than I am - in contrast to Cousin's...

Also looked at some flats today. Lovely ones, near Cousin's. The one I liked the best had a south facing balcony, was just opposite the gym/pool complex (which is always empty), two large bedrooms, two bathrooms, an open plan kitchen/living room, on the second floor which is good for safety, and everything completely new. Only problem is drive into town. 10 mins normally, but 30 at rush hour. Will look at similar places in town. Even at the top of the range, they're about half what I paid for my studio flat next door to a strip club in Hackney...

Century City

Century City shopping centre. Food courts and Tommy Hilfiger. A piece of middle America built on a swamp outside Cape Town. A shield as good as any from the reality of 21st century Africa.

Cousin says that here, you can only trust yourself. My new phone number won't send messages to the UK. But it sure takes money off none the less. Can I call anyone to complain about it? I can try, apparently. But I shouldn't hold my breath for a refund.

Last night we went to a party in the southern suburbs. Cousin is driving a spectacularly old red Toyota from the 80s. It's only got one sideview mirror and the radio is locked to this Christian station that preaches abstinence and piety. But the car works, which here is the most important thing.

At the party was this girl, a just-turned-eighteen mother-to-be, half austrian half south african, who was down visiting her sister. She had planned to move back down to South Africa, but the sprog had got in the way. Cape Town was no place to have a baby, she said. Instead she would stay with her parents in Austria and become a kindergarden teacher and read child psychology. With her tiny frame, swollen belly that even at six months still could have passed for puppy fat, long blonde hair and wide blue eyes, she was a nostalgic sight, exuding a sort of effortless optimism for the future.

Gate community

I knew it. There was another security check for SA flights before reaching the gate. Except, as the queue built up to go through, they let half of us pass by unchecked. Best intentions, tempered realities?

I should eat something said the woman selling sandwiches in Costa Coffee. They don't give you food on the flight until after ten. And it's rubbish, by the way, she confided. All the cabin crew eats her sandwiches instead. "Lovely sandwiches!"

In a strong, possibly Iberian accent, she told me about the property boom in South Africa while heating my toastie. "I remember 8 years ago, people were selling one bedroom flats in Spain and buying three- or four bedroom detached houses in Cape Town, with tennis court and pool!"

Would I buy she wondered? I said not to start with. Good she said. You never know what will happen to the economy down there. "It could become Zimbabwe. The black people HATE the whites. They hate them! And here, England is becoming black. They come here, 15,000 come from Eastern Europe to not even work. Just live on benefits. No other country like this. France, Germany, they all say no. But we say, come! I don't understand."

"Nor do I," I said.

Friday night at Heathrow

Heathrow on a Friday night is as calm as I've ever seen it. Except maybe that time I flew back to Sweden on Boxing Day. There were carols by the Clinique stand. No carols tonight, only Beyonce shaking her assets in Dixons.

There was a South African Airlines fast track in security. I asked the attendant why, and held him up, thus making it into a not-so-fast track. "From now on it's all South Africa" I think he said, finally. The unusually thorough body search at the end of the fast track told another story, however. One smelling of knives and guns - but that's probably just my superstitions talking.

Right, boarding time, apparently - a whopping hour and a half before departure. Hmmm... I paid 5 quid for an hour's Internet on this wi-fi thing. Maybe I'll be back at the gate. But first, I need to go buy a creme egg. For England!

Today programmes and leaving drinks

One last dip into the UK science policy pond before I went - this afternoon I was interviewed foor BBC4's Today programme (www.bbc.co.uk/today) about Gordon Brown and his penchant for science in his spending plans. Interesting story, although the journalist was very keen to be told that the Treasury is hijacking the science budget - which is a matter of opinion.

Can't say I'm a natural at broadcast media. It's difficult not to be the one holding the mike for a change. Newfound admiration for those who do it well. The programme is not going to go out for a while, but when it does I will post the link here. If nothing else, it was a nice epilogue to my three years reporting on UK science and politics. And hopefully it will remind some key people of my existence.

I'm leaving tomorrow, at 7.30 pm, from Heathrow. Tonight is a final leaving drinks for friends and contacts. A sad night to be sure. It's nice and warm in London - probably just about the same as Cape Town at the moment. However, there is getting cooler, and here is getting hotter. Break point.

The story so far

My name is Linda and I'm a jornalist trained in the UK. The story so far is that I'm moving to Cape Town to set up a magazine about science, and the way it's funded, in Africa.

This blog, however, will not be about that. It will be about the trials and tribulations of moving, of African publiishing, the culture shocks, the misunderstandings, the uplifting insights and the down days. It will be about the ups and downs of setting up a publication in a place as diverse, as challenging, and as full of potential as Africa.

If I know you, or even if I don't, please feel free to post comments or just say hello.

Anyway, this is my story.