Move to Tula Cottage

Move to Tula Cottage - 18th September 2012

I moved into my new home a couple of weeks ago, just before the rains came. I had been sharing Tula House with two young women who work on the project, but the time came for me to move into my own space, where I could make phone calls and noise that wouldn’t disturb my housemate, and not be disturbed by her noise.

And so Tula Cottage came free. It had been renovated for the Leadership Academy, with a new concrete floor and fresh lick of cream coloured paint, a jaunty piece of dark orange sailcloth sheltering the stoep from the merciless sun. Tula Cottage has no water, gas or electricity, but it has a beautiful view of the savannah and I see animals daily – the enormous majestic eland, gaggles of busy guinea fowl, warthog, impala, nyala, many nervous wildebeest. Last night the lions roared so loudly, in a place nearby that is a bowl and creates an echo, I felt like they were in the front garden.

I was a bit nervous when I moved in – it felt a bit remote and cut off, and I was hyperalert the first few nights. Poor J, the Head of Operations – on about my fourth night I woke with a terrible start at the sound of a loud, clear voice calling out, “Hello!!” It was so distinct, I woke up with my palms in a sweat, rigid with fear that a strange man might be outside, and how would I defend myself? There are no bars on the windows, he need just break a pane and he’d be in. What would I do? I sat frozen in bed for about four minutes, and then picked up the two way radio and woke J. Poor guy – he came out straight away and searched the area for tracks, of which he found none, and surmised a while later that I had heard the death cry of a wildebeest that the lions had just killed. I felt fairly embarrassed, which continued in the morning when two of the rangers were set to scanning the area on foot for tracks and didn’t find any. L and J were very kind and assured me that it was “better to be safe than sorry.”

I realised how very highly strung I am. I honestly hadn’t thought much of my alertness, but clearly, I am quite a worrier, as my beloved points out.

My nerves somewhat calmed but the realisation of my hyperalertness, I slept deeply the next night, until I woke to the distinctive sounds of a mouse skirtching and scratching around – a plastic bag, in the books, across the grass mat. I was tired – really needed to sleep, so asked the mouse to please be quiet. This had absolutely no effect, so I lit candles and shone my torch around – to which the mouse predictably disappeared, stood still and held his breath. Lights out, head down, sleep approached. Skritch skirtch, scratch, plastic bag, paper … I jerked up profoundly irritated to be woken. Torch on, blazing into the tiny area that is my hut. “Mouse,” I called out loudly, “you and I cannot live together. You are far too noisy and I need to SLEEP!” I boomed out, unnecessary tyrant. Lights out, a call to sleep, and the mouse resumed. I realised my bad temper and loud vocalising meant nothing to the mouse, so I let him know that Gorgeous, our fine and brilliant mouse catching cat, would be coming by in the next few days so he would have to make a choice – get eaten by her or move into the garage. The four handsome lizards living in the ceiling watched on without moving, letting a few droppings fall as the time went by.

Eventually I thought “fuck it” and found my earplugs, admonishing the mouse for ruining my night and threatening him with Gorgeous one more time for good measure.

I slept fitfully, right through my alarm and had to speed up my morning coming to consciousness to get to the office.

At the end of the day I came home to the cottage, opened the door an inhaled the wonderful smell of the thatched roof, one of my favourite smells in the world, and went to collapse on the bed. There, on the bedside table, were the remains of the orange earplugs – shredded into tiny pieces and stacked into two tiny mounds – one on the table and one under my pillow. Not eaten, but nibbled to death. I burst out laughing – Mouse: 1, me: 0. What a hilarious clear message the mouse had sent me.

That night he happily scratched and scratched away, and I spoke to him more kindly, still asking him to be quiet and move out, and also reminding him about Gorgeous.

The next day I had to get Gorgeous on board. I adore her and relish any time I can spend with her. Gorgeous has spent a night with me when I absolutely needed her magnificent protection, a night when dark forces were coming my way and she stayed absolutely still right next to my head, and I had a dreamless night, whilst all around me had nightmares and did battle with opposition.  I thanked her sincerely and profusely every time I saw her, and we became close friends. So I found her in the garden on a sunny spring day and told her, thinking pictures in my mind, that I now lived in the cottage and I would love for her to visit me. Also, I told her I had a mouse that was keeping me awake, and asked her to please come and do her work and rid my sanctuary of the noisy little creature.

I called her to walk with me to the cottage, and she gingerly came halfway, at which point she spotted Max the Labrador from the next door camp and practically made herself invisible with speed back to Tula House.

But, about five nights later, I came back to the cottage and saw a figure – it was gorgeous come to visit me! She happily rolled on her back in the dirt and I poured my love all over her, and invited her inside. She strode in, tail erect and did a full patrol of the perimeter, under the bed, the stacks of books on the floor waiting for their bookshelf. She gazed intently at the lizards in the roof for a while, and then I invited her onto the bed where she melted into a session of stroking, chatting and general loving.

And now, touch wood, the mouse has moved out, I imagine he smelled Gorgeous and decided to vacate before she found him. Sorry little mouse, you are so tiny and actually very pretty, but we can’t live together, not in this little cottage.

All my relations.