A year in reflection

My my, what a year it’s been. And I, for one, am glad it’s just about over. Here are a few hi/lo lights from the past 11 months.

·         I was admitted to hospital twice this year. Yip, twice. In June my eye infection got so bad that my ophthalmologist wanted a CT scan. It’s one of those pricey scans that is mostly covered by medical aid, if you’re admitted to hospital. So I booked in on a Friday and expected to be discharged on the Saturday. But the admitting doctor decided that a high dose of cortisone was necessary and only let me out on the Monday. I was booked off work for the rest of the week. Then in August my gall bladder decided it was no longer happy with the accommodation I was providing – it wanted out. Again, I was booked into Wilgeheuwel on the Friday, had my first operation in 25 years on the Saturday and was released on the Monday. Again, I was booked off work for the rest of the week.

·         L-Sis joined A-Sis in England. This one was bitter sweet; it was something she wanted desperately and she worked hard to achieve it, so I am really happy for her. And I am enjoying having my parents to myself for a while. But I do miss her.

·         Four grandmothers died this year; one of them was mine. One husband (not mine) lost his life in a motorbike accident, and one step father (also not mine) was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It’s been a long time since I’ve had so many friends deal with death.

·         I discovered a love of waterfalls, thanks to a trip to the Augrabies falls in March. It was mesmerising and soul-restoring to watch the water swirl over and around the rocks, and the roar as it rushed past drowned out even that little voice in my head that has a tendency to be negative and annoying. I got a second chance to fill my soul with the sights and sounds of falling water last month when I visited Karkloof Spa.

·         I put a hard-learned life lesson into practice. It’s one of those scary lessons where my every instinct rebels against it, even though those instincts have led to disaster in the past. But I know better now and even though it takes me forever to action, the results so far have been positive.

 

·         I joined the iWorld. Thanks to Dad, I now have an iPhone and an iPad and I’m thoroughly enjoying them. I am guarding both neurotically since they are expensive to replace and the possibility of upgrading either will only come in two years when Dad potentially gets his new devices.

·         I won two competitions – a pair of sunglasses from Car magazine, and a Balm Balm mini facial kit from my favourite blog, Living Lionheart.

·         I completed two organised walks – 8km in the 702 Walk the Talk and 5km in the Avon Breast Cancer walk. Yes, I was completely exhausted after both, but it felt good to accomplish something.

·         Six babies (none of them mine) were born this year. There was possibly something in the office water cooler and people were freely imbibing. There are two more due just before Christmas – twin girls to a first-time-mommy colleague.

·         I discovered the joys of cooking. My baking is better – because the recipes are specific – but I enjoy cooking slightly more, even though there is a lot of guesstimating. But I feel that if I had to, I could feed a family a decent meal three or four nights a week. The rest of the week they’d probably get toasted sarmies or chicken nuggets.

·         I grew my hair this year. I cut it short when I was 16 and rather liked it. But I got lazy about visiting the hair dresser and it turns out that most people think I should keep it longer. Not sure I love it, but it is pretty hassle free, so it’ll stay, for now.

2012 has been a tough year for me – emotionally draining, stressful and often disappointing. So, here’s to a wonderful new year filled with all the good stuff.

Let's talk weather

Joburg’s had what most people call kak weather over the past few days. Personally, I love the grey skies, chilly winds and falling rain. And yesterday, I figured out why. When the weather gets like that, you have every right to feel cold, to bundle up in a jersey and snuggle with a blanket in front of the TV with a cup of hot coffee.

African winters, while definitely lacking in warmth, don’t allow me to feel justifiably cold. For heaven’s sake, the sun is shining and there’s barely ever a cloud in the sky. How can people complain about being cold and be taken seriously?

And here’s the best thing about overcast, rainy summer days – the weather finds that perfect balance between hot and cold. I can wear my jeans and divine pink Levi takkies, and perhaps a jersey. I don’t have to pile on the layers to keep warm. That’s why European winters soon lose their charm.

The downside to this weather is that I’m completely unproductive with the house work. I did no washing – cos it’s not going to dry – and only did the dishes when I ran out of clean utensils. All I really feel like doing when the skies cloud over and the rain starts to fall is sit in a chair and watch the weather.

So for the sake of my productivity, I welcome back the scorching sun and clear skies.

Being an introvert sucks sometimes

I’m an introvert, in the psychological sense of the word, not the ignorant, uninformed sense of the word. Most people, who are extraverts BTW, think introverts are shy, rude and stuck-up. In actual fact, it’s more that I’m comfortable in my own company and feel overwhelmed by the energy created by large groups of people.

I don’t enjoy crowds and prefer one-on-one conversations over trying to get a word in edge ways in a group. I'm uncomfortable in social gatherings so I tend to find myself a quiet corner from which to observe a party. I have no issues with people approaching me to talk, but I’ll never be the one to go up to a stranger and strike up a conversation. I have a small group of friends, all of whom I love deeply, and a small group of situational friends – colleagues mostly.

Considering that introverts make up, at most, 25% of the world’s population, the world is naturally more geared to an extravert personality. Clubs, pubs, open plan offices, sporting events – mostly they exist to fulfil the extraverts need to recharge, by feeding off the energy of others. Introverts, who recharge by withdrawing into themselves, find these situations completely draining.

For the most part, I’m content with being an introvert. I enjoy solitary activities like embroidery, paper crafts and reading and I spend quality time with favourite people to keep from getting lonely. If I need a change, I go to a restaurant or coffee shop and let other people’s energy wash over me as I submerge myself in a good book.

But every now and then, like last Friday, I just want to be like everyone else. I want to want to get dressed up and party at a club. I want to look forward to attending a work function, since I get invited to so many of them. I want to want to go out and have the kind of mindless fun that the rest of the world enjoys. I want to want to be a little more frivolous. As hard as I try, I just can’t make myself actually want these things. Even when I decide that I’m going to have fun at a social gathering, and psych myself for it by playing my favourite upbeat music in the car, ten minutes after arriving at said event, I’ve had enough and just want to go home.

My desperation reached an all-time high on Friday – I actually considered taking drugs to release myself from this introverted prison. It was only a fleeting thought; the control freak in me wouldn’t stand for that kind of recklessness. But it did help me understand why some people take drugs – to switch off their brains and just fit in for a while.

A-Friend sent me a link to a piece debunking some of the myths surrounding introverts a while ago. The first time I read it, it helped me feel less of an outcast. I reread it every few months, when I’m railing against the short comings of my DNA, because introversion isn't just state of mind, it is actually a biological part of a person. I suspect there’ll be daily readings for the next week or so, until this desire to be different passes.

Dirty Dancing: a review

It took me six weeks to deliver on Mom’s birthday present. She wanted to see Dirty Dancing, with me, so we went to Montecasino last night for the performance.

I was always hesitant about it; I love the movie and I know how changing the format of a story can ruin the original, and all the good feelings that become associated with it. But, my view on birthdays (it’s the one day a year you are entitled to be completely selfish) meant that I bought us tickets and was mildly enthusiastic throughout.

The stage production didn’t ruin the film for me, but that doesn’t mean it was particularly good either.

Although a script written for the stage can be masterfully altered into a film, the opposite really isn’t true. On the plus side, the sets were well done, the costumes authentic and the dancing entertaining (but I’m sure a professional ballroom dancer would find fault somewhere).  And aside from two scenes that were invented to keep the storyline going and give mother Marge (she was rather good) some decent stage time, the script was pretty close to the original. Oh, and sister Lisa’s hula scene was brilliant.

What let the whole thing down was the acting. I assume to get a bit of audience reaction they tried to make it funny in places. It got laughs, but really wasn’t in keeping with the tone with the original story. With the exception of two actors, the American accent was atrocious. At one point Dr Houseman spoke with a British accent!

I know the character isn’t a softy, but in the movie Johnny had some really tender, and some really angst-filled, moments with Baby. But the guy I saw last night displayed one emotion – gruff. I suspect this was because he was concentrating so hard on his accent. And no one, other than Patrick Swayze, can deliver the line “No one puts baby in the corner” without sounding like an idiot.

Baby tried too hard to be funny, and it spoilt the mood. For what is supposed to be a serious love story, it was disconcerting to have people laughing, usually when I’d just managed to forget I was in a room with about 500 other people.

Perhaps I’ve been spoilt by the superior acting ability of Hollywood, perhaps I’m a giant snob, but I always seem to expect more from the actors and actresses who grace our stages than what is delivered.

It wasn’t a waste of money, but if you’re planning to see it, here’s my advice:

1: Don’t watch the movie before you go. You’ll either come away completely disappointed in the show or hating the film. And give the show a few months to work itself  from your short term memory before popping in the DVD.

2: Buy the cheapest tickets – there’s no need to throw money away.

3: Use it as a girl’s night outing; have a couple glasses of wine before and practice your wolf whistles for the shirtless scenes. The scene with Johnny in his boxers could use a whistle too.

A test of patience

Coming up for three years ago, I was gifted this beautiful cross stitch project created from a piece of art by Marjorie Sarnat. There are about a million teeny tiny stitches using 90 different colour cottons, some of which are barely distinguishable from others. Okay, I might be over exaggerating about the million stitches. It might be more like 100,000, but it feels like more. And considering the number of stitches I have already, and predict I will in the future, unpicked and redone, it might not be far off a million when I’m done.

I will finish it. It’s too beautiful not to finish. I want to frame it when it’s done, and hang it on a wall. I don’t frame cross stitches normally, mostly because nothing I’ve done so far has been worth it.

So far, this is what I’ve done.

If you tilt your head side ways (because I couldn't figure out how to rotate the image) you can see the one ear and two of the three blue triangles on the cat’s head. There’s still a long way to go, and it might take a decade before I’m ready to frame it – cross stitch is a very slow art form, but I have to buy at least another 40 skeins of cotton, which isn’t cheap.

I’ll post another pic in a couple months time, maybe after the Christmas holidays (which is only six weeks away J), hopefully with many, many more stitches in place.

UPDATE (10/2015): While I haven't given up on this project, it has stagnated at this point

Still got a long way to go, but I'm not rushing this, or forcing myself to work on it for fear of hating it.

The problem with payday

If you thought payday couldn’t possibly have a downside, I’ve got news for you. It’s a problem I only caught on to this month as I merrily clicked the pay button on a website to download a new audiobook.

Here’s the problem: Payday makes you think you have money you don’t really have. Makes you think, for a fleeting moment, that you can finally buy those things you’ve had your heart set on for the last four weeks.

Like most South Africans, my budget is tight. I toil hard each month to keep a roof over my head and a car filled with petrol in my parking spot. I pay back debt, make sure my medical aid and insurance get their monthly instalment, fill my freezer and then have to choose between things like a new pair of shoes/pants, a haircut, breakfast with a friend, buying something for the house, spoiling my favourite kids, buying birthday/Christmas/other special occasion pressies – basically anything that’s not covered by a debit order or automated payment just after payday. There’s usually enough money for two, maybe three, extras. And a payday pizza, of course.

I’m terrible with money – when I have it, I want to spend it. So payday has become one of my best and worst days rolled into one. The payday euphoria makes me think I can have all the things I want, because I have money in the bank, but the bitch slap of reality reminds me that if I want to eat (hell yes) and get around (yes again) for the rest of the month, I can’t shop willy nilly.

So, essentially, there’s no euphoria around payday. All it’s come to mean is that I can refill the empty freezer, which is a necessary thing for sure. But my dreams of living like a modern day celebrity are dashed with every SMS that says money is leaving my account to pay for the privilege of a middle class existence.

To make things a little less bleak, I'm going to plan, carefully, the things I want to do with that little bit of left over salary – the enjoyment of anticipation. And every now and then, I throw common sense into the wind and spend money with a slight irresponsibility that has me begging dinners at my parents.  

Have I got your Pinterest?

As far as social networks go, I’m pretty pathetic. I subscribe to Facebook, because so many of my friends are on it. Marketing companies worldwide will be quivering in their fashionable boots when they find out that I hate corporate Facebook pages. The only reason I’ll like a page is to win something really cool, and the minute the competition is closed, I unlike it. Because I really don’t want to be bombarded with information on how awesome Doritos are. And if I’m being honest, the competitions these days aren’t exciting enough for me to risk the purity of my Facebook page.

Since inheriting an iPhone, I subscribed to Instagram. It’s a concession I made to stay in touch with the family members who don’t want to Facebook. Not that they’re all particularly active here, but I make an effort. And I do actually enjoy it.

I don’t see the point of Twitter, when I’m already on Facebook. I really couldn’t give a continental flying fox about what celebrities have to tell the world. Anything important will make its way to the news, so I don’t think I’m missing anything there.

This is the extent of my knowledge of social networks, so I’m sure I’m missing a few gems.

One site I’ve discovered and have found to be worth a mention is Pinterest – if used the way I think it should.

With two sisters overseas, I went to check out their Pinterest profiles to get some ideas for birthday and Christmas presents. It doesn’t get easier to buy for at least one of them (L-sis has only expensive tastes, but thankfully she’s not all that hard to buy for) when all I have to do is click on a pic that redirects me to the site where I can purchase said item (most of the time). For the first time in pretty much forever, I’ve been able to buy A-sis a birthday and a Christmas present that I’m fairly sure she’ll like (without giving my mom a budget and having her buy something), since they were on her I Wish I Had board. It also means I don’t have to worry about getting the stuff to her as things are delivered directly to her. Sure, they’ll lack the pretty packaging, but I don’t think that matters overly much in the grand scheme of things.

I don’t foresee me signing up for this site, but it’s given me an idea for photographic wish list on Instagram.

* I did sign up for Pinterest, and I love it! So many hours spent looking at cute animals or recipes I know I'll never try.

Change is here

Last October, I went to see a psychic. She came highly recommended by S-Friend and although I’d wanted to see her on previous occasions, it just never happened. But over breakfast on a Saturday morning, with a whole week of leave on the horizon, S-Friend suggested I see this psychic and something just clicked.

She predicted many things, like needing minor abdominal surgery (hello emergency lap coli) and much travel. But the most interesting was the prediction was that I wouldn’t recognise myself in a years’ time. Admittedly, she didn’t say whether the change would be good or bad, but I just assumed it was for the better.

Since I’m coming up to the anniversary of the visit, I’ve been looking for the change. I still see the same chubby face in the mirror when I brush my teeth and my clothes all still fit, so the change hasn’t been physical. This morning, though, a change dawned on me as I lay in bed procrastinating getting out of it.

The back story goes like this: I’ve always maintained that I’ll never have kids. I never thought it fair to pass on my undesirable (in my eyes) genes and pregnancy completely grosses me out. I tend to be pretty selfish, so I didn’t want to have to share my space and time with a screaming infant. There were always many, many reasons. Ten years ago I was adamant that I would never procreate.

Then I turned thirty. No, there was no sudden ticking of my biological clock, no jumping uterus every time I saw someone else’s screaming infant, no overwhelming desire to steal babies away from their mothers. But there was this thought that if I did happen to find myself with child, I would cope.  Not that it was likely to happen – I am perpetually single and not all that unhappy, yet – but if it did happen, I wouldn’t be upset. I decided that I wouldn’t go to great lengths to fall pregnant – IVF etc – but if it happened while I wasn’t paying attention, that would be ok.

But this morning, out of the blue, came the thought that I might actually like to have kids. Note the plural, as in more than one, because I think it’s important to have at least one sibling. Don’t know how I’ll cope with being pregnant. The thought of this thing growing inside me is completely appalling. Maybe they can put me into a medically induced coma for nine months and wake me up once its been cleaned up and is cute.

It might not sound like a huge thing to you, but for me it’s equivalent to Neil Armstrong landing on the moon. I’m not rushing out to find a sperm donor, and I still doubt I’ll agree to major medical intervention if it doesn’t happen naturally. I’m holding out for the nuclear family – a husband before kids – for now. But who knows, the clock might start ticking before that happens.

 

So, the change has become noticeable. It has me excited and apprehensive about what else is going to change. And a little sad at the gradual passing of the old me. I was rather fond of that girl.

 

Don't abuse the exclamation mark!

One of my greatest bug bears is the use, or rather abuse, of the exclamation mark. I cannot believe that so many people are that excited about life.

‘Same here!’, ‘So cute!’ and ‘Me too!’ are acceptable, occasionally.

But are ‘He loves the company!’, ‘Amazing!!!!’, ‘They are little cup cakes! Baby ones!’ and ‘Took it to school today!’ really necessary? These are real life examples and they drive me nuts!

In this day and age of emoticons to convey your pleasure (or a host of other emotions) at a statement, do we really need to resort to shouting every time we communicate? Because, traditionally, that’s what an exclamation mark means – a raised voice, or a vehement command (according to Collins). So, in the example of the cupcakes, what’s really being communicated is that ‘They are little cupcakes, dammit. Freaking baby ones. How many more ways can I say this to make you understand that they are not regular sized cupcakes?

I know she didn't mean it like that – she was excited to tell the world that she had made little cupcakes – but it’s how it reads to me.

For those of you who just love to pepper your writing with these little darlings, I want you to think of them as an endangered species. There are only a few thousand exclamation marks roaming the wilds and no captive breeding programme has been successful in increasing their numbers. So every time you use one, you rip a poor little mark out of the wild and reduce the population. And soon there will no more exclamation marks left, which means that children will never be told to "Stop it right now!" No woman will experience her heart beating like a bongo drum at Mr Swoon-worthy’s marriage proposal!

Please, please, join my cause to save the exclamation mark from abuse and eventual extinction. Think carefully before taking a poor mark away from its loving family. And when you douse it, for we all know that it’s going to happen, make sure it’s a worthwhile move.

I am The House Sitter

About once a year, my parents vacation overseas for a few weeks. Last year it was South America; the year before it was China and Japan. This year, it’s a cruise up the Baltic – Norway, Russia, Estonia. No, I’m not jealous at all. Never in my life have I wanted to visit Russia. If they go to Alaska or Canada next year, I might just stop speaking to them for a while.

But that’s not the point of this post. The point of this post is…

To avoid putting the animals into kennels, I usually house sit for them.  Their large family home in an upper class northern suburb, bought when there were five people living under one roof, is the complete opposite of my tiny shoebox town house. You’d think I’d relish all the space and the luxury of a home kitted out with all the modern conveniences, and I do.

It’s an absolute treat having a sprawling private garden in which to stroll.

It’s a marvellous thing to be able to hang my washing outside instead of on a clothes horse in the kitchen.

I’m so close to work. It takes about 20 minutes to get to the office in the morning and no more than 15 to get home in the afternoon. It’s a huge petrol saving too.

 I love having unhindered access to DSTV and the Internet.

And the kitchen has so many appliances and gadgets I hardly know where to start when preparing a meal. There are so many pots, pans, dishes, knives and forks that I only have to run the dishwasher about once a week to avoid running out of clean utensils.

But staying here has given me new appreciation for my shoebox.

I can watch TV from the lounge, kitchen and bathroom without missing a thing.

A single heater keeps the chill out of the air in winter. Although, this winter, I’ve vowed not to turn it on at all. Will rough it with a couple extra blankets and perhaps a beanie.

Without moving a single step I can cook on the stove, wash the dishes and then pack them away. Okay, perhaps there are a few steps involved, but not many.

And when I have to clean, it can all be done in about an hour and half, if I’m moderately thorough.

So, I’ll enjoy all the perks of house sitting while it lasts, but I can’t say I’ll be sad to go home when the time finally comes.

Time to fix me

For those of you who’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that I’ve been battling with an eye infection for almost two years. Yup, I’m such a good hostess that the little nasties don’t want to leave. They stick around through concerted efforts on my part to eradicate them with cortizone and other drugs.

The last round of drugs included four weeks of cortizone and about as many weeks of anti-inflammatory pills. It’s left me an unholy mess (and my medical aid struggling to stagger across the finish line). I’m not sleeping well, although I suspect that can be partly blamed on stress. I’m always tired and lethargic. I’m cranky and prone to bouts of weeping with or without apparent reason – again, partly stress related.

My dearest mom suggested I make an appointment with a homeopath and see if there wasn’t some way to put things back in balance after all the prescriptions I’ve filled over the last six weeks. Sounded like a good idea, so I made myself an appointment with a lady in Lonehill. And what an interesting appointment it was.

I sat perfectly still for sixty seconds while her little electromagnetic box scanned my insides. Aside from the physical stuff, it told her that my creativity and intuition are really strong and that I’d had a really bad day the previous day. I’m also emotionally stable; she wouldn’t have said that if she’d seen me about 18 hours earlier, yelling at the only thing in my house - fresh air - and fighting back tears. That little box knows more than it lets on.

Basically, all my problems, she says, can be blamed on an under active thyroid and bad eating habits. Who knew? Ok, I knew about bad eating habits, but I never had the energy to care much. The eye infection, the lethargy, the depression, the irritable bowel (apologies for TMI), the weight – all thanks to a lazy thyroid that no doctor had ever thought to check. Or, if they did, they couldn’t find any irregularities.

I left her office with a programme that should deliver a swift kick up my thyroid’s pants and an eating plan THAT DOESN’T INCLUDE COFFEE. Kill me now. Considering my next option is to crawl into a hole and just give up, I’m all for this plan. I’m going to drink water until my eye balls float and my kidneys go on strike. I’m going suck down meal replacement shakes and other supplements with a smile. I’m going to walk holes in the soles of my Reeboks. And probably inflict physical violence on anyone who brings coffee within smelling distance. I’m giving it eight weeks. If there’s no indication that it’s going to work after eight friggin weeks, I’ll start looking for that hole.

How to plan a media trip

When you, the PR wunderkind, take media away on a paid trip, you’re aiming to get in as much sightseeing and as many introductions as you can – I get this. But to make your trip enjoyable and worthy of a good story, you need to keep in mind that journalists are human beings, far from the comforts of home and representing their publication for all the hours they’re not sleeping. And all of this is stressful.

To make your next media trip a raving success, here are few pointers from someone whose been on a few good, and a few really bad, ones.

1: Give your guests time to freshen up after their flight. This is especially necessary if the destination’s climate is different from their point of origin. Besides, having to rise early, lug baggage through an airport, share recycled plane air with a multitude of people in varying degrees of health and eat often questionable airplane food all take their toll and an hour or so at the first hotel is a great relief to the travel weary.

2: Journos have to be on their best behaviour throughout the trip, which is tiring. Unlike the average eight-hour work day, travelling journos have to watch what they say and do from the moment they step out of their room until the moment they greet their hotel door again. Trust me when I say this is exhausting. More so for the introverts, who became writers to be able to spend much of their time in their own company. But even the extroverts will start to flag after a couple of days. So, schedule at least one time-out every day. Time when your guests can catch a few zzzs at the hotel, or even be left to their own devices in town – an hour when they can pretend to be tourists and actually enjoy it at their own speed. The longer the trip, the longer the time-outs should be.

3: Pick your outings carefully. When you plan a media trip, you no doubt want your destination to get rave reviews. But how is this possible when you race from one activity to another? We journos really, really want to write a stunning article and mean all the things we say, not just pay lip service. To do this, we need time to enjoy the sites, cuisine and hospitality. Instead of trying to cram 10 things into a day, cut it down to the best three  and allow us time to pretend that we’re on holiday. And if you choose carefully you can plan a route that doesn’t have a poor driver schlepping from one end of the city to the other multiple times a day.

4: Don’t schedule compulsory late night or early morning activities. Have dinner earlyish – around 19h00 – and allow people to retire as soon as they’re ready. Better yet, offer the option of room service. Often, back in her room, a journo is writing up pieces or downloading pics. Just because we’re out of the office doesn’t mean we’re allowed to ignore the emails or the crises that pop up while we’re away.  Which shortens sleeping time. Which shortens tempers and patience. It’s a vicious cycle that can be avoided altogether.

5: Most people eat more than three meals a day. Not full meals, sure, but there’s usually a mid-morning and a mid-afternoon snack. It would be extremely thoughtful of you to work these into your plan. If it’s not possible, stash* makes a completely acceptable alternative. If your budget doesn’t stretch past three meals, make a point of visiting places for us to buy our own snacks. Unfettered access to drinks is a must though – even if it’s just water.

6: When typing up your itinerary, be as specific as possible with regards to dress codes. Personally, if I don’t have to pack a smart outfit, I won’t. But I will if I’m unsure about the activities. And something else is sacrificed to make room for an often unnecessary outfit and extra pair of shoes. And that something usually turns out to be the one thing I would have found most useful. If the accommodation has a website, include this so that we can get a sneak peak at what’s in store – it can help with packing.

7: If you’re planning any unusual activities, make sure to state it upfront. If you’re planning anything for which you’re supplying clothing of some sort, ask what size your guest is – not all of us fit into regular sizes and it’s rather embarrassing having someone run around looking for a larger size, or trying squeeze yourself into a spa gown that just won’t close. If you know in advance, you can organise the right size, or if that’s not possible, ask them to bring their own.

*Stash is a Kennedy travel must. It's our term for sweeties and other nibbles that can be bought once off and eaten throughout a trip. Biltong, nuts, dried fruit, chips, crunchies, biscuits and chocolates are all good.