Why the recession may be the best career enhancer possible

It's human nature to believe the grass is greener over the fence. Particularly when it comes to jobs, and most especially when you're in marketing and communications. Because of what we do and the exposure we have, we always tend to see more problems than does the average employee, and thus always imagine that our colleagues in other companies have things much better.

Thus I was both shocked and deeply honoured when a colleague at Accenture asked me to speak at a meeting of their marketing communications team. I have always held them up as a paragon of marketing, and couldn't figure out what I could actually tell them. But it turned out our problems are not so different, and my experiences seemed to resonate.

So here comes one of those rare blog entries in which I actually talk about my job.

I have been a crisis magnet in my professional life. From joining the world's largest defence contractor the year the Berlin wall came down to signing on with the UK's largest telecoms and IT specialist PR agency just before the .com crash, I have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And as nice as a quiet life may be, what I told this group was: What doesn't kill you really does make you stronger. We should all actually give thanks we're living through the biggest financial trauma in a lifetime, because those who make it out the other side will be sharpened, toughened and generally much better at what they do than they could have ever become in soft and happy times.

Survival, however, is challenging. Especially in marketing and communications functions that are often the first to feel the axe. How to hang on? These were my four top tips.

Be better value than others

In a big corporation, rising up the ranks often means doing less as you oversee more. Never lose your practical skills and your ability to roll up your sleeves and actually do the job. I define the basics of marketing communication as the ability to be the intermediary between the business and the public; the ability to be a thorough and pesky reporter; and the ability to write well. Beyond that, we should all constantly be looking for new skills to add to our portfolio. In this way, when teams start shrinking, you're the logical one to stay.

You can manage and do. You're cheaper than an agency, but can deliver most of the same stuff. You can interface with executives, but drop back to the coal face to deliver the basics. That makes you great value for money. It may not be glamorous (and, in fact, there are many of us in this recession who've fallen back to doing jobs we did a decade ago) but you'll stay employed and win the respect of your management. You might even have fun. There's a joy in the tactical production of communication activity that's never going to be matched by meetings, spreadsheets and corporate politics.

Take advantage of change

A crisis is actually a great time to try new things. I find that companies are actually much more open to risk in tough times. I'm currently fronting a web-based television show that I never would have done in fully funded days; we would have insisted on a "professional" presenter. I'm now not only having a great time, but saving bucket loads of money. (If you have any interest in enterprise IT, go to You Tube and search for me, and you'll see what I mean.)

A decade ago as another employer was going through tough times, I realised what we needed was a "Do It Yourself Toolkit" so that the few, and often unskilled, team members left in communications after mass job cuts would have a clear guide to how to do the tasks required. This turned into an award-winning initiative, and something I sold to other companies when I went to the agency side. Again, something simple and pragmatic that wouldn't have been attempted in fat and happy times. There are always opportunities for clever people to benefit from a crisis. You just have to find them.

Think like a business person, not a communicator

It's easy for communications people to talk themselves into an ivory tower. We are the guardians of reputation, brokers of objectivity, creators of stories that go beyond the mundane details of daily business. All true. But if we don't temper that idealism with the cold, hard fact that we exist to help sell stuff ... we're signing our own death warrant.

Consider yourself part of the sales force. Hold the sales guys' hands. Work directly with customers whenever you can. This doesn't mean you should abandon subtlety and big picture, merely that you need to temper it with reality. Some of the best work I've done at my current company has involved packaging marketing activities for the sales force. We'd publish a media partnership, then I'd provide sales with very specific instructions of what to do with it. Down to writing the letter for them to forward to their customers, and providing the cheat sheet they can use at the customer conversation to link the editorial to what we have to sell.

Being a business person means thinking about the bottom line. We're all used to arguing that marketing communications needs to be well funded to make an impact. But if the business is going through challenging times, is that a fair argument? If your personal finances are skint, do you splash out on new clothes and parties? No, probably not. You find a way to stretch what you have. That's what a good business person does with communications in tough times.

Most importantly, you have the courage of your convictions with executives. Communications people have a long tradition of being biddable, friendly team players who do whatever it takes to make the senior executives happy. (Perhaps a consequence of a field that was once dominated by nice girls doing a few years' work before marriage and children?) Giving people everything they want is never a recipe for long term success. You need to do what's right for the business. And if sometimes that means disagreeing with a senior executive ... you have to do it. In the long run, you'll get more respect and be considered more valuable.

Always have an escape path
Hopefully, you'll never have to use it. But it's madness not to always have the CV fresh, connections running across the marketplace and an eye open for new possibilities. You never know when the axe will fall, the company will be acquired or a new boss will decide to swap out the team. Being unemployed through no fault of your own is a reality of the modern world, you need to be ready for it.

I've worked for several very large corporations, all of which have featured "lifers" who've never worked anywhere else, and have gotten so comfortable ... and typecast ... in their companies that they were virtually unemployable anywhere else. I remember watching a 30-year veteran of McDonnell Douglas, a very senior executive, weeping in public when he lost his job and wondered who would hire a 50-something man with no diversity of experience. I vowed this would never happen to me.

Network like mad. Always stay aware of what's going on in other companies. This is where agencies can be particularly useful. Never turn down a head hunter's call. Always keep that CV up to date.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing inherently bad about being with one company for many years. But in work, just as in relationships, it's always a boost to the ego to know that you're desirable, attractive and wanted by others. You can then make a decision to stay right where you are, loving it. And you'll be a better marketeer for being connected to, and wanted by, the rest of the world.

Of nine men, a comfortable bed and heartache

Get your head out of the gutter. Today's topic is baseball.

What a lovely season it's been. Thanks to my subscription to Major League Baseball's web streaming service, I've seen more games this year than in any since I've moved to the UK. The comfort of once again having the childhood sounds of the crack of the bat and the hum of the crowd in the background of a weekend garden was a delightful and consistent bit of stress relief.

Even better, of course, was the fact that my beloved St. Louis Cardinals romped over just about everyone they met, holding the lead in their division for most of the year. Pujols continues on his path towards being one of the greatest players of all time, the rest of the lineup was filled with star performances, we hosted the All Star Game and the front office spent the money needed in mid-season to bring in the added firepower needed for a pennant race. We wrapped our division championship with weeks to spare and I looked forward to the prospect of an October filled with sleepless nights, as I took my laptop to bed with me to catch live games in the wee hours.

Which brings us to Saturday night, when I snuggled into a massive pile of pillows with a big glass of wine at my elbow, laptop on my knees and a growing sense of doom in the pit of my stomach. Because, you see, this was a best of five series and my beloved boys were already down by two games. Yes, the victors that commentators had expected to sweep through this first round had already lost twice to the Dodgers. Saturday night's game was win, or go home.

They never should have been in this position. They were one out away from winning game two. The Dodgers sent a pop fly to left field. In 99.999% of games, that would have been it. The losers would have moved their heads on to the next match, the crowds would have been leaving for the car park. But Matt Holliday lost the ball in the lights and missed what should have been an easy catch. The Dodgers tied it up. And then, like scrappy terriers down a juicy rat hole, they hung on with determination until they beat us.

It is fantastically rare to see those kind of last-minute, come from behind victories. And if it hadn't been against my team, I would have been awed by the sheer beauty of it. As it was, I had to admire this as an example, once again, of baseball as metaphor for life. Winners ... TRUE winners ... never give up. No matter how grim things look, they keep playing is if they can win. They run to first base when it looks like they're going to get thrown out. They believe that every pitch can change the result. They know in the fibre of their souls that everything they do has the opportunity to make a difference. In the words of the immortal Yogi Berra, they believe that "it ain't over 'til it's over."

The Dodgers heads were in that place in Game 2. The Cardinals seemed to bend like poppies before a stiff wind. Saturday night was always going to be about attitude. Could the Cardinals come roaring back, or did the Dodgers already have the upper hand?

I suspect you already know the answer.

Through the magic of the internet I was there, live. More than 50,000 people were packed into that ballpark I know so well; no doubt I could have picked out familiar faces if I'd been watching on a wider screen. (It's a small town, especially when it comes to the corporate boxes and season ticket holders.) In addition to the game I had my Facebook account running, where fellow St. Louis expats were sharing game commentary from New York, Washington and other points abroad. I might have been alone but, in the virtual world, that bed was quite crowded.

All that good will we were channelling toward Busch Stadium didn't do much good, however. The nine men in red looked defeated from the first inning. If there is an aura that comes from thinking like a winner, the Dodgers had it. At 1am the score was 4-0 in LA's favour, and I had to go to sleep. I know that I wasn't thinking like a winner at that point. But I just couldn't lose any more sleep in advance of seeing another team dance in victory on the St. Louis turf.

So, congratulations to the Dodgers. And a lesson to us all. Never give up. Keep that terrier spirit. Know that you can make a difference, down to the very last second of the very last chance. Attitude is everything.

Final day of luxury and grand views etches dream of Africa onto my soul

Three years ago today, our final day in Africa. Here's the last report from that wonderful pre-blog holiday.

Hard to believe that anything could top yesterday, but today ... our last day in Africa ... was indeed even better. Was it the helicopter glide above Vic Falls? The open-sided riverside spa tent? The Zulu warriors dancing just for us? Or maybe the witch doctor who sold me a love potion? Taken all together, I can honestly say I have never had a day quite like it.

After five days of mad sightseeing and breakfast-to-bedtime programming, this was our day of freedom, rest and relaxation. In the morning we each had a choice of a handful of special activities. I was tempted by the swimming in a pool cut into the rock just at the edge of the falls, but the helicopter ride won hands down. Once the five of us and the pilot had taken to the air, we cruised down the Zambezi and then flew lazy circles over the falls. It is only from here that I got a true appreciation of this wonder of the natural world. Understood how the river widens into a marshy delta, only to cascade over a chasm into a slash cut deep in the earth. And then how that gash churns with water until, its force partially dissipated, it finds a fissure in the rock to continue its way across the continent. I had a small understanding of the majesty of this natural miracle when standing atop it, but that was nothing to the awe with which I held it once I saw its drama from this lofty height.

Quite overcome by the excitement of the morning, we sloped back to the Royal Livingstone for our spa treatments. I wasn't expecting excitement, but my heart skipped several more beats when we were directed down a river path to a series of square, white tents. No basement rooms and new age music here. Instead it's crisp white canvas and a view of the Zambezi. Hillary and I had booked in together. Our attendants welcomed us and closed the tent flaps temporarily as we disrobed and clambered on to our tables. Then it was flaps up again, so we could lie there in bliss as a 90-minute massage was augmented by the magnificent view of the river, the only sounds being the occasional chatter of monkeys and grunting of hippos.

Pummeled into complete relaxation, I think we each drifted off a bit by the pool before changing for our late afternoon boat ride. Leaving from our hotel's own dock, the boat resembled nothing so much as the flat-bottomed pontoons that filled childhood holidays at the Lake of the Ozarks. Except here they could cruise along next to elephants and alligators, and an engine failure could see us swept over the world's widest falls. The boat also featured a very large cooler of beer, and a bench for four on the roof. And thus I settled in with three colleagues to watch the world go by, drink in a magnificent sunset and get slowly and delightfully buzzed.

After a stop back in the room to switch into posh frocks and a bit of makeup, it was time for the final night's extravaganza. I almost didn't make it when I disregarded warnings about zebras and got too close to a pair outside our room while trying to take some photos. Irritation at my flash bulb saw one wheeling around in an instant to buck with fervour; luckily I scrambled away just in time. Relieved, I climbed on the waiting bus and wondered what was ahead.

We drove just 15 minutes or so into the wilderness that was part of the hotel property, pulling up in front of a large, oval, thatch enclosure. From its gateway surged a troop of Zulu warriors. Tall men, in magnificent shape, black as the night sky, waving lethal looking spears and shields while wrapped in little more than the odd animal skin. I think the girls on the trip found this bit to be quite exceptional. Their frantic dancing welcomed us into the enclosure, which was set up like a craft fair in a local market. There were artisans, cooks and craftsmen all showing off their wares. In one corner was a witch doctor. I'm sure there's a more politically correct word these days but, trust me, that's what he was. He showed off all the herbal remedies to be found in the bush and, in his bag of tricks, was a mixture of herbs which when smoked was supposed to make the one you loved dream of you with uncontrolled passion. The doctor hadn't been planning to sell any of his goods, but I managed to talk him into exchanging a bit of silver for his romantic spell. (He might have looked the part, but the medicine man's herbs, once deployed back in London, did absolutely nothing to change the behaviour of their intended victim.)

Eventually we settled down to a generous communal barbecue, and after that got back up to join a communal drumming lesson. Hillary, who's always fantasised about being a drummer, wasn't sure whether she was having more fun banging on her bongo or ogling the blonde, long-haired, off-the-beaten-track kind of guy who was running the session. Sadly for Hillary he didn't follow us as we left the enclosure and went back to the hotel, where a large tent had been set up for a band and an open bar. There were many tears and much wild revelry as we all prepared to part after six days of constant togetherness. (Typical. Once back to the light of the real world, even though I still work with most of these people, I've done little more than exchange the odd hello in a hallway.) We danced until the band went home. Until the sound system was forcibly shut down. Then, evicted, went back to the hotel bar where we sipped gin & tonics into the wee hours, watching the Zambezi slip by beneath a waning moon.

I suspect I will never have a holiday like this again. It was lavish, luxurious, exotic ... and a hell of a lot of fun. I now understand incentive travel in a way I never have before. As I leave Africa, my heart and soul belongs to the employer who rewarded me for my hard work and allowed me this magnificent experience. I'd like to think that my renewed morale and continued loyalty is a fine return on investment for their costs.

Beyond that, it's the magic of Africa that will now live in my soul. A continent I was never that keen to explore. A place haunted by strife, famine and bad news. And yet the reality I saw was of a magnificent place, filled with sweeping landscapes, majestic wildlife and some of the kindest, most welcoming people I have ever met. I am so thankful I won this trip because without it, I might never have gone to Africa under my own steam. Now? I can't wait to go back.

Chobe safari brings the big, the beautiful, the dangerous and the ugly breathlessly close

Three years ago today I came face to face with elephants in the wild. They were just one of many species that crowded the magnificent Chobe National Park, all far more magnificent than their cousins in captivity. A shame to let such a fine day remain unreported, just because it took place before the blog launched. And, frankly, it's a lot more interesting than what I actually did today.

Bring on the elephants, it's safari day. For many, including us, the highlight of our trip.

We started just after a substantial breakfast with a 45-minute drive out to the Botswana border on the Zambesi river. Over all that distance we saw nothing remotely resembling "civilisation". Just miles and miles of red earth and scrubby trees, without a wild animal insight. Not, we feared, the best start to a day of fauna-watching. We did, however, race by several traditional villages; clusters of thatched round huts with accompanying groups of goats, chickens, and the odd native trying to escape the heat of the morning in a puddle of shade.

That vision of a quiet, rural life evaporated immediately when we got to the border. It was a riot of people, traffic and colour. This is the major route between Zambia and Northern Botswana. There's only one ferry, which takes a maximum of two large trucks, so both sides of the border tailed back for miles with truckers. Sometimes they have to wait five days to get across. Thus it was no surprise, on a continent plagued with AIDS, to see massive bowls of free condoms on offer at the border station. Nor to see a little shanty town of tents spreading out from the border filled with basic shops, food stalls and a lot of women hanging around. The traffic delays had essentially created a rough and ready port town out here in the middle of nowhere.

Our brilliant tour operators had organised special passage for us. We made no attempt to bring our buses over; rather, we were fast tracked through passport control, then escorted to the riverbank where a fleet of excursion boats stood ready to bring us across. Traditional safari trucks awaited us on the other side. Three rows of seats, open at the sides but with a canvas top to try to keep off the blazing heat. I got to sit up front with our driver and guide, who was a cheerful and bright young man who seemed to know everything, and I mean absolutely everything, about this world. From the mating habits of elephants to Botswana's government to the effect of the Ma Ramotswe novels on tourism, he was a living encyclopedia.

The drive to Chobe National park took about 45 minutes, mostly over sand track. We saw a black sable antelope and a baboon on this part of the drive, but there wasn't too much out here. Primarily because there was no water in these grasslands and, as was soon to be proven to us, it's the water that draws the wildlife. Chobe, with its big, eponymous river flowing through it, is known as having some of the highest densities of wild animals of any game reserve in Africa, most especially elephants, and our reality certainly met that expectation.

We saw scores of the giants, some lumbering past just a few yards from the truck. There were many herds of impala, kudu and puku, all similar to deer. Warthogs were abundant, an animal so horrifically ugly that you start to think they're actually kind of cute. We saw water buffalo grazing in profusion on the riverbank, the outline of hippos in the water and all sorts of birds in the trees. The most spectacular was the lilac breasted roller, supposedly particularly beloved in Botswana because its vivid colours mimic the rainbow, and therefore promise rain. The most impressive sight was a leopard, crouched and alert for a kill. Unfortunately for our voyeurism, the herd of kudu he was stalking never got close enough for him to attack, so he eventually sloped off without a meal.

We were luckier carnivores, since our lunch at a magnificently appointed lodge on the river featured a buffet stocked with the meats we'd just seen rambling around the park in living form. I predict quite a stellar future for both warthog proscuitto and kudu fillet, if anyone can ever sort the import regulations.

After lunch we returned to the park for a river safari. Now we could get really close to those hippos and water buffalo, plus some frighteningly large crocodiles. The hippos may possibly have been my favourite animals of the day. They have real, quirky personality; adorable, placid and bovine when undisturbed, fast, angry and powerful, despite their huge bulks, when they are irritated. As they most certainly were when our boat drifted a bit close. I suspect the guides do this for effect, as there's a wicked glint in their eyes as they decide to share how these are the most dangerous animals in the park at exactly the time they're provoking one to snap its massive jaws at you.

It was a blazingly hot day but being on the river, with a breeze and a roof and a very large cooler of beer, kept things mostly comfortable. By late afternoon we had returned to land, this time to a different luxury lodge and trays of cool drinks. We dabbled our feet in a riverside pool for a bit of cooling down. We were very dusty and tired by this point, but happy.

It was probably another two hours ... back over the sand tracks, through the border crossing, another 40 minutes on Zambian roads ... Before finally getting to the place where we were having dinner. We ate under a huge thatched pavilion, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The barbecue was good, but it was so hot I'm not sure we enjoyed it as much as we might. It was the entertainment that was the highlight. As the tables were cleared and torchlight cast dancing shadows around the pavilion, we listened to a magnificent story teller recount the adventures of Livingstone, and Stanley's search to find him.

Fortunately, "the middle of nowhere" turned out to be about 20 minutes from the hotel. So, although exhausted, I had just enough energy to take a quick dip in the pool when we got back. Washing away the heat and dust of the day, floating on my back while gazing at the vervet monkeys in the surrounding trees, bathed by the sent of night blooming jasmine cascading from giant urns of the plants on each corner of the pool. Yes, indeed. A fine end to a fine day.

Zambia and Victoria Falls feel like the "real" Africa, with five-star luxury thrown in

Due to recession, family responsibilities and work pressures, there's no annual Northwestern girls' holiday this year. So that readers are not too disappointed with the absence of autumnal reports from exotic locations, I'm returning to my finest pre-blog holiday. Here's what we got up to three years ago today on the Dark Continent.

We spent most of the day in transit to Zambia, connecting through Johannesburg airport where there is an impressive, African-flavoured duty free. I'd like to come back here with a combination of discretionary income and some knowledge of gemology, both of which I currently lack. From my companions' exclamations and swooning, I gather the diamond prices are pretty damned impressive. I, however, was captivated by the tanzanite, a rare bluey-purple stone with a high sparkle that comes almost exclusively from the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro. Lacking the cash flow necessary for gems, I went for a dramatic modern beaded necklace made by a craft cooperative of native women. (Worth noting that I've gotten a lot of wear out of that necklace. Still dreaming of tanzanite, however.)

We were on an internal African airline from there. Efficient, on time and comfortable, with a lovely in flight meal and staff that still believe in customer service. I had the shock of my day when I picked up my cutlery and encountered a metal knife. On a plane. Good lord! I dropped it in surprise. Then thought how lovely it was not to be hacking away with bendy plastic. I guess they're not concerned about terrorist flight-jacking here. What a refreshingly retro experience.

We arrived at tiny Livingstone airport, claimed bags and got passports stamped in the one-room terminal and scrambled aboard buses, happy for air conditioning since the temperature was far more extreme than at the start of our journey. This was instantly recognisable as a very different country, MUCH more what we think of as "Africa".

The ground here is deep red earth, supporting dry grasses, stands of scrubby trees and the occasional towering termite mound. It's not heavily forested; I don't think there's enough water for that. Each tree seems to have its own space, and even the tallest would barely graze the roof of a single-story home. There aren't a lot of flowers here, other than the odd bougainvillea, to relieve the palette of brown, red and green.

We saw as many dirt tracks as paved roads as we drove through Livingstone, the big town in this area. It looked a lively but seriously ramshackle place. A main street supports a few side lanes; no building topped three stories. A lot of the nicer stuff was from the first half of the last century but had clearly seen better days. We drove by the state broadcasting service, which occupied a series of bungalows with holes in the roof and broken windows. Though there were a lot of signs for activities clearly targeting tourists, I didn't see anyone wandering there but natives.

The people here are, on the whole, that shade of dark, dark black you rarely see in the United States, with complexions like smooth velvet. They are, on the whole, a very handsome people, tall and exceptionally dignified. I've noticed that the women in particular carry themselves with a remarkable confidence and elegance. They all seem to have perfect posture (yes, many were indeed carrying stuff on their heads), walk with their backs ramrod straight but with a generous sway to the hips. Even the really big women, of which there are many, look sexy. I wish I could master the movement! Many women still wear skirts of traditional patterns, and traditional headdresses, adding to their exotic beauty and making them a lot more interesting visually than the men, who are mostly in shorts and tee shirts.

It's inevitable, of course, that we're conditioned by the news media. As we drove through Livingstone and I saw groups of these central Africans sitting around, or the occasional soldier in camouflage, my head immediately drifted towards stories of military coups, genocide and famine. This is terribly unfair, as it is a reality completely divorced from anything actually happening here. Sadly, Africa has a lot to live down.

Our hotel, the Royal Livingstone, is in a national park along the Zambezi river. To tell you the truth, the tourists are probably just as fenced in and protected as the animals. But if I ever get put in a zoo, please take note that I would happily be incarcerated here. The place is just as amazing as its heart stopping rack rates. ( There's what you want on incentive travel ... a magnificent experience you could never afford on your own.)

The communal areas are jaw dropping. They're all African long houses with thatched roofs, towering eves and sides open to the breeze. Inside, lavish colonial decor (lots of huge teak and wicker chairs) sits beneath spinning ceiling fans and heavy chandeliers, while the sound of splashing water from papyrus filled pools in the courtyards soothes your ears. Staff in crisp, white, colonial era uniforms are on hand to anticipate and serve your every need.

Three main buildings all open onto wide verandas, then wide patios, then lawns sloping down to the Zambezi, where a giant deck filled with outdoor chairs, tables and daybeds provides a viewing platform for the wildlife and the not-so-distant mists of Victoria Falls. Because we're inside a national park, animals are a part of the decor. We saw a giraffe out front and zebras grazing by the pool. Small, grey vervet monkeys are in such abundance the hotel has to keep guards on duty in front of the building to prevent them from raiding bar and restaurant tables. As if on Disney-inspired cue, a pod of hippos stuck their heads above the water just as we strolled onto the deck, welcome drinks of fresh fruit juice just having been pressed into our hands. Is it possible that the plane crashed, I died, and this is heaven?

After an hour of getting settled into a room that looked like a Bombay Company photo shoot set, we walked down to Victoria Falls to get a look. This was a fair hike and it was both muggy and hot. Once you get there, you're scrambling up and down uneven stone paths with a drop of a couple hundred feet on your right and not much by way of guard rails. Clearly no health and safety officer has been inspecting this place. I stepped very carefully, painfully aware that this was not the place to be a clumsy oaf, as a trip and fall would send you plunging to a rocky death hundreds of feet below. Despite my contemplation of the afterlife an hour before, I really wanted to stay alive until I saw some elephants.

The falls are, of course, impressive, though they are at first tough to figure out. On your initial view you just see lots of deep chasms snaking through the landscape in various directions, with multiple small waterfalls cascading over cliff faces at different points. You don't have a sense of a river so much as a watery delta running up to the end of the known world and tipping over the side. It's the dry season now, thus the impression of many little falls. Evidently in the wet season that broad expanse of water deepens by geometric proportions, thus turning this rock-scape into the widest continuous falls in the world. The water then churns at the bottom of this gash in the rock, then eventually flows out through another deep gorge. In dry season you see the drama and depth of the stone, but less water. At the flood, the guides said it's so loud, and sends up so much mist, that it's tough to see anything. They say you should see both for the complete experience, and that our best view will be when we get up in the helicopters.

After a quick break we had an outdoor dinner on the lawns of the hotel, awed by a night sky darker than I'd seen in years. I'm not sure who was more entertaining, the monkeys in the trees who were clearly plotting to steal our dinners, or the jazz saxophonist sending a bit of mellow sophistication into the African night.

Africa's "New World" wines have three centuries of heritage

Contrary to usual habit, there's no big holiday scheduled this October. Thus I continue with my retrospective reportage of my best trip taken in pre-blog times. Here's what we got up to on this day in South Africa, three years ago. Wine tasting. Hmmm. Not that dissimilar to last October. Or the October before....

Even more than yesterday, today delivered a sense of the huge contrasts in this country.

As we drove out of Cape Town we went past mile after mile of shanty towns. The population in Cape Town is estimated to be 4 million, and 1.5 live in these settlements. They cover 30 square miles. The average "house" looked to be about the size of a large garden shed and was pieced together from random bits of corrugated metal, wood and plastic sheeting. These sit on grids of straight streets with central areas provided by the government for water and toilets. They spread in places as far as the eye can see and present a strange, squalid contrast to the verdant fields and dramatic mountains around them. Our guide told us these are mostly country people who have come to town for better opportunities. One can only imagine how awful their lives must have been if the shanty towns are better.

One positive observation. Despite the ramshakle appearance, I could see no garbage. Whether it's that these people are still very proud, or weather they are too poor to even have anything to throw away, they don't seem to live surrounded by the drifts of trash that characterise poor areas in the UK or US.

But then we crossed into the Stellenbosch Valley and, hey presto, you could be in Northern California with some strange, Dutch inspired architecture and a lot of African craft stores. The mountains are a bit more extreme than other wine regions I've been to (thrusting, stony peaks) but the gentle, vine covered slopes on the foothills could be France, California or Italy.

We went to two wineries and tasted a variety of wines at each. The first was a small place, built to look like a Tuscan villa. The second was much larger, and built around much older buildings in the Dutch style. The wine was good, but ironically I didn't think much of it was as good as what we have been served at meals thus far.

The first winery, Waterford, was built on an Italian model and the buildings and plantings screamed Tuscany. The winemaker, Kevin Arnold, hosted the tasting himself. (Photo above.) I do love that; wine is so much more interesting when the guy who made it is taking you through what he was trying to achieve. I was interested to learn that the South African wine industry is 300+ years old. After Europe they are the most established and hardly deserve the label "New World", but they are still suffering from decades of embargo.

The second place, Morgenhof, was one of the oldest farms in the valley and had a variety of 17th century cape Dutch buildings. (These are lovely, large, single story buildings with Dutch gables and thatched roofs.) The ethos of the winery, though, was all French. One of the Cointreau heirs bought it about a decade ago and has been dedicated to creating a grand French vineyard in the New World.

The experience was a bit commercial, but still fun.

Afterwards, we spent an hour wandering around the town of Stellenbosch itself. Amazingly cute, clean, tree-lined and prosperous. The only clue we were in Africa were the art galleries and tourist items on sale.

So, home from the wine day just long enough for a quick dip in the hotel pool. Then off to our nicest dinner of the trip.

Grute Schur is the official residence of the president of South Africa. Don't think White House. It's much more like a medium sized National Trust property in some nice parkland. The house is many hundreds of years old but what you see now is late 19th c thanks to its most famous resident, Cecil Rhodes.

We did formal group shots on the front steps, then adjourned to the gardens where a traditional African choral group performed over cocktails. Then we moved to the back of the house, where a traditional courtyard garden had been covered by a modern tent. We had a formal presentation, followed by some wonderful entertainment by an operatic trio along "three tenors" lines".

This was a night for celebration, as each of us were lauded for what we'd contributed to the company over the past year. Fortunately, the "work" side of things ended with that recitation of our hard graft. After that, it was just a bunch of fun people having a wonderful time in surroundings that were almost embarrassingly lush. I sucked enjoyment out of every moment, knowing that while I may return to South Africa, it's unlikely I'll be having dinner in the president's garden again any time soon.

Natural beauty makes Cape peninsula one of the world's lushest sites

In a travel-light month, I'm continuing on with a retrospective look at one of my most amazing pre-blog holidays. Here's what we got up to in Cape Town three years ago today.

Our days start at quite a civilised 9.30, so there's time to go swimming or to the gym before breakfast. The leisure facilities are on the top (19th) floor of this very modern hotel, so they make the most of the stunning views.

The pool is particularly nice. It's not very big (a wide lap pool, really) but very dramatic. One edge has a rimless "infinity pool" effect, with the water appearing to run right up to the windows. The view is of the harbour, mountains and Robben Island; you literally feel that you're floating over the city. The water is warm, the air is imbued with heavy perfumes from the spa and they even pump the new age spa music under water. Great for relaxation, I could have floated there all day. But we're trying to pack a robust African experience into just a week, so no time to dawdle.

Today's transportation was yet another clever touch that demonstrated how the trip organisers are making this event very special. We all turned up in the lobby expecting a tour bus. Instead, we were greeted by a line of vintage cars, their pristine paint jobs gleaming in the sun and their fins, curves and running boards forming a delightful contrast to the backdrop of the very modern hotel. Hillary and I started with two others in a 1950s Ford Zephyr, which was fun. But then we got lucky and the organisers asked us if two of us wanted to switch to one of the extra cars. (We've traveled together enough to know that being the sparky single girls who make friends with the staff often delivers dividends.) We took the chance ... all the cars were different, some showier than others ... and ended up in a 1939 Chevy for most of the day. A real gangster style car; it was a blast.

We particularly liked our driver, Alex Stuart, who told us all sorts of things about what we were seeing and was up for answering our questions about life here.

Our driving tour started by going up to the top of Signal Hill, which is one of three peaks looming directly over the city. On the way they looped us through Cape Town to see the main sights: the castle, the town hall, the colourful Cape Malay district. This was a clever way to do it, I thought, as it gave everyone the highlights but kept us from wandering on our own. Clearly the safest option as, despite appearances, we were warned that you still must be very careful here. The weather continued clear and we could see for miles. The hillsides were covered with wild flowers. Perfect for a bit of a walk at the top of the hill and lots of photos.

Unfortunately, we had to cancel the next part, the cable car up Table Mountain, because it was too windy. This meant we spent more time and did more photo stops with Alex. We drove down the coast south of Cape Town and saw some beautiful beaches and some very expensive neighbourhoods. The view is better than the swimming, though. We're so far south that the water on the Atlantic side never gets to a comfortable temperature. We then turned east and in a very short time were on the other side of the continent, so far south are we. It's the Indian Ocean on this side, which looks exactly the same but is much warmer (good for swimming) and has enormous sharks (bad).

At this point Alex had some car trouble and we ended up back in a foursome, in the car Alex's wife was driving. Also a '39 Chevy. I think we had the best experience, switching around and meeting so many other programme winners.

We drove by a couple of mansions of stupendous size. There is definitely great wealth here, and great poverty, and probably not enough in the middle. There are many social efforts to build a black middle class, and I sense this is the key to the future of the country. It's essential that they have a native population with an interest in maintaining stable government and a business community. Otherwise it's us v. them and revolution. But can they do it fast enough?

Alex commented that there simply weren't enough Mandelas. (An aside: we could see the bleakness of Robben Island from Signal Hill. It's amazing that after 27 years there he didn't seek revenge, but worked to build a unified country. My respect for him now is so much more sincere.) All it takes are some leaders who give in to mob rule, and masses taking land and businesses away from the more prosperous without the skills to manage them, and, hey presto, it's just like Zimbabwe and all those other failed African states. So it feels like the whole place is on a knife edge. It could continue on as the great African success story. It could slide into anarchy. I'm glad I saw it so that if the second option happens, I was here once. Nice place to visit but I sure as hell wouldn't want to live here. The people trying to push forward with this transformation are very brave. (Delighted to note that three years on, the positive side of this scenario seems to be winning, and the country's getting ready for the World Cup. Long may it last.)

Anyway, on to our next stop.

Kirstenbosch Gardens are, rightly, some of the most famous in the world. They were built to preserve South Africa's indigenous plants and were the first botanical gardens in the world dedicated to this purpose, as opposed to just showing off variety. As such, they give a great idea of how amazing the experience must have been for Europeans seeing this stuff for the first time, because everything is strange and different. Some flowers, like birds of paradise or calla lillies, we now know from florists and nurseries, but here they are growing wild in huge clumps.

The gardens are nestled up against some looming, steep mountain slopes and in the distance you can see the ocean (Indian) and more mountains. The setting reminded me quite a bit of Delphi in Greece.

We had an all-too-brief wander here and a lovely lunch. After years of being an independent traveler it's strange to be on a bus tour again where every stop seems like a short taster and leaves you wanting more. One advantage to the budget: No time for shopping at all.

We had a couple of hours at leisure at the hotel (naps) then it was off for the evening activity. First we got on a vintage (1930s) train and rode for about an hour up to the winelands. Then we arrived at the Spier winery where Hillary and I, unsurprisingly, were taking the tasting more seriously than most others. We had a lovely talk with the guys running the tastings and were one of the last in to the dinner.

Dinner, in the winery, was a big Cape Malay buffet. That is, mostly food with an Indian curry influence. More of the delicious kingclip on the menu. Later in the evening a local band came in to play for us and one of the band members pulled me up for a spotlight dance. Great fun.

We stopped for one drink in the bar when we arrived home but the pillow called, so sleep looms ahead. Another aggressive day of tourism lies ahead, and for this one, our palates need to be well rested.

Can it be three years since Cape Town? The memories are still bright as the African sun

Regular readers of this blog will think, now that it's October, reports from the annual Northwestern Girls' holiday must be on the horizon. Sadly, it's not to be in 2009. Between recessions, unemployment and family illness, there's no room for the trio's exotic romp through food, wine and historic sites this autumn. (Although, as a small substitute, we will be bringing you the NU girls' shopping weekend in Paris in early December.) Instead, my nose will be on a boring but rather intense work grindstone all month.

Without much to report on in the present, I thought I'd slip backwards. It was three years ago today ... before the inception of this blog ... that I stepped off a plane into the sharp spring sunlight of Cape Town, South Africa, about to embark on what is certainly still the most lavish trip of my life. Throughout the preceding year, my UK PR chief's post had been characterised by stunning creativity, fabulous results and shockingly long hours. The reward: Being named "marketer of the year" and sent on the company's annual sales incentive trip. Travel doesn't get much better than this.

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It was a long flight and we were back in coach. It would have been nice to fly business class on an event like this but, as the tour organisers explained, they decided to put the money into the programme instead.

We landed to absolutely gorgeous weather. Clear skies; a crisp, sharp light that throws everything into high definition; sunny and warm but not hot. As expected, the physical setting is terribly dramatic, with the mountains rearing up in close proximity to to water. In both this and the light, it actually reminds me of the area around Marseilles.

We arrived at the hotel to the first of those little extras that kept us out of business class. A full children's choir was on hand to meet the bus, performing intricate dance routines and delivering that wonderful a capella African harmony we've all learned to appreciate since Ladysmith Black Mambazo first hit the scene.

Cape Town has been a surprise. Everything looks robustly prosperous and is extremely clean. It's a city of 3 million with a downtown area of a few modern high rises and lots of mid-height offices from the '50s through '70s, divided by straight, wide and not particularly crowded boulevards. Reminds me of St. Louis or any other Midwestern city.

On the way in from the airport we drove past both shantytowns and the old segregated township areas. These, too, looked surprisingly clean and well-kept, despite poverty. I'll have to keep my eyes open to see if this initial impression holds true, but one gets the sense that poverty here is not accompanied by the abandonment of pride you see so often in the US and the UK.

We spent most of the day at the Victoria + Alfred waterfront area. This is a revitalisation of the old docks areas, a mix of Victorian architecture and very modern malls. It all feels very American. Lots of interesting little shops with native crafts and bars and restaurants with every cuisine you could imagine.

As this is a corporate event, a bit of team building bonding was in order. We organised into teams of six for a scavenger hunt through the area. I provided the chuckle of the afternoon when my friend Hillary and I struck up a conversation with some guys on the waterfront who turned out to be a Travel Channel film crew. We ended up getting miked up and doing interviews. Much mirth about the PR chief not being able to resist cameras. So anyway, later this year I might be on a Travel Channel show called "1000 places to see before you die." (I never did hear that anyone spotted me on this show, so I must assume I ended up on the cutting room floor.)

We did a very brief harbour cruise before dinner. The wind was extreme and the temperatures quite chilly, so it was only a half hour circle around the bay and back. A good chance to see the effects of the fading sun on table mountain, and a sea lion, but we didn't get far enough out to see the whales who are supposedly cavorting off shore.

The highlight of dinner was a local fish called a kingclip. Very firm flesh, like monkfish, and very tasty. We had a fun table of people; there are about 100 people here with winners, executives and a guest with each, and all are clearly ready to party. It's going to be a fine week.

The hotel is particularly lavish. I wasn't expecting much when I saw we were staying in the Sheraton (since re-branded the Westin Grand), but this place delivers on five star quality and is far beyond your standard corporate hotel. The lobby space is cool, functional and modern, with plenty of running water, open fires and clean lines. The room is gorgeous. Sleek and functional, elegant in its simplicity yet with creature comforts like heaters in the bathroom mirrors that keep them from defogging, a gorgeous lounger that's both comfortable and a work of art and lights inside the closets. The hotel designer's master stroke, however, was clearly making one entire wall a clear window overlooking the harbour. On the penultimate floor, and with no frames to the windows, it's as if you're floating over the edge of the city from any point within the room. The views are so stunning we could hardly bring ourselves to pull the drapes for the night.

Going to bed fairly early now, however, since we're promising ourselves a workout before breakfast.