A recent work trip to Tanzania offered me the opportunity to explore a small town in the far north. What I had not anticipated was the exploration that would take place inside the hotel we were booked into.
When venturing into more rural areas, one should always be prepared for something more laid-back than you might find in the hustle and bustle of bigger cities. So one looks at the website pictures with more than a pinch of salt and make sure that you pack a bit more extensively that you probably could.What I actually should've packed for was mobility - seeing as I had to change rooms four times in my 10-day stay.
We arrived to cool drinks and warm welcomes - a promising start to a rapidly deteriorating stay. My colleague and I were assigned rooms in the new wing; so new that the building dust was still drifting around, and you could fall asleep to the sounds of your neighbors (due to paper-thin walls) or the not-so-gentle rumblings of jackhammers (apparently some late night emergency repairs). But you could blanket all this out with the very loud and very bass-driven live music that is a proud feature on weekends and public holidays. Not such great news for those of us here for business, rather than pleasure. And then there was the refreshing cold showers... due to the absence of hot water.
Believe me, when tired, filthy and frazzled engineers return after a day in the field, what they want is a warm shower, food and the welcome of quiet sleep. This was not going to feature if we stayed in those rooms.
Enter stage, room number two. It was in the old wing (yay!), but it faced the entertainment area (not so yay). Also, having learned to assume nothing, I opened the hot water tap and waited... and waited.... and waited.....and called for assistance.
Room number three: still in the old wing, still facing the noisy area but it had hot water! This I could work with... and then we realized that there was a long weekend ahead, meaning four wonderful days filled with live entertainment and late night music. So, once again, the trek to reception with an "ai senor" expression at the ready.
Room number four: Old wing, facing away from the live entertainment! The gentle chirrup of birds in the background as I heaved a sigh of relief. Which rapidly turned into a groan of disappointment after I opened a tap laughingly marked 'hot'. It took the visit of a plumber and two more requests before I finally enjoyed a warm shower. The reasons? Oh, they forgot to switch something on... coupled with the fact that hot water is not to the far left (or right) of the mixing tap, but kinda sorta maybe in the middle-ish...
Clean towels, apparently, are also a commodity that the staff have great pains parting with. Your used towels, even though you hang it up for re-use, gets whisked away promptly every morning. Replacing them, however, does not appear to feature in their list of 'things to do when servicing a room'.
The setting itself is lovely, the people are friendly and very welcoming, and you will never leave a meal with lingering pangs of hunger. They could, however, gain a world of benefit from a bit more hands-on management. And If I didn't have a project taking up most of my time, I might just have haunted their passages with clipboard in hand!
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
The search is over!
I have it! I have found the single most useless man-made item!
During a recent voyage to the edge of the imagination I had the misfortune of spending a rather chilly night huddled under said useless item - the single bed duvet.
There you are, settling down for the night with bunny-slippers tucked under the bed and pillow beaten into position. It's chilly, so you turn on your side and tuck your legs up, when lo! You are the victim of a sudden attack of early-onset arthritis in the knees! Oh, no. Wait. The duvet cover just pulled away exposing you to the elements. So you grab the duvet and pull it to cover your knees when, aargh! your backside now gets a taste of frost-bite.
Right, plan B. Turn on your stomach, angling at a slight diagonal so that your head is next to the pillow and your feet in the opposite corner, tucking duvet ends in so you resemble a caterpillar. Your neck feels a bit cold, so you edge the duvet a bit higher and, oh no, now the little piggies feel the wrath of the deep freeze!
Eventually I ended up in something resembling a mummy-pose, trying to stay warm by sheer force of fury. In retrospect I should probably have opened the duvet cover and just climbed in, turning it into a rather sad sleeping bag. Oh sigh; these first world problems I tell ya...
During a recent voyage to the edge of the imagination I had the misfortune of spending a rather chilly night huddled under said useless item - the single bed duvet.
There you are, settling down for the night with bunny-slippers tucked under the bed and pillow beaten into position. It's chilly, so you turn on your side and tuck your legs up, when lo! You are the victim of a sudden attack of early-onset arthritis in the knees! Oh, no. Wait. The duvet cover just pulled away exposing you to the elements. So you grab the duvet and pull it to cover your knees when, aargh! your backside now gets a taste of frost-bite.
Right, plan B. Turn on your stomach, angling at a slight diagonal so that your head is next to the pillow and your feet in the opposite corner, tucking duvet ends in so you resemble a caterpillar. Your neck feels a bit cold, so you edge the duvet a bit higher and, oh no, now the little piggies feel the wrath of the deep freeze!
Eventually I ended up in something resembling a mummy-pose, trying to stay warm by sheer force of fury. In retrospect I should probably have opened the duvet cover and just climbed in, turning it into a rather sad sleeping bag. Oh sigh; these first world problems I tell ya...
Monday, August 12, 2013
These are the voyages...
"25th July
The raging seas and howling winds have confined all crew below decks. I lie huddled in my bunk, listening to the various crashes and thuds as everything not secured goes tumbling about. The smell of cooking drifts past every now and again, but as curious as I am, I do not think my stomach is ready to investigate how the cook is preparing anything under these conditions."
"1st August
Supplies are running low and crew morale is starting to show some signs of wear. It has been a difficult and trying expedition, though I daresay our labors have proven fruitful. The barometer is dropping like a stone, and those that know say that we may be headed back to port sooner than anticipated. The message is treated with cautious joy; I do admit the prospect of a meal without boiled potatoes is one I rather look forward to."
Extracts from a really bad sea-exploration novel? Not quite. Rather the rambled musings of an exhausted scientist halfway through a midnight-to-8am shift, shivering on the back deck of a research vessel watching the winch spool out and hoping that the friggin sediment grab will actually GRAB some sediment this time.
If nothing else it fills me with pure admiration for those voyagers who set out to explore the vast oceans a few hundred years ago. These days we set out armed with with nothing but satellite communications, global positioning systems, desalinization plants and a whole array of other safety equipment.
But some things remain eternal: the sight of endless waters racing past, the tang of salt-air and oil, the camaraderie and pet-hates that define the relationships in such a closed environment. And oh, yes, the seabirds bobbing along a drifting vessel - they must've thought we were the worst fishermen ever! But we were not fishing for, ahaha, fish. We were there to plumb the depths of the ocean floor, sifting through bucketfuls of mud and sand finding everything from fossilized jawbones to brightly colored worms and so much more.
Though the vessels themselves may have changed in shape and capability, the human need to explore remains untouched by time. Who knows; a couple of hundred years from now the diary entries of a star-explorer may ready quite similar to those of all explorers past and present.
The raging seas and howling winds have confined all crew below decks. I lie huddled in my bunk, listening to the various crashes and thuds as everything not secured goes tumbling about. The smell of cooking drifts past every now and again, but as curious as I am, I do not think my stomach is ready to investigate how the cook is preparing anything under these conditions."
"1st August
Supplies are running low and crew morale is starting to show some signs of wear. It has been a difficult and trying expedition, though I daresay our labors have proven fruitful. The barometer is dropping like a stone, and those that know say that we may be headed back to port sooner than anticipated. The message is treated with cautious joy; I do admit the prospect of a meal without boiled potatoes is one I rather look forward to."
Extracts from a really bad sea-exploration novel? Not quite. Rather the rambled musings of an exhausted scientist halfway through a midnight-to-8am shift, shivering on the back deck of a research vessel watching the winch spool out and hoping that the friggin sediment grab will actually GRAB some sediment this time.
If nothing else it fills me with pure admiration for those voyagers who set out to explore the vast oceans a few hundred years ago. These days we set out armed with with nothing but satellite communications, global positioning systems, desalinization plants and a whole array of other safety equipment.
But some things remain eternal: the sight of endless waters racing past, the tang of salt-air and oil, the camaraderie and pet-hates that define the relationships in such a closed environment. And oh, yes, the seabirds bobbing along a drifting vessel - they must've thought we were the worst fishermen ever! But we were not fishing for, ahaha, fish. We were there to plumb the depths of the ocean floor, sifting through bucketfuls of mud and sand finding everything from fossilized jawbones to brightly colored worms and so much more.
Though the vessels themselves may have changed in shape and capability, the human need to explore remains untouched by time. Who knows; a couple of hundred years from now the diary entries of a star-explorer may ready quite similar to those of all explorers past and present.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
What I did on my holiday...
Not the most creative title, I agree, but hey... as Barney would say: "true story"!
The significant other and I headed out to the Cederberg Mountains this weekend for some much needed R&R away from civilization, cellphone calls and cats. Even us dedicated pet staffers go a bit foamy at the mouth after being bounced on for the hundredth time at 3 am in the morning, or yowled at because said cats feel bored / hungry / annoyed / playful / nauseous etc etc etc.
Anyhoo. Considering the trip in retrospect, I feel a bit like Frodo or Samwise Gamgee after their famous journey, including the chance to shout "Here come the Eagles!". Scoff if you want, but our trip included treacherous mountain ascents, wizard-like staffs and, yes, eagles!
Our destination was Kromrivier - a haven for any world-weary wanderer tucked away in the folds of the Cederberg Mountains, an area known for its strange rock formations and world-class hiking / climbing routes. With the rainy winter season in full swing, we arrived at the major river crossing to find it, ahahahaha, flooded. And then some. With some backtracking and creative navigation we arrived safely at our cottage, if slightly later than planned. But visions of the Lord of the Rings soon turned into the Three Little Pigs as we set to huffing and puffing to get our darn fire to burn properly! Perseverance paid off though, and by bedtime our cottage was a cozy haven where weary travelers dozed before a blazing hearth. With an outside bathroom, trips were made on a pressing-need-only basis, and rather quickly at that.
Well after daybreak we set off to scale a local feature that promised good exercise and a fantastic view. Unfortunately it came with some hidden terms and conditions that we discovered the hard way. Just getting to the start of our ascent included a lot more bushwhacking than anticipated. I ended up with prickly leaves and thorns in mentionable places that made me say a few unmentionable words. With names like Umbrella Thorn (Hak & Steek) and Climber's Friend (officially Cliffortia Ruscifolia, but once you've grabbed a handful, it's known by more colorful phrases), the journey may sounds almost cheerful. It wasn't.
Fighting our way through these menacing shrubs, we climbed higher, finding our path littered with interesting flakes of newly exposed rock, some rock dust, areas that looked newly-plown and some new-looking boulders. All very interesting geologically speaking; all VERY nerve-wracking when you realized you're walking right along the path of a recent rockfall. Like Gandalf's brave company, this climb was not successful - we did not make it to the top, and returned to camp scratched, sore and out of sorts.
But, like all good stories, the journey was not over yet, and hope remained. The next day we set off to meet with Megan - she who follows the airy trails of the local Black Eagles (Verreaux Eagles for those in the know, "Witkruisarend" for the rest of us). As part of her PhD studies she monitors the Eagles during their breeding season, and Significant Other had volunteered his services to rig an abseil to place a camera above a nest.
We hiked up the mountain around the corner from the nest site, popping over a saddle before descending to the overhang above their nest. Unlike yesterday's brushy ordeal, this hike was an absolute pleasure. I'd also unpacked my trekking poles, and oh my word: 8th wonder of the world. The dramatic cut-down on flailing about and making ground-level inspections of pebbles was almost magical. Then a shadow swooped over us, and I got my first close-up look at ::drumroll: the Eagles. With a wingspan of 2 metres, even the most daring human feels that inner mammal giving a very alarmed 'squeak!' at the sight these hunters.
As there were eggs in the nest already, our job was to get in, get the job done, and get out with as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. Sitting at my belay station on top, I watched as the eagles flew past every now and again, and yes, I admit it, I enjoyed it thoroughly being able to say "Here come the eagles!"
With camera set in place, we left the area as quickly as possible and I'm happy to report that by the time we reached the the valley floor, the Eagles were settling in on the eggs again.
That evening we sat around a roaring fire, happy smiles and tired bodies celebrating the indescribable wonder of being 'out there'. It may not always be a smooth journey, but the rewards are beyond measure.
P.s. For more info on the Black Eagle project, see https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Black-Eagle-Project/166520386739894
The significant other and I headed out to the Cederberg Mountains this weekend for some much needed R&R away from civilization, cellphone calls and cats. Even us dedicated pet staffers go a bit foamy at the mouth after being bounced on for the hundredth time at 3 am in the morning, or yowled at because said cats feel bored / hungry / annoyed / playful / nauseous etc etc etc.
Anyhoo. Considering the trip in retrospect, I feel a bit like Frodo or Samwise Gamgee after their famous journey, including the chance to shout "Here come the Eagles!". Scoff if you want, but our trip included treacherous mountain ascents, wizard-like staffs and, yes, eagles!
Our destination was Kromrivier - a haven for any world-weary wanderer tucked away in the folds of the Cederberg Mountains, an area known for its strange rock formations and world-class hiking / climbing routes. With the rainy winter season in full swing, we arrived at the major river crossing to find it, ahahahaha, flooded. And then some. With some backtracking and creative navigation we arrived safely at our cottage, if slightly later than planned. But visions of the Lord of the Rings soon turned into the Three Little Pigs as we set to huffing and puffing to get our darn fire to burn properly! Perseverance paid off though, and by bedtime our cottage was a cozy haven where weary travelers dozed before a blazing hearth. With an outside bathroom, trips were made on a pressing-need-only basis, and rather quickly at that.
Well after daybreak we set off to scale a local feature that promised good exercise and a fantastic view. Unfortunately it came with some hidden terms and conditions that we discovered the hard way. Just getting to the start of our ascent included a lot more bushwhacking than anticipated. I ended up with prickly leaves and thorns in mentionable places that made me say a few unmentionable words. With names like Umbrella Thorn (Hak & Steek) and Climber's Friend (officially Cliffortia Ruscifolia, but once you've grabbed a handful, it's known by more colorful phrases), the journey may sounds almost cheerful. It wasn't.
Fighting our way through these menacing shrubs, we climbed higher, finding our path littered with interesting flakes of newly exposed rock, some rock dust, areas that looked newly-plown and some new-looking boulders. All very interesting geologically speaking; all VERY nerve-wracking when you realized you're walking right along the path of a recent rockfall. Like Gandalf's brave company, this climb was not successful - we did not make it to the top, and returned to camp scratched, sore and out of sorts.
But, like all good stories, the journey was not over yet, and hope remained. The next day we set off to meet with Megan - she who follows the airy trails of the local Black Eagles (Verreaux Eagles for those in the know, "Witkruisarend" for the rest of us). As part of her PhD studies she monitors the Eagles during their breeding season, and Significant Other had volunteered his services to rig an abseil to place a camera above a nest.
We hiked up the mountain around the corner from the nest site, popping over a saddle before descending to the overhang above their nest. Unlike yesterday's brushy ordeal, this hike was an absolute pleasure. I'd also unpacked my trekking poles, and oh my word: 8th wonder of the world. The dramatic cut-down on flailing about and making ground-level inspections of pebbles was almost magical. Then a shadow swooped over us, and I got my first close-up look at ::drumroll: the Eagles. With a wingspan of 2 metres, even the most daring human feels that inner mammal giving a very alarmed 'squeak!' at the sight these hunters.
As there were eggs in the nest already, our job was to get in, get the job done, and get out with as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. Sitting at my belay station on top, I watched as the eagles flew past every now and again, and yes, I admit it, I enjoyed it thoroughly being able to say "Here come the eagles!"
With camera set in place, we left the area as quickly as possible and I'm happy to report that by the time we reached the the valley floor, the Eagles were settling in on the eggs again.
That evening we sat around a roaring fire, happy smiles and tired bodies celebrating the indescribable wonder of being 'out there'. It may not always be a smooth journey, but the rewards are beyond measure.
P.s. For more info on the Black Eagle project, see https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Black-Eagle-Project/166520386739894
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Relativity in non-time travel
Sounds intellectual, eh? Well, don't be afraid... step a little closer... that's right. The title is about as intellectual as this ramble will get.
Having recently become an international traveler, I now find myself contemplating the relativity of time during sub-light travel. Oh wait, lapsed there... Let me put it another way. Time seems a bit more elastic than usual when one is out and about in the world. Possibly with an added algorithm that includes the distance away from home. Darnit, another lapse. Right, maybe I should stop fighting it and just go with it.
First off, there's the airport black hole phenomena. No, no, I don't mean the one where your luggage disappears into a logistical black hole. Although, come to think of it, it may just be further proof of my theory. Just think: there's this huge rush to get to the airport on time... but once inside, time slows to a crawl as you stand in queues, then get herded into the plane to wait some more. Once you leave the ground it's like you've entered another dimension. Far, far below people are going about their daily business, totally unaware of your brief flight through their lives - you pass by, catching glimpses that pass too fast for you to make sense of the bigger picture. Upon arrival you are integrated back into real-time, albeit through another time slow-down known as baggage reclaim.
Another phenomenon is that of distorted time brought about by distance separation; a trick of time that is perhaps second cousin to near light-speed time distortion. If you are the one away from home, time seems to fly - you're seeing new things, experiencing different conditions, your senses are continually assaulted by new and different inputs. You look at the calender after a few days, surprised at how much time as actually elapsed. For those at home, the reverse is true. Days drag past as you wonder what the other person is doing, how they're feeling, if they think of you as much as you do of them. When you talk, they seem surprised at your different experience of what is supposedly the same amount of time.
And with that I'm off to contemplate some more of this wonderful flexible resource... preferably in a comfy spot where I can watch the night sky wheel past overhead.
Having recently become an international traveler, I now find myself contemplating the relativity of time during sub-light travel. Oh wait, lapsed there... Let me put it another way. Time seems a bit more elastic than usual when one is out and about in the world. Possibly with an added algorithm that includes the distance away from home. Darnit, another lapse. Right, maybe I should stop fighting it and just go with it.
First off, there's the airport black hole phenomena. No, no, I don't mean the one where your luggage disappears into a logistical black hole. Although, come to think of it, it may just be further proof of my theory. Just think: there's this huge rush to get to the airport on time... but once inside, time slows to a crawl as you stand in queues, then get herded into the plane to wait some more. Once you leave the ground it's like you've entered another dimension. Far, far below people are going about their daily business, totally unaware of your brief flight through their lives - you pass by, catching glimpses that pass too fast for you to make sense of the bigger picture. Upon arrival you are integrated back into real-time, albeit through another time slow-down known as baggage reclaim.
Another phenomenon is that of distorted time brought about by distance separation; a trick of time that is perhaps second cousin to near light-speed time distortion. If you are the one away from home, time seems to fly - you're seeing new things, experiencing different conditions, your senses are continually assaulted by new and different inputs. You look at the calender after a few days, surprised at how much time as actually elapsed. For those at home, the reverse is true. Days drag past as you wonder what the other person is doing, how they're feeling, if they think of you as much as you do of them. When you talk, they seem surprised at your different experience of what is supposedly the same amount of time.
And with that I'm off to contemplate some more of this wonderful flexible resource... preferably in a comfy spot where I can watch the night sky wheel past overhead.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Ode to Soekie... or maybe just some ramblings
Those are the words anyone who shares their life with animals dread. It signals the inevitable parting of ways, often with hard but unavoidable choices to be made.
I heard those words last Friday, and it meant the end of my journey with Soekiekat (Southern Comfort or Soco on the books, but seriously, what pet ever has just one name?).
It was just before Christmas about 6 years ago when I met a vet-friend for coffee. Of course the discussion turned to animals and she asked how my furry family was doing. I admitted that I missed Mouse...ahem, I mean Sterling tabbycat, and that it had been an interesting dynamic with 3 cats and a big dog in one household. My memory now paints her response in coy colours: "well, there just so happens to be a kitty at the office looking for a home."
Yep, she could sure spot a sucker! The image of a lonely cat, crouched in a metal cage spending Christmas all alone in the cold vet offices broke my heart, and opened a door for Soco to walk into our lives.
The small tabby with the spiral markings on her side and a nick out of her tongue hopped out of the cat-carrier, glided through the house, and then promptly settled for a snooze on the back-rest of the couch. I stood there, mouth agape, all over-prepared for an anxious cat that needed to be settled into her environment. Instead I got a cat that ran a quick inspection and then gave me the "yes, I can work with this "-look, placing her pawprints firmly in our territory and hearts.
I often wandered about the owners that were forced to abandon her as they emigrated. And after her death, I do so again. I want to tell them what a blessing she was, that she found a happy home, that she had a good life with more spirit than her small body could ever carry and that I learnt oh so very much from her.
Soekie's rules for life:
1. Never underestimate the importance of sleep - one of her nicknames was "narcoleptic kitty". She spent quality time on her couch-back spot, right there where the first rays of the morning sun entered the house. I would walk past several times a day, observing the changes in sleeping posture, the ridiculous facial expressions of a blissful cat while in turn getting at most one green eye opening halfway or a jaw-cracking yawn.
2. Play! I was witness to many a wrestling match between Soekie and Sammi (also known as Scaredy-cat), games of chase that made it sound as if a herd of buffalo were stampeding through the house, and Soekie's dangerous "poke the lion" game where she'd sniff Savannah's (a.k.a. Fatcat) bum and then get involved in a swatting match.
3. Enjoy the outdoors. To the extent that the outdoors often found its way indoors, and it was my job to return the efforts from the "catch & release" programme back into the wild. Often at 2 am, armed with a towel or dustpan and dressed in a hastily grabbed night-gown. I could write a detailed catalogue of the catchable-sized wildlife in my area. Gardening was enjoyed by both of us, affording her a time to show off her tree-climbing, garden-ambush and surprise-attack skills.
4. Push your luck.... and be prepared to compromise. The dining room table was our most hotly contested issue. It was perfectly positioned to catch the late afternoon sun and offered a spectacular view of sunset. Also, a lovely sunning spot where you could watch the comings & goings of practically the whole lower floor. I lost count of the number of times I turfed her from the table, only to see her boomerang back. So we compromised... I placed a special kitty blanket on the table, and she graciously only sat on that one spot of the table, and never when guests were around.
5. Be bold! Whenever there was a strange noise outside or the sound of another cat, it was always interesting to observe the results in my house. Scaredy-cat would make a bee-line for indoors, and usually his hiding spot under the bed; whereas Soco would lead the charge outside, closely followed by Fatcat, to see who needed beating up on her territory.
6. Everyone is a potential friend. And I observed the most unlikely friendship forming between my adopted and reportedly cat-eating dog (well, she does have them for dinner, but as companions, not a course) and Soco. She would wind between the dog's legs, leaning in for a rough sniff and a quick lick from her large canine friend. They'd often sleep together on the dog-bed in winter, two warm bodies snuggled under the blanket.
7. Expect the unexpected. When I went to pick her up 6 years ago, I had no idea how she'd fit into the household or my heart. But she quickly worked her way deep into both, and I'm thankful for every day we had together. Her illness came just as suddenly, and our forced goodbye, reminding me of her final lesson...
8. Live fully in every moment
Until we meet again Soekie... the scratches you left in the plum tree's bark won't outlast the tracks you left in my heart.
And now for a real ode....
Ode to Spot - by Data (originally by Clay Dale)
- Felis catus is your taxonomic nomenclature,
- An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature;
- Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses
- Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.
- I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
- A singular development of cat communications
- That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
- For a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.
- A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
- You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
- And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion,
- It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.
- O Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display
- Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
- And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
- I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Moving on
The end of 2012 brought not so much the end of the world, but rather the end of an era. And this post contains no added Mayans... well, ok, maybe one little reference. But the rest of it is guaranteed Mayan-free. I hope.
It started off with a quiet weekend in the mountains that ended up in one rather sparkly rock being offered to me. After making sure the man wasn't joking or delirious, I accepted with a very happy heart. When we got home I heard that the job I'd applied for before we left was available to me, and the ball really started rolling. Suffice to say, by the end of 2012 I'm engaged, looking forward to starting a new job and in the process of moving house. It is ending on a note of wonder, terror, excitement with a quiet counterpoint of nostalgia.
The last few days I have tackled the messiest room in the house; packing that which needs to go into temporary storage, setting aside that which needs to go with to the temporary accommodation with fiancee, and that which must be discarded. It's a surprising and nostalgic journey, going through all the drawers, folders and boxes that somehow accumulated in between the book cases and desk. I found everything from grade school books to saved giftwrapping. Maps of places I've been and brochures of those I intended to visit. I kept reminding myself to be ruthless in this spring-cleaning process - don't hold on to old notes written in class, but don't throw them away either before reading them one more time. Somehow you revisit your life by reading little scraps of paper with odd notes, finding photos used as bookmarks and forgotten in between the pages, trying to decipher cryptic scribbles in your own handwriting. It's a flashback journey, little windows into your own history filled with glimpses of forgotten moments.
And sifting through it, I decide what to keep and what to let go of; sometimes much more than just a secret note or a long-forgotten address. Saying goodbye has never been easy for me, and some letters were not let go without a teardrop stamp. But they are not let go of lightly; they were held, read, and purposefully let go; sometimes with a fond farewell, at other times with regret. But it's time to move on, and it's more easily done with a lighter load.
With the new year lurking in the wings, perhaps it's a good time to clean the unused and unwanted things off the stage, setting it up for new memories and experiences that will complement the good that has already happened.
It started off with a quiet weekend in the mountains that ended up in one rather sparkly rock being offered to me. After making sure the man wasn't joking or delirious, I accepted with a very happy heart. When we got home I heard that the job I'd applied for before we left was available to me, and the ball really started rolling. Suffice to say, by the end of 2012 I'm engaged, looking forward to starting a new job and in the process of moving house. It is ending on a note of wonder, terror, excitement with a quiet counterpoint of nostalgia.
The last few days I have tackled the messiest room in the house; packing that which needs to go into temporary storage, setting aside that which needs to go with to the temporary accommodation with fiancee, and that which must be discarded. It's a surprising and nostalgic journey, going through all the drawers, folders and boxes that somehow accumulated in between the book cases and desk. I found everything from grade school books to saved giftwrapping. Maps of places I've been and brochures of those I intended to visit. I kept reminding myself to be ruthless in this spring-cleaning process - don't hold on to old notes written in class, but don't throw them away either before reading them one more time. Somehow you revisit your life by reading little scraps of paper with odd notes, finding photos used as bookmarks and forgotten in between the pages, trying to decipher cryptic scribbles in your own handwriting. It's a flashback journey, little windows into your own history filled with glimpses of forgotten moments.
And sifting through it, I decide what to keep and what to let go of; sometimes much more than just a secret note or a long-forgotten address. Saying goodbye has never been easy for me, and some letters were not let go without a teardrop stamp. But they are not let go of lightly; they were held, read, and purposefully let go; sometimes with a fond farewell, at other times with regret. But it's time to move on, and it's more easily done with a lighter load.
With the new year lurking in the wings, perhaps it's a good time to clean the unused and unwanted things off the stage, setting it up for new memories and experiences that will complement the good that has already happened.
Friday, October 5, 2012
The stage is a but a world...
... where we strut, fret, rouge and ruffle. And that is but the top of the iceberg.
Which, perhaps, is a great likeness for any stage production. What the audience sees is but the top of a floating behemoth, dragging with it tons and tons of hidden mass in the shape of preparations and backstage action. The audience may never appreciate the blood, sweat and tears - and that's just the costume sewing - that goes into a production. Of course the actual execution carries a whole other dimension of work.
Even now, two days before the actual show, there's enough backstage nerves to power our country for a month. But now is the time! If you want to worry, do so now. If you want to fuss with your costume, there's no better moment than now. Because on the evening this giant is going to move along it's inevitable course, whether you're ready or not. And yes, everything will not run exactly as you'd planned; the art lies is in active and calm crisis management. Like a swan gliding along, furious feet activity hidden beneath the waterline, a show is not so much run as managed, held together by a good stage manager, the determination to survive, safety pins and glitter.
Glitter?! Yep, glitter, at least in this case as it involves a bellydance extravaganza. Which also means it has an added dimension of terror ... beads & sequins. Scoff if you want, but have you ever stepped on a bead with your bare feet? Not to mention the drama that could ensue with a costume malfunction - the polite way of saying you bared more than your soul to the audience and possibly pushed up the show's age restriction in one go. As our teacher sagely advised us: "If you're going to fall of the stage, remember - legs straight, tits out and smile as if that was exactly what you planned."
Why do we put ourselves through this?
Because of love
We love what we do, we love the people who share our passion, and we'd like to show those we love what we get up to in class.
So let the games begin.
Lights.... glitter.... and action!
Which, perhaps, is a great likeness for any stage production. What the audience sees is but the top of a floating behemoth, dragging with it tons and tons of hidden mass in the shape of preparations and backstage action. The audience may never appreciate the blood, sweat and tears - and that's just the costume sewing - that goes into a production. Of course the actual execution carries a whole other dimension of work.
Even now, two days before the actual show, there's enough backstage nerves to power our country for a month. But now is the time! If you want to worry, do so now. If you want to fuss with your costume, there's no better moment than now. Because on the evening this giant is going to move along it's inevitable course, whether you're ready or not. And yes, everything will not run exactly as you'd planned; the art lies is in active and calm crisis management. Like a swan gliding along, furious feet activity hidden beneath the waterline, a show is not so much run as managed, held together by a good stage manager, the determination to survive, safety pins and glitter.
Glitter?! Yep, glitter, at least in this case as it involves a bellydance extravaganza. Which also means it has an added dimension of terror ... beads & sequins. Scoff if you want, but have you ever stepped on a bead with your bare feet? Not to mention the drama that could ensue with a costume malfunction - the polite way of saying you bared more than your soul to the audience and possibly pushed up the show's age restriction in one go. As our teacher sagely advised us: "If you're going to fall of the stage, remember - legs straight, tits out and smile as if that was exactly what you planned."
Why do we put ourselves through this?
Because of love
We love what we do, we love the people who share our passion, and we'd like to show those we love what we get up to in class.
So let the games begin.
Lights.... glitter.... and action!
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Survivor... icecave!
Whether they like to admit it or not, everyone develops a life-motto somewhere along their journey. To date, mine goes something like this: "I will try almost anything at least once."
Not very snappy, nor does it roll easily off the tongue, but there you have it. It's a philosophy that's served me well, and certainly applies to my latest adventure.
As someone who appreciates the great outdoors and finds herself lucky enough to be dating someone who also shares that love of nature, it seemed inevitable that at some stage or another I would have to experience genuine hiking. I'm not talking about a meander up a nearby mountain, a spot of tea at the top and then a stroll down. Oh no, not this time. It was to be a 4-day trip into the Cederberg mountains, with cave-camping and VERY au naturel ablution activities.
Part of me was very excited, and a slightly larger part was a bit apprehensive. Cold was going to be an issue to me, that's a given, but would I cope with the (for me) heavy backpack? Would I hold the rest of the group back and earn their resentment while I crawled up the track? Did I pack enough food? Did I leave my last will and testament in an obvious place?
As my significant other put it upon our arrival at the start of the trail: "Is your trepid a bit acious?"
It was. In large, super-sized scoops.
But the scenery was gorgeous; winter-streams gurgled down a rock-strewn 'kloof', ancient ceder-trees giving a welcoming nod to passer's by. A grassy plateau followed, then some more rock-strewn uphills with a final boulder and scree-strewn slope before we reached the cave that would serve as home for the next few days.
And now for a word from our sponsors.... or at least a grateful acknowledgement to them. Trekking poles rock! They are great for balancing backpack-heavy hikers. And those pocket-heaters: rip packet, expose to air and *poof* a treasured little source of heat for up to 24 hours. Ah... bliss!
And now back to the action...
It was with great relief that I undid the backpack once we reached the cave. The hike up had pushed my limits for sure, but it did deliver that personal sense of accomplishment nothing else can manage. These trips also brings with them a sense of simplicity - you cease to worry about all the vagaries of modern life, and instead focus on the smaller, essential things. Your day now breaks down into waking up, first cup of tea, morning ablutions (finding a quiet spot and, ahem, contemplating nature), exploring, breathing, sharing....
Of course it wasn't all moonlight and roses.
It was cold. I gained a lot of experience by being told what I should've done just after I'd done something. More cold. Sense of humor loss. And cold again.
There was also a death-defying trip to the top of another mountain named Tafelberg, featuring great gaping chasms filled with roiling lava and the scaling of a soap-smoothed vertical cliff.
Well, ok, maybe not quite that bad, but it certainly seemed that way to an inexperienced hiker as myself.
But with supporting friends (quite literal at times) we all made it to the top and safely back down again.
As I sit here now, cup of tea in hand and modern life blaring away around me, I start to remember it with a lot more fondness. The views were spectacular; the full moon cresting the saddle as the sun sank in the west, the fantastic patterns of ice sheets, water trickling down the rock behind it. The simple joys of warm food and good company.
Will I do it again? Probably . . . but not just yet.
The memories of fear and anxiety need to fade a bit more, to be balanced by the richer colors and warm fuzzies inspired by the good moments.
Oh, and the swelling on my twisted ankle needs to go down as well.Who thought I'd return from a weekend of freezing my extremities off only to snuggle up to an icepack back home.
Ah yes, that's the great outdoors.
Not very snappy, nor does it roll easily off the tongue, but there you have it. It's a philosophy that's served me well, and certainly applies to my latest adventure.
As someone who appreciates the great outdoors and finds herself lucky enough to be dating someone who also shares that love of nature, it seemed inevitable that at some stage or another I would have to experience genuine hiking. I'm not talking about a meander up a nearby mountain, a spot of tea at the top and then a stroll down. Oh no, not this time. It was to be a 4-day trip into the Cederberg mountains, with cave-camping and VERY au naturel ablution activities.
Part of me was very excited, and a slightly larger part was a bit apprehensive. Cold was going to be an issue to me, that's a given, but would I cope with the (for me) heavy backpack? Would I hold the rest of the group back and earn their resentment while I crawled up the track? Did I pack enough food? Did I leave my last will and testament in an obvious place?
As my significant other put it upon our arrival at the start of the trail: "Is your trepid a bit acious?"
It was. In large, super-sized scoops.
But the scenery was gorgeous; winter-streams gurgled down a rock-strewn 'kloof', ancient ceder-trees giving a welcoming nod to passer's by. A grassy plateau followed, then some more rock-strewn uphills with a final boulder and scree-strewn slope before we reached the cave that would serve as home for the next few days.
And now for a word from our sponsors.... or at least a grateful acknowledgement to them. Trekking poles rock! They are great for balancing backpack-heavy hikers. And those pocket-heaters: rip packet, expose to air and *poof* a treasured little source of heat for up to 24 hours. Ah... bliss!
And now back to the action...
It was with great relief that I undid the backpack once we reached the cave. The hike up had pushed my limits for sure, but it did deliver that personal sense of accomplishment nothing else can manage. These trips also brings with them a sense of simplicity - you cease to worry about all the vagaries of modern life, and instead focus on the smaller, essential things. Your day now breaks down into waking up, first cup of tea, morning ablutions (finding a quiet spot and, ahem, contemplating nature), exploring, breathing, sharing....
Of course it wasn't all moonlight and roses.
It was cold. I gained a lot of experience by being told what I should've done just after I'd done something. More cold. Sense of humor loss. And cold again.
There was also a death-defying trip to the top of another mountain named Tafelberg, featuring great gaping chasms filled with roiling lava and the scaling of a soap-smoothed vertical cliff.
Well, ok, maybe not quite that bad, but it certainly seemed that way to an inexperienced hiker as myself.
But with supporting friends (quite literal at times) we all made it to the top and safely back down again.
As I sit here now, cup of tea in hand and modern life blaring away around me, I start to remember it with a lot more fondness. The views were spectacular; the full moon cresting the saddle as the sun sank in the west, the fantastic patterns of ice sheets, water trickling down the rock behind it. The simple joys of warm food and good company.
Will I do it again? Probably . . . but not just yet.
The memories of fear and anxiety need to fade a bit more, to be balanced by the richer colors and warm fuzzies inspired by the good moments.
Oh, and the swelling on my twisted ankle needs to go down as well.Who thought I'd return from a weekend of freezing my extremities off only to snuggle up to an icepack back home.
Ah yes, that's the great outdoors.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Animal talk
Those of us who share an abode with a furry companion (no, the dust bunnies under your bed doesn't count) or perhaps more correctly, serve as staff for an animal companion will know all about animal communication.
I don't mean crystal-channeling, incense-inhaling channeling of your familiar. Rather, that collection of dqueaks, grumbles, sighs, claws and stinky-breathed yawns that make up the more usual repertoire of non-human communication.
Over the past few years I have become quite fluent in tri-colour cat-speak - a specialty discipline where the feline in question's mood ranges from miffed to 'bemoerd' (an Afrikaans term that finds a rather lackluster cousin in the English 'F'd off') and all the shades in between, much like their coats. Savannah also has the added weaponry of her infamous yellow-glare; known to give spine-chills at a distance 10 paces or more. Tri-colours are known to be among the more verbal moggies around, and any owner will very soon learn the difference between 'nice-to-see-you-where's-my-food' and 'oh-what-is-this-before-me-an-empty-bowl-I-am-starving-ergh-ergh-ergh' accompanied by dramatics that would put the Royal Shakespearean Company to shame. Said tri-colour is by no means starving (stop dialling the SPCA number!) as evidenced by her rather rotund shape which she still manages to tuck away somehow when doing her starving-kitty impression. Said tri-colour is the brains of my little feline tribe; if you look carefully at those scenes where the evil genius is stroking a white cat, there's a tri-colour in the background trying to hide the puppet-strings attached to her claws.
Last night I arrived home to find yet another expression of cat dissatisfaction. It'd been a long day away from home, and with the encroaching darkness, howling winds and icy rain the cats had no doubt decided that dinner was going to be late. Unacceptably late, regardless of whether mom might be lying in a ditch next to the road somewhere. So the tabby huntress of my little tribe decided to send out for food; I arrived just in time to see her crouched on the rim of the bath-tub - a sure sign that something rather interesting was lurking at the bottom. Step 1, evict all cats from the bathroom and close the door firmly. Step 2, gingerly lift the cooler-bag that was left in the tub for cleaning to discover.... a rodent! A nice plump one at that; and I can't help but wonder whether she was going to give it a quick rinse before serving it up.
The dog also has her say, usually leaving me paw-printed notes in the garden in the shape of holes you can hide a horse in. The number and depth of holes can be directly related to how badly she feels in need of a walk outside the yard.
Then again.... maybe fat-cat has bribed her into body-disposal duty, and I just happened to come along at the wrong time.
Hmmm.....
I don't mean crystal-channeling, incense-inhaling channeling of your familiar. Rather, that collection of dqueaks, grumbles, sighs, claws and stinky-breathed yawns that make up the more usual repertoire of non-human communication.
Over the past few years I have become quite fluent in tri-colour cat-speak - a specialty discipline where the feline in question's mood ranges from miffed to 'bemoerd' (an Afrikaans term that finds a rather lackluster cousin in the English 'F'd off') and all the shades in between, much like their coats. Savannah also has the added weaponry of her infamous yellow-glare; known to give spine-chills at a distance 10 paces or more. Tri-colours are known to be among the more verbal moggies around, and any owner will very soon learn the difference between 'nice-to-see-you-where's-my-food' and 'oh-what-is-this-before-me-an-empty-bowl-I-am-starving-ergh-ergh-ergh' accompanied by dramatics that would put the Royal Shakespearean Company to shame. Said tri-colour is by no means starving (stop dialling the SPCA number!) as evidenced by her rather rotund shape which she still manages to tuck away somehow when doing her starving-kitty impression. Said tri-colour is the brains of my little feline tribe; if you look carefully at those scenes where the evil genius is stroking a white cat, there's a tri-colour in the background trying to hide the puppet-strings attached to her claws.
Last night I arrived home to find yet another expression of cat dissatisfaction. It'd been a long day away from home, and with the encroaching darkness, howling winds and icy rain the cats had no doubt decided that dinner was going to be late. Unacceptably late, regardless of whether mom might be lying in a ditch next to the road somewhere. So the tabby huntress of my little tribe decided to send out for food; I arrived just in time to see her crouched on the rim of the bath-tub - a sure sign that something rather interesting was lurking at the bottom. Step 1, evict all cats from the bathroom and close the door firmly. Step 2, gingerly lift the cooler-bag that was left in the tub for cleaning to discover.... a rodent! A nice plump one at that; and I can't help but wonder whether she was going to give it a quick rinse before serving it up.
The dog also has her say, usually leaving me paw-printed notes in the garden in the shape of holes you can hide a horse in. The number and depth of holes can be directly related to how badly she feels in need of a walk outside the yard.
Then again.... maybe fat-cat has bribed her into body-disposal duty, and I just happened to come along at the wrong time.
Hmmm.....
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
On the trail again....
Of what you wonder... an escaped criminal, a missing particle? Common Sense?
None of those - it is simply my wrangling of the Willie Nelson 'On the road again' title; and the theme of a recent hiking expedition in the Tsitsikamma area.
"And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again"
I've always been interested in experiencing a proper multi-day hike, and also slightly terrified of the distance and the whole tortoise approach to being outside. I had visions of cheerfully strapping on my backpack and then keeling over slowly in cinematographic slowness.
Then I heard a word which gave me hope, parting the heavens to let a beam of light shine through and highlight the forested hills of Knysna .... 'slackpacking'!
Let me explain while we wait for the jeers of serious hikers to die down. With slackpacking you pay for porterage of baggage / food that you don't want to slog along every day. In our case, this meant that your sleeping bags, extra clothes and daily food (stored in a fridge until use) was delivered to your destination hut every afternoon. Which leaves you to carry only the essentials - warm and rain-gear, food for a day and as much curiosity as you can manage.
Our intrepid little group set off all bright-eyed, equipped with enough cameras to make a tour group envious, stocked with what we thought was a day's rations but could probably feed a small country for a week. Cresting the first rise we whipped out our official hike map to take a look at what glorious peak we'd conquered .... it was a hill. It was barely away from the hut. And that was our first introduction to quantum-distances.
Yep, the mapmakers were either very nasty or very clever; distances, landmarks and path-contours did not seem to match up with our experiences. Hills seemed higher, gentle-descents more like sheer cliff-faces and river's sneakily playing peek-a-boo with thirsty wanderers. And then we discovered creepy-kilometers; they are sneaky those creatures, and masters of deception. The first three of every day seemed to zoot past, leaving you with the impression of a shady glen, a gurgling stream or a blossoming hillside. The next few blurred into rolling walks broken only by your stomach announcing something akin to lunchtime. And then the last 6 or so....just....dragged....on....
The signposts were no help either, either with distances helpfully blanked out or offering misleading indications - never have I encountered a mere 1.5 km that lasted so bloody long! Speculation began as to whether the signs were actually counting up at one stage. Trying to match map with signpost just led to frown-induced headaches, and our group soon adapted a very zen-like approach: When we get to the hut, we stop.
And perhaps that was the whole purpose of the trail after all. You've done all the preparation you can, now just relax and enjoy the experience. And that we did. We wandered from forest to glade, up hills and down ravines, baking in the sun and soaking tired feet in icy streams, marveling at the sheer scale and beauty of this corner of Africa.
"Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again."
None of those - it is simply my wrangling of the Willie Nelson 'On the road again' title; and the theme of a recent hiking expedition in the Tsitsikamma area.
"And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again"
I've always been interested in experiencing a proper multi-day hike, and also slightly terrified of the distance and the whole tortoise approach to being outside. I had visions of cheerfully strapping on my backpack and then keeling over slowly in cinematographic slowness.
Then I heard a word which gave me hope, parting the heavens to let a beam of light shine through and highlight the forested hills of Knysna .... 'slackpacking'!
Let me explain while we wait for the jeers of serious hikers to die down. With slackpacking you pay for porterage of baggage / food that you don't want to slog along every day. In our case, this meant that your sleeping bags, extra clothes and daily food (stored in a fridge until use) was delivered to your destination hut every afternoon. Which leaves you to carry only the essentials - warm and rain-gear, food for a day and as much curiosity as you can manage.
Our intrepid little group set off all bright-eyed, equipped with enough cameras to make a tour group envious, stocked with what we thought was a day's rations but could probably feed a small country for a week. Cresting the first rise we whipped out our official hike map to take a look at what glorious peak we'd conquered .... it was a hill. It was barely away from the hut. And that was our first introduction to quantum-distances.
Yep, the mapmakers were either very nasty or very clever; distances, landmarks and path-contours did not seem to match up with our experiences. Hills seemed higher, gentle-descents more like sheer cliff-faces and river's sneakily playing peek-a-boo with thirsty wanderers. And then we discovered creepy-kilometers; they are sneaky those creatures, and masters of deception. The first three of every day seemed to zoot past, leaving you with the impression of a shady glen, a gurgling stream or a blossoming hillside. The next few blurred into rolling walks broken only by your stomach announcing something akin to lunchtime. And then the last 6 or so....just....dragged....on....
The signposts were no help either, either with distances helpfully blanked out or offering misleading indications - never have I encountered a mere 1.5 km that lasted so bloody long! Speculation began as to whether the signs were actually counting up at one stage. Trying to match map with signpost just led to frown-induced headaches, and our group soon adapted a very zen-like approach: When we get to the hut, we stop.
And perhaps that was the whole purpose of the trail after all. You've done all the preparation you can, now just relax and enjoy the experience. And that we did. We wandered from forest to glade, up hills and down ravines, baking in the sun and soaking tired feet in icy streams, marveling at the sheer scale and beauty of this corner of Africa.
"Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again."
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Why scientists are crazy
Or at least my version of the story; which may be a wave, a particle, neither or both. Ask Schrodinger's cat.
My particular brand of madness reached new heights shortly after a final full-stop on a research report. Or perhaps it is rather a symptom of ScAD - Science Affective Disorder. That empty and slightly lost feeling you get after completing a specific research task.
You spend so much time preparing the experiment, collecting data, making feverish promises to the scientific deities of GoodData and NonInstrumentFailure while hoping for the best. And then you have it - endless streams of alpha-numerics that form an overwhelming mass threatening to drown even the most determined swimmer in scientific waters. The time for alchemy has arrived, turning that heap of information into nuggets of knowledge. You sift, discard, cleanse and apply the dark magic of statistical analysis to emerge triumphantly with....
.....
.....
two measly little tables, barely filling half a page.
All your effort, hours of wrist-breaking mouse work, swearing at the vagaries of software that suddenly refuse to plot a simple time-series graph as it has done a thousand times before.... everything is condensed in those two little blocks.
But listen closely, and you might hear those blocks talk. They whisper of trends, possible futures and .... wait.... yes....
'more data is required'!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Adamastor Writers' Guild: February 2012 meeting
Adamastor Writers' Guild: February 2012 meeting: The Adamastor Writers' Guild will be hosting an open writers' workshop for folks wishing to touch base with Cape Town-based authors of F/SF...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Bumps and scrapes
As one gets more advanced in age - or shall we call it becoming 'youthfully challenged' - one does start to take a rather close look at ones parents. Not only are they your progenitors, but also a glimpse into a possible future. You start taking note of what aches, pains and complaints they have, and study yourself to find indications of those same symptoms.
And somehow injuries seem to happen more frequently, and take longer to heal. No longer can you party until the wee hours and bounce out of bed for work the next morning. Perhaps we travel the full cycle, coming back to the idea of school nights where you have to be home and in bed well before pumpkin time.
Alas, being a natural adept at clumsiness as myself, does not make the road to aging any smoother.
This week I managed to hurt a joint in my wrist while doing the dishes. Yes, you read it right, I said 'doing the dishes'. I wish I could say it was done whilest rock-climbing, making a match-winning catch or fending off a lion. But no, I was swishing the spunge around the inside of a glass when something went pop... and no weasel in sight. At least the physio got a good laugh out of it while she taped my wrist.
And again: earlier this year I did my impression of a cartoon character falling down the stairs. Yes, there was the inevitable slip, the pinwheeling of arms, the yelp followed by the thud, thud thud
all...
the.....
way.....
to.....
the bottom.
Luckily I did not take the head over heels approach, but slid very ungraciously down the stairs on my butt. Needless to say, this resulted in severe bruising - and not just the ego - along with a sore back and legs. But injuries, I have now found, can be rather sneaky. As the bruising fades some aches linger, and only then do you find out what you really hurt.
After a few weeks of trying out the 'it should heal by itself' approach, I finally gave in and visited a physio and a chiro. Spasmed muscles were convinced to release and kneecaps realligned; and it worked so well that now my dance instructor threatens to send me for a few sessions before every performance. In fact, I won't put it past her to accidentally twist me into knots as motivation - she's a physio and would know exact pressure points to trigger ;-)
But, alas, things don't last as well as they did in my youth - a statement I now make sitting on my stoep complaining about the young people of today, the government and everything else wrong with the world. My knee kept aching - in fair weather and foul, so no win there - and I was advised that it was a physical manifestation of my fear of moving forward in life.
What? No! I'm trying to move forward, that's my point, and my knee ... won't... what, really?!
Yes people, apparently one's own body can turn on you when and where you least expect it. Not only is that little hamster in the wheel running useless laps in your head, but it's also found some interesting buttons to push. I wonder what other buttons are lurking up there...
And somehow injuries seem to happen more frequently, and take longer to heal. No longer can you party until the wee hours and bounce out of bed for work the next morning. Perhaps we travel the full cycle, coming back to the idea of school nights where you have to be home and in bed well before pumpkin time.
Alas, being a natural adept at clumsiness as myself, does not make the road to aging any smoother.
This week I managed to hurt a joint in my wrist while doing the dishes. Yes, you read it right, I said 'doing the dishes'. I wish I could say it was done whilest rock-climbing, making a match-winning catch or fending off a lion. But no, I was swishing the spunge around the inside of a glass when something went pop... and no weasel in sight. At least the physio got a good laugh out of it while she taped my wrist.
And again: earlier this year I did my impression of a cartoon character falling down the stairs. Yes, there was the inevitable slip, the pinwheeling of arms, the yelp followed by the thud, thud thud
all...
the.....
way.....
to.....
the bottom.
Luckily I did not take the head over heels approach, but slid very ungraciously down the stairs on my butt. Needless to say, this resulted in severe bruising - and not just the ego - along with a sore back and legs. But injuries, I have now found, can be rather sneaky. As the bruising fades some aches linger, and only then do you find out what you really hurt.
After a few weeks of trying out the 'it should heal by itself' approach, I finally gave in and visited a physio and a chiro. Spasmed muscles were convinced to release and kneecaps realligned; and it worked so well that now my dance instructor threatens to send me for a few sessions before every performance. In fact, I won't put it past her to accidentally twist me into knots as motivation - she's a physio and would know exact pressure points to trigger ;-)
But, alas, things don't last as well as they did in my youth - a statement I now make sitting on my stoep complaining about the young people of today, the government and everything else wrong with the world. My knee kept aching - in fair weather and foul, so no win there - and I was advised that it was a physical manifestation of my fear of moving forward in life.
What? No! I'm trying to move forward, that's my point, and my knee ... won't... what, really?!
Yes people, apparently one's own body can turn on you when and where you least expect it. Not only is that little hamster in the wheel running useless laps in your head, but it's also found some interesting buttons to push. I wonder what other buttons are lurking up there...
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Country roads
I could sing about those roads, taking you home. But I won't. And they didn't, but they sure made for a wonderful alternative to commuter-crushed highways and byways of the city.
Every so often I head out into nowhere just to get away from it all - sounds like the lyrics of a whiny song, I know, but it's true.
My most recent venture into the country took me to Bonnievale and McGregor, two smallish towns tucked in the folds between the Lange- and Riversonderend Mountains of the Western Cape.
Looking at my car pre-departure, it was easy to think that I was leaving for good. Call me a chick, but I do not travel light when going away, even if it is only for a few days. It's a running joke among those who've ventured out into the wilds with me that I do pack everything, including the kitchen zink. Laugh they will, but thank me they do too when I whip out almost anything from a small hand-axe to a colander. And this trip was no different. The car was stacked to the ceiling with all the usual suspects, including my mountain bike and the new addition - my guitar.
As a relatively newcomer to guitar-dom, I suffer no illusions of campfire singalongs, especially if it's only me. But playing out there in the middle of nowhere where no dogs could try to sing along or cats give me criticizing glances sounded just about right.
My first stop was an extremely picturesque farm in the shadow of the Langeberg; and I do not throw the word picturesque around lightly. I swear if you open an illustrated dictionary and look the word up, you'll find several pictures of this farm in it. Gently rolling hills covered in impossibly crayon-green grass lead up to the imposing blue-purple heights of the mountains. Fruit orchards, vineyards and pasture alternate in patchwork fashion, with photogenic cattle forming points of reference to the roving eye. Ducks, geese and chickens add an authentic aural air to the area, and two horses - one white, one black - adds that final cherry on top.
A series of converted workers cottages are dotted around one pasture area, where no electricity, wi-fi or cell signal can find the weary wanderer. Bliss.
I always find it amazing how one's routine changes when you are forced to fit in with nature's time-table. Up at sunrise, I lazed around in bed and simply enjoyed a cup of tea, courtesy of the gas stove. After that it was a choice of hiking, biking, lazing about or simply taking deep breaths of fresh air until sunset and time to make fire.Yes, yes, I may be considered a not-so-closet pyromaniac, but that act of primal defiance of the dark is still a good one, even after all the ages of 'civilization'. So there I was, carefully stacking my sacrificial altar, a bit concerned that the free wood at the cottage was a little damp. I say damp, but if you squeezed the logs hard enough, you'd probably be able to extract enough moisture for several cups of tea.
But I stepped up to the challenge, placed strategic parafin-soaked teabags (ye olde newfangled firestarters) and lit the match. Instead of watching this carefully orchestrated structure go up in flames, I watched smoke, and lots of it. I huffed, I puffed, I added more small twigs and flamable-teabags, and eventually I got some semblance of a fire going. But it was a whimper rather than a roaring one, and in all honesty, I probably steamed my food rather than 'braai' it, but woman made fire and by the flame she'll eat whatever comes off it.
The next day's fire wasn't much better, even after I spread the logs out in the baking sun. but I was so tired from all the hiking, biking and breathing, that a quick fire and meal was actually welcome.
My next stay was actually in the town of McGregor itself - not quite what I'd envisioned, but that's the fun of exploring new places - to have your preconceptions challenged and horizons broadened.
I purposefully chose backroads to drive from Bonnievale to McGregor, enjoying seeing the sights that most travelers never even know of. Part of the area's charm, I believe, is the names of places. Where else could you find a 'Agter Vinkrivier' or a 'Steenboks vlakte'? They roll off the tongue and over the soul, with reality matching the musical syllables. Everywhere it seemed that Spring was more than ready to do just that, fields and orchards adding riots of colour to the alternating background greens and reds. I even discovered a small mountain pass called 'Strykhoogte' that I dare even Google to find on a map!
McGregor charmed the kilt off me, from the small-town feel, the personalised little wine-cellars to the retirement farm for mules - 'Eseltjiesrus'. I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time the church steeple rang out the hour; when last has anyone of us city-slickers heard time measured out in more than hoots and sirens? This is definitely the spot where one can slow down, listen to the noise of your own breath, and luxuriate in the simplest of activities. Like distance guessing...
See, that small space under the kitchen zink in my car was meant for the distance gadget that slots onto my mountain bike. But instead of the gadget, I only packed air, and was left to guess distances while out cycling. This led to rather interesting cycle routes, and probably not quite as the guides intended - 'cycle 4.5 km, then turn right into a road that angles off at 45 degrees'. I can now attest that there are quite a few roads angling off like that anywhere between 3 and 6 km of that particular spot, and it feels like I cycled them all. But the view was worth it!
I am sorely tempted to return there whenever I next can
... but another part of me wonders what other wonderful discoveries lurk in the rest of South Africa.
Perhaps it's true, "not all who wander are lost."
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Scowling at Adamastor
((here's a little trip into the bizarre....
And a big thank you to the Adamastor Writer's Guild of Cape Town, who've smashed through illusions and shown me what real magic should look like.
Adamastor is a mythic figure, set to be the Guardian of the Cape ... g'on, google it.))
Where does the mountain end and the myth begin.
I'm not sure, but as I march up the back side of Table Mountain, what seemed incongruous bumps and lumps along a rocky slope turns out to be the stony frame of the guardian. The great Adamastor reclines against the mountainside, one foot idly flicking waves in Camps Bay while his arms are carelessly hooked over the top of Table Mountain. With one flick of a finger he could send the upper cable station shooting off into the distance.
I march up to where I think his ribs would be, driven by anger more than rational thought.
"It's all your fault."
My poking accusation only earns me a painfully bruised finger.
They stormy clouds around his head swirl in interesting fractal patterns as he turns to look down at me.
"You heard me. I blame you." I fold my arms in a defiant posture, trying to hide some of the shaking. But I'm here, and I'm going to let him have it.
"You and the guild. I blame you. Before I set off on this quest for knowledge life was simple. I could look at any wordsmith's work and easily lose myself in their creations. But not now, oh no., now that I've been shown what to look for."
I start to pace on the mountain side, kicking at loose pebbles to vent my feelings.
"Now I have 'opinions'; no more will I seriously consider a wordsmith's work unless I catch sight of the Lesser Spotted POV-hopping birdie. Instead, the moment I catch so much as a glimpse of it's raucous cousin hovering around the smith's domain, I hightail it out of there. "
I shake my head; to think that once upon a time I wasn't even aware that there was such a thing as a POV-hopper, never mind the brightly coloured PingPong Ricochet-er. The sight of that painfully colourful birdie bouncing madly between characters in a single scene can drive even the most ardent fan to distraction, trying to figure out who is thinking what, who felt that and where da heck did the Furred Plotbeastie shove off to in the confusion.
"And this, can you believe this!" I lift a hank of hair, showing him the tiny 'goggas' that have taken up residence; small, multi-legged and wielding mining implements, I have managed to build up quite a collection of Crit-Ticks.
"I mean, how can a wordsmith ask me to buy into their creation if there's no logic or consistency? If they go to all the trouble of telling me how a character is dressed all in black, then how on earth can wipe his hands on it and stain it red? And how does he manage to fall forwards into a cavern after digging through a man-made obstruction, only to emerge and rebuild the wall...did he lug all those stones back up? And also happened to be an expert in dry-stone building? I mean, really. And there should be a quota set to curb the over-use of exclamation marks and italics, and..."
I gather another lungful of air to continue my tirade, only to pause mid-breath as Adamastor moves. The giant shrugs his shoulders, setting pebbles and boulders tumbling down the mountainside.
"Use what you learn."
He breathes in again, and I learn forward expectantly, only to be flung through the air as he puffs his cheeks and blows out a stream of icy air.
His dismissal sends me skidding to a halt on the southern hook-shaped shore of an unreal bay.
"What? That's it?!"
A flock of Letters scuttle past, and inevitably I find myself drawn along in their wake. Who knows, maybe this time it'll lead to a really worthwhile read.
And a big thank you to the Adamastor Writer's Guild of Cape Town, who've smashed through illusions and shown me what real magic should look like.
Adamastor is a mythic figure, set to be the Guardian of the Cape ... g'on, google it.))
Where does the mountain end and the myth begin.
I'm not sure, but as I march up the back side of Table Mountain, what seemed incongruous bumps and lumps along a rocky slope turns out to be the stony frame of the guardian. The great Adamastor reclines against the mountainside, one foot idly flicking waves in Camps Bay while his arms are carelessly hooked over the top of Table Mountain. With one flick of a finger he could send the upper cable station shooting off into the distance.
I march up to where I think his ribs would be, driven by anger more than rational thought.
"It's all your fault."
My poking accusation only earns me a painfully bruised finger.
They stormy clouds around his head swirl in interesting fractal patterns as he turns to look down at me.
"You heard me. I blame you." I fold my arms in a defiant posture, trying to hide some of the shaking. But I'm here, and I'm going to let him have it.
"You and the guild. I blame you. Before I set off on this quest for knowledge life was simple. I could look at any wordsmith's work and easily lose myself in their creations. But not now, oh no., now that I've been shown what to look for."
I start to pace on the mountain side, kicking at loose pebbles to vent my feelings.
"Now I have 'opinions'; no more will I seriously consider a wordsmith's work unless I catch sight of the Lesser Spotted POV-hopping birdie. Instead, the moment I catch so much as a glimpse of it's raucous cousin hovering around the smith's domain, I hightail it out of there. "
I shake my head; to think that once upon a time I wasn't even aware that there was such a thing as a POV-hopper, never mind the brightly coloured PingPong Ricochet-er. The sight of that painfully colourful birdie bouncing madly between characters in a single scene can drive even the most ardent fan to distraction, trying to figure out who is thinking what, who felt that and where da heck did the Furred Plotbeastie shove off to in the confusion.
"And this, can you believe this!" I lift a hank of hair, showing him the tiny 'goggas' that have taken up residence; small, multi-legged and wielding mining implements, I have managed to build up quite a collection of Crit-Ticks.
"I mean, how can a wordsmith ask me to buy into their creation if there's no logic or consistency? If they go to all the trouble of telling me how a character is dressed all in black, then how on earth can wipe his hands on it and stain it red? And how does he manage to fall forwards into a cavern after digging through a man-made obstruction, only to emerge and rebuild the wall...did he lug all those stones back up? And also happened to be an expert in dry-stone building? I mean, really. And there should be a quota set to curb the over-use of exclamation marks and italics, and..."
I gather another lungful of air to continue my tirade, only to pause mid-breath as Adamastor moves. The giant shrugs his shoulders, setting pebbles and boulders tumbling down the mountainside.
"Use what you learn."
He breathes in again, and I learn forward expectantly, only to be flung through the air as he puffs his cheeks and blows out a stream of icy air.
His dismissal sends me skidding to a halt on the southern hook-shaped shore of an unreal bay.
"What? That's it?!"
A flock of Letters scuttle past, and inevitably I find myself drawn along in their wake. Who knows, maybe this time it'll lead to a really worthwhile read.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Learning curve
Apparently, one is never to old to learn; yet you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
Which leaves this poor bitch thoroughly confuzzled.
Attend a winter school, they said. Learn exciting new stuff, they said. Stretch your horizons, they said.
Strange how 'they' never mention mental burnout after 3 hours of French applied mathematics. Which is like normal applied mathematics (if such terminology can be thrown about), but with a distinct French obfuscating accent.
For example...
I spent half an hour trying to figure out what highway to hell one lecturer was referring to when he went on at length about the terrible effects of 'da road'. I kept trying to imagine how people were negatively impacted - either through potholes or, well, speeding cars. Alas, when he flashed up the rainfall figures it suddenly clicked into place....'da road' was in fact 'drought'.
Then there was the 'forefather' equation. Now listen, being from Africa, I am used to the concept that some people put great trust in what their ancestors have to say about current day affairs. What I was unable to fathom was how on earth this would fit in with a mathematical derivation of water particle movement due to gravity, the earth's spin and pressure.... it all became only slightly less murky when I realized it was the French pronunciation of 'fourth order' derivation. Aaaaaahhh!
And today's nugget?
"The swat of moods"
Was the Norwegian lecturer referring to physical acting out of emotionality?
Ooooh no.
Rather, "the swath of MODIS" - the area of ground sampled by a satellite.
Combine this feast of accents with more greek terminology than you can shake a Euclidian stick at, add a dollop of symbology that you won't find on any self-respecting qwerty and voila! An attempt to understand and describe the complex oceanic processes that somehow result in our beautiful blue marble's circulation patterns.
But perhaps I did pick up more than just a blinding headache. While trying to perform a dx/dt (change in location with accompanying change in time) towards a parking spot on the campus grounds, I made an unfortunate correlation error by trying to access this particular parking area at the same time that a certain Mrs O was gracing the university with her presence.
Needless to say certain roads were closed off, including my usual flow-line towards the parking area.
There is another road, but this is not open to non-students and secured by a solid looking boom and it's care-taker. Right then, time to tackle the boom by the...guard.
S: "I see some roads are closed. How do I get to the Oceanography Department?"
Boom-guard walks around car, looking for official looking parking sticker, finds none and returns to my window.
BG: "Where?"
S: "The Oceanography Department."
BG: "You cannot go through here." motions to only available road, guarded by a boom.
S: "But I can't go any other way. Listen, Oceanography is right next to the visitor's centre."
BG: "You cannot go anywhere before you have been to the visitor's centre."
S: "No, I want to go directly to the Oceanography Department."
BG: "No ma'am, you cannot. You have to go to the visitor's centre first."
S: Looks at man, let's her hamster circle the wheel a few times and then announces with a smile..."You're right. Is it ok if I go to the visitor's centre then?"
BG: "Certainly ma'am, right through here." Proceeds to lift boom and waves me through.
At least I learnt how to manage circular arguments....
Which leaves this poor bitch thoroughly confuzzled.
Attend a winter school, they said. Learn exciting new stuff, they said. Stretch your horizons, they said.
Strange how 'they' never mention mental burnout after 3 hours of French applied mathematics. Which is like normal applied mathematics (if such terminology can be thrown about), but with a distinct French obfuscating accent.
For example...
I spent half an hour trying to figure out what highway to hell one lecturer was referring to when he went on at length about the terrible effects of 'da road'. I kept trying to imagine how people were negatively impacted - either through potholes or, well, speeding cars. Alas, when he flashed up the rainfall figures it suddenly clicked into place....'da road' was in fact 'drought'.
Then there was the 'forefather' equation. Now listen, being from Africa, I am used to the concept that some people put great trust in what their ancestors have to say about current day affairs. What I was unable to fathom was how on earth this would fit in with a mathematical derivation of water particle movement due to gravity, the earth's spin and pressure.... it all became only slightly less murky when I realized it was the French pronunciation of 'fourth order' derivation. Aaaaaahhh!
And today's nugget?
"The swat of moods"
Was the Norwegian lecturer referring to physical acting out of emotionality?
Ooooh no.
Rather, "the swath of MODIS" - the area of ground sampled by a satellite.
Combine this feast of accents with more greek terminology than you can shake a Euclidian stick at, add a dollop of symbology that you won't find on any self-respecting qwerty and voila! An attempt to understand and describe the complex oceanic processes that somehow result in our beautiful blue marble's circulation patterns.
But perhaps I did pick up more than just a blinding headache. While trying to perform a dx/dt (change in location with accompanying change in time) towards a parking spot on the campus grounds, I made an unfortunate correlation error by trying to access this particular parking area at the same time that a certain Mrs O was gracing the university with her presence.
Needless to say certain roads were closed off, including my usual flow-line towards the parking area.
There is another road, but this is not open to non-students and secured by a solid looking boom and it's care-taker. Right then, time to tackle the boom by the...guard.
S: "I see some roads are closed. How do I get to the Oceanography Department?"
Boom-guard walks around car, looking for official looking parking sticker, finds none and returns to my window.
BG: "Where?"
S: "The Oceanography Department."
BG: "You cannot go through here." motions to only available road, guarded by a boom.
S: "But I can't go any other way. Listen, Oceanography is right next to the visitor's centre."
BG: "You cannot go anywhere before you have been to the visitor's centre."
S: "No, I want to go directly to the Oceanography Department."
BG: "No ma'am, you cannot. You have to go to the visitor's centre first."
S: Looks at man, let's her hamster circle the wheel a few times and then announces with a smile..."You're right. Is it ok if I go to the visitor's centre then?"
BG: "Certainly ma'am, right through here." Proceeds to lift boom and waves me through.
At least I learnt how to manage circular arguments....
Monday, June 6, 2011
Hairhead
They say a change is as good as a holiday.
They say.
They should be shot for saying that.
But change, nonetheless, can offer a pleasant alternative in the humdrum of our normal lives.
So, onwards to change!
In that spirit I chose to grow my hair again after nearly a decade of pixie and shaved styles. And what a change it has been.
No longer can I blame the bones of dust-bunnies on my furry companions. Oh no, there's no mistaking 'mine' and 'theirs' (or is it thairs) anymore. They congregate in corners, in the wash-basin and shower-drain, gathering dust, wool, lint, and other unmentionables. If they are left alone long enough, I'm afraid they might shamble out on their own one midnight, mumbling something about world domination.
And nobody ever mentioned the danger to the bhairer (bearer)! Previously I used to sashay through howling south-easters, not a care in the world. Now a simple trip outside results in me looking like an extra from a horror movie, or like a dandelion that has been struck by lightning. There has yet been no hairclip invented by mankind that can keep these little rebels under control.
Do you know these images we have, where models whip off their motorcycle helmets, toss their locks around and they fall into perfect place. Misleading advertising!!!! I too have a definitely look after biking to work, but unfortunately it's the close-encounters-with-a-cow-tongue rather than just-stepped-off-a-catwalk look. Yowling is involved, but its mine as I cower in front of a mirror trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.
Ah yes, and the kitties enjoy it too. Fatcat has realized that by hopping on to the pillow and standing on mom's hair results in a much quicker launch from 'dead asleep' to 'filling cat's foodbowl'. Damn pesky pieces of lifeless matter.....why oh why do they need to be connected to very sensitive nerve endings on the scalp???
But hey, don't get me wrong, it has its uses.
Worn long enough, it can become a handy self-deployed neck-warmer.
What? Just wear a scarf? Well... that'd just be way to easy.
And not as easy to change!
They say.
They should be shot for saying that.
But change, nonetheless, can offer a pleasant alternative in the humdrum of our normal lives.
So, onwards to change!
In that spirit I chose to grow my hair again after nearly a decade of pixie and shaved styles. And what a change it has been.
No longer can I blame the bones of dust-bunnies on my furry companions. Oh no, there's no mistaking 'mine' and 'theirs' (or is it thairs) anymore. They congregate in corners, in the wash-basin and shower-drain, gathering dust, wool, lint, and other unmentionables. If they are left alone long enough, I'm afraid they might shamble out on their own one midnight, mumbling something about world domination.
And nobody ever mentioned the danger to the bhairer (bearer)! Previously I used to sashay through howling south-easters, not a care in the world. Now a simple trip outside results in me looking like an extra from a horror movie, or like a dandelion that has been struck by lightning. There has yet been no hairclip invented by mankind that can keep these little rebels under control.
Do you know these images we have, where models whip off their motorcycle helmets, toss their locks around and they fall into perfect place. Misleading advertising!!!! I too have a definitely look after biking to work, but unfortunately it's the close-encounters-with-a-cow-tongue rather than just-stepped-off-a-catwalk look. Yowling is involved, but its mine as I cower in front of a mirror trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.
Ah yes, and the kitties enjoy it too. Fatcat has realized that by hopping on to the pillow and standing on mom's hair results in a much quicker launch from 'dead asleep' to 'filling cat's foodbowl'. Damn pesky pieces of lifeless matter.....why oh why do they need to be connected to very sensitive nerve endings on the scalp???
But hey, don't get me wrong, it has its uses.
Worn long enough, it can become a handy self-deployed neck-warmer.
What? Just wear a scarf? Well... that'd just be way to easy.
And not as easy to change!
Monday, March 7, 2011
A mountainbike meander
Mountain biking seems to be one of the pursuits I've managed to pick up over the last two years. You won't find me competing in any multi-day, coast to coast epic adventures, but I do like to participate in the occasional funride. Luckily for me the western cape region is rich in these family-oriented events, usually set on fruit, olive or wine farms and last Saturday was no exception.
It was the Cape Argus... ::drumroll:: mountain bike event. So no half-crazed road cyclists tackling the highways, byways and mountain passes of Cape Town. No sirree, this event is set on a very scenic wine-farm just outside Stellenbosch.
You can see why I like the mountain bike events, can't you.
So there we were, up at bird's fart to make the trek all the way out to the winelands, be registered by 7:30 and start the ride at 08:10. My partner in mtb-crime had talked me into doing the 22 km ride as the track profile seemed mostly flat and this route also featured something we both love - single track! These usually look like meandering footpaths closely surrounded by rocks, shrubs and trees that seem to move into your way just as you approach them. What do you mean I'm missing the point of single-track... you want me to miss them?!? Oh... bugger.
We drove along what felt very much like a single track path and was directed into a field obviously used for pasture, but now roped in to serve as parking area for the droves of mtb enthusiasts. Now we have noted that the more hardcore mtb'ers get all geared up and sommer cycle to the registration point. Not us.... we still have to have that 2nd cup of essential caffeinated beverage (now that the sun has actually risen), munch on some breakfast and then start assembling bike & rider equipment. So we decided to walk to the registration point first.... and walked. And walked.
I was half expecting sign posts saying 'only 2 km more!' and 'hang in there', or perhaps even 'water point ahead'. Eventually something tent-like was sighted, our numbers obtained and the trek back to the car started. By the time we were ready to start our race, I was ready to rest!
Considering I usually participate in the shorter family rides, the atmosphere is usually a relaxed one filled with jokes and friendly faces. The route started off all friendly as well, and then quickly turned nasty. I mean, what kind of sadist starts a mtb race off with a slight incline that leads right past the wine tasting rooms!!!! Do they realize the horrible temptation they put me through? It would be so easy to just steer ever-so-slightly off course and straight into the air-conditioned tasting area where I could lounge, sipping the nectar of the gods in pleasant contemplation before stumbling outside, around the building and across the finish line, my somewhat staggering motions echoing that of the exhausted cyclists.
But no, I gritted my teeth and carried on along the yellow sand-road. The track was very level, consisting mostly of bakkie (jeep) tracks filled with the occasional washed-out runnel, cow patties or thorn-patch. No, make that lots and lots of thorn patches. This race will not be remembered for its challenges or scenery, but for the number of punctures. Every stones-throw, or should that be thorn-cast, you'd find another unlucky victim of nature's little weapons, sweating and cursing as they changed tubes / repaired flats.
I too fell victim to this free-range arsenal about 10 km into the race. My partner in crime stopped as well, and we settled down to perform the necessary reparations. Believe me, we thought we were prepared: we'd taken classes, we'd practised, we'd come prepared with spares of every possible kind... except, of course, the ones we needed.
There is no word to capture quite how it feels when you unfold the spare tube to find out that the nozzle does not fit through your bicycle's wheel-rim. Perhaps 'deflation' is the most apt one to experience one's spirit sinking into the ground in a combination of embarrassment, cold fury and a dash of 'why me?'.
Luckily there are plenty knights in plastic armor on shiny steeds around, and one kind sir offered not only to help us, but gave me his spare tube. Soon we were on our way again.... for another kilometre or so. And then there was the next puncture...
Another knight stopped by, but he had no more spares either. Luckily this happened just at the split between the 22 km and 13 km race, so I waved my partner on with a white kerchief while I trudged the last 2 km to the finish line in what very much resembled a walk of shame. So my 22 km race turned into a 11 km cycle and a 2 km hike....
At least the scenery was nice.
And yes, next month you'll find me out there again, but hopefully more prepared. If nothing else, let's hope the flats happen before I leave the wine estate.
It was the Cape Argus... ::drumroll:: mountain bike event. So no half-crazed road cyclists tackling the highways, byways and mountain passes of Cape Town. No sirree, this event is set on a very scenic wine-farm just outside Stellenbosch.
You can see why I like the mountain bike events, can't you.
So there we were, up at bird's fart to make the trek all the way out to the winelands, be registered by 7:30 and start the ride at 08:10. My partner in mtb-crime had talked me into doing the 22 km ride as the track profile seemed mostly flat and this route also featured something we both love - single track! These usually look like meandering footpaths closely surrounded by rocks, shrubs and trees that seem to move into your way just as you approach them. What do you mean I'm missing the point of single-track... you want me to miss them?!? Oh... bugger.
We drove along what felt very much like a single track path and was directed into a field obviously used for pasture, but now roped in to serve as parking area for the droves of mtb enthusiasts. Now we have noted that the more hardcore mtb'ers get all geared up and sommer cycle to the registration point. Not us.... we still have to have that 2nd cup of essential caffeinated beverage (now that the sun has actually risen), munch on some breakfast and then start assembling bike & rider equipment. So we decided to walk to the registration point first.... and walked. And walked.
I was half expecting sign posts saying 'only 2 km more!' and 'hang in there', or perhaps even 'water point ahead'. Eventually something tent-like was sighted, our numbers obtained and the trek back to the car started. By the time we were ready to start our race, I was ready to rest!
Considering I usually participate in the shorter family rides, the atmosphere is usually a relaxed one filled with jokes and friendly faces. The route started off all friendly as well, and then quickly turned nasty. I mean, what kind of sadist starts a mtb race off with a slight incline that leads right past the wine tasting rooms!!!! Do they realize the horrible temptation they put me through? It would be so easy to just steer ever-so-slightly off course and straight into the air-conditioned tasting area where I could lounge, sipping the nectar of the gods in pleasant contemplation before stumbling outside, around the building and across the finish line, my somewhat staggering motions echoing that of the exhausted cyclists.
But no, I gritted my teeth and carried on along the yellow sand-road. The track was very level, consisting mostly of bakkie (jeep) tracks filled with the occasional washed-out runnel, cow patties or thorn-patch. No, make that lots and lots of thorn patches. This race will not be remembered for its challenges or scenery, but for the number of punctures. Every stones-throw, or should that be thorn-cast, you'd find another unlucky victim of nature's little weapons, sweating and cursing as they changed tubes / repaired flats.
I too fell victim to this free-range arsenal about 10 km into the race. My partner in crime stopped as well, and we settled down to perform the necessary reparations. Believe me, we thought we were prepared: we'd taken classes, we'd practised, we'd come prepared with spares of every possible kind... except, of course, the ones we needed.
There is no word to capture quite how it feels when you unfold the spare tube to find out that the nozzle does not fit through your bicycle's wheel-rim. Perhaps 'deflation' is the most apt one to experience one's spirit sinking into the ground in a combination of embarrassment, cold fury and a dash of 'why me?'.
Luckily there are plenty knights in plastic armor on shiny steeds around, and one kind sir offered not only to help us, but gave me his spare tube. Soon we were on our way again.... for another kilometre or so. And then there was the next puncture...
Another knight stopped by, but he had no more spares either. Luckily this happened just at the split between the 22 km and 13 km race, so I waved my partner on with a white kerchief while I trudged the last 2 km to the finish line in what very much resembled a walk of shame. So my 22 km race turned into a 11 km cycle and a 2 km hike....
At least the scenery was nice.
And yes, next month you'll find me out there again, but hopefully more prepared. If nothing else, let's hope the flats happen before I leave the wine estate.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Doggin' it
Since I've dedicated one posting to the cats, I should probably do the same for my dog.
I'm the kind of pet owner that never quite intends to end up with as many or diverse a collection as I do. Take the dog for instance.
No, really, take her - there are days when I'd happily ship her off to outer Mongolia for doing something so inexplicably dumb it's beyond stupid.... Pterry would probably call it Diputs.
It was a case of "buy one house and get a dog free!"
Deep inside that 1 ear up, 1 ear down, brow furrowed in pleasant confusion, shedding-like-it's-never-going-to-end ball of fur lurks a golden heart. Never will you find anyone happier to help you sniff out any table scraps that had fallen down, helpfully excavate any signs of mole-activity or just be happy to see you back home.
But oh, what un-distilled neurotic dumbness lurks in there as well.
Take the cat flap for instance - and that should give you a clue right there.
Cat Flap.
Not dog flap. And definitely not an Alsatian-sized flap whatsoever.
Yet when the first grumble of wanna-be thunder echoes through my neighborhood, my dog suddenly believes in quantum physics and the ability for a dog to be both large and able to fit through a post-card sized opening.
Hang on, maybe she's stumbled onto a new theory - step aside quantum cats, we've just discovered Schrodinger's Dog!
Three cat-flaps, a screaming owner and a neurotic dog later, studies are still continuing. Despite her apparent convictions that the world is about to end every time an electric storm flashes by, I am yet to see evidence that lightning has her name and address and is out to get her.
But perhaps I am judging her too harshly... as her third owner, I have probably missed out on some serious events in her earlier years.
A dark past which I blame for her tendency to take offense at apparently innocent fellow-hikers and strollers-by. Whether we're out walking or having visitors, the two distantly circling neurons in her doggy brain will bump into each other, sending out crazed chemical signals that results in:
walking person + approach + unknown variable = bite bite bite bite bite!
I haven't been able to establish a pattern in her list of victims, which includes but are not restricted to a) an old couple strolling past our yard, b) a jogger in the national park and c) my neighbor who was helping me push-start my car. Oi, never has the flame of embarrassment burned so brightly.
But despite our somewhat rocky relationship road, I have to admit that one will never find a more willing and enthusiastic participant upon uttering the words:
"Let's go for a walk!"
I'm the kind of pet owner that never quite intends to end up with as many or diverse a collection as I do. Take the dog for instance.
No, really, take her - there are days when I'd happily ship her off to outer Mongolia for doing something so inexplicably dumb it's beyond stupid.... Pterry would probably call it Diputs.
It was a case of "buy one house and get a dog free!"
Deep inside that 1 ear up, 1 ear down, brow furrowed in pleasant confusion, shedding-like-it's-never-going-to-end ball of fur lurks a golden heart. Never will you find anyone happier to help you sniff out any table scraps that had fallen down, helpfully excavate any signs of mole-activity or just be happy to see you back home.
But oh, what un-distilled neurotic dumbness lurks in there as well.
Take the cat flap for instance - and that should give you a clue right there.
Cat Flap.
Not dog flap. And definitely not an Alsatian-sized flap whatsoever.
Yet when the first grumble of wanna-be thunder echoes through my neighborhood, my dog suddenly believes in quantum physics and the ability for a dog to be both large and able to fit through a post-card sized opening.
Hang on, maybe she's stumbled onto a new theory - step aside quantum cats, we've just discovered Schrodinger's Dog!
Three cat-flaps, a screaming owner and a neurotic dog later, studies are still continuing. Despite her apparent convictions that the world is about to end every time an electric storm flashes by, I am yet to see evidence that lightning has her name and address and is out to get her.
But perhaps I am judging her too harshly... as her third owner, I have probably missed out on some serious events in her earlier years.
A dark past which I blame for her tendency to take offense at apparently innocent fellow-hikers and strollers-by. Whether we're out walking or having visitors, the two distantly circling neurons in her doggy brain will bump into each other, sending out crazed chemical signals that results in:
walking person + approach + unknown variable = bite bite bite bite bite!
I haven't been able to establish a pattern in her list of victims, which includes but are not restricted to a) an old couple strolling past our yard, b) a jogger in the national park and c) my neighbor who was helping me push-start my car. Oi, never has the flame of embarrassment burned so brightly.
But despite our somewhat rocky relationship road, I have to admit that one will never find a more willing and enthusiastic participant upon uttering the words:
"Let's go for a walk!"
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