If you are a parent and would like to take a tortuous ride through the eyes of another parent (sounds like fun), read ‘Beautiful Boy’ by David Sheff. It is his account of his son’s experimentation and addiction to drugs, and their descent into hell! To make matters worse, Nic’s drug of choice was Chrystal Meth, a terribly addictive and highly damaging drug. I imagine that in South Africa, we know the drug as TIK, a massive problem in the Western Cape.
The book is a tough read, as one follows the emotional journey of David, as he tries vainly to save his son. At every turn, he is beaten by the allure of drugs. Every single shred of hope that he feels, as he continually lowers his expectations is thoroughly shattered and replaced with tougher problems and more uncertainty. He eventually realises a couple of key things; Nic is responsible for the decisions he makes, even though he is under the spell of these substances; and that as a parent, David’s happiness is not dependent on the happiness of his son. The other thing is that a parents love is absolutely boundless and that no matter what, he will be there for his son regardless of the certainty that Nic would regress again. I could not help having heaps of respect!
I have two sons and for me this book was a powerful and disturbing read. Essentially I know that I have no control over the friends that my children will make or the influence these friends will have over my children, for good or bad. I think back to my youth when what my parents thought was irrelevant to me. Now I know better, but then, I ruled my world! In years to come, my children will probably also find my views and opinions to be meaningless. That scares me heaps!
There are some things that I can do. I can spend as much time with my children as possible, developing a meaningful father son relationship, and openly talking about the issues of life. Hopefully this will ensure that they have a set of values and morals that will enable them to make better choices in life. I can also live my life in a way that provides a great example to them, the do as I do approach. Lastly, I can ensure that they develop a relationship with a mentor, somebody we all admire and trust, to whom they can turn when they feel they cannot talk to their parents. In the end, nothing I do as a parent is going to guarantee that their decisions are good or bad. I can however ensure that I am the best possible parent to my boys and hence give them the best possible chance of creating their own version of success in this life. After that, they will need to choose!
I have realised that my hopes for my sons are simply that they find happiness in life and that they become forces for good in this world, no matter what form that may take.
Our journey has begun. I am firmly strapped in, optimistic rather than ready for the ride of my life!
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Coming Home
Coming home is a magnificent experience, assuming of course that you have a home to come home too.
I live in a smallish town in a beautiful part of the Western Cape. Mountains surround us, the sea is a full seven minute drive away, the roads are wide and well maintained, trees are large, and gardens beautiful.
But that is not why coming home is so magnificent. I have my own car at home, my office is at home, my house is comfortable, the garden lush, with a stream that runs through it, providing fresh water all year long.
But that is not it at all.
No, coming home is all about people. To have Matt charging through the crowds at the airport and launch himself into my arms, and then cling to my neck and produce his famous tight squeeze bear hug. To talk with Luke and hear of his exploits, and to notice that although he is fully boy, he is growing up all the time in imperceptible ways. To hug my wife, inhale her sweet fragrance, bury my head in her hair, rub her growing belly, and know that this is the rock who will always be at my side.
Coming home is also about all of our friends that line our street and it is about the phone calls to mates and family, who don’t live in our street, to catch up on the latest in their lives.
Family and friends! Is there anything more important in our lives? I don’t want to leave again, not for a long time...
I live in a smallish town in a beautiful part of the Western Cape. Mountains surround us, the sea is a full seven minute drive away, the roads are wide and well maintained, trees are large, and gardens beautiful.
But that is not why coming home is so magnificent. I have my own car at home, my office is at home, my house is comfortable, the garden lush, with a stream that runs through it, providing fresh water all year long.
But that is not it at all.
No, coming home is all about people. To have Matt charging through the crowds at the airport and launch himself into my arms, and then cling to my neck and produce his famous tight squeeze bear hug. To talk with Luke and hear of his exploits, and to notice that although he is fully boy, he is growing up all the time in imperceptible ways. To hug my wife, inhale her sweet fragrance, bury my head in her hair, rub her growing belly, and know that this is the rock who will always be at my side.
Coming home is also about all of our friends that line our street and it is about the phone calls to mates and family, who don’t live in our street, to catch up on the latest in their lives.
Family and friends! Is there anything more important in our lives? I don’t want to leave again, not for a long time...
Monday, June 22, 2009
Running for fun
I am so glad I run. It opens up new worlds that I would never have been able to access watching the TV. I do of course require my 80’s tunes to be loud and pumping in my ears for best results!
There is this large bigger than hill, smaller than mountain thing, near to where I was staying in Sudan. It is the only imperfection in an almost flat landscape. Hundreds of people earn their living by crushing its rocks. They have developed a technique of climbing up its sides and throwing down all of the rocks that they can pry loose. The rocks are then rolled all of the way to the bottom where other people set upon them with hammers and chisels. The rocks are then broken down into a variety of sizes and stacked into piles. The bigger rocks are stacked into beautiful round cairns just over a meter in height. At night trucks come past and piles of rocks are then loaded up for the next building operation somewhere in this new land.
My running exploration led me all over that hill for an incredible workout. There were plenty of shocked expressions from those hard at work. It obviously made no sense that they were on this hill to survive and I was there for fun! Anyhow it was great to test myself against the mountain and see if I could follow their rock rolling paths straight up, mill around on top and then find other routes down again, whilst always pretending to be in total control!
My last run up this geographic anomaly saw me starting off tired and looking for an easy option. I followed a flat winding track. Like all gentle looking tracks it went around a bend and became steep and nasty. Instead of feeling daunted, I was suddenly filled with energy and raced to the top. Once there, I found a flat rock and began doing pushups with the panorama of Juba spread out below me. I was the highest being around, and certainly the only one uselessly building his chest and arm muscles. Down to my left was an interesting rocky dome which looked worthy of some attention. With less finesse than a shovel, I made my way to the base of this dome. What looked like a cool challenging rock climb from on high now looked far too difficult up close. Not being one for standing around on a run, my body launched into an all fours attack on this rock face. With huge faith in the tread of my shoes, three breaks to catch my breath, and a constant heart rate of 170 beats per minute, I made it to the top! Not wanting to waste the physical high, I got down on my stomach with my feet at the top of the dome and the rest of me pointing down it. And so it came to be that thousands of kilometres from any sea, I was able to practise my surfing jump ups. Later, with my arms about to fall off, I negotiated an easy path down. Now that was a great run!
Just the other night I went for a run in Entebbe in Uganda (had to go via Uganda to get to and from Sudan). My mission was to run on the banks of Lake Victoria. With careful planning, I found myself at the botanical gardens with a flat batteried camera and no money for the entrance fee. Moses at the gate felt sorry for me, or just thought that the amount of sweat dripping off me could be better used watering his plants, and let me in. I had a good run through the park and then headed back to the guest house with a plan in mind. I took a shortcut there up a road called Hill Road. Don’t ever take short cuts up roads called Hill Road, trust me on this one! At the lodge I collected my big camera, got some local currency and then put my sweaty body back on the road. This time I paid my way in, much to Moses’ surprise, and then got to work photographing silly pictures of me in spots I had scoped out earlier. It was a run, although I think my camera would have preferred to be in someone else’s less moist hands! Apart from the supersized foliage, a troop of monkeys entertained me, birds of all types called and shrieked, an army of real live marching ants attacked me, and a big horned cow snorted its displeasure at my company. Another great run!
Running at home will be a bit different, but I cannot complain, not with panoramic vistas of False Bay as my constant companion. Yeah, I like running!
Yours truly on the banks of the Great Lake Vic. The photo below shows just how short I really am!
There is this large bigger than hill, smaller than mountain thing, near to where I was staying in Sudan. It is the only imperfection in an almost flat landscape. Hundreds of people earn their living by crushing its rocks. They have developed a technique of climbing up its sides and throwing down all of the rocks that they can pry loose. The rocks are then rolled all of the way to the bottom where other people set upon them with hammers and chisels. The rocks are then broken down into a variety of sizes and stacked into piles. The bigger rocks are stacked into beautiful round cairns just over a meter in height. At night trucks come past and piles of rocks are then loaded up for the next building operation somewhere in this new land.
My running exploration led me all over that hill for an incredible workout. There were plenty of shocked expressions from those hard at work. It obviously made no sense that they were on this hill to survive and I was there for fun! Anyhow it was great to test myself against the mountain and see if I could follow their rock rolling paths straight up, mill around on top and then find other routes down again, whilst always pretending to be in total control!
My last run up this geographic anomaly saw me starting off tired and looking for an easy option. I followed a flat winding track. Like all gentle looking tracks it went around a bend and became steep and nasty. Instead of feeling daunted, I was suddenly filled with energy and raced to the top. Once there, I found a flat rock and began doing pushups with the panorama of Juba spread out below me. I was the highest being around, and certainly the only one uselessly building his chest and arm muscles. Down to my left was an interesting rocky dome which looked worthy of some attention. With less finesse than a shovel, I made my way to the base of this dome. What looked like a cool challenging rock climb from on high now looked far too difficult up close. Not being one for standing around on a run, my body launched into an all fours attack on this rock face. With huge faith in the tread of my shoes, three breaks to catch my breath, and a constant heart rate of 170 beats per minute, I made it to the top! Not wanting to waste the physical high, I got down on my stomach with my feet at the top of the dome and the rest of me pointing down it. And so it came to be that thousands of kilometres from any sea, I was able to practise my surfing jump ups. Later, with my arms about to fall off, I negotiated an easy path down. Now that was a great run!
Just the other night I went for a run in Entebbe in Uganda (had to go via Uganda to get to and from Sudan). My mission was to run on the banks of Lake Victoria. With careful planning, I found myself at the botanical gardens with a flat batteried camera and no money for the entrance fee. Moses at the gate felt sorry for me, or just thought that the amount of sweat dripping off me could be better used watering his plants, and let me in. I had a good run through the park and then headed back to the guest house with a plan in mind. I took a shortcut there up a road called Hill Road. Don’t ever take short cuts up roads called Hill Road, trust me on this one! At the lodge I collected my big camera, got some local currency and then put my sweaty body back on the road. This time I paid my way in, much to Moses’ surprise, and then got to work photographing silly pictures of me in spots I had scoped out earlier. It was a run, although I think my camera would have preferred to be in someone else’s less moist hands! Apart from the supersized foliage, a troop of monkeys entertained me, birds of all types called and shrieked, an army of real live marching ants attacked me, and a big horned cow snorted its displeasure at my company. Another great run!
Running at home will be a bit different, but I cannot complain, not with panoramic vistas of False Bay as my constant companion. Yeah, I like running!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The road to hell is NOT Paved!
Taking a deep breath is theoretically possible but I just cannot get it right. The only thing preventing that breath of glorious fresh air is the physical assault on my body, currently being mechanically undertaken by the backseat of a double cab pickup. An unusual perpetrator, yes, but frightening in its savage and violent movements in different directions, it would seem, at once! Each impact seems to cause my breathing reflex to pause, until every so often I have this unusual though that I have not taken a breath in some time. Breathe in, breathe out, got one!
By spreading my legs and wedging my feet into the two passenger doors, just behind the seat posts, and then grabbing the roof handles, I attempt to rigidly follow the motion of the car. A few moments later, I am exhausted by the effort. There is just no rhythm to the motion, just endless random movement as each shock absorber valiantly tries to absorb the gaping vacant sections of road. Strategy number two sees me going with the flow, feeling the motion of the car. In an instant I am airborne as the seat catapults me vertically. The roof leans down to smack me back into place. I feel that smack coming, it is palpable, I see myself as a ripe melon thrown at a wall. Reflexively I tuck my chin onto my chest and feel the roof lining kiss the back of my neck!
My colleague is driving. He relentlessly manhandles the steering wheel from side to side, again, and again. I want to tell him to stop but have no better idea as to how to deal with these ruts out of which this road has been built. He is only driving at 10 kilometres per hour and it feels like torture. I cannot bear to think about the many kilometres we still have to travel. And then he accelerates like a man possessed. The chronic assault of squeaking car body panels quietens considerably. My body takes a deep breath all on its own, and I start to hope. The speedometer pushes past 20km/hr, then 30. Ditches and ruts fly past us on either side; the needle squeezes past 50km/hr! My hope soars and then splinters as he hits the brakes hard, and with the back wheels fishtailing, we are into more impossible potholes.
There is this impossible idea that meditation will help. I try to picture myself in a place of serenity but those thoughts are so roughly shaken that they are scrambled and abandoned in our passing dust.
This is no ordinary road. This is the main highway between Juba, the capital city, and Yei in Southern Sudan. Not only is it a highway it is also the only road between these two towns, and the principle trucking route for goods imported into this country.
40 bone jarring kilometres later and the road improves marginally. Although it is possible that my mind has shut down so as to ignore my aching body. I find myself lost in the space outside of my window, a space filled with far less pain. The foliage is an iridescent green and stretches as far as the eye can see. Young teak plantations filled with new trees look on serenely, their leaves pregnant with the expectation of being part of a process that will create wood as hard as iron. And the iron husks of well worn tanks, gutted trailers, and pared down trucks lie abandoned and rotting along the roadside. Sudan is not the desert I expected at all; well except for the dusty streets that weave their way through the capital.
The real surprise is the roadblock. A 45 minute opportunity to stand on that same road that has tortured me for so long! This whilst some crazy people clear out landmines, a hangover of the recent civil war. The condition of the road makes more sense to me now!
I watch as a man alights from a taxi and sprints off into the bush. I see a woman running toward him from a traditional village. Their meeting is a Hollywood lift and swirl. Joyously reunited! I smile, and wonder if that one moment, so unrelated to my trip, has made it all worthwhile.
My body is sore, my mind vacant, and my spirit thirsting for rest. But when all was said and done and with my head snuggling on my pillow, I did not regret the mere 340km travelled in just under 10 hours!
Tomorrow should be interesting!
By spreading my legs and wedging my feet into the two passenger doors, just behind the seat posts, and then grabbing the roof handles, I attempt to rigidly follow the motion of the car. A few moments later, I am exhausted by the effort. There is just no rhythm to the motion, just endless random movement as each shock absorber valiantly tries to absorb the gaping vacant sections of road. Strategy number two sees me going with the flow, feeling the motion of the car. In an instant I am airborne as the seat catapults me vertically. The roof leans down to smack me back into place. I feel that smack coming, it is palpable, I see myself as a ripe melon thrown at a wall. Reflexively I tuck my chin onto my chest and feel the roof lining kiss the back of my neck!
My colleague is driving. He relentlessly manhandles the steering wheel from side to side, again, and again. I want to tell him to stop but have no better idea as to how to deal with these ruts out of which this road has been built. He is only driving at 10 kilometres per hour and it feels like torture. I cannot bear to think about the many kilometres we still have to travel. And then he accelerates like a man possessed. The chronic assault of squeaking car body panels quietens considerably. My body takes a deep breath all on its own, and I start to hope. The speedometer pushes past 20km/hr, then 30. Ditches and ruts fly past us on either side; the needle squeezes past 50km/hr! My hope soars and then splinters as he hits the brakes hard, and with the back wheels fishtailing, we are into more impossible potholes.
There is this impossible idea that meditation will help. I try to picture myself in a place of serenity but those thoughts are so roughly shaken that they are scrambled and abandoned in our passing dust.
This is no ordinary road. This is the main highway between Juba, the capital city, and Yei in Southern Sudan. Not only is it a highway it is also the only road between these two towns, and the principle trucking route for goods imported into this country.
40 bone jarring kilometres later and the road improves marginally. Although it is possible that my mind has shut down so as to ignore my aching body. I find myself lost in the space outside of my window, a space filled with far less pain. The foliage is an iridescent green and stretches as far as the eye can see. Young teak plantations filled with new trees look on serenely, their leaves pregnant with the expectation of being part of a process that will create wood as hard as iron. And the iron husks of well worn tanks, gutted trailers, and pared down trucks lie abandoned and rotting along the roadside. Sudan is not the desert I expected at all; well except for the dusty streets that weave their way through the capital.
The real surprise is the roadblock. A 45 minute opportunity to stand on that same road that has tortured me for so long! This whilst some crazy people clear out landmines, a hangover of the recent civil war. The condition of the road makes more sense to me now!
I watch as a man alights from a taxi and sprints off into the bush. I see a woman running toward him from a traditional village. Their meeting is a Hollywood lift and swirl. Joyously reunited! I smile, and wonder if that one moment, so unrelated to my trip, has made it all worthwhile.
My body is sore, my mind vacant, and my spirit thirsting for rest. But when all was said and done and with my head snuggling on my pillow, I did not regret the mere 340km travelled in just under 10 hours!
Tomorrow should be interesting!
Monday, June 15, 2009
More on my Sudan Holiday!
Part 2 of my Sudan documentary...
I am staying in the capital city of Southern Sudan, Juba. There is no electricity, unless you have a generator, no sewerage, no running water, and no refuse collection. Instead little tanker trucks shuttle busily around town delivering water and emptying cess pits. Different trucks that is! Sadly, rubbish is dumped just out of town, in the bush, anywhere. Litter litters the streests.
This is a simple town, probably covering an area of about 15 or 20 square kilometres. A town at the very beginning of its development. On its eastern side flows a river that has been around forever; the might Nile!
Roads here are simply not meant for cars. Instead they are great as hiking trails and goat paths. Juba has probably less than 15km of tarred road in total. The cars that attempt to navigate these roads are generally brand new government issued gangster tinted Landcruisers. The rest are probably owned by all of the aid agencies in town. Despite the roads, trucks still manage to move good around this country. That is until the rainy season. Four months of rain that turns all dirt into a quagmire. Not even six wheel drive trucks are any use then! And trust me, there are such things!
Accommodation for visitors is an interesting mix of prefabricated rooms or tented camps. Somehow I have found myself in a luxury log cabin, which is basic and clean, and absolutely perfect. It does have two air conditioners which together battle to deal with the heat of the day. Just as well, I spend that time visiting all sorts of corners of this town and meeting the most interesting people.
Yesterday I met a potential Distributor from Uganda. We parked deep in a residential area and then followed a 3 metre wide road between a mixture of tin houses and shops. Goats mewed like kittens, an old woman screamed at an old man, and a radio crackled local tunes. After about 70 metres of interested stares, we turned left into another alley and then quickly right. I found myself in a little grass square bordered on all sides by the backs of tin shacks. Steve headed across the square and entered a dingy looking place. Inside was a ramshackle bar built out of scraps of wood. Scarred and lopsided it provided space for two televisions tuned to different stations. A generator blared, just out of sight, providing the power. A third television rested on a plastic chair, where two brothers wrestled with the dilemmas involved with breaking out of prison for about the sixth time! After meeting all of the patrons, it was down to business.
With business done, it was back to finding the rollercoaster between the potholes while we navigated back to the office.
I like this town. It is simple. People are friendly and peaceful. And there is a fun hill that I get to run on every day, but more of that later!
I am staying in the capital city of Southern Sudan, Juba. There is no electricity, unless you have a generator, no sewerage, no running water, and no refuse collection. Instead little tanker trucks shuttle busily around town delivering water and emptying cess pits. Different trucks that is! Sadly, rubbish is dumped just out of town, in the bush, anywhere. Litter litters the streests.
This is a simple town, probably covering an area of about 15 or 20 square kilometres. A town at the very beginning of its development. On its eastern side flows a river that has been around forever; the might Nile!
Roads here are simply not meant for cars. Instead they are great as hiking trails and goat paths. Juba has probably less than 15km of tarred road in total. The cars that attempt to navigate these roads are generally brand new government issued gangster tinted Landcruisers. The rest are probably owned by all of the aid agencies in town. Despite the roads, trucks still manage to move good around this country. That is until the rainy season. Four months of rain that turns all dirt into a quagmire. Not even six wheel drive trucks are any use then! And trust me, there are such things!
Accommodation for visitors is an interesting mix of prefabricated rooms or tented camps. Somehow I have found myself in a luxury log cabin, which is basic and clean, and absolutely perfect. It does have two air conditioners which together battle to deal with the heat of the day. Just as well, I spend that time visiting all sorts of corners of this town and meeting the most interesting people.
Yesterday I met a potential Distributor from Uganda. We parked deep in a residential area and then followed a 3 metre wide road between a mixture of tin houses and shops. Goats mewed like kittens, an old woman screamed at an old man, and a radio crackled local tunes. After about 70 metres of interested stares, we turned left into another alley and then quickly right. I found myself in a little grass square bordered on all sides by the backs of tin shacks. Steve headed across the square and entered a dingy looking place. Inside was a ramshackle bar built out of scraps of wood. Scarred and lopsided it provided space for two televisions tuned to different stations. A generator blared, just out of sight, providing the power. A third television rested on a plastic chair, where two brothers wrestled with the dilemmas involved with breaking out of prison for about the sixth time! After meeting all of the patrons, it was down to business.
With business done, it was back to finding the rollercoaster between the potholes while we navigated back to the office.
I like this town. It is simple. People are friendly and peaceful. And there is a fun hill that I get to run on every day, but more of that later!
Sunday, June 14, 2009
My Sudan Holiday
Welcome back to Southern Sudan!
This sign is beautiful - If you cannot read it, it says 'For your own safety, stay on the road' Who would have thought? It only occurred to me much later that this refers to landmines lying undiscovered in the bush!!! The picture next to that one shows some cleared area of landmines. The system is simple really, the red sticks mark possible landmines and uncleared area; the white ones show safe areas. There are no signs that tell you this, you need to know!!
Here are just a heap of photographs from a trip we made to a town called Yei. It was an education in bruised bones due to the road condition!
This sign is beautiful - If you cannot read it, it says 'For your own safety, stay on the road' Who would have thought? It only occurred to me much later that this refers to landmines lying undiscovered in the bush!!! The picture next to that one shows some cleared area of landmines. The system is simple really, the red sticks mark possible landmines and uncleared area; the white ones show safe areas. There are no signs that tell you this, you need to know!!
Here are just a heap of photographs from a trip we made to a town called Yei. It was an education in bruised bones due to the road condition!
Typical roadside ornaments!
One evening presented a little bit of lightning and no rain. I have no doubt that nobody is looking forward to the rainy season which is about to begin. Rain = lots of water = mud = chaos...
and here are the flowers outside my hut. In the mid day heat, they open, and then close for the 'cooler' parts of the day. Are they mad??
A Holiday in Sudan
I have travelled to some interesting countries in Africa, but these last two weeks are worthy of some more detailed descriptions. I have divided up this post so as not to bore you to death!
When I think of Sudan, I think of Darfur and their humanitarian crisis. Millions of displaced people fleeing blood thirsty rebels fighting battles because fighting is what they do. Perhaps you think of the recent International Court of Justice indictment against President Omar al-Bashir for genocide or hot dusty deserts and searing heat.
My arrival in Southern Sudan was a revelation. Hot, oh yeah, but lush and green instead of windblown sand. Politically the country of Sudan consists of two countries; Northern and Southern Sudan, each with their own governments. In 2011, Southern Sudan will hold a referendum to decide on whether they want to become their own separate country or not. Little doubt that Southern Sudan is here to stay!
Up until 2004, the North and the South had been at war. My simplistic understanding of the war is that the local Sudanese were tired of their Arab Muslim masters and sent them packing to the north. The real Sudanese are easy to spot as they are tall, with pronounced cheekbones and an almost ebony complexion. Many proudly display their tribal markings on their foreheads, which are essentially patterned scars. Southern Sudan, though, is a mix of many cultures including Ugandan’s, Eritrean’s, and Ethiopian’s. And then of course there are the countless aid workers from the fabled West!
In stark contrast to my experience in Nigeria, where the white man represented the rape and pillage of their society, here the white man, and woman, is associated with aid and understanding. It is a society still recovering from many years of war, so it is simple and scarred. Yet people seem to be genuinely pleased to be free and developing on their own.
There are very few brick and mortar buildings in the capital city, Juba, and a building taller than a single story is a rare sight indeed. The more cynical point them out as residences of government ministers! Traditional housing consisting of a stick frame coated with clay and mud, and finished with a thatched roof. They can be found intermingled with tin roof structures. Sadly the misconception that the iron box is progress just does not work for me...
There is zero industry within the entire country. Everything that can be found here has been imported, another by product of war! The company that imported me for almost two weeks is one of the first companies in the country to manufacture a product!
More tomorrow with some pictures (I hope)...
When I think of Sudan, I think of Darfur and their humanitarian crisis. Millions of displaced people fleeing blood thirsty rebels fighting battles because fighting is what they do. Perhaps you think of the recent International Court of Justice indictment against President Omar al-Bashir for genocide or hot dusty deserts and searing heat.
My arrival in Southern Sudan was a revelation. Hot, oh yeah, but lush and green instead of windblown sand. Politically the country of Sudan consists of two countries; Northern and Southern Sudan, each with their own governments. In 2011, Southern Sudan will hold a referendum to decide on whether they want to become their own separate country or not. Little doubt that Southern Sudan is here to stay!
Up until 2004, the North and the South had been at war. My simplistic understanding of the war is that the local Sudanese were tired of their Arab Muslim masters and sent them packing to the north. The real Sudanese are easy to spot as they are tall, with pronounced cheekbones and an almost ebony complexion. Many proudly display their tribal markings on their foreheads, which are essentially patterned scars. Southern Sudan, though, is a mix of many cultures including Ugandan’s, Eritrean’s, and Ethiopian’s. And then of course there are the countless aid workers from the fabled West!
In stark contrast to my experience in Nigeria, where the white man represented the rape and pillage of their society, here the white man, and woman, is associated with aid and understanding. It is a society still recovering from many years of war, so it is simple and scarred. Yet people seem to be genuinely pleased to be free and developing on their own.
There are very few brick and mortar buildings in the capital city, Juba, and a building taller than a single story is a rare sight indeed. The more cynical point them out as residences of government ministers! Traditional housing consisting of a stick frame coated with clay and mud, and finished with a thatched roof. They can be found intermingled with tin roof structures. Sadly the misconception that the iron box is progress just does not work for me...
There is zero industry within the entire country. Everything that can be found here has been imported, another by product of war! The company that imported me for almost two weeks is one of the first companies in the country to manufacture a product!
More tomorrow with some pictures (I hope)...
Friday, June 12, 2009
Synchronicity
There are few days when everything in life merges perfectly and result in a synchronous experience!
I know that these written snippets of my life often harp on about surfing and skating. They are of course, important forms of exercise, relaxation, and surges of unfiltered adrenaline, for me! So please bear with me once again...
Any sportsman or passionate enthusiast out there will know that sometimes in life, it all just comes together. For a surfer, it means the right offshore wind or no wind at all, the right swell direction, and the right swell size that combine to create smooth or glassy waves. Add to that some bright sunshine and you have perfect conditions. The only lacking factor is a surfer equipped with the right attitude and a little skill!
My surfing life has never known all of that to come together and yet last weekend it did resulting in a surreal and magical afternoon surf. For more than two hours, four buddies swapped waves and hoots of laughter as we played and played and played. This was the session of my life!
Thinking about it all, I realised that my good old wooden half pipe, yes the one that still scares me to death, has given me skills and confidence that I once could only dream about. Funny how I can be scared and yet still regard it as my best friend! Actually I think I am falling in love with that wooden wave in my garden!
Strange how sometimes everything in life is just aligned and one operates in this state of flow. Unfortunately I cannot control all of the factors in life, but I can bring my attitude and the talents that I have been blessed with to the party. I sincerely believe that with the right attitude, one can do absolutely anything. Without it, you are doomed to fail no matter the talents, the income, or the fun!
I know that these written snippets of my life often harp on about surfing and skating. They are of course, important forms of exercise, relaxation, and surges of unfiltered adrenaline, for me! So please bear with me once again...
Any sportsman or passionate enthusiast out there will know that sometimes in life, it all just comes together. For a surfer, it means the right offshore wind or no wind at all, the right swell direction, and the right swell size that combine to create smooth or glassy waves. Add to that some bright sunshine and you have perfect conditions. The only lacking factor is a surfer equipped with the right attitude and a little skill!
My surfing life has never known all of that to come together and yet last weekend it did resulting in a surreal and magical afternoon surf. For more than two hours, four buddies swapped waves and hoots of laughter as we played and played and played. This was the session of my life!
Thinking about it all, I realised that my good old wooden half pipe, yes the one that still scares me to death, has given me skills and confidence that I once could only dream about. Funny how I can be scared and yet still regard it as my best friend! Actually I think I am falling in love with that wooden wave in my garden!
Strange how sometimes everything in life is just aligned and one operates in this state of flow. Unfortunately I cannot control all of the factors in life, but I can bring my attitude and the talents that I have been blessed with to the party. I sincerely believe that with the right attitude, one can do absolutely anything. Without it, you are doomed to fail no matter the talents, the income, or the fun!
Friday, June 5, 2009
Boys, Balls, Babies, Birth
I have to share this story – all names omitted to protect the innocent, and they really are innocent!
One of my son’s friends came over to play for the afternoon. My wife happened to be nearby and overheard their conversation, which was more than a little interesting. Babies it would seem have a way of getting everyone to talk about them even thought they are not yet present!
This kid asked my son if he knew how babies are born. My son replied of course, although he is quite sure that they are mainly cut out ala a discussion with his mother about his brother’s birth. This child then said to my son, “Do you know that you have to be married to have a baby?’ Again my son replied, ‘of course!’ He then added, ‘it’s because the men have the balls!’ Fair enough!
At this point, this child turns to my wife and asks, ‘so what do the balls taste like?’
Oh Boy!
One of my son’s friends came over to play for the afternoon. My wife happened to be nearby and overheard their conversation, which was more than a little interesting. Babies it would seem have a way of getting everyone to talk about them even thought they are not yet present!
This kid asked my son if he knew how babies are born. My son replied of course, although he is quite sure that they are mainly cut out ala a discussion with his mother about his brother’s birth. This child then said to my son, “Do you know that you have to be married to have a baby?’ Again my son replied, ‘of course!’ He then added, ‘it’s because the men have the balls!’ Fair enough!
At this point, this child turns to my wife and asks, ‘so what do the balls taste like?’
Oh Boy!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Today saw me back at the top of the halfpipe with my skateboard, but this time armed with my camera, and fully in control. Don’t be distracted by my skinny legs and well worn running shoes, rather share my fear!
Luke has been able to drop in for ages. His problem is that he reaches the other side with speed and little idea of what to do with it. The last couple of weeks have seen him trying to harness all of that speed into a big turn, but with little success.
Yesterday he tried until his session ended with a thump as he landed on his head. It turned out that he had hurt his wrist as he tried to stop his fall. After a few moments spent moaning on his back, he tried again. And landed on the same wrist, retiring hurt. I did pause for the briefest of moments to consider the injury potential of this insane ramp, but those moments passed! He did of course require a bandage for his wrist, but I think that was mainly for his school appearance!
With my camera poised for a beautiful shot through my legs, I was most surprised to see Luke charging up to the ramp with board and pads in hand. The bandage had disappeared and in its place was a proper wrist guard. This boy was ready for action! It was a hard session to watch as he crashed spectacularly five or six times. Each time required a little more time for recovery, until I was sure it was the fatherly thing to do to step in and get him off the ramp. He of course knew better and wanted to try once more.
He dragged himself to the top of the ramp and then readied himself. A moment passed before he threw himself off the edge, accelerating down his side of the ramp, riding the flat section and starting up the far side in the blink of an eye. I almost closed my eyes as he went into the top turn but was surprised to see him make it and ride it out shakily on two wheels. He jumped off his board, mid ramp, punching the air with a smile that said, ‘I am the man!’ Then he picked up his board and did it a couple more times to make sure.
Just like that his success had brought about the potential for learning two critical life lessons. We had a great chat about his injuries, the pain, and his complete lack of tears. He suddenly saw that he had managed to rise above his pain and reach much further toward what he really wanted. A remarkable breakthrough for a sensitive eight year old! We also talked about how long it had taken him to get this one move right. He reckoned about 20 weeks, although it was more like six! The point was that he persevered until he got it right, as not everything in life is so easy it can be done right first time. Now that he has seen how it is possible to conquer his fear and pain, he should be able to tap into this mind set again and again!
His dad on the other hand is a whole different story. He is still wallowing in his own fears. But the time will come when he will have to face that fear and take the plunge. And I will be on hand to report on every aspect of that adventure!
Luke has been able to drop in for ages. His problem is that he reaches the other side with speed and little idea of what to do with it. The last couple of weeks have seen him trying to harness all of that speed into a big turn, but with little success.
Yesterday he tried until his session ended with a thump as he landed on his head. It turned out that he had hurt his wrist as he tried to stop his fall. After a few moments spent moaning on his back, he tried again. And landed on the same wrist, retiring hurt. I did pause for the briefest of moments to consider the injury potential of this insane ramp, but those moments passed! He did of course require a bandage for his wrist, but I think that was mainly for his school appearance!
With my camera poised for a beautiful shot through my legs, I was most surprised to see Luke charging up to the ramp with board and pads in hand. The bandage had disappeared and in its place was a proper wrist guard. This boy was ready for action! It was a hard session to watch as he crashed spectacularly five or six times. Each time required a little more time for recovery, until I was sure it was the fatherly thing to do to step in and get him off the ramp. He of course knew better and wanted to try once more.
He dragged himself to the top of the ramp and then readied himself. A moment passed before he threw himself off the edge, accelerating down his side of the ramp, riding the flat section and starting up the far side in the blink of an eye. I almost closed my eyes as he went into the top turn but was surprised to see him make it and ride it out shakily on two wheels. He jumped off his board, mid ramp, punching the air with a smile that said, ‘I am the man!’ Then he picked up his board and did it a couple more times to make sure.
Just like that his success had brought about the potential for learning two critical life lessons. We had a great chat about his injuries, the pain, and his complete lack of tears. He suddenly saw that he had managed to rise above his pain and reach much further toward what he really wanted. A remarkable breakthrough for a sensitive eight year old! We also talked about how long it had taken him to get this one move right. He reckoned about 20 weeks, although it was more like six! The point was that he persevered until he got it right, as not everything in life is so easy it can be done right first time. Now that he has seen how it is possible to conquer his fear and pain, he should be able to tap into this mind set again and again!
His dad on the other hand is a whole different story. He is still wallowing in his own fears. But the time will come when he will have to face that fear and take the plunge. And I will be on hand to report on every aspect of that adventure!
Fear
The smell of fresh pine is still strong even though it has been well layered with wood preserver and epoxy. I can’t smell those chemicals but I can smell the neighbour’s dog. I can almost feel the gritty surface of my skateboard through my shoe. I move my foot, tiny movements to the left and right, desperate to find the perfect position. So tuned are my senses that I hear my shoe rasping over the grit, the sound amplified by unseen speakers. My garden stretches away in front of me in various hues of iridescent green and lies drenched after days of rain. Some distance ahead of me the mighty Helderberg’s majestic bulk imposes its presence. Behind me somewhere is the sea, but I would not be able to see it even if I did dare to look around. I wonder if the neighbours are watching me standing at the top of my halfpipe. Absolutely paralysed with fear! Their windows reflect the setting sun, leaving my imagination to run wild with possibility.
The back of my skateboard rests comfortably on the metal rail which marks the top of the halfpipe. I can feel the back wheels resting firmly on the deck. I know that they are ready to slide, to harness the power of gravity and drop me senseless to the hard deck miles below. Theoretically I have to do everything in my power to prevent them from doing just that. Somehow I have to tame them, make them work for me, to harness their power and fly. Instead the front of my skateboard protrudes resolutely above the ramp like some plank that needs to be walked. If I let my imagination run far enough, I know I will see the sharks milling around in the waters below me, waiting to feast on my warm beating heart.
I am frozen. Not with cold but fear! The ramp stretches down below me, endlessly. With conviction I remind myself that I have made this drop four times before. I know that while the statement might be true, the results were far from successful. The last drop resulted in a twisted ankle and wrist. Yet here I am, madly standing on the edge of this precipice attempting to do it again. My mind leaps back past those injuries to the other time I attempted to drop into a halfpipe. My toes curl inside my shoe as I remember how I tore all of the ligaments in my one foot. If I get this wrong again, that same foot is going to need some serious medical attention.
In the back of my mind, I know that this is not something I am going to do once and then be satisfied that I have achieved. Instead I want to be able to do it fearlessly with ease! There seems to be a solid yet invisible wall between where I am and the point where I can begin to move again. Perhaps I am not ready? Perhaps I need to continue practising my drop in on my specially created gadget at a much lower level? Perhaps I will never be ready? Can I accept the consequences of getting this wrong again? Are the odds stacked too high in the favour of my fear?
I shake my head, pick up my skateboard, and slide down the ramp on my butt. The fear has me tightly bound in her clutches. I feel empty and beaten. I look back at the top of the ramp and wonder how something so small could terrify me so deeply?
The back of my skateboard rests comfortably on the metal rail which marks the top of the halfpipe. I can feel the back wheels resting firmly on the deck. I know that they are ready to slide, to harness the power of gravity and drop me senseless to the hard deck miles below. Theoretically I have to do everything in my power to prevent them from doing just that. Somehow I have to tame them, make them work for me, to harness their power and fly. Instead the front of my skateboard protrudes resolutely above the ramp like some plank that needs to be walked. If I let my imagination run far enough, I know I will see the sharks milling around in the waters below me, waiting to feast on my warm beating heart.
I am frozen. Not with cold but fear! The ramp stretches down below me, endlessly. With conviction I remind myself that I have made this drop four times before. I know that while the statement might be true, the results were far from successful. The last drop resulted in a twisted ankle and wrist. Yet here I am, madly standing on the edge of this precipice attempting to do it again. My mind leaps back past those injuries to the other time I attempted to drop into a halfpipe. My toes curl inside my shoe as I remember how I tore all of the ligaments in my one foot. If I get this wrong again, that same foot is going to need some serious medical attention.
In the back of my mind, I know that this is not something I am going to do once and then be satisfied that I have achieved. Instead I want to be able to do it fearlessly with ease! There seems to be a solid yet invisible wall between where I am and the point where I can begin to move again. Perhaps I am not ready? Perhaps I need to continue practising my drop in on my specially created gadget at a much lower level? Perhaps I will never be ready? Can I accept the consequences of getting this wrong again? Are the odds stacked too high in the favour of my fear?
I shake my head, pick up my skateboard, and slide down the ramp on my butt. The fear has me tightly bound in her clutches. I feel empty and beaten. I look back at the top of the ramp and wonder how something so small could terrify me so deeply?
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