Wet, wet, wet

The heavens opened and it started to rain. It rained solidly for 40 days and 40 nights. No, wait, that’s a completely different story. But the heavens opened and the rain fell, and the land became sea again. Yup, that’s more like it!

The stream in my garden is small and gentle. It usually gurgles over the rocks that litter its path. Frogs croak lullaby’s to each other and our cats drink thirstily from its banks. The Cape thatching grass grows tall, and the bog irises multiply furiously, so much do they love their wet feet. It is calm and serene, the life blood of our garden.

And so it was that it rained and rained some more. Nobody could be found to close the heavens again, and it continued to rain. With surprise and wonder I looked at out the window at my garden stream, now a mere eight metres wide and surging furiously.

Aghast, I waded out in my wellies to survey my new water kingdom. As I watched my wooden bridge was lifted effortlessly and marched downstream where it became entangled in the fence. The bird table without a bird in sight, gave the illusion that it was a concrete disk that could float on water. I waded into the current to rescue it together with the concrete David underneath, who had been holding his breath for some time! The water had already risen another 10cm and was now lapping the base of my half pipe. Oh no! My nemesis was under attack!



Peering over my upstream neighbour’s fence, I was struck by a sense of motion. Their whole garden seemed to be on the move. With my torch cutting through some of the gloom, I realised that their garden was now one with the river. I realised that it was roaring! I silently bid farewell to my halfpipe.

Walking round the block, I ended up on a road just downstream from my house. Here the river was really angry. It had leapt from its banks, overrun the road, and was pouring mercilessly down the driveways of the houses that marked its old territory. The gardens had filled up like swimming pools, the retaining walls that normally kept the river in, now kept it out. Closed front doors did nothing to deter the rampage, inviting as much in as the volumes that swept by them. The sound of big mallets on stone reverberated through the air as desperate owners tried to break holes in walls and let the proverbial plug out of their cold water bath. And still it rained!



This ferocious beast grew bolder and deeper, now up to my knees in the road. After giving what help I could, I walked home, murmuring my prayers for those in shacks.

On awakening this morning, it was all gone. My stream that had become a river had now become just a torrent. A high water mark of debris was all that was left of the beast that had passed our way. The neighbours were nowhere near as lucky.

And still it rains!

More Terror

It is still out there, without a care in the world. Well for one thing it does not like the rain. I feel sorry for it and keep it covered up, snug in an old tarpaulin. Every morning I open my curtains and see it sitting in the garden, lurking. I can feel it laughing at me, yet I know it has no voice. I figure it must be laughing. It has me beat. I’m down but I am not out! It just thinks that I am down. That I am too sissy to come out and fight, brave the odds and do the one thing that has eluded me for so long...

Drop in on my halfpipe!

I am still terrified of it. I have worked hard on that lump of wood. I have spent hours rolling over its smooth surface, up and down, up and down. My turns are sharp, my control ever improving. It is just that one simple act that eludes me. I can even use a plank at the top of the ramp and drop in off it. I just cannot seem to make the leap and drop in off the rail. It is not higher, it just seems infinitely more difficult to me.

I lay on the ramp this afternoon and gave it a good stare. Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I recall Anthony Robins writing about fear, and how one can use their imagination to imagine the right outcome to overcome that fear. I pictured myself dropping in and every time, my mind completed the drop in with me falling and twisting my ankle again. And again. And Again! No wonder I cannot make the leap, I am mentally focussed on failure!

I am not going to give up. Firstly I am stupidly competitive and that ramp is not going to beat me. More importantly, I want my children to see me struggle with my own fears, work on them, and overcome them. I just did not think it would be so hard.... But then again fear only has power when you let it!

Bigger and better

What an afternoon!

I caught the biggest wave of my life! Absolutely incredible! There was swell in our bay on Friday, the offshore was stiff to heavy, and we were at our favourite surf break. Out way past backline, I waited for the set. Rather a silly thing to do when the normal waves were BIG enough. Then a soldier marched out of the horizon. I swallowed, told myself to breathe, and paddled like a man possessed. The offshore gusted up the face of the wave spewing forth clouds of water into my face. With my eyes closed, I gambled that I had actually caught this wave, and jumped to my feet. For a while it felt like I was slipping sideways down the side of the wave, almost like I was side slipping on a snowboard. Luckily for me, I still could hardly see, and yet somehow managed to dig in the rail of my surfboard, feel my stomach fall to my feet, the wind in my hair, and the absolute freedom of riding a bucking monolith of surging water. Seconds and a hundred meters later, I exited the wave before it thundered into splintered oxygen. A mate later told me that it was one of the most insane take offs he had seen, with a heavy wave curling over my head as I dropped into this deep pit. So, it had been better than I had thought! Oh boy!

Three hours and many spectacular crashes later, I wearily paddled my board to the shore. Our local surf break is called Paranoia for many good reasons. One of them being the rocks that line the shore! Using my right leg as an anchor by bashing it on a rock, I managed to exit sans grace. As I limped out of the sea, realisation struck me that me less than perfect surfing at the end of the session was due in part to my foot being completely numb with cold. I suppose 14 degree water will do that to one!

I turned and looked at the break. Smiled! Shook my head! And sighed with satisfaction!

So Busy

I cannot complain. My new company seems to have more than enough work at the moment. And all of that work is keeping me immensly busy! This is my excuse for being away from my blog this week!

Not a good one, but I am sticking to it!

The work is good though - I really am enjoying what I am doing!

For the Love of our Children

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!

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...

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!

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!