surfing, running life and stories

Circumambulating Rodrigues
I have always wanted to be a teacher on a tropical island and ride my bicycle through the forest, past Orang-utans to work. Mauritius is a little bigger and more developed than the island of my fantasy. My commute to teach English in Rosehill is on a Suzuki 125 and instead of dodging apes and falling coconuts I am dodging maniacal drivers in souped-up GT Toyotas and Hondas, trying to perform like Subaru’s. The life I enjoy here is very close to my utopia. And yet when I could not drag my forty-nine year old body to paddle out on my long board when the last big swell wrapped into Tamarin Bay, I knew that there was a deep set problem.
My growing waist line is a source of depression. So after a late morning inspection in front of the mirror I would need cheering up. In order to do this I would head down to local hang-out spot Mafiosa for an early lunch. This involved doing the crossword, a few large Phoenix Drafts and a very cheesy pizza. By the next day, the pizza and beer were immediately visible on my waistline, and as this led to further depression. 11am saw me listening to post-humus Amy Winehouse, contemplating rehab, then settling for a few beers and another pizza.
The British Council who employ me to explain the future perfect continuous tense to five year olds were on a 3 -week holiday. During the first week, afternoon snoozes would leave me unable to sleep at night, so the next day I would be dog tired and need to have an afternoon snooze. I knew that the rot had set in deep when I kept my shirt on as I hid under my Panama hat and Raybans while I assessed the large variety of bodies on display at Flic-en-Flac Beach. This was a far fall from Surabaya, Java, when emaciated by a chest infection, terrified of the Jakarta salmonella and shaken by a 7.3 earthquake, I had lost 10kg and danced the night away in a gay night club, shirtless wearing only skinny black jeans, energised by the second vowel in the alphabet.
As an avowed hedonist, long lunches and gallons of beer should surely lead to great happiness. But there I was with a sore back, feeling like a very old man. So one Sunday, after a debauched evening discussing haggis throwing with some wayward Scottish Settlers and an ethereal local, I knew that what I needed was the old Victorian concept of a “rest cure.” Actually I needed less rest, so I packed up my one-man tent, a (borrowed) airline blanket and my walking shoes and headed off to circumambulate Rodrigues.
With a tourist map, fashion rucksack and three litres of water, I left Port Mathurin, the capitol. Hugging the rocky coastline, I scrambled along the black rock shelf, with the odd detour up grassy slopes. There is something other-worldly about meeting cows on a beach. These huge animals, destined for our dinner plates, seem to have adopted a very Buddhist, meditative life style. I did not dine on beef, as I felt the need to maximise my caloric intake on grilled octopus. However, one night, with my sea-food level at maximum I settled for chicken. This was a huge mistake. No longer can I even look a supermarket chicken in the drumstick. Rodrigisean free range chicken is real, its sinewy, firm, chewy and delicious, and a far cry from the mushy battery hen which takes one month from egg to plate.
Beach sand is not a good sleeping surface. It solidifies, imitating its cousin, concrete. However, I cannot not be amazed, that there I was, lone white man, stolen blanket, walking stick but no dog, sleeping on the beach and feeling safe an unbothered. After a weekend in St Francois, I decide my next stop is Gravier. I mis-interrupted the tourist map and what I thought was a three hour walk takes me an hour. In addition, I had set off at seven a.m. so eight a.m. was way too early to set up camp. So doggedly, I marched on. Its low tide and the lagoon plain is an ugly kilometre wide muddy stretch, so I don’t feel like stopping. And then by late afternoon I have reached the other side of the Island, so basically have done 75% of my 10 day walk in one day. I watch the sun set from my night spot of Bai de Nord and spend the evening watching night fishermen rig up their sails and set out to the reef.
By 10 the next morning, I am back in the rather haphazard shambles of Port Mathurin. I have circumambulated Rodrigues and only caught one bus for less than 10 minutes as it was getting dark and my tourist map was vague on distance. So, having missed spending a night at Gravier, I return there (by bus) and spend four nights and days being a beach vagrant. My penultimate night in Rod. turns out to be the night an anti-cyclone descends on the Indian Ocean. My one-man tent withstands the lashing but I wake up before dawn feeling like I have spent a night in a wind tunnel and wimp out on the last night, booking into the Mourouk Ebony Hotel and spend the day watching European kite-boarders lapping up the on-shore winds. To atone for this luxurious indulgence I hike the three hour stretch to the airport to jet home to Mauritius.
Its been two weeks since my return. The monopoly that Phoenix Beer has on the population of Mauritius (ex-pats included) accounts for the general non-shrinkage in the waist line, however, 10-days in Rod has breathed back life, energy and exploration into my thick tropical blood. The Australian legend of a ‘walkabout’ should be built into our life calendars. Being out, one my own, I allowed myself to breathe life back in grab onto hope and a love for life.

The Pestman
Curepipe, an unpainted, art-deco (read built by early French settlers) town. Strolling around aimlessly, but thinking of lunch, when this wizened old postman (uniform, cap and mail-bag) says "Jous are Sous Afrikan, oui? Jous are so luKKeee, I am zi postman, what you needs?" Well we were hungy and he then pushed his red moped, stopping traffic, up and down lanes to take us to a restaurant. On arrival, it was apparent it was his cousin/brother/sister's resto, a dingy, dark not too clean Indian resto, replete with plasic flowers, pink walls and a fish tank. Although Adie objected to the over-zealous owners, clawing us in with offers....I took the pragmatic root, went in, had a beer and then thanked our hosts graciously. This was my way to ensure we rid our selves of the devilish Pestman.

On walking out, however, we saw his 10cc Moped gunning it up the same road. You see, he had told us that after lunch, our next stop needed to be the Clothes and Boat shop, where he, also works (busy life being the Postman of Curepipe) Postman Raja was in such a rush to meet us at the shops, he (thank Ganesh) he did not see us wlaking the other way....when in Curepipe...done talk to the Pestman

I was pretty miserable at my 21st. Mainly cause I did not have a girlfriend, but generally I was lonely, pretty depressed and not really sure I was enjoying life. I was pretty miserable at my 40th. Mainly cause I had spent too many years in the wrong relationship, but generally I was lonely, pretty depressed and not really sure I was enjoying life. My daughter turned 21 on Friday. It was the most awesome and meaningful ceremony of my life.

Ceremonies exist because there needs to be a recognition of an event-a time when something very personal is recognised and shared-a communal ceremony. Baptism, Bar/Batmitzvahs, Confirmation, 21st, weddings and the long string of birthdays, 21st, 40th and 50th etc.

The 21st has the highest level of significance. In my world-its when you 'become and adult'. And what an amazing and significant ritual. My daughter and I were in agreement. No cheesy mix of conflicting generations and silly speeches, no limos, no downing cheap champagne. But in the same way that I had looked forward to my 21st, my weddings, my 40th and had held beliefs of how they should be, there is one thing forgotten in this scheme. Feelings. On that particular calendar day, that special great occasion, that wonderful day that I have finally reached, what will I and all of those around me be feeling? And because it is so important and all that, so very, very big to turn 21, the only thing which I should be feeling is happy.

And when your child, who you love more than anything else in the world, turns 21, as a parent I should feel happy-not so? Its Monday (the morning after, the morning after...) and apart from feeling a little hungover, I feel incredibly happy. As a father, I wanted to give my daughter the perfect 21st. I have looked forward to this moment, well for 21 years. I wanted to celebrate it for me and her. And we did. Not because of a magical perfect party, not because we made speeches and said silly things and definitely not because our plans were all perfect. In fact I feel happy, because none of our plans worked. I was not feeling great, I was stressed by work, anxious that I might disappoint her etc. and generally feeling a bit down. Then it poured with rain and some other great plans fell apart...which led to the reason why Saturday was so awesome and meaningful and why I am feeling so happy. I am happy because my daughter has become an adult. Not magically overnight, it has taken 21 years so far and she will carry on becoming an adult for many, many years to come. And for me, what this is about, what I am still trying to learn and live by is that we should not aspire to the easy road, the smooth and tranquil, we should aspire to being all we want to be. And, if what we want to be is something big, we are going to make big mistakes-and its the making big mistakes, forgiving myself, forgiving others and moving forward that makes us an adult. So, I think I am learning that, but we learn life's lessons over and over, bit by bit, and as long as we are reaching and as long as life is difficult...we are becoming adults

Labels: 21 Today

On 30 May 50 Pilot Whales chose to end their lives on the beaches of Kommetjie, where I live. Although I am healthy and young, not quite 50, I know that when I have lost those qualities which make my life the amazing existence it is, I will, as the whales chose to do, end my life. The passion and love which poured out from the hundreds of rubber clad whale saviors was futile, as not only did the whales have no desire to swim back out, but the authorities, early on in the day were clear on the outcome and had brought bulldozers to the beach to deal with the inevitable outcome. When I choose to beach myself, I will make sure no well meaning saviors or bureaucratic authorities intervene. And while I try to make sense of my mortality and my right to choose to live or die, Marike’s Roths openness in her column in noseweek about her leukemia have challenged me to look at life and living it fully while I have it.

Labels: When I choose to beach myself

I arrived in Israel angry! It had taken three hours to leave Jordan at the Dead Sea King Hoosain/Allenby Bridge. Young, arrogant armed girls, the Israeli border police, treated us all like shit. The bridge is a major crossing point for Jordanians and Palestinians as it is close to both Amman and Jerusalem. Twice I had queued for half-an-hour, got to the front of the queue and the child/officer just pack up her station and left (i.e. fuck you, go find another line and start again.) It was hot, the queues were long. Muslim women wrapped up in traditional scarves were pushing to front of the queue. Young western back-packers who had traveled in other middle-eastern countries had their passports taken and were left, sitting on the floor for hours. My first feelings in ‘the promised land’ were about what being powerless is.

My anger began to dissipate once we got to the coast. Telaviv was, for me about avant garde art, a restaurant/theatre run by deaf and blind staff, sunset music concerts, a wacky surf school in a derelict pavilion. Telaviv has lots of new high-rise construction, its a modern, vibey coastal town mixed with the slowness of its ancient buildings, its wealth and the warm summer air. Arriving back at our car in a deserted parking lot, late one evening and finding, to my South African surprise, that it had not been broken into and seeing young girls hitch hiking, made me realise how I accept violent crime as part of my reality at home.

Over the next few days, my experience can be captured in a set of images each which had a deep emotional impact. Many Israelis drive around with their national flag on their car. At first I saw this as an aggressive, militaristic power sign. I then realised that I have a jaundiced view of the white and blue ‘Star of David’. I don’t like the flag, I guess based on decades of messages I have received and processed. Recognising this in me, I could then see another possible interpretation. How amazing it is for people to have a deep love and passion for their country and a true sense of ownership and nationalism.

As images go, the proliferation and pertness of silicone breasts at a beach in Ceasaria left a striking image. To my relief one of my woman companions commented, confirming that, yes, these breasts were designed not to be ignored. Leaving those two major issues aside, the image of the 6meter high concrete wall in certain sections of Jerusalem cannot be ignored. There has been much written on the economic and social impact of the wall. Approaching it for the first time, when traveling from Jerusalem to the Palestinian town of Ramala, I was daunted and terrified. When I went through it for the fourth time later that day, it was still ugly, invasive and time consuming, but no longer scary. I don’t know what local Palestinians feel every time they go through the searches and scans. I did, more than once, see banter between soldiers and Palestinians. I presume this was a level of familiarity and tolerance. I think the wall began to make a different impression when I was in the old city of Jerusalem which is a 100% walled city. The old rock walls as high in places as the new concrete wall and built for the same purpose-to keep the enemy out and protect those within. When Israel was created by the United Nations some countries abstained from the vote and some voted against it. There is little point in debating Israel’s claim to the land-they were given it by a majority international assent. They are however surrounded by enemies, who do atack. In the same way that King David built a wall around the old city, with gates to control entry, modern day Israel has built its wall. Taking sides and discussing who threw a rocket first, or which side has the moral high ground is not going to be concluded before the next Messiah comes. Whether the wall achieves its purpose I cannot comment on, but my observation is that if I was a nation committed to protecting my people, surrounded by neighbors that hate me, I would, as King David did, build a wall.

Sitting on a cobbled walk way in downtown Jerusalem, drinking beer and enjoying the hot weather, it was amazing to see a freedom and multi-culturalism I have never experienced anywhere in the world. Young American school leavers, probably stoned, putting on (very poor) street theatre. The new designer Islamic dress code, the scarf, the dress, off-set by lift up bras and the tightest jeans imaginable. An old Lithuanian man playing sad tunes on a guitar-like instrument. Jembe drums, rave music and loud religious parades. An aura of freedom and fun. A nation built on diverse ethnic mix, united by religion and commitment to their country. I have no doubt that the standard bigotry, discrimination and ethnic separateness lurk, as they do in every other country I have visited. However, what I saw and enjoyed was that the streets were owned by the young, the old, the poor and the rich. Young Israelis are fortunate not to be defined and confined by skin color or culture but have the opportunity to grow up in a society that provides the same rights and social services to all its citizens. The huge (loaded) automatic weapon slung over the dread-locked Ethiopian girl’s shoulder is part of this picture. In the Congo I did not see this, only the boys were given guns.

I did not see the Israeli settlements, although I saw photos in the press of some being knocked down. I did not pray at ‘the wall’ as I do not pray. I am not able to judge the conflicting stories of culpability for child deaths in the recent Gaza war, but know that journalists and youtube are a dubious source of evidence. I know already that some reading this will label me, not only a Zionist, but probably anti-Islam and anti-Palestinian. I have spoken of some images and feelings and not made any judgments or political analysis. I left the region certain of one thing, how much I do not know and how much false information exists in the public domain. I am left with three final thoughts.

As an outsider, I battle to tell Judaism and Islam apart in terms of beliefs, practices and purpose. The list of similarities far outweigh any nuanced splits. They believe in the same monotheistic God, yet the religious hatred, symbolized by the Dome of the Rock and the Temple Wall is clung onto by both.

At some stage in history, the tribes of Judah left the region and scattered through out the world. The world they went to rejected them. Possibly out of guilt, this same world granted them land in the region of their origin. They have built a nation. Globally, all wars currently being waged in the world are about groups demanding land, their identity and their right not to be dominated by more powerful groups. In the same way that this is what Israel is doing, it seems that regional and international forces are creating a perfect historical juncture for the Palestinians to unite and with the support of their neighbors and the world declare their own nation. This is not a naive denial of the huge unresolved issues of land and resources. It is not a suggestion that Palestine adopt a soft approach. It is however a belief that a proud, united Palestine nation, with the backing and support of at least Jordan and Egypt can negotiate a cease fire and establish a forum to negotiate land, resources and peace, based on the needs of the region and not the needs and demands of the world super powers.

Lastly, when next a South African government minister makes anti-Israeli and anti-Semitic utterances and when next a group of Capetonian’s don their scarves (often choosing the wrong nation’s national colors) and shout war cries, I hope they can back this up, by, not only a factual explanation of their history and beliefs, but a clear solution devoid of rhetoric. I am pro-Palestinian! Having worked in the region I want to see a Palestinian nation created and believe that if Palestine, Jordan and Egypt committed themselves to this, it could be imminent.

Labels: I arrived in Israel angry

Reading a variety of articles in noseweek #103, a penny dropped, if somewhat belatedly. A number of articles (about eskom; corrupt cops ; dodgy muncipalities) exposed blatant corrupt practices. What really struck me was that in all these articles some of the government employees pulling a fast one, bore surnames which would denote their membership of the `previously advantaged.’ The Apartheid system was corrupt, self serving and rotten to the core. The ANC, prior to 1994, was so poorly managed and ill-prepared to rule, that when it took over governing South Africa, its many appointees from national to local government adopted the status quo of corruption and lies which their nemesis, the Apartheid system had put in place. Operating under a cover of secrecy, both organizations learnt how to cover up and befuddle the public. So what we have now, ruling our state corporations and government structures is the worst toxic combination of lying, self serving individuals, who have merely continued the century old South African tradition of ripping off and lying to the public.

Senegal
The Almadies Peninsula just outside Dakar is the most Western Point of Africa. I have seen three surf spots, all really good. The best is Ngor Rights. Ngor is an small Island, only about 500 meters off the coast. Its a right hander reef. Its been light on-shore, but still surfable. If it gets big, I reckon it would be very gnarly. Walking the coast of the Peninsula I was stunned by the pollution. Mostly plastics and I reckon mostly dumped over board passing ships. Not that there is much sign of pollution and litter conciousness by the locals. I always find it disconcerting, being in amazing places spolit, for me, by litter. My first reaction was that this is a poverty thing..people just don't care. Then I thought, its not that. The pollution in the developing world is domestic junk, clogging rivers and beaches. In the so called developed world, we do the same, but pollute on a larger, more `sophisticated scale.' We may keep our rivers, roads and beaches clean from litter, but we pump toxics into the sea, air and land mass- a lot more destructive, but better hidden. A bit like corruption. In the developing world it is in your face and ugly. In the so called developed world it is huge, toxic and destructive but better hidden.

For at least the last twenty to thirty years, May/June have been the months of protest in South Africa around living conditions. 2007 was no exception. With the continued poor service delivery in 2008 in the Western Cape, we will hopefully see communities out on the streets, exercising their Constitutional right to peaceful protest. In the past, protesters have backed down after politicians have made promises. Since the tyre burning in Ocean View and Masiphumele in 2007, how much progress has been made by local and provincial government to adress land and housing issues. As with the rest of Cape Town, in the Kommetjie area, there are large tracts of land, owned by various government structures which are unused or underutilised. 2008 is the time for local, provincial and National government to stop power plays, sort out land issues and build houses. This is government's Constitutional duty. (Section 25.1) `No-one may be deprived of property..’ and Section 26.1 `Everyone has the right to have access to adequate housing.’ And if communities know that government have the resources and yet do not deliver, communities need to use the space given them by Section 17 of the Constitution and protest.