That Forest Gump got it all wrong

Life, is like an Avo. If you are comparing life to not knowing what you are going to get Mr Gump, then life is not as you put it "like a box of cho co lates", nope it is like an Avocado Pear.

You see Forest, if you are saying that stepping out into the glorious early morning air adorned in one's favourite bonnet and parasol, ends with a nasty pigeon crap on your shoulder just as you were humming your favourite church hymn on your way to the congregating Lutherans at the church; is like opening a box of Quality Street and not having a clue which one you will put into your gobber; I am afraid the comparison just does not work out for me.

Am I missing something? I mean in life the surprise of the pigeon poop is not something that you can foretell - even with all that dedication to the man in front of the pulpit blasting out warnings and doing his thing. A box of chocolates however, well now, a box of chocolates is really very explanatory as to the contents. I think most of the assorted ones are not only colour coded so as to be able to match saaaay 'the orange wrapper with the orange flavour', but even have a key to show the shape AND contents of the chocolate once unwrapped, just to make sure you do in fact know EXACTLY what you are going to get.

Avo's ...on the other hand .... are far more tricky and akin to life's little surprises then the predictable box of chocolates. Who can confidently say that when standing in front of a couple hundred Avo's you know which one is worthy of your purchase?
Even if it seems clear as day and you make your pick with a connoisseurs twist of the wrist followed by a delicate placement into your fruit basket, come ripening time (everybody knows you never buy a so called ripe Avo from the shelf as the only reason it is soft is from all the old ladies that have prodded and pumped the unfortunate fruit into a pulp), and to your dismay there are large black blemishes on the skin. But you handled it so carefully, took such thought and passion when going about the whole process didn't you?
Well just the same as when the bird craps on your shoulder - out of the blue as it were, and in this case as it is (unless its a London Pigeon then we might want to edit that to "out of the grey"), you just can't predict what the Avo Gods have in store for you. Even if it remains looking rather delectable from the outside, there could be large stringy bits coursing from top to bottom destroying the exotic flesh that, if all does go well, can be as tasty as any food on the planet.

Now nobody ever accused Mr Gump of being a rocket scientist at any point, least of all the good man himself, but I think he should certainly make amends for the silly statement: "Mama all ways said, life is like a box of Cho co lates. You just never know what you gonna geeet" buy replacing box of chocolates with crate of Avo's.

Perhaps what really transpired was Forests tired mother was trying to explain to the lad with the iron legs and wooden brain that "Forest, if you buy the wrong box of Chocolates next time I send you to the store for me, good Lord I will give you the thrashing of your life that you will pray you never get again."
Who am I to say though, I suppose sitting on that bench telling his story and offering Avo's to the passers by just would not have been the same. Maybe there is a Forrest Gump sequel in there though - to put things right.

Bleeding ankles

I have just seen a little girl learning to ride her bike. The scene was at once extremely familiar, and yet as I watched her, I realised how the little girl on her bike seemed totally out of context to the surroundings that she found herself in.

Let me explain further. You see, the scruffy little one must have been about 12 years old. She was decked out in a long, thick, soft pink coat that was a few sizes too big for her and reached past her knees, threatening to get caught in all those parts of the bike that seem hungry to grab a hold of just such a tempting morsel of clothing. She had a pudding bowl haircut, very unlike the styled cuts I see on youngsters these days. Barefoot and standing up on the pedals of her over sized single speed postman bike, she was struggling against the friction of the road and the large tyres, the concentration etched on her face.

Balancing on those pedals and being out of the saddle while trying to get enough momentum to keep the bike upright could not have been easy, but her natural instincts – so seldom called into play for most youngsters – had her leaning slightly forward to keep her centre of gravity. This meant carrying a lot of her weight on her arms which were splayed out wide to grab hold of the over sized handle bars of cold shiny curved steel, her small hands white-knuckled around the plastic grooved grips that were worn smooth over the many years of previous riders steering the bike all about town.

There was a slight wobble to this whole scenario, but not like you normally see with a youngster learning to ride today where they can sommer put their feet down to stop a fall. I should think this little ragamuffin had simply grabbed the only bike available to her, or as in the olden days, she had managed to get her hands on a big’ bike - so much more alluring and exciting than a children’s bicycle. No bright yellow easy-to-ride prissy little bikes for this tough nut. She was gritting it out on this old iron horse, that concentrated expression showing brief glimpses of pure joy before slipping back into the more earnest work of staying upright.

This image was one of days gone by for me and I have not seen this type of riding for a long time. It was a nostalgic surreal few seconds that was initially so calm and natural and then when I came back from my reminiscing, it looked so incredibly out of place. As if I was on a movie set or back in a small Karoo town and not the city bowl of Cape Town.

My Wild Run!

I had never been to East London, I had never been to the Transkei and I had certainly never run 112km without once setting foot on anything that could be even remotely referred to as a road.

Adidas were about to change all that and with great foresight and a show of extreme intelligence they saw fit to invite me to take part in the Wild Run …. the inaugural Wild Run that is, which they were excitedly going to be sponsoring. I played it cool and told adidas I would get back to them. Truth be told, I had been incredibly keen to take part in this event since a buddy had told me about it a couple of months back. I waited a day and then replied that I was happy to be a part of all the fun with them in what is now called the Wild Coast.

After 6 weeks of training from a relatively fit physical condition, I was stoked to be landing in what I think the locals call the Buffalo City. A precarious landing on a little SAA Express flying machine had me all confused. You see, upon approach to the runway, we were tossed around enough to get some exotic angled viewings of East London itself and the one that stood out clearest was some sort of dump – well I hoped that’s what it was because if this was my life passing on front of my eyes before I died in a tangle of twisted SAA metal, it was clearly not much of an existence so far. A quick thought of my sub B class teacher and her sweet smile, an automatic reminder that the Springboks are the current world Champions and the smell of cinnamon convinced me my life had not in fact been a dump and that we were indeed just moments from crashing into one.

The talented pilot chap managed to not crash us into the dump, although I was not convinced for at least another hour that this was the case, as East London, it turns out, does a pretty good dump ground impersonation for its first time visitors. I am sure I am missing a ton of fun and classy establishments, however I was happy to have left it behind and moving in a Northerlyish direction towards Morgan Bay and to be more precise – Kei Mouth.

The river Kei would be our first point of rest on the eve before setting out on the adventure. Now as worldwide cavorters such as I know only too well, Coca Cola branding finds its way to all sorts of obscure places, but I was not prepared for this onslaught in what was a pretty out of the way little coastal hamlet. I think Coca Cola had tarnished every single commercial venture in Kei Mouth. In fact it intrigued me so that I took a little stroll around to see if there was any brave enough not to carry the most recognizable brand in the world. The Bush Pig pub across the road looked tough enough to shun the Coke branding, but upon closer inspection this was not the case as a 4m high board advertised 2m worth of Just Ginger, The Parlotones and Robbie Wessel’s and 2m worth of The Red and White. The Fisherman’s Den was just the same as was Kei Mouth Liquors, The Green Lantern (Gotham City?) and the B&B across the road too. A ha …what was this! Just as I was about to despair and give in to the 100% domination of Coca Cola, a sign indicating the Kei Mouth Library stood proudly naked of any Red and White branding. Now you might argue that I had declared the search for those commercial ventures in town, but let’s all agree that, with even a newspaper few and far between, Kei Mouth is certainly no place to boast its own library. This clandestine building with what looked like metal braai grids over the windows, was clearly a front for a little old lady selling some form of contraband – which is this part of the world could be anything from the latest LosLyf publication to a can of two stroke motor oil.

With my incredibly easily satisfied hunger for entertainment satiated, I returned to The Thatches Accommodation to meet some of my fellow runners and to listen to race director Owen Middleton’s race briefing for the first days stage which was just one restless sleep away. I took enough information in to know where to meet for the start, to make sure I had at least two litres of water in my pack and to not expect any form of route markers. Not an arrow, not a cheerful traffis ocifer, not a flag waving volunteer … not a stitch. The only thing that mattered was to keep the ocean on your right and to keep running we were told. This sounded very uncomplicated. Almost Forrest Gumpesque which suited my simple mind just fine and I went to bed happy to have escaped the lure of East London and excited to be running towards a wall with a hole in it.

Thursday breakfast is followed by a 6am barge crossing over the river Kei (wasn’t there a song named after crossing the river Kei? No wait it was a country … see above) delivering a group of 73 brightly clad runners to the start where they stood wondering what lay in store over the next three days.

Then in a whirl of button pushing and cap adjusting, the starter gives the signal and we’re off! It’s like the start for the 100m-Olympic-dash-for-people-with-no-sense-of-direction as individuals and groups head off in totally different directions along all their own chosen routes. This was going to be some event, what with the trickery and guile needed to make sure one was not going to lose out to others more adept at choosing the correct way. If in doubt though, the best clue always lay in the long white strips of glistening sand that lay tantalizingly in front of us like a stairway to Heaven or a path to Nirvana (your subconscious mind may now have just matched Stairway to Heaven with Nirvana so make sure you untangle that one before you stupidly blurt out around a braai one night: “I’m telling you, Nirvana were the dudes who sang Stairway to Heaven” … of course this in totally incorrect, it is in fact sung by the Jackson Five and composed by Mike Myers).

I must admit that 112km that lay ahead was a huge challenge in my mind and I had no inclination to race the three days. So the start pace was extremely leisurely and how glorious to watch the sun come up in front of us and a little to the right over the Ocean. The bothersome wind from the day before had died down to almost nothing and the sea, rocks and sand were combining in kilometer after kilometer of magical delights. It was truly a surreal experience to just shuffle along this coastline as it introduced itself to me for the first time.

The waves were full of energy and large swell, but calmed down when they met the sand which was generally in the form of very wide, flat and hard packed beaches that continued blemish less for about three to four kilometers before coming to a headland of rock. This was a pattern that repeated itself over and over. Sometimes these rocks were too young and brash to let us by as they played their games with the waves that were not as polite as they were when meeting the beach, but willing to tumble with the rocky outcrops like two lion cubs, on and on in what seemed a never ending sparring of mutual understanding.

If this was the case we would simply skip the rocky outcrop by leading a little more with the left shoulder and taking the option of running over the headland of green hills which supplied us with a cow track, or if too steep for the cattle, then a precarious goat track. Generally though, the rocks were of the older sort that had been worn down by the never ending energy of the waves and we simply hopped and bounded from boulder to stone, up and down and every which way until our efforts brought us to the sand on the other side to start the whole cycle again.

This went on again and again and it was quite something to experience a rhythm in what was before today, a place I could not have imagined running 44km in. A rhythm for this distance is normally played back to you in a metronome like fashion as the light road shoes slap against the unforgiving tar of the streets. The rhythm of the Wild Run is one more akin to the type found in chaos. There is no pattern apparent and in fact if one wishes to find some form of smoothness it is by letting the rhythm find you. Somewhere between stumbling over a huge molten rock spewed up from the earth’s mantle millions of years ago and cooled instantly in the sea; and crunching the shells under your feet, or the sinking in the cheeky bits of soft sand that sometimes envelope your shoes with no warning; the ubiquitous sound of the waves help bring a runner the algor rhythms that make such a challenging task materialize into something profound – if you will let it that is. Mostly the mind works too hard and fights frantically to keep control as the feet struggle against a running experience that is not perhaps so familiar to them. This is of course to the runners own detriment and the unfortunate victims are energy and confidence, making the journey a whole lot more of a difficult challenge.

On this route though the power of the surroundings are so overwhelmingly apparent and with absolutely no man made distractions what so ever along the way, most of the runners are able to benefit from opening themselves up to the privileged experience that they are a part of.

Most of that day I spent with a fantastic running buddy and could not have asked for better company than Guy from Johannesburg. An Ad agency owner by trade and distance runner by nature. Calm and appreciative of his surroundings, Guy and I solved many of the planets problems and left them for the rock pools and King Fishers to keep secret as none would believe two ranting running lunatics.

By the time I reach the finish of the first day I was alone, my mind is a little fuzzy and takes some time to adapt back to just being able to lay in the cold pool water listening to the stories of the day that come tumbling out of mouths that bare huge grins of satisfaction. The long distance took its toll and the heat played its part. Everyone had a story as richly satisfying as the next, no matter what time or place the finish line was crossed.

As the day went on, so the tides rose (and such are the Days of our Lives haa haaa!), making the river estuaries more and more difficult to pass. When Lofty the sweeper came in the full field was home. Not one casualty on day one. Amazing stuff. This was a strong group of runners even though the one dude had never run longer than two hours in one go – ever, before today. Today he ran over 5hours. Another friend of mine had only ever run a half marathon in races, today she did 44km of trail running.

The pictures presented later that night show people swimming across the rivers I had waded through at knee height just a few hours before. I felt the swimmers got more out of the river crossings. I made a decision to make a point of swimming at least one of these rivers before the end of the event.

I noticed the bar was doing a fair trade and make no mistake; those beers were deserved, but did not go on too long for most. By 9pm the majority are sleeping, but there is still a bottle of rum out there that was being looked after till a lot later. The minders of the bottle of rum would suffer a little more the next day, but they knew it and it was all factored in so no worries mate.

Back at The Thatches in Kei Mouth I had been paired up with iAfrica’s adventure babe Thamar Houliston, but someone must have cast doubt on my integrity, as the next night at the amazingly appointed Kob Inn; I was to share a room with Rocket Van Breda who knows me a little better. Rocket came into the race barely able to walk with the pain in his left foot at excruciating level. He reckons when he left the house the day before, his lovely wife Bridget just shook her head turned on her heal and left her determined husband to do what he had set out to do. Well he had made it through the first day with a mixture of hobbling and walking and was ready to have a rest and hit the beaches again on day 2.

A chilly morning greeted us the next day, but the sun was already starting to rise and conditions looked decent for another cheeky 35.something k’s. It took me a while to find some sort of feeling and bounce in my legs after leaving the comfort of Kob Inn, but once we got through some bumpy fields of grass and cows, it was back on the beach where the lead group of five of us get to about 5min/km if the sand remains hard. The check point which would be a refill station for water was only at 23km into the race today and you can’t drink the water from the rivers as they are used way inland by the locals for all sorts of living activities, so although they looked tempting and were refreshing to wade through when we needed to, it was vital that we were supplied with drinking water at the check points.

Today we were also going to be afforded the chance to spot a White Rhino when running through the nature reserve Dwesa. Unfortunately all we spotted once we have vaulted the fence to the reserve was the Common Irate Incompetent Ranger Fool Local species that was gesticulating manically and twirling his wrist that had a stick hungrily attached to it. Apparently his frustrations were directed at us which was surprising as all permits and the necessary organizing had taken place back in April. We stopped to chat, but only for a very short while as we decided to ignore the fool and to keep running. Ranger man then stopped and detained the rest of the race for over an hour. That morning only 10 of us got through initially and the rest had to wait till things were sorted out which made the going hotter and a detour meant more distance covered for some that forgot to keep the beach close by.

We carried on up front oblivious to the fracas back at Dwesa Nature reserve and enjoyed the pristine route that we followed in a mesmerized and euphoric run that we had now settled into very comfortably. Jolene from Knysna was a surprise visitor for a while. We were not used to running with a chick up front so the guys were happy to see her. Not so for Jo, after chastising us for not talking enough she turned up the volume on her earphones and went bounding of into the lead. We all had a little laugh at the exuberance, but I think that iPod must have run out of power as Jo then decided to drop back for some company to talk to and clearly we were not up to scratch so the visit ended and we just kept cruising along wondering what was around the next corner, all the while knowing it was more beach and hills.

By the time the end was in sight though each man was running alone and not a little weary. A particular long stretch of beach lead to another river crossing. The last kilometer before reaching The Haven was run in squelchy shoes which were happily discarded as I jumped into a welcome cold pool that managed to take a lot of the last 79km fatigue away - for a while. Once out of the pool though it was the pain of the blisters on my feet that I felt more than tired legs and the realization that the last day was going to be a little bit more of a challenge, hit me like a raw egg dropping into sizzling hot pan.

After a massage though I lay down to watch the rest of the runners come in with tales of woe and anguish in the details, but once again told through a head full a smiles and delight. Again all 73 runners made it to the finish. Rocket Van Breda not only amongst the finishers, but in the top 20 and on a foot that was only getting better for some strange reason.

Once again I was dumped by a roommate as he and I were split and I was placed once more in a room with original roommate Thamar who was running like a champion and possibly trusted be more now that she was back in cell phone range to her fiancé.

The rest of the day and night was an eat as much as you can competition between me and my belly. As much as I would put in, stomach would just destroy it. I was first at the buffet line with plate in hand and once done with main course, had to be tapped on the hand by a large silver cast iron looking serving spoon that the head chef Mike was wielding, as I tried in vain to take possession of the full tray of Apple Pie laid out for desert.

I settled for 3 servings worth, but was once more warned by Mike’s furrowed brows and steel serving spoon weapon, that I was to go easy on the freshly whipped cream with its hidden sugary delights. I was done with all my feeding before most even knew what flavour the soup was for the evening. As I slid out of the dining room I noticed a few new friends nods of understanding as to why they had been introduced to me as Pie Face. Not in the least bit worried about this after many years of thickening of the skin, I directed myself to the bar to see if there were any snacks available. Before I could get too close though I heard Lofty and wife Tatum ordering Tequila with friends from Umtata and I opted for a sharp right away from the bar instead. A fortuitous move for one with a hunger such as mine as it turned out, as I walked right into a serving lady who was quickly rested of her packs of biscuits that she was taking to stock up the cookie jar with. Cookie Jar remained cavernous and my belly took the bounty.

I went to bed a trifle bloated as you can imagine, however the next morning I woke up on an empty stomach. It was a later start so plenty of time for breakfast. I must say though, I did not feel like walking around much on feet that were just not used to this kind of distance and were coming apart somewhat, starting at the toes and ending …as a foot does … on the heal. Perhaps this was where all the food was leaking through. My feet basically had as many holes in them as my retro Jamie Oliver pasta strainer I use to impress gorgeous angels when cooking them dinner.

You see, always the mind returning to food. Best I pack my potatoes and head to the start. First though I was going to have to find a way to get my feet into my shoes without them noticing. There was no way they were going in voluntarily. I thought of distracting them with some shiny new plasters. Naaa … it was going to have to be a brand new pair of socks.

I slid a thick but soft pair on after disposing with the label and the 500 sneaky stickers they hide all over new socks for some reason, and before my feet could think what was coming next, they were covered in shoes once more and about to begin their last 34km of the adventure.

Today’s start was 13km of normal trails that took us all the way to the check point and water station and then we were on our own. Well that was the briefing the previous night, however after about 4km we were on the beach and stayed on it till the check point. I was feeling decent on the beach and found that together with the St Aubins Adventure teacher Gary (A teacher dedicated to adventure I kid you not …times have changed of that there is no doubt. When I was a lad the adventure teacher was the punk at the other end of the cane issuing adventures of pain management!) I had opened up a gap between any other runners. We were not pushing it but still moving quickly while having a good chat in the front of the field about all sorts of crap.

Today was a particularly technical route if you wanted to do it in the shortest manner though, and every time Gary and my pace took us ahead, Guy and overall race leader Dale would close the gap with Guys experience of the route from setting it up with race director Owen earlier in the year. Gary and I were working way too hard compared to the others and even though I was feeling good and thought I would probably run on ahead and make a significant lead, I realised it would be closed by me having to wait for some form of indication on where to run or I would simply get lost as this was not a time when instincts were enough to keep me on the shortest route.

This was not a problem at all though as strangely enough there was very little in the way of racing other the just some natural competitiveness that would have been strange had it not been there at all. What transpired next was something quite incredible. After sliding down an 80m high cliff face (it really was a cliff face that was so steep that you could just not run down it at all) covered in grass on my ass and coming out to greet the group of three runners that was about 200m behind just moment before, we realised that it would be more fun and intelligent to just cruise home together with absolutely no stress of racing which in the circumstances was going to prove futile anyway (as explained above). Every one of us agreed this was a lekker idea and the five of us set of to cover the next 15km or so as a group.

Along the way we found a large dead whale on the rocks that was proving to be an 8m buffet for the fortunate local birds and sea life that were dining on it; we enjoyed some ludicrously steep hills to climb that rewarded us with fantastic views of beauty in every direction once at the summit and eventually, were lead to the last high vantage point which presented the famous Hole In the Wall far below. We had reached our destination. Just the descent off the mountain left which was done laughing out loud and agreeing that this was indeed a special place to be at any time, but to have approached it from Kei mouth and with 112km of running behind us it made it as sweet and memorable as any human should care to imagine. This was the culmination of something special, of that there was no doubt and I was very happy to be a part of it.

Salute

An image that I was pondering recently served as a huge help to understanding something that had been giving me some problem in my simple brain. I can forgive my brain for not getting to grips with it as effectively as I would have wished as it was a problem that I am sure every man women and probably some other living things have had difficulty with.
You see when dealing with right and wrong … there can only be pain as a result. I don't mean just to the pain of the man swinging at the end of the noose adjudged to be the one in the wrong, nor the pain felt when a woman wins custody of her children after being adjudged to be in the right. The pain will be a result for all as there is neither wrong nor right, but only what is.
I know this is not something that strikes a chord with your thinking brain and that is no surprise as there are just too many layers disguising the misgivings of seeing a polarity in most everything we do. Add to that the presumption we make - that people are all the same, that we perceive things in very similar ways when in fact this can be varied to such significant extents that we do not have the option to decide whom is right and wrong, add that and we have little chance of ever giving up on an argument. In fact we are all just doing what we will do and there is nothing else that can occur.
These two polar bear dudes or babes are clearly having a fantastic go at each other. Probably to survive by fighting over a piece of a reindeer carcass just to the left (did you look for the carcass? Oh go on … you've seen the pic already and know there is no reindeer. Look sharp!) or to protect those mini polar bear cubs. The thing is …and this is what got my attention a few seconds into having a look at this fracas … the thing is you see, they have got exactly the same strike as they go straight for the killer bite to the jugular vein. It's natural for them both to do so. It is deadly and decisive, but it is full-on and it's natural. There is neither right nor wrong and there will be no winner nor looser. Well you say the one that bleeds to death in the snow has lost I should think, but then you are missing the whole vibe.

Post script: How fortunate we are to be able to be sitting in front of our computers to witness this lesson from nature. It's one of the many credits to man and his ability to potentially do wonders. To be able to admire these bears going at each other is something that for many centuries perhaps only the Inuits had opportunity to partake in … it is the kind of experience that they built there society on. A functioning society, until encroached upon and told what is wrong and what is right.

Springboks 2009 - June 20th

Springbok side looks good to me. Not even a whiff of a rose which I am happy about. Check out Brussow straight into the mix ...wonderful stuff that.

Just hope Ruan plays up to potential especially having been injured. Looks like John will not have to prop against Sheridan first up which is probably also a good thing. Steyn at FB - still a little bleak about Billy Zane not making it but dig Steyn.

Brilliant bench as long as Januarie sits on one side and all the others on the other so as to not tip the thing. Geez you can't be happy when Guthro, Bekker, J Fourie and Big Bruiser Danie come on fresh with 20min to play. Stick to the basics early and then let rip I say. Should be a cracker in Durban.
Giddyup!





Springbok team for the first Test against the British & Irish Lions: (Test caps in brackets)

Frans Steyn (27)
JP Pietersen (24)
Adi Jacobs (21)
Jean de Villiers (46)
Bryan Habana (46)
Ruan Pienaar (27)
Fourie du Preez (43)
Pierre Spies (19)
Juan Smith (54)
Heinrich Brussow (1)
Victor Matfield (80)
Bakkies Botha (55)
John Smit (81) - captain
Bismarck du Plessis (21)
Tendai Mtawarira (10)

Replacements:
Gurthro Steenkamp (20)
Deon Carstens (7)
Andries Bekker (13)
Danie Rossouw (36)
Ricky Januarie (34)
Jaque Fourie (42)
Morne Steyn (uncapped).

365 days of Slumber left for Cape Town

Today the one year countdown begins! A year to go until the Soccer World Cup comes to South Africa. The big 2010. Or it seems the more firmly entrenched way to pronounce it would be 20 10. I am receiving reports that the whole of Africa is getting behind us (http://bit.ly/fbz9Z) with this contagious excitement, although the World Cup fervour does not stand alone as a South African representative in Africa. Old JC Zuma is just as revered North of our country, so perhaps that is not really a great indication of vindication that 2010 is as important as we might think.

It is of course and should need no vindication. But we live at the tip of Africa which is sometimes a long way off from certain goings on in the rest of the world and although South African locals have been exposed to 2010 articles, facts, branding and advertising for a year or so already. The funny thing is, white South Africans (not involved in the ACTUAL build up to the event on some commercial, marketing or business point of view, or those involved in local soccer itself) have not the faintest idea as to what is coming our way. Oh you will certainly hear the regurgitation's spewing out of every bloke and his buddies mouths around the braai or while settling down to watch some rugby or cricket together on TV; or from the Book Club wives and Poppies getting together on a Thursday night or for that Monday morning coffee at Vida e Cafe. The World Cup talk is, for the vast majority of us locals, purely a way of making use of the chance to say something attention grabbing so as to be a part of the conversation, and perhaps even out-do your buddies while you are at it. To show how up-to-date one is with that happening around us. And that is exactly how we know it so far ... as something that is around us but not a part of us.

Not a clue I say:

Soccer, you see, has never really been much a part of the uniting of the Rainbow Nation. Not on the grand scale as mentioned above. Rugby was a big part of President Nelson Mandela's master plan - hatched while doing hard labour and sleeping on even harder cold floors on Robben Island. The plan proved to be a miracle as it played such a phenomenal role as the catalyst to making sure the transition of power in South Africa was effected in such an efficient way. Us whites were given our all-precious rugby back to play out on an International stage - which was greedily accepted and made the most of, resulting in an amazing against the odds win to claim the 1995 Rugby World Cup. So we won the William Webb Ellis Cup to crown South Africa as the World Champions in our beloved white mans sport - Rugby. The country danced in the streets as one - literally danced in the streets as the traffic stopped. On that day, there was no traffic in the cities, nobody needed to go anywhere, everybody was celebrating. It was a truly wonderful moment to be a part of and to experience.

Soccer enthusiasts celebrated as hard as any others in the RWC 1995 fanfare. Soccer though had no such lofty aspirations with the masses. As long as the boys and men could play the game they were happy ... and they did, everywhere they got the chance. There have been no such ubiquitous celebratory moments in soccer in South Africa, even when the platform has been presented. How many of us whiteys even remember South Africa won the African Nations Cup! The whites have just never really bought into it. Why should they, there is plenty going on without soccer and nobody was really pushing it down their throats too actively.

I too am a whitey. From many years back though, I have African soccer in my blood. Not the tainted feel for the game that you will find if you go looking for a litmus test of our cuntries soccer from the top of the pile in the local leagues. No, I have the feeling from real soccer experiences, from the 'pick-up' games that been played where ever possible for countless years gone by. From the small holding urban area I lived in, just next door to Alexandra township, to the beaches of Hout Bay in Cape Town, I always managed to find a game as a strong little bare foot whitey. For the first few minutes the dark faces would look at me with consternation and there was always at least one whose first reaction was that he did not want me there. The anger in those eyes will always be with me. Fore everyone of those angry fellows though, there was a huge white smile, and usually more than one, that welcomed me in a true African unabated friendliness that was available to even a young unknown and unaccompanied white boy when, even under the harshest conditions of apartheid in the 1980's, the smell and feel of freedom was able to be found on a piece of dirt with some tree trunks or oil drums for goals and some form of soccer ball. It was unabated, sometimes rough (I was 9,10,11 years old playing properly against and with tough men) and exhilarating beyond my abilities to describe to to you in words.

Soccer was always remained dreamy to me. World Cups were 'out there' and a little bit too untouchable if you lived in South Africa. The exotic and mysterious flavour found its way into my head though. I remember listening to the 1986 World Cup in Mexico when Maradonna socred a goal with his hand - soccer World Cup now, not Rugby - no hands allowed. Listening I say, as we were probably not afforded the rights to broadcast the events such as that due to our political stand point at the time. So I had to make do with the wireless. It was crackly and comforting. A good dose of the way people took part in supporting their sports teams in the last 80 years or so I should expect.

The next World Cup was in Italy and so in went on. South Africa eventually got to take part too, but were nothing special. Tainted by politicking and poor management has been the reality as the game has become more and more big business in South Africa ... its such a pity as there is plenty of talent, but no direction and counter productive efforts keep us languishing.
This will do little to quell the exuberance of the soccer loving nation next year as the beautiful game comes home to Africa. It is a part of so much that is African, a lot more so than Europeans, South Americans and the rest of the world realises. I think there will be some amazement from those visitors as they flood to our beautiful country to enjoy the latest volume of World Cup soccer in action. None though, will be more amazed than the locals. It is just too big to contemplate and does not register on the frames we use as points of reference - cricket WC, Rugby WC and a couple of large tournaments we have hosted. This one will be very different. Off the charts bro!

What is of personal interest to me though, on a local Cape Town scale, is to see the reaction to South Africa coming to Cape Town. Along with all the melting pot of the rest of the world, there will be a huge following of South Africans moving all over the country. Cape Town folk that have not lived in any other part of South Africa do not, I think, have a clear picture of how their country actually looks. I am talking about whites in Cape Town you understand. I can't wait to see the awakening take place as they come out of a long slumber of ignorance and strange perception of what our country is like. Not a fault or anyone nor poor behaviour by the Capetonians mind you. Just a lack of feeling for the rest of the country. A relaxed bunch that are going to be shaken up, hopefully to the extent that we were back in 1995. Back then, when all had settled, the sentiment was incredibly positive and that is probably the most powerful tool to actually getting things done that are worthwhile in our land. I know it will be the same next year, and I can't wait.
It's less than a year now and soon it will be out of even FIFA's hands as Africa brings its unique flavour to what the former call football and what we call soccer. The African rhythm is unique, not as flamboyant as the South Americans, not as fluid as the Europeans or as energetic as the Asians. The Power and Mystique though go unchallenged. That is what those embracing the event in 2010 with the right intention will be able to tap into. A unique experience to be sure. Sound the drums and awaken Cape Town from its slumber!

Children Tipping

Have kids reached the tipping point or is it just 'the next generation'?
I feel there is cause for alarm when I have a look at how children in the western world are growing up and their behaviour patterns that result. Obviously for every parent or teacher out there, there would be another gripe about kids of today. This was surely been the case when I went through my fun childhood years (1974 till 2004 and possibly still a few more to come) and was the case when young Churchill threw his peas on the floor in a tantrum 100 years earlier, or 100 years before that even, when little Johnny Appleseed (really John Chapman) would not tuck his hoes into his breeches no matter how much his nurse maid scolded the lad with threats of no candlelight for a month.

Yes I am sure every age and generation has had the same woes over their young and the rebelliousness of the ungrateful sods. That's not quite what has got my attention. What worries me is the lack of influence real people now have on children, whether they are trying to mould them or not. With the incredible amount of opportunity for youngsters to interact in a somewhat superficial, but seemingly very real platform, of social networks and all things computery, I feel that the yout (as Danny DeVitto calls them in my cousin Vinny) are sliding to a point where the masses of them are loosing vital experience of life ... the experience of how to deal with other Humans.

What sparked this off in my squishy brain, perhaps a little undernourished and beat up after a few recent drinking bouts, was firstly a trip in the local Rikki Taxi service. My car was in for repairs of the window that had been smashed by dem crooks. I was catching a ride with the Rikki service to retrieve my car. The interesting thing about the Rikki service is that it picks up other passengers on route to your destination if it, more or less, fits in. Its quite fun to meet some exotic hot Dutch angel who is heading to the beach at 10:30am on a Tuesday morning or a ditsy hippy from Obs who can't quite remember her own name and pays for the ride in coppers.
Today though it was at the St Cyprians Girls Diocese/Convent/Castle/School or what ever the church calls it, that the Rikki was heading for his 2nd pick up once I was already comfortable seated in the old London taxi, complete with Nedbank branding from top to toe.
The passenger in waiting was a 16 year old cute little thing extremely overladen with bags and guitars and more bags. Files, novels, textbooks and science projects all included in her load scholarary paraphernalia. I helped the young thing into the Rikki while she explained in the strangest English that only parents or teachers get to experience, how she is always carrying so much stuff and what an effort it was. Not complaining mind you, just commenting through some deeply drawn breaths and rosy red cheeks brought on by the effort. Now this was clearly one of the studious girls of the Convent paying much diligence to her studies and academia rather than on the other distractions and vices a 16 year old faces at that delicate age. Yet her ability to talk to me was incredibly sad to see. There was no awkwardness nor embarrassment at all, just an extremely limited set of skills - and I am not talking traditional ones that a Duchess would be sent to Switzerland finishing school to acquire- just a basic switch from her favoured buddies speak to be able to talk to a 35 year old. Not able I am afraid to report. I did find it poor form I must admit. Then it came time to pay the taxi and she had no clue how to adapt to make him understand where he was to take her or how she would prefer a certain break down in her change from paying a cheap fare with her R100 bill.

I helped Miss keen bean school girl out the car with all her baggage and marveled at the level communication, or as this case unfolded, the lack there of. The Rikki dude was clearly not aware in the least and carried on to the location I had asked him for. Now while waiting for the car in a dodgy part of Woodstock a little 9 year old comes cruising along the road with a dilapidated soccer ball under his arm. I motioned for the lytjie to drop the ball and have a kick about with me. He looked at me as if I was freak show. So I went for a more explanatory tact of communication and said "hey ... kom ons speel" hey come lets play. The little droll just walks straight past me. No fear, no jealous possession of his ball, just a total lack of energy or understanding to what I thought was an ingrained in guys young and old when there is a ball in our midst and an opportunity to kick it, throw it, lob it, pitch it or hit it to each other.

Is the interaction between today's youngsters and their elders slipping to levels of grave concern as quickly as I think they are? Don't get me wrong. I think there are incredible children out there with skills way beyond what elder generations had, but its like having a brand new car with all the fun stuff and you don't know how to actually drive. It could be a difficult battle to strike a balance with all the incredibly awesome opportunities that are available to the under 18's and keeping them involved in real life at the same time. I hear that these days when a 14 year old pops round to visit his/her buddy to 'play' for the afternoon or for a sleepover, it's not uncommon for them to sit in separate rooms on two different computers to talk to each other and those 'out there'. I think the potential for these fortunate kids is phenomenal if they are kept in touch with the many other benefits of life that are still worthwhile to them besides the new new stuff. Things that are real are still easily the most important as we are finding out, sometimes at the harsh end of some difficult experience. Real food is better than processed crap, real medicine is better than that which is made in a laboratory (still learning the lessons here) and Real people are better for children to interact with when growing up then the other options.