Fearless

Fearless

Cold is the Winter that covers me
Dark is the fist that bludgeons my soul
No matter the punishments this curse may inflict
I will arise whole

Though my spirit be torn and ripped to shreds
My head bloody, bruised and pierced
My spirit rejected and flung aside
My eyes will show no tears

For beyond this Wall of wrath and pain
Is but the shadow of its existence
I must climb it, conquer it and overcome
Fearless, focused, persistent

Matters not how mighty the challenge
Or the width of the shade it throws
I control my destiny
This path I walk alone

-by me, David... at 18:58pm, Wednesday, 04 Sept 2013

Notes from a small city, tales from a big town - Chapter 2

Notes from a small city, tales from a big town - Chapter 2

The Mountain.

Not long after I came to Cape Town, I had a look at the low mountain range extending from Cape Point to Table Mountain. With inviting peaks and names such as Devils Peak, Skeleton Gauge, The Three Sisters – who could resist the urge to toss  a bottle of Oros and a sandwich in the backpack, jump over the fence and go for a little stroll?

So I decided to listen to the little voice - (who speaks English btw... and opens up so many questions for me: Do Xhosa speaking folk a have little voice that speaks with that *clicking sound in their heads? If so, I’m glad mine doesn’t... I wouldn’t be able to understand a word... I hope those with multiple personality disorders have voices they can understand lol) – who said: “Don’t be a wuss! It’d be Legendary! Do it!”

So it gave me something to chat to the guys in Camouflage flannels at Gringos pub about. No longer would I feel like a Koeksister. Once completed, I’d be able to strut into the pub, look them in the eye, sniff and gloat “Yeah, I shat on a mountain”.

And there was a more convincing reason to do it as well. I’ve not heard of anyone who did it before. So, seeing as the 6 degree principle applied, I’d be the first one ever to give in to stupidity and tackle the enitre range. I’d be a hero. People would sing songs about me. Brad Pitt would star in the movie. Johnny Depp would play the puffadder that nested in my backpack and used my sock as a squishy toy. I’d be famous!

 So off I went to CapeUnion Mart to be convinced by Johan, the salesman, that I needed the ‘juxta-cushioned NASA designed inner sole with enhanced thermodynamic diffusion and super transmogrified abrasion resistant carbon alloyed rubber” hiking boots (we call sneakers ‘Takkies’ locally just in case you wondered) that were specifically designed by top notch scientists in a laboratory just for me. I would cost a billion Rand and have a lifetime guarantee as long as I didn’t break them and they were never worn by a human being and were never removed from the packaging it came in.

I asked Johan, who was charming and always chuckled at the appropriate times, if the price tag and boots included a few Asian girls donned in skimpy outfits and palm tree branches fanning me down whenever I needed them. He said No... Johan was also against the exploitation of Palm trees, felt hurt and in revenge, sold me a backpack that set me back with a further gazillion Rand.

I politely declined the neon green mini-poop spade he offered for “when you have to go”... the word ‘Wussy’ kept echoing though my mind.

So, after reading about scary baboons and evil snakes and hippo-sized spiders that live on the mountain range and will happily gobble me up if I’m not careful – as well as  hearing stories about toothless knife yielding humans who first kill you before shouting “Money or your life!” – I decided to tackle the Range.

It was an early warm November morning when I left home and grabbed a train ride to Kalkbay. And from there, hitched a ride to as close to Cape Point as the roads would allow. My journey started. My legendary trip had begun.

My epic voyage of discovery and wonder was slightly hindered by heat-seeking laser guided mosquitoes, but I wouldn’t let them change my mood. Nor would the ‘Dangerous’ or ‘Rock Falls Ahead’ signs deter me from the overwhelming desire to conquer this mountain.

And as I took my first step on that gradually inclining slope, I recalled Neil Armstrong’s first words he uttered when He stepped on the Moon... I could lie and say mine was just as historic and awesome, but it wasn’t. I said “Eina, you bliksem!” (Ouch you bastard) – because I stepped into a 100 metre long razor sharp thorn that easily slipped through my diamond hardened intergalactic boots.

If anyone tries to convince you that Hiking is easy, giggle politely and smile and nod, but know this: It isn’t. It’s difficult. It’s tiring. It’s strenuous. It’s demanding. It saps you from all energy and the slope is always up for five million kilometres and down for only four centimetres. Though closer to the sun, it’s always cold. Wind has a new meaning when one is higher up. Trying to peer through early morning fog is like trying to look through a concrete wall.  

Don’t get me wrong though. The view is phenomenal. The flowery scents, the pine tree aromas, the cool shaped rock formations – are amazing and beyond a mere mortal’s ability to describe. The stunning views of Cape Town, it’s harbours and beaches are breathtakingly, mouth-openly, teary eyeingly beautiful. One can immediately sense why Buddhist Monks travel and live so high up on snowy mountains and arrange their limbs in awkward positions and hum “ommmmmmm”...

It. Is. Stunning.

After an hour of walking on an old trail, I stumbled upon a dirt bin. I am convinced it is strategically placed for people like me... My back pack contained enough food and items to feed and care for an army. This said, it weighed about as much as it costs. So, sadly, I chucked a few items to help my arched back recover.

...which I regretted later that evening. Sleeping bags, torches, the extra sandwich etc would’ve made the cool night pass faster.

I once read in a newspaper a few years ago that a British couple went up one of the mountains here and got lost... I found this so weird. And funny. All they needed to do was walk down! There’s civilisation and people and public phones all around the whole range... I guess they must’ve chucked common sense in that bin I used.

The hike lasted for two days. It was and still is one of the most amazing experiences of my life. I recommend it to everyone and anyone. The air is crisp, the spring waters clear, the streams icy-cool, path fantastic. There’s a beautiful dam above the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens and many caves and springs. The only hiccup I had was the puffadder the following morning, but it left on it’s own shortly after I finished my cold flasked coffee, dragging my sock with it into the rocky shrubs.

I met and chatted to some friendly fellow quick trail hikers along the way and tried keeping up with super fit people of various ages running up and down the slopes. When I finished my four centimetre decent at the end of the trail, I ran into Clifton’s icy waters and splashed around while bikini wearing babes ignored so much about me.

In the end, no songs were sung. No Hollywood movie starring Mr Pitt was made. The puffadder probably still has my sock. And when I stiffly and painfully stumbled into the pub with my broken super designed hiking boots and told them what I did,  all the camo-clothed chaps in the pub merely grunted “That’s nice” ...and carried on sipping their brews.

Would I do it again?
Definitely!

...after I survive taking a swim to Robben Island because that crazy voice is suggesting shit again.

Notes from a small city, tales from a big town - Chapter 1

I just bought a Gatsby .

It’s a local Cape Town fast food take-away. It’s a huge bready-bun filled with hot chips (French fries), spicy steak, eggs and cheese and smothered in secret chutney of sorts called Mango Atchar. My neighbour once told me she went to a cafe in high heels, had half a Gatsby and walked home in flip flops. It is uber fatty, Heavy as hell, unhealthy, messy, awkward to hold and super very bloody F#$% delicious.

Much like Cape Town.

Cape Town is different. And by different I mean - ‘different’. It’s much like the old uncle who had a cheap Botox injection a few years ago and now decided to extend his saggy-eyed midlife crisis for a few years by piercing his ear... problem is, we love the old boy dearly. He is cool, funky, hip and laid back. But underneath that hardened exterior, pulses a beat to a tune filled with emotion and hidden stories.

Cape Town is situated at the tip of Africa. For a while after 1652 AD, it was – what we consider today – a glorified truck stop.  A Shell petrol station. An overnight motel in the middle of nowhere. It was the mid-way stop for ships sailing from Europe to India. (or so we’re told. I think they came here for the Gatsbies)

Because of this, several old wives saying were created: “Never trust a man with white shoes” for example. Navy sailors, tailored in their bleached boots, fathered many offspring here and vanished over the morning’s watery horizon. I for example am an offspring of the fruits of their forbidden passions... I am forbidden passion fruit.

Cape Town also became an epicentre of cultural fusion – a hotspot of inter-continental assimilation of ethnicity, traditions and new customs and ideas. From sun bathing on gorgeous beaches, to perving at those sun bathers from a mountain top nearby.

So there’s a mountain (or very high flat topped hill), some beautiful icy beaches, locals selling a vast array of flowers in Adderley street, Fresh fish (snoek) in Hout Bay, lots of taverns in shanty towns, a crazy public transport system that somehow works, a peculiar and proud people, a young nightlife, fresh Nigerians still operating the dated 419 scams, streetpreachers on street corners, the smell of spicy foods cooking away on Sunday mornings, American fast food establishments like McDonalds, Burger King, etc – though South Africa’s Steers Burgers walk circles around their offerings. There’s sunshine, and botanical gardens, there’s aquariums and butterfly worlds. There’s theme parks and flea markets and nightclubs and pubs and tourist traps and koe'sisters and penny polonies and beautiful human beings and ugly human beings and public zombie walk campaigns and school rugby and cricket rivalries and super malls and hidden cosy home-owned restaurants and false teeth and the Cape Coons singing and dancing under bright umbrellas, and so many other things...

But these things don’t make Cape Town, Cape Town.

What makes Cape Town Cape Town is the Gatsby... It takes all the years of traditions, the untidy streets, the cultures, the beautiful sceneries, the local music, the unique charm, the warmth, the accents, the everything – sums it all up into a meal way too large for a mortal soul to consume in one setting and  sets off a series of explosions of parties and flavours in your mouth.

So forgive me as I end this off quickly... I just noticed three chips fall from it’s doughy home and that upsets me.  It should be in my mouth.

Fearless Dave

Has Social Media killed “Till death do us part”?

 

Has Social Media killed “Till death do us part”?

My ex and I once had ice-cream at a small cosy unimpressive outlet on the beach one sunny afternoon. Everything was new, romance was fresh, I brushed my hair.

While chatting, I noticed an old couple in their late 60’s across the dining area. They were happy. Smiling. Gazing fondly at each other as they shared an ice cream and giggled at soft spoken words.

“I want to be like that”, I said dreamily to my ex... She gazed at them over her shoulder and muttered “They’re having an affair”.

Alarm bells should’ve gone off then, but one tends to think that bad stuff happens to other people.

I watched ‘Honey I shrunk the kids’ growing up. ‘Family Ties’. ‘Growing Pains’. Adults listened to dreary romantics swooning sweet lullabies poetically from their emotional lips. Billy Ocean’s ‘Suddenly’, Def Leppard oozing vocal harmony with ‘Have you ever needed somebody so bad’,  Karen Carpenter lamenting ‘Close to you’ , even Stevie Wonder’s ‘I just called to say I Love you’ made folk boogie their funky stuff to CNA to buy Valentines Day cards.

David Hasselhof had a curly perm. Bobby Ewing was the pillar of cool. Indiana Jones’s untamed spirit is what boys of my generation wanted to be like. In the 1950’s, 1920’s, 1880’s – it was more or less the same. Idols. Role models. Singers spewing lyrical romance guiding the world with their fantasies and versions of love.

So what’s changed? Why are divorce rates spiralling so high? Why are there so many people separated, single, or struggling to revive the spark that once was?

Is it the music? Justin Bieber does kinda drive me up the wall. Rihanna’s umbrella and that Minaj girl with the highlighter’ed lips could be contributing to it (I don’t understand why they’re popular. I can barely whistle their tunes)... It could be TV. I watched a soapie a few months back. It was awful. A character called Brooke had a child from an older man. They divorced and she ended up with one of his sons with a chiselled square jaw... Sooo, what does the child call his brother? Bro-dad? Bro’pops?

I think the flaw lies deeper though.

A few years ago, people traded in SMSes for new and upcoming apps like MXit. Teens went crazy, the world become smaller and guys started buying noodles for supper.

Then came Blackberry, Whatsapp, Twitter, facebook, Tumbler, Google Plus, etc.

Now, call me bias or Appcist or dull and stupid. But I think we may be on to something here.

There was a song called Secret Lovers in the 1980’s. The duet sang about hiding in dark corners, waiting for their partners to be gone before they met up months later, etc.

With Blackberry, WhatsApp, Twitter, Facebook – you can communicate while one’s partner is around. Instead of waiting a few months, one can now chat to the secret lover instantly. One can see their updates, where they are, whom they’re with, etc. Legal stalking, without anyone knowing.

I know someone who did it all the time. Her actions caused a bubble to burst in their relationship and I became aware of many others in the same boat.

Was this a fluke? A once off occurrence never to happen again?

Or is this a hidden problem no one is really aware about? Or we’re aware about it, but hide it away like a drunk old aunt at a family gathering? Is it a relationship killer? A spark nullifier? A platform that can potentially cause so much damage that we’ll eventually utter “until we meet a new follower do we part”?

And what of future apps promising better, bigger, faster, closer and more features yet to be dreamed of?

Let’s discuss this. Where do we as a society go from here? Is this a fart in the wind or a potential accident waiting to happen?

...FYI, the old couple weren’t having an affair. They’ve been together for nearly 40 years. I asked them how they did it. Marge said “If something breaks, fix it”. William just smiled a knowing smile. They had no cellphones with them.