Big swim at Midmar - Part 3 - The conclusion

Last night was crazy!  We had all had a fantastic supper of pootjie and rice and were relaxing comfortably by the now dying fire and admiring the beautiful lightning over the hill when the wind began to blow.  And did it blow!!!  We all ended up using our bodies as sandbags trying to keep our main tent from becoming the next and cheapest weather satellite as the wind pounded us...that settled, now for the rain!

Needless to say, we all woke somewhat bleary eyed and not in the mood for the last day of swimming.  After all the rain, the water was a lot colder than that of the previous three days, but once the skin goes a little numb, it seems to insulate rather well!

We completed the day by swimming across the front of the dam wall (a seriously unnerving experience) and were then met by the thunderous applause of the camping grade 5's on the slipway.
Well, I have to say: well done to me!  I took the average number of strokes that I usually take in a 25m length of the pool, and did some sums and came to the following conclusion: I took around 18000 strokes over the four days...and my shoulders seem to remember every last one this evening...OW!!!

One lap under the belt...
How many big laps have you done?

Big swim at Midmar - Part 2

Days 1 and 2 down and we are half way.  Little bits of me are strating to peel off and I am losing kilograms as fast as the kilometres tick by.  I must say that the children from grade 6 and 7 at Howick prep are swimming out of their socks.  They really are soldiering on despite the rather nippy water.  Anyways, 13km down, twelve to go.

The day's swim, just a hair under 7km.

Day three...things should have completely fallen apart by the end of this day with there being little more left of me but my spirit...this sort of thing wasn't made for people like me!

Big swim at Midmar!

Tomorrow is the day that my complete lack of training has set me up for. 
About a month and a half ago I agreed with a collegue of the GoodWife's that I would accompany him and some of his school pupils for a marathon swim.  As the days have drawn nearer, I have been more and more convinced that this decision was not one of my better ones. There is a large dam not too far from here called Midmar.  It is the home of the Capital K and Midmar Mile swims.  Incidentally, the Midmar Mile won a Guinness last year for being the largest inland, open water swimming event.  It saw very close to fourteen thouand swimmers last year!

Well, to complete the Midmar Mile, you swim across one of the bays, which is ...yes, a mile wide... we, the brave are going to swim around it in four days.  It is not a massive feat, but it's not easy...

Here is a map of the dam,

Compliments of Google-third-rock, this is day one.  We start at the big red square and finish 7km (4.3miles) later.  Yes I am sure I will have enough energy at the end of the day to keep you updated, so follow along.  If you are in the area, stop by, the kids and I would love your support!

What challenges do you have for the week?

Christmas cheer...are we doing it right?

If ever there was a time to feel jolly, it would be now. December is in it’s first few days and the festive season is in full swing. The ornaments and decorations that people have been making all year finally hit the shelves and go flying off just as fast as they can be price-tagged. “Christmas Specials” in red, white and green letters adorns every shop window in sight and the masses flock to their attention.


Sundays used to be the day for church, family brunch or lunch and a relaxing afternoon walk with the dogs. For tea and cake and a snooze in the shade of a big oak tree. Shops weren’t open on this day, because it was holy. Then the demigod of consumerism began to grow and the time in the week was simply not enough to possibly find a gap for church and family in between the shopping and malling. The retail clerk and his menagerie of things to buy became more popular than the creator of all things…ALL things. Should we not be going to church to thank God for that sales clerk and rather visit the store during the week? Should we not be spending that Sunday with those we love, to secretly find out what it is that they really want for Christmas?

I will must say that the spirit of Christmas has not hit me yet. I think it has been smothered by all the wrapping paper that society is so obsessed with at this time of the year. I should actually mention, and it is quite obvious, that it is not really the paper that most people are worried about, but the size and worth of the package contents. “I hope this is more expensive than the gift I got her last year…”, “If I get socks again…”, “This better be what I asked for…”


Please, we need to remember that the score was settled around 2000 years ago, we have no need to keep it. We need to choose what type of Christmas we are going to have this year…are we going to worry about the little gifts we are going to get, or are we going to give thanks for the one big gif that we have already got? Yes, the gift of our Lord Jesus.

At the end of the day, this is why we celebrate…

Message from the stars...

Greetings fellow bloggers.


It has been a difficult week or so. As I wrote before, my great granddad passed away on Saturday the 21st of November, two days before my birthday (Mon 23rd) . The stubborn old fart wrote in his will that there was to be no service, no memorial, no funeral. This really bothered be because I really wanted to just say goodbye and have some form of closure.

People say that seeing the coffin at a funeral is probably one of the hardest things to do. Many have been reduced to puddles of tears at the sight of the casket of a loved one, but I really feel that that is what is necessary. You, as a person, need to break down and have a really good cry in order to have that finality of a real farewell. With his will in place, that seemed bound not to happen.

We gathered at the Botanical Gardens in Durban, a place where Pops and so many people had spent hours mooching around, searching for that giant snap-dragon flower that would respond to a careful squeeze by opening its ‘mouth’. We had tea and a snack and then left…


I battled with that, big time.


That evening as the GoodWife and I were doing the last bits of packing in prep to move house on Sunday I cam across some items in my bedside drawer.

Nana had given Pops a watch for their 25th wedding anniversary, which he had in turn given to me on my 21st birthday. It is a Seiko Automatic, one of those watches that has a pendulum thingy that winds the spring as you move. Obviously, if you don’t wear it, the spring will eventually unwind and the watch will stop. On the silver dial of the watch are two little windows, one that displays the day of the week and the other the date. I hadn’t worn the watch since our wedding day, over a year ago. When I picked up the watch and looked at it, I fell apart, sobbing. It was exactly what I needed, that last and final goodbye, now knowing that Pops is in the good hands of our Lord.

The watch had stopped, and the day and date on it stood: MON 23.



Pops had wished me a happy birthday for the last time.

From bitter to sweet...

Yes, it was a rather emotional weekend, with tears and laughter being mixed together to make some weird kinda cupcake! Odd that…wouldn’t it be nice if emotions came at you one at a time and not like the bull and horns of a Shaka Zulu attack, more than you can deal with all at once? Well, I have tried to wipe the icing from my face and be a bit more cheerful because: wait for it…

Wait for it…

Hold…

YES, it’s my birthday today.

I know, I know it’s late notice and many of you haven’t had the time to go out and get me a gift…that’s why I have extended the celebrations till Wednesday night! I will be accepting briefcases of cash as well as material gifts like cars, and motorcycles, houses, presidency of small African countries…basically anything that will help me on my way as I strive for world domination via the internet and this blog!



Keep it real, and remember I also like chocolate!
Also...it's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to...

The final tribute...

Greetings to all my avid followers, and again I must apologise for not giving you your regular dose of my blended brain. It has been a rather hectic week.


I was lying in bed with the GoodWife yesterday morning, just enjoying the snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug feeling you sometimes get when its cold outside and o so comfortable in bed, when I got a call from my step father. It was bad news. My great granddad had taken a turn for the worse. He had been in hospital for the last two weeks for big old swollen legs that were giving him some real discomfort and things had just gone south in the last two days. We screamed the hundred miles down to the hospital. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight I would be greeted with. I don’t think anyone should have to see a loved one in such a state of disrepair. He was sleeping with his eyes open, oxygen pipes in his nose and really battling to breathe. He held on for another eight hours. Just long enough for my mum to drive the 350 miles to say goodbye…and then he was gone.

He was a father, grandfather, great grandfather, husband, friend and the greatest storyteller in the world. Everyone who met him will sorely miss him and his tall tales. It’s maybe time to take my own advice and mourn, but then to celebrate his life and this I shall do. I swam a one-kilometre open water race today, and yes, the water was cold but he wouldn’t have minded. You are an amazing man Pops, and you don’t have to stress you any more. We will make sure Nana is good and cared for. Just rest, you deserve it.



Robert Adam Law – 23 March 1916 to 21 November 2009.


Man of Moral…quacht tre moralacht.

SA vs France in Toulouse - National Anthem Joke!

National anthems are the slogan of a country, the: “Look how cool we are” of international advertising. They express pride, strength, honour and justice. Some tell a story of how the particular country conquered in a battle of old. Some of how the country has progressed in the fields of equality, or how amazingly beautiful that place is. Mostly however, they tell of the strength of the country and of its pillar morals: strength, justice, freedom. They tell of things that make a person proud to be one of many who stand up at an event, squash their hand into their chest and very solemnly sing every last word.


South Africa played France in rugby this last Friday evening. They played in Toulouse, where South Africa last visited in 1976…we won in 1976.
Now before you read any further please just go to this link and read the story: (It’s not long I promise!) http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/8360100.stm

BOLLOCKS! There was only disrespect because it WAS a complete joke. What they don’t tell you is that the Bob Marley wannabe who was given the privilege of singing the anthem completely fluffed it. We could say that it was the nerves, the pressure of singing in front of so many people that got to him… aaaaargh! This makes want to spit. If he battles with nerves, put him in a toilet stall with no door under the Arc de Triomph for training, that should sort him out! He sang like a tone deaf walrus on dope and no, I will not retract that last statement, it’s true!

Another thing they don’t tell you is that the fart of a singer was not organized by the French Rugby Union to humiliate the South Africans. No, we managed to do that all on our own because he hails from Durban, a coastal city in South Africa, organised by the South African Rugby Union. Nice one…again, Peter de Villiers gets it wrong.

It may sound like I am ranting, but it really was such a disappointment…I’m certain it is only a matter of minutes before it hits uTube and then the people who didn’t watch the match can also laugh at us through the internet. I must say I was strongly impressed with the vigor and pride shown when the French National anthem was sung. A middle aged man with silver streaks took to the stage. He was built like a young, more solid (and all respect to the late) Luciano Pavarotti and had the lungs to match. He hit every not like it was a skittle at a bowling alley. He hit them straight on, and once that note had been sung, it knew it and it stayed sung…because it was scared! It was very impressive.

Maybe it wasn’t that great, but after South Africa’s caw – it’s like comparing the fire power of a Nimitz class aircraft carrier to……a cheese puff.

The national anthem, apart from the flag is the most important thing a country has to show in the international arena. Please South Africa, lets interview the palooka before we put him on the in front of millions for all to mock?!?

Who agrees?
Place your vote below!

Brado, OUT!

A polar-bear wannabe, that's me...not Lewis Pugh!

A while ago we here at our lovely school were joined by a rather inspiring man who seemed to spark a fury inside me. A fury to put my body to the test and just do it.

This man has that fury burning inside of him, and a spark that that is bigger than us all. His motivation to do what it is that he does is the fate of the little rock that we all call home. He was outraged that the polar ice caps were, and still are melting and toiled at what to do about it. He came to the conclusion that global awareness needed to be raised before anything could actually be done. And to do this, he said:
“I like swimming…let’s do a swim at the North Pole.” People laughed at him, said it couldn’t be done. Till he did.

Lewis Pugh is now known as the Human Polar Bear…and he swam one kilometer at 90 degrees North. Just to give you an idea of how cold this water is, you normally bath in water around 48 degrees Celsius, the ocean temperature in Florida is about 27 degrees Celsius, the sea at on the west coast of South Africa about 15 degrees. Water is at its most dense at 4.1 degrees Celsius…the water that Lewis swam one long kilometer in was -1.7 degrees C (that's between 28 and 32 degrees Fahrenheit). That is tooth shatteringly, ice-cream headachy, numb-bummingly cold. And he swam in a Speedo.  After his talk he opened to the floor of adolescent boys shocked into silence by a man who had apparently gone completely bonkers and was trying to recruit. One lad pierced the silence with outstretched finger and a very matter of fact question: “Sir, why didn’t you wear a wetsuit if it was so cold?” He answered: “I want people to take me seriously, and make difficult decisions that may cost them a lot of money…it’s not as hard in a wetsuit, it’s not as serious either.”


Within twenty minutes of walking out of his speech, and feeling exceptionally motivated, I was in the pool with my good friend Kyle, ploughing through forty lengths. At length thirty two I thought to myself, being tired and this being our first swim of the season that thirty two lengths would do. But then my thought train was halted. Lewis Pugh would never have stopped, so neither did I.


I swim often now. There is a certain sense of freedom and serenity when you are slogging through the ripples of a dam or the white foam of the ocean. A sense that there is nothing else really that matters but the effort needed for the next stroke. It is a quiet time for me to think about the day and get my mind in line for the next.

People do different things to make a difference.

If you are in any way interested in what I have to say and are at all curious about this phenomenal man who risks turning into an ice cube for the good of the planet, check out his site: http://www.lewispugh.com/.


What have you done to help?

The return of the Brad...

I feel as though I have a little part of me missing…what the heck could it be???

It is the almighty BLOG…The fact that I haven’t written in a week is killing me!

In the past I had come to think that I would never be a slave to anything even remotely intellectual. I had dreams and aspirations of being an adventure guide, being the one who would lead excursions into the wilderness and being the best at it. This wealth of knowledge would have been built up purely by experience and my simple affinity for the career that I had chosen not by having read those silly booky things! I would be able to take vacations ad-lib and have enough money to simply go out and purchase the man-toy I desired. Big old motorcycles, tiny little aircraft, iPods, etcetera… etcetera…



Charges set, detonators checked and double checked...3..2..1....*&%^$$!*#T@!!

Yes, that stick of dyna-reality just popped the precious little bubble I had been tending for so long.


Oh well, I am here in the midst of my final exams for the very end of my Bachelor of Education degree I earn a modest salary, have a beautiful wife, a funky pair of dogs and a roof over my head. I write, and that calms my rather hectic brain. I couldn’t ask for more. It is odd and quite sobering how so many of give up our dreams of fame and fortune for a life of love and real happiness. I am fantastically glad that I did. This brings me to the point that I am trying to make. To all my screaming and crying cyber-fans who haven’t had their fix, their little tot of whatever-it-is dispensed from “brado’s blended brain”, you have my sincere apologies, I too have missed this space. But, I am back and feeling awful that I haven’t been here for so long. I have felt it too you know? Like I said, I write as a bit of therapy for the thought filled sluice that is my head. What you read is the product of simple luck. It is like sitting above the raging torrents of the mighty Colorado river in flood and trying to fish out a dump-truck with a roll of cotton and a safety pin for a hook. The thoughts fly by so fast and furious that I am lucky to even remember what they were two seconds later. This is again the reason why I write. I find that the more things that I manage to fish out and put onto this here blog, the less there is that ends up downstream and the calmer I become. Serenity is a place that few visit, and I get my little slice while at my keyboard.

So again, I apologise for the absence and currently for this rant. I am sure we will be back to something more ridiculous tomorrow evening. Wish me luck for tomorrow, zoology 3 could get a bit nasty.

Yours in thought smoothies (blended brain…get it?)


Brado

Budding artist - we can all dream!

Well, this is just a simple post to show you that I am not just an English major! Heh Heh!

I had a knee op a few months ago and had been threatening for absolute ages that I was going to start painting and/or drawing again. So, with the leg in a brace that would make Robocop proud, I splashed around the palette and here's what came out!

I was fortunate enough to sell these to a good mate of mine!

I thought It might be cool to show you the process behind my non professional artistic blunders, so here are the next four pics.  The GoodWife was just reading on the bed.  I snuck up and sniper-snapped her.  She wasn't to chuffed at the time, but the painting now hangs next to our bed.

She is beautiful, don't you think?

The next one is a pen drawing of a winter tree (A4) size paper.  My inspiration for this was another artist.  I can't for the life of me remember her name, but I saw her works at a small exhibition a few months ago.  Her drawings were on (A3) paper, and she was selling these, framed, for ZAR12000 (about US$1500).  I thought to myself...I can do that!  Well, it's not as easy as I thought, but I don't think it turned out too bad!

Well, that's me.

Thought for the day:  Take the time to take all that is beautiful into your heart and mind.  It is all decoration for the soul!  - Brad Roets -

Keep it pretty!

Brado

Solar panel people.

It is again Monday, and the sun hasn’t yet come out for a proper visit. By this time of the year here at home, we have had a good couple of really warm…well, hot days and most of us are sporting the beginnings of a summer bronzing. But this year it hasn’t been such unfortunately and you can honestly feel the mood lurching. It is really disconcerting how the weather affects the people living under it, and we’re not even considering getting wet.



I have a question though: Is it the weather, or the simple lack of sun?


In England, as is the general perception of many people the world over, the people a dull and dreary, lack-luster and boring. The English winter is cold, wet and dark. It snows there and that makes things slushy and not very pleasant. But a little further North into Alaska and Canada, people are happy and welcoming. They will invite you into their little ice-cube houses and offer you some seal fat to chew on while the yellow tea brews. I wouldn’t expect even a ‘Hello’ from a pom! The difference with these people is, in my unchallenged opinion, that during the winter a Brit will probably see one or two days of sun. The whole place is strewn with a clay grey hue and I am sure this does no more than suck the soul right out through your shoes. People further north are luckier. Sure, their extremes a greater, temperatures have a range of sixty degrees between the maximum and the minimum and the blizzards are strong enough to move tractors and bury houses but then there is sun as well as cloud. This is the all important factor, the sun. Yes, biologically the human race is exothermic, generating heat from within – but we are more similar to lizards than you might think.

Honestly, there is nothing better than sitting in the sun and warming up on a nippy morning. The human being not only needs to charge his body, but also his emotional core and mind. The sun really does this for me. It brightens dull colours and warms cold things, people and hearts. A sunny day is better than a cloudy one, just like a cold beer is better than a warm one.

So, let’s see if we can trust the weather man this week. He says it should be getting steadily warmer and sunnier as the week progresses and I hope he’s right. I need a recharge after this weekend. Maybe a cold beer in the warm sun…yes!

Chow for now


Brado

Most of us have had to deal with it at some point in our lives. Thos of us lucky enough or young enough haven’t yet, but as sure as the sun will rise in the morning we will all at some point in our lives have to come to terms with the loss of someone close to our hearts.


I write this post in lew of the passing of Clifford Kumm, the father of a very close friend of mine, Kyle.

Whatever it is that you believe in, one thing that is certain is that at some point we will all have to face our maker and have to account for our time here on earth. I have asked the question many times and have as yet not come to one definite answer. Why are we here? The conclusion that draws most of my thought is the one that I came up with in relatively recent times. I am quite sure that the reason we are placed so gently into this world is to influence other souls. Whether that influence is by the deeds that we do, the deeds that are done for us by others or simply by our presence or lack of it, is up to a higher power that we in our meagre existence have no right to question.

A good friend of mine Richard lost his life in a tragic aircraft accident at only nineteen. When I heard of his passing the first thing that I heard was his intoxicating giggle and saw his wicked smile. Another mate, Adrian passed in a car wreck, but the thought of his incredible generosity kept stringing its way through my mind. It is the memories of those who have left us that keep us moving on to better ways of thought and action as we almost emulate their best qualities and live them in our own lives.

It does seem clichéd, but we all need to remember that after grief, which is completely natural, we need to celebrate the life of that person passed and embrace the memories of them.


Kyle, our thoughts and prayers are with you and your family in this time.


Love you lots bud



Brado

Planning ahead...

As a relatively newly married couple, the GoodWife and I seem to be on the tips of so many people’s tongues in terms of expectancy. In the greater scheme of things, life takes a progression that is almost predetermined: Meet, date, engaged, married……kids.


Honestly, if I had a buck for every person who asked us the question: ‘So…when are there going to be some little Roets’ running around?’, I would be able to start decorating the nursery! Seriously, maybe I should. I can picture it now – the Smiths and the Jones’ would have paid for the crib, the in-laws for the paint and decorations, the Woodalls would cover the clothes and the Thompsons would have the first months putty-disposal-devices all wrapped up!

PEOPLE, we aren’t havin spawn just yet!



Please don’t get me wrong and not with wanting to sound vain, but I think we would make fantastic parents…when the time is right. I suppose the time is never really right to have kids, but at the moment we want it to be wrong. Both the GoodWife and I are really keen to enjoy each other as a married couple first, before having to worry about whose turn it is at two in the morning to silence the screaming offspring. I like my sleep too. We want to do things together, enjoy our hard-earned money on ourselves for a bit, travel and just be silly! Children are a massive responsibility and, finding it tough to look after each other is not going to be made any easier with a halfling in the mix.

At the other end of the scale I applaud all people who are thinking of, having, or have had children. They really are fantastic little creatures.

This takes me back to when I used to teach swimming to little tiny tots. They really do have such fantastic characters, uninhibited and trusting beyond any measure of doubt. Each child is different taking a little slice of each of their parents’ personalities and using that as a base for their own. You have to love their inquisitive eyes and probing questions, their fumbling fingers and brave steps. There is a rainbow that touches down on every child’s head because I am sure they are all tiny pots of gold. I look forward to having kids, and no, before you ask it, not yet. I understand my attitude seems to have changed through the course of this post. It may appear that I have convinced myself that maybe kids aren’t such a bad idea after all – I never said they were. They are fantastic, and I look forward to having my own, just not yet.


In the mean time everyone, let’s just keep asking. I think I will demand a buck next time.


Yours in reproduction



Brado

P.S.  Congrats to Nat the Fat Rat on her baby to be!
P.P.S.  Cheers to http://www.sangrea.net/ for their wicked free pic...
 
 
 
 
 

Daydreamer...

Here I sit… trying to conjure up a witty and somewhat funny post for this haphazard blog. As I stare at the blank screen I come to the conclusion that there is not too much happening in my mind at the moment. I am sure that many university students at the same stage in their various academic years would wish that they could also have the bliss of my ear to ear breeze. If I sit long enough the lack of thoughts in my skull seem to start to resonate like the feedback on a microphone. I must admit though, the whine of the silence is far more tranquil than the rush-hour jam of thoughts frantically trying to be processed, sorted and stored in preparation for examinations!

I think I’ll go for a walk…clear my head.

Keep it really real

(Pic ala-Google)

En-route entertainment - break out the popcorn!

We often sit in it and even though it brings no pleasure at all there is mostly nothing we can do but continue to sit there, in the traffic!


Please, all you clever scientifical people out there – all the rocket scientists, levitation specialists and people with more brain than they know what to do with…I’d even go for time travel…make something that can get me where I am going without the headache of having to wait!!! A rocket powered time-sled pulled by beautiful Nubian princesses, now we’re talking!

This definitely reminds me of an earlier post of mine, (A passion for the open road – chips the cones…) the traffic part, not the Nubians.

The GoodWife and I went off to Johannesburg to the wedding of a really good friend of mine, TheGough. Johannesburg, or JoBurg to the locals is about 450km (280mi) from our little house and is a far cry from the beautifully serene plot that we call home. The concrete fingers tickle the smog-laced sky and the cars are pumped around a network of black veins. This city is sick though. It has high cholesterol and its veins and arteries are clogged. The lifeblood of this bustling metropolis is being forced to a standstill as red flags are waved to warn you as you approach the road maintenance crews. The JoBurg city council has invested something silly like R510 million into the upgrading and widening of the highways around the city in lew of the upcoming 2010 World Cup to be held in South Africa.

FANTASTIC!!! I’m all for improvement, but the poor sods that have to sit in the jams while they are happening are the ones likely to have the coronaries!

On our way home after a fantastic weekend we were on one of the two four lane highways that merge to form one six-lane highway out of the city. This Gillooly’s interchange is a nightmare at the best of times. Now, however, with those six lanes down to just two the nightmare becomes mind altering!
As we inched (literally) our way out of the city, people in the cars beside us became the objects of some serious amusement! I saw a man pick his nose and then try and flick the gremlin out the window while his wife was preoccupied in the back seat trying to breastfeed a screaming newborn. So many children with their faces glazed to the window burning furrows into the tar with their stares. And then, the pièce-de-rèsistance – the moment I thought I would just park the car where it stood and walk the 450km home because it would be way faster, I saw it. It was a sign, and like an oasis in the desert it shone and sparkled in the distance. It was nestled on the grass verge between the two directions of the highway up ahead. It was a fantastical sign of rather epic proportions fifteen feet across and about ten feet high, mounted on a trailer with its own generator to operate the thousands of tiny lights that would illuminate in a predetermined pattern to spell out its message.

Then I felt it creep up on me it started with a little tickle in my belly and before I knew it, it had built into a humungous chortle that guffawed from my face. My laugh caught the attention of the man in the truck next to me. He followed the line of my pointed finger to the same sign and he too started chuckle. And so the laughter spread through the few cars within eyeshot of the sign.


Well… this is what it said:

In bright orange letters the sign warned us:



ROADWORKS AHEAD…SLOW DOWN!

A taste of home...toilet paper to chill please...

I grew up in the costal city of Durban in the province of Natal in South Africa. The Durban harbour was the home to the Dutch East India Co. which brought many Indian nationals to the province to work in the sugar cane fields during the 16 and 17 hundreds.


The car licence disks for vehicles in and around Durban now bear the prefix ND…Newest Delhi as Natal has the highest population of Indian people outside India! As we all know the Indian culture is famous for its curry as much as the Italians for their sports cars, and Natal is no different. Natal Indians are aggressive in their use of spice and even have a special powder/power mix called: Mother-in-Law-HELLFIRE! When I received this e-mail a while ago, it sparked a knowing laughter in me that could only be quelled by a pint of milk…you will soon see why. Enjoy!

There is an annual Curry Cook-off inabout June/July. It takes up a major portion of a parking lot at the Royal Show in Pietermaritzburg, a small city just inland from Durban.
Judge #3 was an inexperienced food critic named Frank, who was visiting from America.


Frank: "Recently, I was honoured to be selected as a judge at a Curry Cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge's table asking for directions to the Beer Garden when the call came in. I was assured by the other two judges (Natal Indians) that the curry wouldn't be all that spicy and, besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I accepted".

Here are the scorecard notes from the event:


CURRY # 1 - SEELAN'S MANIAC MONSTER TOMATO CURRY...

Judge # 1 -- A little too heavy on the tomato. Amusing kick.
Judge # 2-- Nice smooth tomato flavour. Very mild.
Judge # 3(Frank) -- Holy shit, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope that's the worst one. These people are crazy.


CURRY # 2 - PHOENIX BBQ CHICKEN CURRY...

Judge # 1-- Smoky, with a hint of chicken. Slight chilli tang.
Judge # 2 -- Exciting BBQ flavour, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.
Judge # 3-- Keep this out of the reach of children. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich manoeuvre! They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.


CURRY # 3 - SHAMILA'S FAMOUS "BURN DOWN THE GARAGE" CURRY...

Judge # 1-- Excellent firehouse curry. Great kick.
Judge # 2-- A bit salty, good use of chilli peppers.
Judge # 3-- Call 911. I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drain Cleaner. Everyone knows the routine by now. Get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting pissed from all the beer.


CURRY # 4 - BABOO'S BLACK MAGIC BEAN CURRY...

Judge # 1-- Black bean curry with almost no spice. Disappointing.
Judge # 2-- Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other mild foods, not much of a curry.
Judge # 3-- I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds? Shareen, the beer maid, was standing behind me with fresh refills. That 200kg woman is starting to look HOT...just like this nuclear waste I'm eating! Is chilli an aphrodisiac?


CURRY # 5 LALL'S LEGAL LIP REMOVER...

Judge # 1-- Meaty, strong curry. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick. Very impressive.
Judge # 2-- Average beef curry, could use more tomato. Must admit the chilli peppers make a strong statement.
Judge # 3 -- My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chilli had given me brain damage. Shareen saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from the pitcher. I wonder if I'm burning my lips off. It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming. Screw them.


CURRY # 6 - VERISHNEE'S VEGETARIAN VARIETY...

Judge # 1-- Thin yet bold vegetarian variety curry. Good balance of spices and peppers.
Judge # 2-- The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic. Superb.
Judge # 3-- My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulphuric flames. I am definitely going to shit myself if I fart and I'm worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that Shareen. Can't feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone ice-cream.


CURRY # 7 - SELINA'S "MOTHER-IN-LAW'S-TONGUE" CURRY...

Judge # 1-- A mediocre curry with too much reliance on canned peppers.
Judge # 2-- Ho hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chilli peppers at the last moment. (I should take note at this stage that I am worried about Judge # 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing uncontrollably).
Judge # 3-- You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn't feel a thing. I've lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with curry, which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava to match my shirt. At least, during the autopsy, they'll know what killed me. I've decided to stop breathing- it's too painful. Screw it; I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air I'll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach.


CURRY # 8 - NAIDOO'S TOENAIL CURLING CURRY...

Judge # 1-- The perfect ending. This is a nice blend curry. Not too bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.
Judge # 2-- This final entry is a good, balanced curry. Neither mild nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when

Frank farted, passed out, fell over and pulled the curry pot down on top of himself. Not sure if he's going to make it. Poor man, wonder how he'd have reacted to really hot curry?

Judge # 3 - No Report.________________________________

 
 
heh heh heh heh heh......... ooooh, I think I'm gonna cry!
 
Later - Brado *out*

A Tribute:

To the stories that opened my imagination and to the old man who told them.
This post is dedicated to my great grandparents,Robert Adam and Gwendolyn Florence Law. Married for more than 73 years AND STILL RELATIVELY SANE!
The two most inspirational people in my life. Nana and Pops…


Pops would sit in the lounge of the flat that he has lived in for the past fifty-odd years and tell stories of ‘the old days’…when men were men and – well, not quite! There were the tales of his childhood and all the mischief that they caused in their little neighbourhood in Brakpan. (a gold mining community near Johannesburg)

• Now, I was one of the smaller boys and that leant me to being the key part in much of our fun. The toilets back then weren’t waterborne sewerage like nowadays. They were of the bucket system. There was a big bucket under a ‘seat’. There was a heavy flap that opened to the street so that the sewerage men could come along in their truck and empty the buckets in the evenings. On a stiflingly hot highveld night we would sneak out of our houses, a whole group of us, and go for a swim in the public pool. I would have to lift the flap in the street, slide the bucket to one side, hold my breath and worm my way, head first up and through the toilet. It was the bigger boys who couldn’t fit through the toilet and had to scale the wire fence that alerted the guard one night and sent us sprinting off into the shadows before even getting our toes wet!

Living on and around the mines in Brakpan, meant that there were a whole pile of labourers who you shared the general surrounds with.

• The bigger boys all had bicycles and they would get their dads to weld a little extension onto their rear axles. Just big enough for a little squirt like me to stand on. At the mines in Brakpan, all of the mineworkers would live in shanty-type settlements near to the mines. In the evenings, before all of the men got home all of their wives and girlfriends would cook supper on large fires outside their homes. These barrels of flame were our targets as the streets were lined with them. The bigger lads would ride as fast as they could down the alleys and as we passed these cooking fires the chap on the back would stick his leg out to the side and kick over the drums. We would howl with laughter as we rode off, women frantically trying to put out the spread of burning coals and cuss at us at the same time! As their arms flapped in desperation we would line up the next target. I think back now…it probably wasn’t very kind of us to do that…

These are just two of the many that he told me. He is a crumpled up old man now, but he still sparks a fire of life in me every time I speak to him and of him. I sometimes hear him laugh as I do…and that makes me laugh even more!

I found this pic when I was mooching in one of the old drawers at his apartment and came across it again the other day. It’s Pops in the good-ol’-days, twenty-something and playing tennis in a belt and button up shirt. I will admit, I distinctly remember him flipping out the first time he saw Andrè Agassi wearing black at Wimbledon, so I suppose a white belt be the reason why!! He is a fantastic old crooner and he is supported by a woman with a cast iron will and a heart of fudge, Nana. They have been married for 73 years this year. Yes, seventy-three, LXXIII…sorry reiteration is a flaw of mine, but that is a VERY long time. I’d be chuffed simply to live that long. Well, it’s a challenge then: even if  my good wife and I come half as close, I reckon we will have made it.

Love you lots Nan and Pops.

STudy BReAK @... NOW!

I have the end of my degree fast approaching and the drive to actually engage brain and begin the slow process of osmosing the information into my skull seems to be waning about as fast as Hammy on Red Bull! Oddly, my mind is so pre-occupied with the thoughts of plans and schemes to not work that if I used this energy to study, I’d probably be done by now. SIDETRACK: Yes, everything possible has been done to delay the onset of the study bug. A list of some of these would be a good idea!


• Convincing myself that my collection of “How I met Your Mother” needs to be rewatched because you never catch everything the first time you know.
• I really have been meaning to clean the windows in the house, they really are looking grubby, I’ll start learning after that.
• I tell you, every time I walk into this bedroom, see clothes lying around. I had better pick them up before they get walked on…and while I am here, the closet is pretty messy, I think that could do with a tidy.
• Paint, yes I must paint. Who could I paint for, yes a picture of a camel for my mate in Dubai. But how would I get it to him?

Maybe I should get up now… no, five more minutes.
And this is how my mornings have started for the last two weeks - with the intent to study, but then a barrage of reasons to postpone the start gun. It’s no wonder I am exhausted before I even get to think about my coffee, I have done the strategic planning of a small African country before even lifting my head from the pillow. And all of this just to decide to do nothing!

Who are those people who are able to get up at four am and then study for three hours before breakfast and then still face a day at work before coming home for an hour or two on the book before bed?!? Hello, R2D2 and C3PO are missing their cyborg, ol’-buddy-ol’-pal. I am a firm believer of last minute pressure. It has worked for me in the past…to some degree. I need that pressure to thrive. If there is no pressure – I tend to make it for myself, it’s quite easy really. If there are three weeks to do something, why work for three weeks??? Smash it in the last two days. 48 hours solid and a tanker of Super-Java for fuel!. The pressure will produce!

Somehow now the pressure seems to have built enough. And it’s just occurred to me that this degree has been building here over the past four years. Four years worth of pressure into three weeks of exams. Damn…that is enough pressure to make my eyes pop!

People - learn, study, swat! Just get it in your head. The windows will wait and the clothes will be fine on the floor, just make sure the coffee is in hand and the pages are open! It’s time to aim for that A…hold thumbs for me.

Later!

Spidey...

Staring at the ceiling while my good wife reads her soppy novel before bed, I can only but wonder what in the world that odd little dot is that keeps appearing at the same time of night in the same place on the ceiling, night after night. Is it a beetle? Or is it a spider? It must be some kind of bug… oh well.

This is great and well, seeing it, wondering what it is and then rolling over and falling asleep. But the “oh well” turns into a “holy crap!!!” if that little dot so much as moves an inch.

I am convinced that if that bug were somewhere else in the house, say the lounge or the kitchen, the reaction would be exponentially less adrenalin filled. I am quite convinced that the reason is something that forces us to protect the place we sleep, the place that we will be so totally vulnerable in for a number of hours. If your house is burgled, the main place to protect is the sleeping area. When a security company does the assessment of your home, they will almost always separate the sleeping areas from the rest of the home with a portcullis type gate, heat seeking missiles and into-personnel mines. The truth is we are vulnerable when we are asleep and so inspect the integrity of our sleeping area before we doze off. Now that area being invaded by that most stealthy of predators…the arachnid…unacceptable!
Did you know that a person, on average, will swallow eight spiders while they are sleeping, during their lives? I wonder what little Spidey would hope to find in there. Perhaps the leftovers of your soup supper that contained a fly. The fly which you asked your waiter about? Perhaps there was more than just the one that you saw?

What is this weird phenomena that something so small can stir such unease in one person that they are forced to stealth out of bed, choose a badly selected piece of weaponry and smash said bug to smithereens?! I think most of us are convinced that the spider, with it’s ninja-like skills and complete lack of fear and sense of self preservation will just launch itself at your face just to spite you. Will he do this just to laugh at your terrified face as he free-falls towards it? Highly doubt it……but who knows, he might……

Sleep tight!

www.natthefatrat.com

http://www.natthefatrat.com/ is a seriously rad blog, and you should all check it out.  I hope my blog has similar character when it grows up to be big and strong with a pimple on it's bum!

Have the fun times!

Happy-House-Husband

Finally, after months of waiting, we have a new job.
In actual fact, my wife has been well employed for the past few years, it was just myself who was starting to wonder if there really was any point in furthering myself. You must admit that when things get cushy and comfortable, when life is at the least relatively stable, there is no real reason to uproot and search for something better.
Having been an intern at Michaelhouse for the last five years, there have been no real pressures, other than those of a few exams and meeting the deadlines for the ten sports comments due at the end of each quarter. I have been able to play the happy-house-husband for the past year and have actually enjoyed it to a certain extent…getting home early enough to do a really bad impression of the late great Floyd and surprise my good wife with a severely tanned piece of toast with some remnant of… yes, well - supper.

It is a phenomenally rewarding and satisfying feeling that follows when you see that look on your wife’s face as she arrives home after a long day and there are flowers and supper waiting.  It does, however, absolutely, completely, totally, utterly and utterly (another one for effect) and utterly nothing for the manliness that now dribbles weakly through my veins. I want to be the provider and the bread winner, not the bread burner. I want to go out and earn the money, kill the lions and provide the family with fresh meat every day… sorry, that cave-man scene tends to be a powerful attractant of any thoughts masculine!   But this is what every man was wired to do. Any man, however liberal he claims to be, will eventually break down into that testosterone driven provider with his fists clenched, the correct buttons just need to be pressed.

The old adage: God saw it fit to bless men with two heads…but only enough blood to run one at a time, rings true in every man, sometimes it’s just hiding.

I am definitely one of those men…I need to provide, and with me just being a student teacher, I was unable to earn the cash that would satisfy, not my wife, but me. I needed to have that cash to give. This lack of man-money led to me feeling like a bit of a collared monkey – an extension to my wife’s handbag.

Well, the degree is now nearly gotten and the job secured and yes, before you ask it, I still earn less than my wife. But I feel just a little more manly now.

The 'Why?' according to me...

This oddly simple, but yet weirdly complex question is the only question that always – and I mean always demands a serious explanation. There is no simple answer to the question: Why?

The explanation as to why we as human beings ask: ‘Why?’ is rather Darwinian in its definition and we do therefore need to define Darwin. (This statement comes at a wickedly controversial time, due to the fact that there is all of that nonsense going on in the US over whether it is right to teach evolution rather than the creation theory to school-children.) Quite simply, Darwin states that he reason why the human species is the dominant species on the face of this little planet is due to the fact that we question everything that is around us. In fact, we question our very own existence with a question way more potent than: ‘How?’ or ‘When?’, but with, my favourite: ‘Why?’

Why are we even here on this planet? Why are we the dominant species? Why were we given, or did we develop the ability to ask why? Well, I am glad we did whatever it was that we did to deserve it, because I simply cant imagine what an incredibly exciting life, let’s say, a cow has:

• 0500 – wake up to someone pulling on your nipples
• 0530 – start eating
• 1200 – lunch time! Eat some more…
• 1300 – have a drink…yummy, water…
• 1310 – fertilize the grass
• 1311 – eat some more
• 1600 – lick some salt
• 1800 – go to sleep

All the time – BORING!!!

I much prefer the intensely complicated way of even the most boring human day, our complex thought patterns, emotions, likes, dislikes. Even the worst feelings and emotions are better than a complete lack of them, they let you know that your brain is still alive. No really, life is not all doom and gloom. Understandably, we don’t tend to enjoy unhappiness as much as we do the opposite, but we do need to embrace the emotion. It would be rather odd if there was no such thing as unhappiness. Impossible actually, seeing as the entire universe is an entity that relies completely on balance, without which the spinning discs of existence would fall out of the nothingness in which they hang. Much the same in the world of emotions: in order for us to fully appreciate the beauty of happiness, there needs to be an equal amount of unhappiness. If there was none of the negative, we would have no idea how tooth-rottingly sweet the positive can actually be.

And so again, I ask: Why?

Why are we here again? Well, there are many theories for you to choose from, some more believable than others. Just pick one and stick to it. It will be in this belief that you will find your contentment. Make sure you smile while you are doing it and remember: the beautiful rose grows at the very end of its thorn covered stalk. Don’t be a prick while things seem tough, just be patient.
I know why we are here...do you?

RUGBY FEVER – A lot of rucking pressure!

A school master’s prerogative is to protect the child or to use the archaic term be ‘in loco parentis’ (in the place of the parent). This is the foundation that allowed my mother and many mothers since, to sleep at night knowing that little darling was in the safe and capable hands of a school that was being paid in blood, sweat and beer money from hubby. A school that was forming and moulding her little lump of child into a man worthy of showing off at office parties, introducing to prospective business partners – and his daughter – and knowing that there would be no eminent embarrassment to have to try and clean up. I know I, as a future father would be more at ease allowing my future daughter out on a date with a well groomed fine young gentleman rather than a long-haired, gum-chewing slang-slurring bloke…’My broo’!
This is why parents pay a considerable fortune – something similar to the gross domestic profit of a small African country – to send sons to high school. Sorry I nearly forgot, there is also the education factor, but that is the little cork floating in the waves of the stormy Atlantic that is RUGBY!!! We all love rugby. Next to soccer it is probably the most supported sport in the country. Yet when it comes to the selection of schoolboy players and the so-called support of their coaches, rugby season becomes somewhat of a blur. I have in my experience watched normal, well rounded schoolmasters transform overnight into tormented, testosterone oozing monsters of focus the instant rugby season starts. Coaches swear that much more often, because it seems to ‘focus’ the boys more. They need to be pushed like that if we are to succeed. Boys don’t understand you if you aren’t tough on them. “Bollocks!” After a spate of bullying incidents in schools around the country being dealt with and parents, outraged at how this type of incident can be allowed, they stand on the touch-line throwing fuel on the fire by placing so much emphasis on the game of rugby. It is suddenly alright for masters and coaches to do things on a rugby field that they would never dream of doing in any other arena.

“You will attend at least two practices and one fitness session a week if you want to have a chance at selection.”(this, stated one week into the first quarter…still January!)

Timmy is in matric and a keen player who will definitely play in the second fifteen, but does have a real chance at the firsts if he works hard. He plays in the first eleven cricket too. Timmy has cricket practice two afternoons a week and rugby practice two afternoons a week. Only two rugby practices are compulsory, the other two are voluntary, but then according to his coach: so is selection! Captains practice is on a Friday and rugby fitness on a Wednesday morning. Fitness testing has to be fitted in too. If he doesn’t do his rugby gym program he probably won’t make the squad. There is a cricket match on Saturday afternoon and his girlfriend is coming to watch with his parents. There is also matric to worry about, one or two A symbols are needed if he is to gain access to his degree course of choice. Oh, wait…he also needs to be a boy and have friends and enjoy life! Midlife crisis at seventeen retired at nineteen! How fair is it that we place so much emphasis on so much in such a short space of time on our boys?

Granted, rugby is not the only arena where this type of pressure occurs. Coaches and parents alike live their youth’s failed aspirations of glory onto their shiny-eyed players and athletes. Aspiring to teach what they could not do. Do we consider that when boys are in our care that they cannot make their own choices? They aren’t too young to make their own decisions. I made up my mind at the age of three that I did not like brussel sprouts – didn’t much care how good they were for me. The same for sport; let the child decide. If he is happy in the D team, be happy with him in the D team. Encourage, don’t pressure!

Too much pressure turns you into that playground bully. Now how parentis is that?

Electoral entrance fee

I wrote this a while ago...notably, before the elections...you get the idea. Enjoy!

Elections are nearing almost faster than the Zim dollar falls and many people it seems are still sitting rather complacently in their armchairs moaning at the state of the country. We regularly hear interviews and reports of grievances being harbored about how the government has done nothing about the state of the country since 1994 and how all of the exciting promises made have since been found to be hollow and worthless.
Heed this my fellow South African: Without want of being self righteous – was it not we who voted the current authority into power and who continue to re-elect this rule of lies and fallacious hope?

Driving between Harding and Richmond a few days ago I was struck by the distinctive beauty of the slopes of the hills. So South African – the swells of green, seasoned with the stark pinks, blues, yellows and greens of low cost housing. It struck me that there is only residential demarcation in these areas, perhaps a school, a soccer field and the occasional ‘spaza’ shop. Where is the infrastructure to employ the few thousand people who live here? Do these people eek out a splinter of living by leeching off of the few members who are able to commute the sixty-odd kilometers to work? I think these people and so many others are bone idle! What happened to wanting to contribute to society, even if it is with a small menial job, or even starting your own empire? If you want it badly enough, there is always a way. We are all too happy to sit and moan. The electoral campaigners plough through these low income areas with their propaganda, leaving a furrow of brainwashed individuals believing that their water will be flecked with vitamins and their bills pre-paid just because their vote went in the right direction. Fact is: yes, these people are South African citizens, and yes, they all have a right to vote – but should they? Now I really need to state that I firmly disagree with the fact that South African ex-pats living all over the world feel that they have the right to vote for a government in a country that they left for somewhat rainier pastures with long white clouds overhead. I’m afraid if you leave, you lose out. Voters need to be contributors! If you child attends ABC secondary school and you pay fees to this school, do you have any say in the matters of XYZ High School? I hear a resounding NO from the harmonic choir.

There are 48 million people in South Africa wanting services, provision and to have their voices heard. However, only about 4 million are willing to contribute in the form of taxes. I salute SARS for tightening the screws on the rich evaders with their billion rand bank accounts, but it is the many million minimum wagers who should also be paying no matter how small the amount!
People who live in these sprinklings of low cost housing developments receive free lights and water and do no pay rates or taxes – “Forcing them to pay is in violation of their basic human rights.” What about my human bloody rights? If I don’t pay my utilities I get cut off – can I then sue the government? Are these housing developments cunningly placed as voter villages, boosting the numbers of voters in specific areas? Obvious.
Ranting aside, I am and likely sure many others are tired of having our wallets sucked skinny by the majority of the country while they stroll the streets and enjoy a sponsored holiday. Our only sin as taxpayers: having a conscience and doing what is necessary and right. Contribute and have your voice heard. Taxpayers have their voices heard, cast your vote and be proud. Partygoers, the kegs are running dry and the lights are coming on and it’s only eight o’clock. The bar is open till midnight next door, but there is a cover charge.

Pedal power pests

There is such reward in the fact that the few of us who are blessed enough to live in or near the Natal midlands are so close to some of the most fantastic cycle routes in the country. The Midlands is quilted with forest estates, private farms and a little bare, unclaimed land. Perfect for the mud and dust powered mountain bike enthusiast.
Chickens are lovely – they are great to eat and are probably the most sought after source of livestock in the country, the most accessible any way. The one thing I am not too fond of is the bi-product of their lunch. Many a midlands farmer will disagree with much disdain as many have entered into agreements with local chicken houses to remove this stinking slosh as awesome fertilizer. Yes, it works well and we happily eat and export the mielies that flourish in this crap. There should however be a rule laid down to these farmers that the poop should IMMEDIATELY be turned into the soil. Why? You ask. Here’s why: The number one attractant of the common irritation that is the housefly is, apart from everything, poop! As our crop handlers let their poop-handlers spread the much on their fields (they would never do it themselves, it’s far too foul) the plagues of buzzing bombardiers arrive.

Now, most of the tracks that most mountain bike enthusiasts ride are, at some point, bordered by agricultural land – covered in poo – and attracting flies all the way from central Africa. I would not class myself as an elite rider, I am, however, by no means a hill-walker. I am able to ford the bush at a relatively steady pace. The only time I start to think that I may down to the fumes is when I am travelling so slowly and for so long that a fly is able to settle on my beaded skin. This has, since the arrival of the poo, changed somewhat. On a ride last week I was keeping a steady speed of around eighteen kilometres per hour when I noticed an inordinate amount of buzzing behind me. Flies; and there weren’t just a few. They were in my helmet and behind my glasses and in my ears. One even became a mid ride protein snack, much to my and its surprise. Going faster was my secondary defence after swatting myself senseless: “How fast can a fly fly?”

As I accelerated they all swooped into a low diamond peloton behind my head using my slipstream to go faster than thought possible. At wits end and tired of feeling like a piece of turd myself I took a turn down a steep hill.

“Surely, even in my slip, they won’t do fifty…”

And then bliss, just the wind.

So short lived.

Stopping to admire the view of the hill I had just scoured down I heard another sound. The swines had smelt my sweaty stench streaming off my back and were now rebounding into my body as if they had been attached by tiny little bungy ropes the entire time.

They are hideous creatures. I have yet to meet a person who relishes the thought of a house full of flies. In fact I would go as far as to say that they are more disliked than cockroaches. We take pleasure in seeing them buzz their lasts on a sticky fly strip, flattened under a swatter or explode in one of those electric zapper things. We have invented so many sprays, traps and other countermeasures against this pest that a US military outpost would be proud of the arsenal. Yet we persist in activities that attract them. Make up your minds – no, actually don’t – just wack ‘em!

A passion for the open road - chips the cones....

Commuting is a genuine South African pastime. Depending on your locale, some do considerably more than others. For instance, Durbanites cringe at the thought of a two hour slog to their holiday destination, whereas a person living in Jo-burg doesn’t even need pad-kos for the one hour, four kilometre trip to work in the morning. The more time we spend on the arteries of our commuter infrastructure the more likely we are to encounter the idiocies that are our roads and the arch-villain: ROADWORKS!

Travelling on a road in the Natal midlands I passed a sign – and no it was not temporary – stating the following message: Warning! Potholes 4km. Now road signs are ingenious inventions with their reflective surfaces that work equally well in the wet and in the dry. Their large size to improve their visibility, not to mention the tree that was felled to keep it off of the ground; all of this adds to their cost.

Massive roadworks are taking place on the N3 and at the start of each section, where the artery of three lanes is narrowed to a capillary of just one; there stands a man or a woman in expensive reflective gear waving with much enthusiasm: a red flag. New applicant for world’s most boring job. Surely someone in an office would see it fit to move that poor, flag bearing sod to that four kilometre stretch to fill the potholes rather than spending money on a sign warning motorists that they should engage their traction control for the next round of dodgems. I suppose the evasion of the ever increasing number of road hazards does add to the excitement of driving on our roads. Some mornings on my commute to work it seems as if it’s a race to see who arrives at work alive never mind first.

The road workers seem to want to continue with their jobs. I worked this out upon the sighting of a sign that says: “Pease don’t kill us!”. Well, for heavens sake man, the only reason I’d want to kill you would be because you are busy making our roads boringly flat and smooth! I must however applaud the men and women who stand out in the cold rain and baking sun toiling away their days on the asphalt for days and months and years…on the same stretch of road! Must it really take so long? Investors have pumped millions of Rands into the upgrade of a stretch of road. Now there is only x amount of cash. Would it not be in the best interests of all parties to work harder, finish sooner and get the same amount of pay in less time? I would personally rather receive pay for amount of job done, not time spent farting around doing nothing but stand around waving a flag with eight of my mates while watching one poor bloke wear the skin off his knuckles trying to dig a trench on his own. So South African.

It seems logical to finish the work at hand fast and well so that the other many thousands of kilometres of deteriorated roads can be fixed and mended rather than do the bare minimum possible to be able to draw salary at the end of the week.

As we bottle-neck our way into the choke of yet another stretch of road maintenance lets just keep calm. Turn up the radio, wind down your window and feel the wind in your face. Rest in the thought that when the chevrons and cones end, you can slip out from behind that cane truck and cut off that taxi that has been examining the dirt on your rear window for the last while. Dodge that!

Hey there all you happy people!

This is just a li'l hey to say WELCOME to the coolest blog in the wiki'd world.
Hope you dig my stuff!