Tugela Gorgeous – Boats and Bosoms

Bernie Garcin (Bernie and the Jets), Doug Retief (Doug the Thief), Dave Walker (Lang Dawid) and me at Fig Tree Sandbank campsite, one of KwaZulu Natal’s most beautiful spots.

Three plastic (or ‘tupperware’) Perception Dancers and one Quest in 1984 and 1985 – we went both years. In those early days old-timers would still mock plastics – roto-moulded plastic kayaks – saying ‘tupperware keeps turkeys fresh’ but we knew their toughness, and the joy of not having to schlep fibreglass patch kits along, so we just smiled!

At the time Greg Bennett was sponsoring and competing in a motorised rubber duck race down the Tugela (sacrilege!). In ’84 he had Jerome Truran as crew, in ’85 Rip Kirby. We used Greg’s bakkie to get to Ngubevu.  Who fetched us at Jamieson’s Bridge?

On one of the trips bare-breasted maidens flashed us. We saw a Landrover parked on a hill on the left bank, then saw some swimmers in the river, who ducked down as they saw us. As we passed two of the girls popped up their lily-white tits to huge approval. They were like this except the water was brown. And they had no cozzies on.

Tugela boob2
– she was like –

Four-man Hole was soon after that and I crowded into a Bernie-occupied eddy straight after the drop and punched the nose of my Quest into his ribs. Being Bernie he didn’t even wince, but I knew it had hurt.

The current swept us past them, but the mammaries lingered on.

Overnight at the duck race camp the sponsors Lion Lager thought we were competitors so their beautiful beer hostesses liberally plied us with ale. OK, lager. When they ran out I rummaged in the boats and found wine papsaks we used for flotation and squeezed out the dregs. Karen the gorgeous, voluptuous newspaper reporter (remember the days when they wrote stuff on paper?) covering the event for The Natal Mercury held out her glass and as I dispensed I gave her the patter: “A good wine. Not a great wine, but a good wine, with a delicate bouquet”. She shook her mug impatiently and said endearingly “I know fuckall about flowers, I’m in it for the alcohol,” and I fell deeply in love. My kinda dreamboat lady in shape and attitude. She was like . .

Cleavage
– she was like –

Dave too, was smitten as one of the comely lager hostesses joined him in his laager and treated him to sincere sleeping bag hospitality above and beyond the call of duty, ending the session with a farewell flash of delightful décolletage as she kissed him goodbye in the morning.

Tugela beermaid
– she was like –

As we drifted downstream we sang:

The landlord had a daughter fair – parlez vous

The landlord had a daughter fair – parlez vous

The landlord had a daughter fair

Lily-white tits and golden hair

Inky Pinky parlez vous

We sang to the resident goats:
I ain’t afraid of no goats

We sang (to the tune of He Aint Heavy . . . ):

Hy’s nie swaar nie, hy’s my swa-a-aer

.

Ah! Those wuz the daze!

~~oo0oo~~

We stayed at Figtree Beach Camp again a few years later.

This should actually be on my pre-marriage blog vrystaatconfessions.com

Hy’s nie swaar nie, hy’s my swa-a-aer – he ain’t heavy, he’s my bro-in-law

Fishermen’s Tales

Two avid fishermen, Lungelo and me went down to the sea. Or to the Umtamvuna River at The Old Pont. Lungelo and I were not the avid ones. That was Tommy and Ryan, passionate, persevering pêcheurs.

20141218_145446 Fishermen in blue.

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Luxury accommodation on the banks of the Umtamvuna.

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Besides the river fishing I also took them to the rocks near the Port Edward lighthouse.

20141219_185433  After the rain the front recedes

Lovely sunsets and one rain squall – with the boys’ tent left wide open, so the second night they had a bit of a damp night. The fishermen latched on to many, many fish, most of them BIG and desirable (yeah, right!). But they landed far fewer – and smaller – ones. Crabs plundering their bait gave them hours of amusement. All but one fish (used for bait) survived their endeavours I’m pleased to say (pathetic bunny-hugger that I am. Or is that guppy-hugger?).

An Idea Was Born

From: pete swanepoel home
Sent: 16 December 2014
To: Allie Peter; Greg Bennett; Doug Retief;
Subject: Deepdale – Hella Hella

Hey Allie, Greg & Doug
I just posted this story about an Umko trip with Bernie Jamludi The Jet.
Thought you might like to check it out:

Cheers – Pete
PS: I’m licenced to scribble:

poetic bullshit licence.jpg

~~~oo0oo~~~

Hi Pete

Great, and a very personal story to be shared with the “old boys”.

Pete, I have now worked out what you MUST do and that is start putting together an anecdotal account of the famous canoe stories from way back then. We would have to do a chapter on the Tarka Canoe Club and some of the other trips, the Whisky canyon episode etc. etc.

You will have to be the scribe and we can then get the fellows together with a small supply of cold tea in order to refresh memories — remember ‘n man praat altyd die waarheid na ‘n paar doppe !!

Allie

~~~oo0oo~~~

Well, ex-Chairman Allie Peter started a small seed growing; in March 2015 ex-Chairman Charles Mason and I sat down to write the Umko 50 years book. We finished it just before the fiftieth Umko in March 2016, where Rob Davey handed out 300 copies to all who took part in that memorable race.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Mkhuze’s Great

Some things I love about Mkhuze:
Those dirt roads between the fever trees (there’s lotsa tar too, these days).
Few people.
Polite people even at a lion kill (‘After you! No, after YOU!’).
Lots of birds.

– Fever tree dirt track Mkhuze –

African time; African efficiency. We had electricity – at times, but not at our site, which I found out after I’d set up camp fully. Couldn’t test, as the generator only runs from 5pm to 10am – which is plenty, but you can’t find out if your site is working if you arrive when it’s not running. No problem, I set up a field kitchen 60m away from my site. We had water – at times. Even hot water at times. The bins had monkey- and baboon-proof lids – some of them.

FRIENDLY inefficient staff: Got any charcoal? Yes. Where? There. You’d looked there, but you go and look again: fokol. Go back. Doesn’t seem to be any. Yes, it is there. Where? I show you. None. HAU!! It was here! Screech of laughter: Hau! So she goes and fetches extra from the stores, hosing herself at the fact that ‘Strue’s Bob, there wasn’t any when she thought there was!

At the waterhole a sexy young thing with a 400mm lens got chatting away to this 59yr old. She musta been 19 in the shade. Burbling away about look at that and watch here for the pygmy kingfisher and have you seen the lions behind that bush and the poor wildebees calf lost its mother and the lions nearly ate it and etc. Fairly unusual for a Seffrican she was. My 17yr old can seldom string two words together to a stranger!

Very little ranger or staff presence so the ous were up and out on game drives well before the meant-to-be time of 5am.

Patrick the ranger on a game drive in his open top Landie stopped me – he recognised us from two previous visits when we went on drives and walks with him – and asked again, ‘Where’s the boy?’ Remarkable really, as the one visit was in May and the other in 2009! I spose we do stand out a bit. I told him Tom thought he’d rather be eaten by a lion than endure two teenage girls for six days.

Mkhuze very dry and huge tracts recently burnt.
The water hole was muddy and hugely popular. Everyone took turns to churn up the mud and poo n pee in it!
As thirsty as they were (they would come running up to it, keen to drink) they showed great reluctance to actually start drinking. But they had no choice.
This morning one of the wildebeests was lying dead next to the edge. Unmarked.
We speculated one of the rhinos had reprimanded it (they had “baleka’d” anything that came near to them as we watched them drink).

The only thing that baleka’d them was a male warthog. When a rhino said to him voetsack, he said No, YOU voetsack and made the rhino move over. Courage!
~~~oo0oo~~~
Note to self: There’s LOTS that needs fixing with your camping equipment!
I forgot the braai grid and couldn’t find one in six shops in Mkhuze village 18km away. I took the wrong gas bottle, didn’t fit. No problem, the girls got cold food* and hot tea – I had grabbed the electric kettle from the kitchen as I left home.

As always, the fridge worked a treat, so in the heat they got plenty of ice-cold drinks and water.

Next time I’m gonna be SO organised . . .
*Don’t feel sorry for them! They got some toasted sarmies from the Rhino Dino once or twice – and Phindile also made us one lekker breakfast.

~~~oo0oo~~~

fokol – none

Hau! – goodness gracious me

baleka – move away! fuckoff! language isiZulu

voetsack – pr: footsack; move away! fuckoff! language Afrikaans

Bliss

I heard a cry on high as I parked on the roof at work. Glancing up I saw two crows cartwheeling, freewheeling, locking claws and spiralling like a propellor high above me. What a magnificent display of flying excellence!
Buzzing around above and below them was a drongo, divebombing and harrassing them, cheeky little blighter. They ignored him and carried on exuberantly showing off. Wow!
Isn’t that amazing!? I said to my 74yr old carguard Bridget as she shuffled up asking “And now?“.
I pointed out the birds.
“Yes,” she says off-handedly, “Those two parents are teaching the young one to fly”.

It’s bliss, it is.
She has taught me about marine mammals too, young Bridget, my Scottish carguard: https://bewilderbeast.org/2018/10/15/bottleneck-bliss/.

The evening sky from my rooftop parking spot

Tongue Piercing Avoided . . Wallet Pierced Instead.

So D-Day dawned today and I was trapped. She’s done all her homework, researched it, found a slash-for-cash artist, priced it, drawn her money and extracted a promise from me that I’d take her TODAY. How to get out of this? Jess, does your school even allow piercing? I ask.

Of course yes, Dad. Well, clever question that was.

Sudden inspiration! BRIBERY!

Jess, which would you rather have: A pierced tongue, or a notebook computer?

Ooh, that got her thinking.

A proper tablet, not a cheapie? Well, . . yes.

Hm. She lets me sweat. And can I still have my tongue pierced later? Well, yes, after school you’re on your own, kid.

A real tablet computer TODAY? Sure.

OK Dad, I’ll take the tablet, I won’t have my tongue pierced. I’ve decided and I’m sure about it.

Phew! I’m very relieved my girl, I really was worried and unhappy.

Then she drops her bombshell: I was having second thoughts myself, Dad!

Jess Tongue Tongue safe – for now

Mates

Grade 7 classmates Thomas Swanepoel (whose Dad’s name is Peter Swanepoel) and Francois Swanepoel (whose Dad’s name is Peter Swanepoel) have become big mates. They slander each other thick n fast and play soccer & badminton  together and braai together.

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Their biggest shared passion is gaming on xBox and PS3. Today there was much noise and shooting and swearing and bombs going off as they sat shooting each other on-screen with one hand and chewing boerewors with the other..

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Aargh! Tongue Piercing!

Dad, I NEED to have my tongue pierced.

WHUT? Sure. After you’ve left home and with your own money.

I have my own money, Dad I saved up for it.

WHUT? Then after you’ve left home.

No Dad, MOM SAID . . .

Thin ice here. Gotta think fast! Um, find out all about it. Tell me more. Then find out who does it in Durban and who has had it done and how good they are and how do we know they’re good and are they safe do they sterilise when can you eat afterwards . . . and what if the hole in your tongue makes a whistling noise when you talk . .

Dad! Relax! I’ll find out.

OK

I don’t mean “OK” – I mean find out.

I get it Dad!

Harrismith Mountain Race – Again

Years later I was training for Comrades and thought it would be a good idea to persuade Dizzi and Jon Taylor to join me in another go at the mountain-goatish course.

Someone took pics, unfortunately, which showed Dizzi running spritely and the old boys shuffling ignominiously.

– Dizzi comes steaming past –
  • – weeks later, the two old ballies – note how the clouds have changed a lot since Dizzi breezed past . . –

One old goat in indecently short shorts, me in Savages strip No. 451 and modest attire.

Ever since, Jon has sworn this is the race that gave him arthritic knees. I think his shorts were too short so his knees caught cold and gave him kneasles.

We eventually finished with knees like jelly after the downhill section. Dizzi asked ‘What Kept Us?’

~~~oo0oo~~~

The Mountain Race

Mountain-Race site - Copy

Way back in 1922 a Pom army major sat in the gentleman’s club in Harrismith and spoke condescendingly about our mountain, Platberg, as “that little hill”. What was ‘e on about? It rises 7800 ft above sea level and he was from a tiny chilly island whose ‘ighest point is a mere 3209 ft ASL! Being a Pom he was no doubt gin-fuelled at the time. Anyway, this ended up in a challenge to see if he could reach the top in under an hour, which led to me having to run up it years later. Because its there, see.

I had often run the cross-country course, which followed the mountain race route except for the actual, y’know, ‘mountain’ part. I had also often climbed the mountain, but strolling and packing lunch. When I finally decided I really needed to cross the actual mountain race proper off my list of “should do’s” I was larger, slower and should have been wiser.

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The race used to be from town to the top of the mountain, along the top for a mile or so and back down. Sensible. That’s how I ran it in 1979. The medal then had a handy bottle opener attached!

Then some fools decided that wasn’t long enough (apparently a cross-country route needed to be 15km to be “official”!) so they added 3km of perfectly senseless meanderings around the streets of our dorp causing fatigue before I even started the climb.

Leaving town
Start of One Man's Pass
Mountain Race 9

It gets steeper, then at times its hands and knees

The Top of One Man’s Pass looking back down on the City of Sin and Laughter

Top of ZigZag Pass The best part, on top, heading for Zig-Zag pass

The finish at the Groen Pawiljoen grounds

Run to A then to B and back (who added 3km of tar road!?)

Oh by the way, Major Belcher did get to the top in under an hour, winning the bet.

Some history from friend Etienne Joubert, who has also trotted the course:

The Harrismith Mountain Race held annually since 1922, was described as the ‘toughest in the world’ by Wally Hayward, who won five Comrades marathons, the London to Brighton Marathon and the Bath to London 100-miler! (More about my day with Wally here: http://vrystaatconfessions.wordpress.com/2014/04/10/just-call-me-wally/).

It originated when, in 1922, a British soldier, Maj A E Belcher, returned to Harrismith where he had been stationed near 42nd Hill during the war. He was referring to Platberg as ‘that small hill of yours’, one Friday evening [lots of silly things are done on Friday evenings] and one of the locals (a certain Van Reenen – or maybe the chemist Scruby) immediately bet him that he could not reach the top (591 metres – just under 2000ft – above the town) in less than an hour.

The major accepted the challenge and set off from the corner of Stuart & Bester streets outside the old Harrismith Club near where the Athertons ran The Harrismith Chronicle the very next day. He reached the summit with eight minutes to spare. Afterwards Major Belcher presented a floating trophy as a prize awarded to the first athlete to reach the top of the mountain (the record time today is 22 minutes and 9 seconds).

The race route has changed over time – starting in Piet Retief Street outside the post office and police station for some years. Nowadays it starts at the town’s sports grounds, passing the jail, then through the terrain where the concentration camp (second site) once stood, up the steep slopes of Platberg to the top via One Man’s Pass, close to where a fort was built during the Anglo-Boer War. After traversing a short distance along the top, the descent is made via Zig-Zag Pass, and the race is completed back at the ‘Groen Pawiljoen’ sports grounds.

~~~oo0oo~~~

WhattaSoftie!

After giving me a big hug and “Love you Dad!” last night Tom stepped up a notch this morning, shouting out “Wuv you Jess!” when his sister left for school! Amazing. A twelve year old boy. It did cross my mind that his birthday and Xmas are coming up, but I dismissed those thoughts! It’s because he’s a wonderful human being. With only a passing resemblance to that lil girl with

a curl in the middle of her forehead.

.

when she was good she was very very good – and

when she was bad she was horrid . .

A Brief Wobble

Two days after Tommy’s “outbreak of ebola” had been curtailed, I rolled out of bed at 6am on my Thursday day-off work and plopped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. I lay there thinking, ‘I’m going to vomit,’ and started trying to crawl to the toilet, now thinking, ‘I’ve caught Tom’s virus.’ Then I thought ‘Hang on, why can’t I move?’

It dawned on me that something was seriously wrong. My ear was on the ground and my arms and legs wouldn’t move. Holy sheeyit! Was I having a stroke?

I knew this was not like being drunk, a condition I remembered vaguely from my student Doories Daze many moons ago when I was young, handsome and irresponsible. OK, and a few times since. Drunk, I would still be agile, witty and erudite. Why, once when I was drunk a guy spoke to me in isiZulu and I understood him perfectly.

I abandoned thoughts of reaching the toilet and reversed towards my bed to reach my cellphone. Crawling backwards was slightly better, but I still felt like a beached bluebottle. I got hold of my phone. And couldn’t dial! I tried five or six times and got the wrong list of numbers. My vision was crazy! Eventually I dialed my good mate Jonathan. “Leave a message,” he said heartlessly. So I dialed his far more reliable, more intelligent and much better-looking better-half Dizzi and got hold of her.

‘I think I’m having a stroke. I’m lying on the floor like an amoeba, unable to move. Can you come over?’ How’s that for an invitation to a saucy redhead?

Then I dialed the doctor. The wrong doctor. Also a message: Phone the doc on duty. Luckily that was my GP and canoeing mate Steve. I got through to him at home.

“NO YOU’RE NOT,” came his confident assertion after I’d said ‘Dammit Steve I’m sorry to phone you at home, but I think I’m having a stroke.” “You’ve got vertigo,” he announced after asking a few pertinent questions. “Lie dead still, don’t move your head left or right or up or down. Just lie still. I’ll come and see you later. People who have strokes don’t phone their doctors, their family phone the doctor. Soon you’ll be feeling like a fraud,” he says.

He was absolutely right, my canoeing doc Steve. So when Jon & Dizzi arrived they could laugh at me and repeat the doc’s admonitions of, “Sit! Stay!” and go home again, to think up ways to mock me. Later Steve (and sister Sheila) arrived, ran me over, handed me some medicine and repeated his, “Lie dead still for 48hrs,” message.

So I lay dead still for 12hrs then fell asleep and woke to find myself on my side a few times. Friday I lay mostly dead still but got very bored so I did a few Semont manoeuvres to get the otoliths out of the semicircular canals and vestibule into the urticle and that seemed to help a lot. Wikipedia. Which also explained the poor vision when trying to dial: Nystagmus.

Today Saturday, I’m as right as rain. Upstanding, level-headed and well-balanced. I can pirouette like Nijinsky.

~~oo0oo~~

supportive mate Brauer wrote:

Believed it all until the Nijinsky bit. Is there a differential diagnosis between vertigo, dementia and walter mitty?

~~oo0oo~~

Doctor Tommy Fever

I had a sick boy last night. Jess was away and it was just the two boys. I knew Tommy was sick when he only ate half his fried chicken.

“I’m shivering, Dad”, he said as he piled on a second duvet lying curled up in the armchair in front of the TV.

Let me feel you: You’re boiling, my man! Off with those duvets and all your clothes!

“But I’m cold Dad!”

Yes, you feel cold, but you’re hot as hades. I have to cool you down. I wet a cloth and sponged him down and gave him a dose of ponstan anti-fever muti. I had already given him an imodium after two runny tummy trips to the loo. Took him off to my bedroom and made him lie clad only in his underpants on the sheet and switched on the aircon.

“Dad,“ he says urgently, “I think I’ve got ebola, “ he says.

Uh huh? I ask. Why’s that?

“Well I read if you have a high temperature and a runny tummy and vomiting you’ve got ebola. Can ebola kill you Dad?”

Well, yes it can, but I don’t think you have ebola my boy.

“But I touched the mouse that Flaky (the snaky) threw up after I fed it to her,” he protests.

OK, we’ll monitor you fella, but remember bangbroek, you actually picked up the mouse with a plastic bag, so that shouldn’t be a problem.

“Will you take me to the doctor?”

Yes, if you’re still sick in the morning, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to cure this particular ebola.

“Mom would have taken my temperature, “ he says slyly, teasing me now that he’s feeling better.

You’re right, she would have. Silently, I wonder where her thermometer is.

“And she would have made me juice,” he grins, when I make him drink cold water.

Yeah, right! don’t push it! You might have tummy bugs and I’m not feeding them any sugar. I set the alarm for 1am to check if he needed more ponstan but when it rang I felt him and he was as cool as a cucumber.

“I’m fine Daddy. Thank you,” he mumbled and resumed his snoring.

Maybe he was practising for this outbreak four years ago, when he wore this apparently ebola-proof gear to a school dress-up day?

tom-surgeon

bangbroek – cautious fella

Hair Today

At last I get Jessie (kickin n screamin) to the hairdresser.
Her hair looks like she combed it with a firecracker (I should have taken a picture). She’s been washing it daily and tying it up in a bun. She’s not combing it all out daily.

I drop her off with Tom and buzz to work. They’ll walk back home via the shops.
“Just get a trim, don’t have it ‘straightened’ as you’ll be swimming all week – it’s not worth it” are my instructions.

So I get a whatsapp pic:

Jess Hair
And then a hurried phone call:
“Don’t worry Dad, I paid for Jess to have her hair straightened with my own pocket money” says her loving younger brother! Talking fast, pre-empting a bollocksing. “My own pocket money” means “an advance which I have yet to ask you for”.
Knows how to arse-creep, that one.

I had also given them the grocery money (Cecelia is away), which is now diminished thanks to the extra hair spend.

“Dad, I bought you a rump steak and choc mint Ola ice cream”. Both his favourites.
No veggies.

I Was Young and Foolish

Today twelve year old Tom comes home with a long face.

Hey, Tom, how was yr day?
Half good.
Oh?
They confiscated my phone!
What? You actually took your phone to school?
Mm
How dumb was that?! *snigger*
Dad! Don’t rub it in! I’m suffering here!
*loud guffaws* followed by a sympathetic hug.

He took his cellphone to school and was busted. School rule: The phone is confiscated for the rest of the term! I laughed like a drain – even harder when he manfully tried to smile ruefully. Damn, Tom! I know Dad.

Tonight was Jessie’s school art exhibition and music and food evening. All three of us went, and Tom had to tell everyone who wanted to hear about his misfortune. Give him his due, he took it like a trooper. He knew he had blundered and was loved and the suffering was his alone.

Tomorrow’s Saturday and I’m working, so just before bed he comes to me with puppydog eyes and asks to please use the iPad tomorrow. I say, I dunno Tom, do you think we can give irresponsible, non-learning, non-listening type of people any treats whatsoever?

He implores: PLEEZ Dad, work with me! I’m hurting! I was young and foolish then, he says, I have matured, I’m a new person now! he beseeches.

A ten-hour turn-around.

20140831_152100 no more selfies

~~~oo0oo~~~