There was a certain amount of pressure.
My parents had both grown up poor. And they’d made good, risen above their circumstances to make a magnificent life for my sister and I in Port Elizabeth.
So good that, by the time we were in our early teens, they were able to build a holiday house on the canals in St Francis Bay, so we would be able to have the privileged upbringing they could not.
We would frolic joyously in the summer gorgeousness, play tennisette on the sand, surf like the Beach Boys and waterski like champs. That was the plan.
To this purpose, the minute we moved to our new house, we attended an auction, where my father purchased one speedboat, one set of waterskis and a lifejacket.
He also bought himself a captain’s hat resembling that of Kaptein Stubing from Die Plesierboot. So he was always going to be driving the boat. But who was going to be doing the waterskiing?
My sister was more into beach braais, boys and socialising. My mom wanted nothing more than a round of golf and a tan. So me, I was the waterskiier.
And I was the guy who found himself, late that summer afternoon, neck deep in riverweeds, on the rocky north bank of the Krom river, clinging to a ski-rope.
By that stage, we’d failed seven times. My 14-year-old arms were battling with the strain of trying and failing to pull myself out of the water. Neither my dad Fred, nor I, had ever been waterskiing before.
The sun was low in the sky, so all I could see was these massive fields of glare off the water. The wind was up, and the chop was ankle high. We’d drifted onto the rocks and crunched two propeller blades, so Fred was in a towering, sweary rage.
We tried again. Fred floored the gearshift and the bow lurched skyward against the glare, tombstoning in the chop. I ploughed through, grimly clung to the rope, submarining, half-standing, till my fingers couldn’t any more and I had to let go. I sank miserably into the green, bathwater murk of the Krom. The wind blew Fred’s curses past me as he circled again.
“Try again. I go a bit steadier this time,” he shouted as I grabbed for the rope. We were drifting into the rocks again. The lifejacket was riding up to my ears and chafing me. The sun was orange now, and half down. We’d need the last of the fuel to get home.
This would have to be the last try.
I floated in the riverine debris, some responsibility I couldn’t quite place, heavy on my scrawny shoulders. Fred eased forward and took up the slack.
I was still battling to align my skis when he floored it.
Then I was dry! The wind in my hair! The view! I was up. I was up! I was waterskiing. My dad looked back and saw. And I saw he was proud of me.
Like with many successes, I couldn’t work out what I’d done right. But together we rode the chop, up the Krom river, him in his speedboat and me waterskiing. Me and my dad.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Half full or half empty?
“Khanyeeeeee! Khanyeeeeee! Khanyeeeeee!”
Here she is, right next to us, in the heart of the scrum. Khanyi Mbau! In a men’s suit, her hair scraped back in a tight ponytail, and smiling demurely as her companions negotiate for access.
Metres away, security guards wrestle to keep fans behind a forlorn strand of security tape. We advance one step. I clutch my VIP tickets tenaciously. We’ve got five paces to go, to squish through the throng and we’re in, into the inner sanctum, the VIP Ballroom at the SA music awards, Samas 17!
We pop out into the hall like two newborns in suits, Orro’s and I. I’m sure I can hear the triumphant Star Wars theme playing somewhere. There are silver chalices filled to the brim with Heinekens on ice, waiters offering biltong nibbles, and more celebrities than you can wave an access bracelet at.
I’m got some hair product on. That’s when you know it’s a special moment.
No ways! There’s Amu!
“That guy’s the best rapper in SA,” I tell Orro’s, then lunge at Amu, shake both his hands, say, Thankyouforthemusicwemetonetimedunnoifyouremember.” Then I throw myself at his wife, tell her she’s gorgeous and come scampering back to where Orro’s is already on his second Heinie.
Sashi Naidoo swishes by in a ballgown. That’s Jon Savage from 5FM! And Dave Kibuuka! And Loyiso Gola! And the girl from that thing!
I’m getting whiplash from all the celeb-spotting, so we retreat to the dome, where the show is set to start.
We get to our seats and we’re just in front of Jen Su from 5FM, Liezl from Idols and Simba from Top Billing. Orro’s spots Julius Malema in the row in front of us and begins plotting his approach. “Bro, this could be the start of my political career.”
In front of me sits Brendan from the Arno Carstens band. Up on stage, Bonang and Phat Joe make their entrance and it’s all on – South Africa’s biggest music and celebrity spectacular!
On our right, a large bald man in glasses isn’t happy, though. “Sit down!” he bellows, and then hisses under his breath “I can’t even see the stage!”
About fifty people are still trying to find their seats, so they’re standing in the aisles, watching the show. Luckily, there are massive big screens relaying the action, but this isn’t enough for our neighbor. “If I’d wanted to watch this on TV, I’d have stayed at home,” he mutters, and then, “Please find your seats and sit down.”
From where we’re sitting, the only unpleasant part of the show is the complaining audience member. Yoh! And there comes Yolandi from Die Antwoord, suspended over the audience on wires! And MC Ninja rapping with the Johannesburg Philharmonic!
“Please keep quiet!” Bald Man admonishes two ladies chatting behind us. “I can’t hear the show!”
…And onto the stage steps Professor, winner of three Samas tonight! The crowd rises as one, as his performance begins with a rap from Oskido, the true King of Kwaito!
The only man still seated is the Bald Man, muttering. “I can’t see. Some of us have paid for this, you know.”
He should really just stand up and dance!
Here she is, right next to us, in the heart of the scrum. Khanyi Mbau! In a men’s suit, her hair scraped back in a tight ponytail, and smiling demurely as her companions negotiate for access.
Metres away, security guards wrestle to keep fans behind a forlorn strand of security tape. We advance one step. I clutch my VIP tickets tenaciously. We’ve got five paces to go, to squish through the throng and we’re in, into the inner sanctum, the VIP Ballroom at the SA music awards, Samas 17!
We pop out into the hall like two newborns in suits, Orro’s and I. I’m sure I can hear the triumphant Star Wars theme playing somewhere. There are silver chalices filled to the brim with Heinekens on ice, waiters offering biltong nibbles, and more celebrities than you can wave an access bracelet at.
I’m got some hair product on. That’s when you know it’s a special moment.
No ways! There’s Amu!
“That guy’s the best rapper in SA,” I tell Orro’s, then lunge at Amu, shake both his hands, say, Thankyouforthemusicwemetonetimedunnoifyouremember.” Then I throw myself at his wife, tell her she’s gorgeous and come scampering back to where Orro’s is already on his second Heinie.
Sashi Naidoo swishes by in a ballgown. That’s Jon Savage from 5FM! And Dave Kibuuka! And Loyiso Gola! And the girl from that thing!
I’m getting whiplash from all the celeb-spotting, so we retreat to the dome, where the show is set to start.
We get to our seats and we’re just in front of Jen Su from 5FM, Liezl from Idols and Simba from Top Billing. Orro’s spots Julius Malema in the row in front of us and begins plotting his approach. “Bro, this could be the start of my political career.”
In front of me sits Brendan from the Arno Carstens band. Up on stage, Bonang and Phat Joe make their entrance and it’s all on – South Africa’s biggest music and celebrity spectacular!
On our right, a large bald man in glasses isn’t happy, though. “Sit down!” he bellows, and then hisses under his breath “I can’t even see the stage!”
About fifty people are still trying to find their seats, so they’re standing in the aisles, watching the show. Luckily, there are massive big screens relaying the action, but this isn’t enough for our neighbor. “If I’d wanted to watch this on TV, I’d have stayed at home,” he mutters, and then, “Please find your seats and sit down.”
From where we’re sitting, the only unpleasant part of the show is the complaining audience member. Yoh! And there comes Yolandi from Die Antwoord, suspended over the audience on wires! And MC Ninja rapping with the Johannesburg Philharmonic!
“Please keep quiet!” Bald Man admonishes two ladies chatting behind us. “I can’t hear the show!”
…And onto the stage steps Professor, winner of three Samas tonight! The crowd rises as one, as his performance begins with a rap from Oskido, the true King of Kwaito!
The only man still seated is the Bald Man, muttering. “I can’t see. Some of us have paid for this, you know.”
He should really just stand up and dance!
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
An evening's entertainment
An evening’s entertainment
Resorts are fine as far as you go, but you don’t want to stay there the whole time. They’ll shelter you from the more nefarious evils of local cuisine, you’ll probably have a nice room, and there’ll be a salubrious lounge somewhere to sip drinks that’ve been brought to you.
But for local flavour, you’ll probably have to leave the gates of your holiday sanctuary. To swim with dolphins, explore Stonetown, go paragliding or tour the spice farms, you’ll need to leave. Want to go for a drink at Africa House and sip gin and tonics as the sun plunges into the Zanzibar channel. Yip, you gotta head out.
But the resort’s not throwing in the towel. They’re not about to let themselves be painted as some kind of lame-ass holiday club. They bring the action for your satisfaction!
Take tonight! They’ve got the Maasai traders from the market next door in to do a dance display. It’s not how you’d expect. It’s more a series of short dances lasting no longer than a minute, where each of the half dozen dancers gets a chance to execute his three biggest hops while they all chant mesmerically.
But the Maasai are regal and aloof. They lack audience interaction. Perhaps this next dance troupe will offer something more.
They’re clad in floral fabric, either skirts or trousers, singing and dancing, accompanied by a three-piece rhythm ensemble of djembes, cymbals and bass drums.
The exertion of dancing and singing has the dancers drenched in sweat – all except one guy. They leader of the group is wiry, with the muscle tone of a martial artist, skin like ebony and abs like a case of black eggs. He is not perspiring a drop.
He’s also completely possessed by the power of the music. And he has our undivided attention.
After the trance journey of song two appears to have reached its climax, he takes things to another level. The man runs offstage and returns with an enormous python around his neck!
The dance now takes a more terrifying turn as the man wraps himself in the irate animal, which tries in turn to strangle him. Another dancer follows him, painstakingly unwinding the snake from his torso as he inserts its head into his mouth.
We recoil in terror, but he follows us, wading into the rapidly vacated seating as we climb onto chairs, over them, people running for safety…
Some loiter warily. What outrage has this resort visited upon us in the name of excitement? The dancer begins licking the snake, which rears backwards in attack mode…
He puts the snake on the ground and it immediately thrashes towards us, scything across the concrete. All the chairs are empty, audience chattering with fear, clutching our cameras and manically firing off pics.
As the python cuts across the performance area, a large Afrikaans housewife strides up to intercept it. As the reptile reaches the first row of chairs, she takes her seat. The head of the python is five centimetres from her toe.
She flinches not an inch, and the snake quickly backs down. He heads back to his boss, who swiftly folds him back into his box.
“I’m used to big snakes,” she mutters under her breath. Two seats down, her husband blushes furiously and goes for another gin. Notch one up for the resort. That’s entertainment.
Resorts are fine as far as you go, but you don’t want to stay there the whole time. They’ll shelter you from the more nefarious evils of local cuisine, you’ll probably have a nice room, and there’ll be a salubrious lounge somewhere to sip drinks that’ve been brought to you.
But for local flavour, you’ll probably have to leave the gates of your holiday sanctuary. To swim with dolphins, explore Stonetown, go paragliding or tour the spice farms, you’ll need to leave. Want to go for a drink at Africa House and sip gin and tonics as the sun plunges into the Zanzibar channel. Yip, you gotta head out.
But the resort’s not throwing in the towel. They’re not about to let themselves be painted as some kind of lame-ass holiday club. They bring the action for your satisfaction!
Take tonight! They’ve got the Maasai traders from the market next door in to do a dance display. It’s not how you’d expect. It’s more a series of short dances lasting no longer than a minute, where each of the half dozen dancers gets a chance to execute his three biggest hops while they all chant mesmerically.
But the Maasai are regal and aloof. They lack audience interaction. Perhaps this next dance troupe will offer something more.
They’re clad in floral fabric, either skirts or trousers, singing and dancing, accompanied by a three-piece rhythm ensemble of djembes, cymbals and bass drums.
The exertion of dancing and singing has the dancers drenched in sweat – all except one guy. They leader of the group is wiry, with the muscle tone of a martial artist, skin like ebony and abs like a case of black eggs. He is not perspiring a drop.
He’s also completely possessed by the power of the music. And he has our undivided attention.
After the trance journey of song two appears to have reached its climax, he takes things to another level. The man runs offstage and returns with an enormous python around his neck!
The dance now takes a more terrifying turn as the man wraps himself in the irate animal, which tries in turn to strangle him. Another dancer follows him, painstakingly unwinding the snake from his torso as he inserts its head into his mouth.
We recoil in terror, but he follows us, wading into the rapidly vacated seating as we climb onto chairs, over them, people running for safety…
Some loiter warily. What outrage has this resort visited upon us in the name of excitement? The dancer begins licking the snake, which rears backwards in attack mode…
He puts the snake on the ground and it immediately thrashes towards us, scything across the concrete. All the chairs are empty, audience chattering with fear, clutching our cameras and manically firing off pics.
As the python cuts across the performance area, a large Afrikaans housewife strides up to intercept it. As the reptile reaches the first row of chairs, she takes her seat. The head of the python is five centimetres from her toe.
She flinches not an inch, and the snake quickly backs down. He heads back to his boss, who swiftly folds him back into his box.
“I’m used to big snakes,” she mutters under her breath. Two seats down, her husband blushes furiously and goes for another gin. Notch one up for the resort. That’s entertainment.
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