Many Oysters, No Pearls 16.02.2012

Like a thunderous swarm of bees, the rescue chopper, its rotor blades severing the silence of the tranquil valley, blistering the misty morning air it needs.  the river's skin broken by the vibrating down draft and the slick edge of the synchronised paddlers blades. the piercing canoe, leaving a trail in its wake. Spectators littering the hillside and the breaching bridges, supporting, seconding, assisting. Camera men sit precariously on slippery rocks hunting the drammatic shot. A murky mist rises from the saddle to reveal a frothy chocolate-milk whipping river that cuts a wound through the body of the Pietermaritzburg landscape leaving a cavernous valley of emerald greens and dusty soiled reds. the terraced land a formal geometry in an organic setting. the cliffs dotted in pastel painted houses, roofed in corrugated sheeting.

This is the drammatic setting.This is the Dusi Canoe Marathon

the Pope-ellis’ farm. here we bunkered in. the farm house bursting with seconders, supporters, former champions, current champions, olympians and runners.

from here we would sling shot our way to the race and back. this was our respite.

 

The 3 day gruelling challenge is set into motion as the cannon blasts 'Maritzburg to notice.

Suddenly the quiet landscape, trade and local football is interrupted by the hum of paddlers. the freedom of the ‘city’ is theirs. 

Guts clad in iron, our canoeists, Shaun Ruby, with a heart the size of a coconut pumping oxygenated blood like a texan oil rig, his upper body, powerful, built strong as a turbine,commands. He knows this river, he understands it's undulations, it's ripple, it's rocks. He's the driver, powering, captaining the canoe, guiding it through it's easiest path. the river is ebbing, it's flowing, it's dynamic, Ruby knows it.

Steve F,an elongated skeletal structure, braced in tensile iron muscles, taut, to take him from 0-100 in 3 seconds. zero percent body fat but for the Gu he digests. he co-pilots, the terrestrial wingman, he is grounded and will catapult the pairing along the portages.

the seconding team, punching way above their weight category were my family for the weekend. 

oom Terry Ruby, a ball of magic putty hatched from a plastic egg bouncing off the walls, thinking, strategising

Mama Ruby, a supportive rock, outside she looks calm, inside she's chopped liver, thoughts and dinner ideas. she's the guide ropes, anchoring the buoyant Ruby's

Ced ruby. so passioned, a grenadilla squirms.he knows and he wears Shaun on his sleeve. and Rudy, he's paddled this river, he's the cutman you want in your ring.

the Kwazulu Natal heat exhausts the land. evaporating, desiccating
Pre-race day prep. we arm our paddlers with water bottles, ice cubes and drip bags. coca cola dilute,energy mix and gobby goo their fuel. the whole nine yards, we're packing their heat, their bullets of energy.

Careering down to the dam, our red Ford double cab, a projectile. puncturing interception points along the race route. It's a race for positions to refuel the athletes. 

Post race day and we check the boat for scars, for gashes from the days brutal onslaught. our gladiators are ready for another days sun rise, another days ebb and flow.

Ernie Pearce Weir, i'm tweeting and the lads are unseen, Mussons for a good view and, Cabbage Tree Portage with only but seconds to cool and hydrate Team Ruby

Marianni Foley, and they dip under the bridge. they hold 6th, cementing it. The Blue Lagoon and they're on the payroll.

the Dusi is 3 days of gruelling punishment, of muscle rupturing pain and endurance.
it's rapidly gushing volatile water, this you cannot bottle.

i rung out my sweaty socks, and a portion of the river gushed on the floor, my sneakers soggy as a marie, i left them out to dry on the patio. the dry stain lingered.

my day to steer will come

Night of the Jackal 28.12.2011

staying in jozi in december is akin to gouging your eyes out with a used soup ladle .whatever any body ever told you about the 'chilled vibe' loves watching tv series every day and ratting themselves in malls.

with napolitana sauce dribbling down my chin and a stray strand of spaghetti betwixt my teeth, Shimshon Heifer offered me a front seat on a vacation you can't get at flight centre(cos they never return emails and their deals are never good and they never beat the price)

taking a leaf outta burt reynold's book, i Cannonballed it to hoedspruit, i saw acacia trees, velskoene, khaki shorts and 1,5 litres of coke in glass bottles.

Ingwelala, a tongue twister if you're swedish hugs kruger so tightly you can see it. the Heifer home is a round rondawel,it has no corners, nor does it have any fences, its off the grid. gas heats, gas cooks, and gas'll singe your brows if a hyena walks by.

as we sat drinking beer and munching chutneyed chips, beams of light pierced the darkness as bullets penetrating a still pond. the growl and crunch of hurried landrovers, toyotas and rangers busted the peace. hand held lights criss crossed our fire protected space as frenetic as a light saber battle between siths. the radio crackles to life .'unit 16 we have lions'. we pivot and there they were. 6  pawed their way only a pole vaults length from our centre of gravity, we hurtled towards our truck, ignited the ignition.and holy canoli we were on their tail. not in my life as bear gryllsian as its been have i witnessed such.

The journey continued to explode and game was in abundance. 

with tal beef jerky twersky throwing out his iron anchor, it's hooks tearing at the tar, bringing our hulking vehicle to a screeching halt, there in the thicket the prickled radar ears, dirty darkened face,  black inked mottled body, lurked a wild dog. 

With Heifer at the helm of the rugged, tested, 4 by 4, its rubbered tyres crushing the entrails of the earth. the terrain was easily negotiated. 

a spotted beast, looking sexy as lindsay lohan in leopard print. she dangled from a skinny emaciated bare tree unsure that it could support even itself.

she aloft in a blue sky, her viscious gape, her serated mouth, sharper than a shogun. she pawed her way downwards and then she was gone.

Binoculars were radars scanning the skies for feathered projectiles, winged raptors and technicoloured fishers. another existence scours our skies. i now know it.

My unknowing eyes as magnifying glasses, had branded the spongy matter of my brain, leaving a scorched blackened image of unseen animals, never to be forgotten.

The Kruger journey had laid itself down, its carrion lying awaste nibbled at by our vulture-ous thoughts.

My tazz on full throttle was a hollow-point bullet turning swaziland into a fading blur. after a 12 hour jorney, and having sung my whole entire reportoire to myself i landed gently in the ramshakle, simple sudwana bay.

the bear that is Big Al Crouse greeted us, his cherry cheeks and saskwatchian sized mits hugging us like grape fruits.

this was a dive trip, i don't dive, but i came for the boat ride. "its a small world after all' was not the theme song.

half zipped rubber suits, the two buxom girls bursting as seeds from fresh fruit. we dreamed of Ursula Andress. they were our dive partners. this was no Disney excursion. 

our rubber ducky commandeered by a bleached rubbery aussie, tossing the divers over board like ribs off of a barby leaving me holding tight before i was set bobbing alone in the deap blue.

as a lettered wine-bottle i heaved in the undulating seas.my viewport,all but an opening through my gob sprawlled goggles. the vertigo left me gasping, clambering for a railing. 

there in the abyss the coralled sea bed, life swimming pastorally and the carbonated bubbles from the divers below. my pulsing body settled, my breathing found structure. i could breath through the straw.

This was a journey unimagined, a journey of new sights and experiences. 

Never stop seeing, never stop doing. 

The roar of the Bear Hunter, grr raaah raah