Nights and Parks 13.04.2016

Waking up on a Tuesday morn i was worn out like a faded pair of under pants. Limp and thread bare, I wasn’t getting up. So I banked the late afternoon to get my mileage scribbled into my log book.

5pm and I was out the door, driving into the western setting sun to Melrose Arch where id launch myself on MAPG’s Tuesday 11kay run. I wouldn’t need to blow dry my locks for this was going to be a blitz krieg .
‘I don’t think you should go out so late, boy’ my mom managed to say. ‘But Maaa’, i moaned, ‘I run in the dark of morning anyways, it’s all cool’.

The ran began, and it came full circle. I made it to the junction where the fork to my right lead to the Melrose dump , a creaky road, car busy, pollution heavy and unpleasant for clearing my mind, the fork to my left lay an uphill slog my jellied legs weren’t keen to negotiate, and what lay ahead was a blanketed park sitting quiet beneath a blank night sky.

I chose the park run, not the fun run. I hot footed through Ethel Gray Park, at night. Alone. Moonlight, there was none. Silence. In abundance, but for a punctured sound that was extra ordinary. That sound?. In through this ear, out through that. Head down. I ran on. A little skittish though I was, but I was neither here nor there, couldn’t turn back so I motioned forward scaling the hill before me. As I crested I got scared for now I really was betwixt and between. Aaand so I plummeted down the hill rolling like a bouncing pin ball. There was no Sound of Music, just eery quiet, placid stillness. Then, suddenly, suddenly out of the unshaven grass, un-kempt bushes burst through some silhouetted cyborg yelping, ‘please, please help me.’
‘Sweet Jay-sus’, I blurted out loud, accelerating like an ADD kid jet fuelled on red juice, nearly soiling myself.  My rapid speed frightening the begesus outa me, I cocked my neck, oliver twisting right around to see behind me. With my eyes refocusing rapidly, signalling to my marshmellowy brain, it appeared to me that it was now safe to stop. I threw anchors screeching to a halt and duly back tracked. ‘please help me find my shoe’, he requested. Feeling it safe, together we trodded and stepped and stomped in the long leathery grass seeking out his one and his two. ‘I asked what the Fujimori happened?’ ‘they mugged me, had me in a neck hold, took my phone and my watch.’’ ‘yasis, boet’. “are you a yid?’ i asked. ‘Yes’ he said. ‘Well boet you best daven your brains out in the morning.

With that he hollered, ‘I found it’. Moving back onto the path, we two stood. I asked of his name. ‘Mark’ he said. ‘I’m Dan’, I responded. And with that our exchange ended. He reverted back to his parked car in the parking lot of the park, and well I had to break out of the caked salt that had crusted on my brow and headed back to Melrose Arch.

What quite happened that very eve, we will never know. Nothing is ever quite as it seems.
from the roar of the Bear Hunter, raaah, grrrr, raaaaah

Flight Simulation and other Stimulants 20.12.2015

 People are not a peppermint but rather a wonderment. Out there, there are many flavours. Good hearted givers and ruthless takers. There are takers and givers and those too that just are indifferent to know whether they’re taking or whether they’re giving.
This is story about a giver.

I’ve lived in the same apartment block as Dean for many a year now. Dean does night shifts.
Not getting much more than an ‘hello’ out of each other I thought he either dug graves or sat security reading hand-me-down magazines and drinking Miranda orange soda. I thought he wore dark pants and a white ironed shirt, with a collar as sharp as Lukes Light Saber since he just respected his security shift. I really thought he ate big loaves of white bread and pink polony. Having sat on my ivory throne I judged. Little did I know, it doesn’t matter what you wear, what hours you pull, what kind of bean you pull, or what you scoff. Don’t judge a beast by its hairy back.

After we both joined the body corporate, and after he failed to make many a meeting due to his werewolvian hours, I  figured i’d choon, ‘hey bud, what is it that you do by night for the elusive penny?. His radio controlled voice responded, ‘I work near OR Tambo as a flight technician for Comair’s flight simulators, kkkrrr, do you Roger that?’.  Salivating over my best t-shirt, I liquid lurched, ‘nooo waaay, i love jet planes’. ’I’m a pilot’, krrr Roger that’, he responded. ‘oh shawing dude, you’ve got to show me what you do.’
‘with pleasure, krrr over and out’ , said Dean over the imaginary microphone.
So we synchronised our clocks for a Sunday eve and with me, I brought Marty and his wee clone Eli.

We motor-boated through on Sunday eve to Kempton Park, a forgotten crevice but for that which it harbours-Johannesburg International Airport and Comair’s flight simulation campus.
‘it’s a Playstation 25’, gloated Dean, and by golly gilga-mamy was he right.
From the highway we could see the half-moon glowing hangars peering as the nose-end of the Millenium Falcon grazing past us as we did 120 on the highway. Once inside we were awed by the day-glo hefty, lofty air space. and there before us stood the giant simulation pods, formless, figureless, purely functional, at once static.

Dean gave us some insight and out of the corner of my oculus, the once static shifted. ‘it shifted, argh, it shifted.’ On hydraulic feet they hovered, moving slowly, yawing and banking ever so gently like giant hulks suspended in the open weightless sky. The simulators  suck their life from the multitude of wires plugged into the main frame extending intravenously into the pod as a reliant, needy patient. The behemoths move silently, unawares of the outside world, like arachnids constructing, engrossed in assembling webs.

From 18:37 to 18:39pm we were ejected from the quotidian into the extra-ordinary by the turn of a knob. Into the cockpit of a 737-800, we were flung, an exact replica. The flicks, switches, buttons, turns, and levers, a mangled ordered assembly that only years of academics and more of play would reveal their function.
Having been handed the pilots seat I sat at King Shaka Airport awaiting taxiing. I took hold of the throttle, grabbed the Kit-like steering control, slowly let the jets warm up and eventually pushed up on the throttle hurtling us to 350kays and hour, my ruddered feet kept us on the straight and narrow, and finally pulling up on the control we had lift off. It was phantasmagorical. It was sublime, it was supremative. I flew along the south coast, banked to the right and came round to land making sure my nose was up, my speed was pin point, my angle was within safe parameters and I had 2 red lights on either side of the cross hair. the touch down was safe

my back drenched and the caked salt giving me Elvis Preslian lambchops, this was the ride of my life. Me, Marty and Eli all got the chance to live another reality, to fly a jet plane. Dean gave of his time, and he pledged more.
By the Roar of The Russian Bear Hunter, this was a story about a giver.

Habedashery Burning 02.12.2015

Alon is an award winning photographer. He earned himself an international Picture of the Year award for his depiction of the Marikana Mine Massacre in 2012. He is the Chief photographer for the Times National Newspaper. He brings us despair and hope, he brings us joy and insight. He brings us excitement and he brings us knowledge. He makes us think, he makes us emotional. He is our eyes, he is our view from afar. He is a visual story teller, a translator. He is a news maker.

Alon Skuy grew up in the hills of Bramley, he was schooled at King David and Eden High, leaning towards the arts and English.
His talents weren’t ignited by schools passing days. Nor was his future laid out for him after his musings through Israel and his wanderings through Britain. Neither did his vocational pursuit come by him with any obvious awakenings. But on his return to Jozi, he had to make a decision.

With an inkling for telling a story and an excitement for hearing one, with a keenness for dabbling in cultures foreign, he pitched his fork in journalism studies, but with no love to drive him and no passion to excite him, interest waned and he dropped out.

He did jobs painting sets, and working the shelves of a video store. He breathed life into a First Aid interest, volunteering for Ezra, further getting buy on odd jobs and odd interests.
But a love for the arts and design stewed within him a simmering passion. He knew he loved things visual-images, the arts, and going places one wouldn’t ordinarily have access to. He knew he loved meeting extra ordinary people. He knew he loved colour. Maybe, he thought, it was photography that could be his means of expression.
Managing a bursary at the Market Photo Workshop in Newtown , a photo journalism school begun by the great David Goldblatt, he gained a photographers lexicon, a jargon of sorts and a love for the dark room. He gained an insight into a photographers realm, into its being. But nothing too detailed. Only experience on the job would give him the tools that would make him special.

It was one of his lecturers Michelle Lokidis, who, having taking an interest in the young Skuy, introduced Alon to Thys Dullart, a photographer at the Star Newspaper and soon-to-be mentor.
With an internship at The Star, Alon got his eye in shooting when he could or doing admin when he couldn’t. Working 12-13 hour days, 6 days a week soaking up all that was informing him, adventuring on breaking news stories, covering sports and fashions events, meeting talented photographers and getting dirty in the field, his hard graft earned him a full time contract with The Star.

With a sharpened armory that he’d amassed at The Star he joined The Times National Newspaper after Robin Comley a picture editor who had worked with the Bang Bang Club, snared Alon. Having joined in 2007 he climbed the ranks to where he resides today as Chief Photographer.

 Alon doesn’t speak of the pursuit of a goal. He tells me he lives for each day, extracting as much as he can from that day. He concerns himself with the immediate. He sees only the now, though he does admit to some day hoping to publish a book.

With interests harbouring on music, travel, art films and astronomy, Alon has a soul, he has a spirit, a certain humility.

His job isn’t linear, and it isn’t guided by structure. He has to be at the right place at the right time.
The constraints of his job demand he be flexible and fast. To shoot while the trigger is hot, and to capture a moment in time, to tell a story, to do it with creativity and to do it beautifully. News photography doesn’t allow for a failed mission or sketchy mistakes, it is rapid and it is pressurised.

‘Success is the opportunity to do what you love doing, it’s about not being perpetually unhappy in a job you aren’t excited about’.
Alon expresses success by enjoying waking up and telling a story, by generating emotion and aesthetic and being able to communicate through images he has captured.

He offers me some advice:be free in one’s thinking, approach things differently, and hold back before you jump straight into something. Express yourself through your work.

Alon, before he pays the check, muses,  ‘You ain’t gona do well if you’re sluggishly slugging away.’

Riga Mortis 22.10.2015

Ben Gurion Airport is a beautiful edifice, it’s cool by its sandstone coloured palette and the fountain court bubbles and drips soothing the soul. To walk freely around the spend-heavy duty-free I had to check two bags in, two back packs.

Looking like 2 condoms stuffed with macadamia nuts, my two bags brimmed with 4 and a half months of middle-eastern sun stained clammy clothes. The front desk couldn’t handle them and so they were sent to the small security and x-ray zapping machine to the side to be checked in. There some fat bastard with a shiny badge sitting by with a displeased grin posed along the safety deposit lift.  before I got to introduce myself and my two haggis-like bags to him and his over grown handle-bar moustache, two girls bursting out of their tight security uniforms, their buttons posing like ground to air missiles, were required to survey my package, my luggage.
I offered to assist the ladies by placing my within-weight-limit  back-packs on the MRI. Without a word, they shook their heads and sniggered knowing they simply didn’t need some wimpy, pasty yeshiva lad for this one.
Buzz bizz, the specimens enter through the giant sausage machine, and on the screen the purples and the whites express something obscure, something alien, something that says ‘sweet gsus that’s just not normal’.
The pony tailed one comes over to me, ‘sir, we have noticed something that needs identification, would you mind if we open your bag?. Squeakily I respond, ‘uh, sure, I apologise in advance for any dirty, skiddied traumas.’ I go through the files in my head-any herbs, any white powders, any body parts-i can’t recall packing any of the above.
 one by one, they slap on the rubber gloves, thwack thwack and start digging. ‘I got it’ she says.

A bag of Leanne’s ones ‘n two’s, shoes.
‘Sir how come you have women’s ones-and-twos in your bag? I say, ‘oh, so my wife, uh they’re my wife’s shoes, she asked me to bring them cos her bag was full and i’m so angry with her now, im gona scream and shout like a raging banshee, argh!!, well not really, huh nervous *giggle giggle*

Specimen number two, now it’s you. Biizzz buzz. And it’s through. ‘sir, seems we have more to extract, no need to fear, we do this all the time.’
ruffle ruffle dig dig. ‘got it’. Out pops a hair dryer and a bag of pasta. They’re laid to rest in the specimen tray.’hmm, i’m thinking, one could be a weapon at a stretch and a blow, and the other could give you constipation, but other than that, surely i’m innocent?.’

With her rubber gloved hands she beckons me. ‘uhm, that’s my wife’s too’. ‘sir, is it new? uh I think it’s like 4 months old. ‘Okay its fine. And sir, the pasta?. What’s with the pasta?’. Feeling a little daft, and just wanting to break any silence with lots of babbling talk I tell the security lady that, well, we’d been staying in an apartment in Jerusalem and when we left I didn’t want to waste or leave behind anything so I brought it along. I was brought up never wasting, for there are starving Ethiopians who could do with a bag of pasta. I continue by telling the svelte cop that my wife bought it at the store and well we didn’t eat it since I don’t eat carbohydrates.’

‘the ‘i-don’t-eat-carbohydrates’ swung the whole precarious shoe bomber investigation in my favour. The more bulbous of the two asked me about my diet. ‘whaaaat, you haven’t heard of High Fat Low Carb? i pique her perky interest. She tells me she’s been trying to lose weight. Im now comforted and my chips are on the table and im holding 4 aces.”eat all the fat you can, google Tim Noakes, cut out the on-board nuts.’

and well they let me go my way, she smiling, me informative, and Tim Noakes saving the day.
go on, Get High, and Get Fat
the Russian Bear Hunter.

Life’s real Uber 24.06.2015

I was a bit of a loner way back in 95-96. Most often, I stayed home on Saturday nights. But one night, I felt the need to get out there. So I dialled Rose’s taxi, and within 45 minutes I was in Rosebank singing, ‘ I love the nightlife, I got to boogie on the disco ‘round, oh yeah...’. The night turned to morning, and I hastened to get home. My pocket money only covering a one-way ride, I began the long  walk home.  As I got to Corlett Drive I pulled out my Tom Thumb to flag a lift.

A car pulled up filled with a trio. ‘You need a lift?’. ‘Yip’ I said. ‘Jump in’. Settled in, greetings ensued and we were off.  ‘Dude, it’s not dangerous jumping into stranger’s cars?. Responding with a skewed mouth, confused I said, ‘uhm, and it’s not dangerous picking up strange people?.
Eventually i arrived at my destination. Walking away, I rated them as ‘cool’ and they probably thanked their lucky stars I wasn’t wielding an axe.

Had I known at that tender age how to spell ‘entrepreneur’, maybe it would have been me creating this empire that’s nearly as big as Facebook. Uber.

So Alon Lits buzzed me on my Blackberry and while my maid hovered, hoovered in the other room, I put it on speaker phone. There’s always a disconnect when I don’t get to ‘experience’ the interviewee, but alas this is the ‘whatsapp’ generation.

Alon was blessed with a switched on brain. Maximising his ability to think and to resolve and to project, he studied actuarial science and received a post grad in Advanced Maths in finance. He was accepted into Investec’s graduate recruitment programme where for 5 years he sharpened his pliable brain. Stepping off the express A-train, he went onto an MBA in Singapore. That year was humbling in that it offered an explosion of new life experience, new countries and new cultures. Returning to SA he wanted to be a part of a start-up, avoiding slipping into traditional business. The idea he’d sketched received very little traction so soon found himself at Leapfrog Investments, a private equity fund. Here, he gained at-the-coal-face knowledge of business, cash flow and marketing, but with the view that this was a temporary position.

Then Uber buzzed.
  
Against the screaming and croaking of people unsettled by Alon’s decision to venture into a strange, untested business, he took up the exciting challenge. As General Manager for Uber technology servicing in Johannesburg, Pretoria and Durban, Lits links closely with the operations team both on the marketing and supply aspects of the business. From his position he’s seen the business unsettle traditional companies, expand its services, grow employment, and alter the face of public transport.

How do some of us get it and others just keep wondering when it’s going to come? How do some of us convert our chances, and others just don’t even know to convert. Did Alon grow up, or was Alon any better educated than the 1000’s coming out of private schools and tertiary educational institutions? Has Alon made more correct decisions than any other?
Alon was gifted with the knowledge that he was blessed with a thinking head, and with that blessing he has ensured he’s gone through his career with the right tools for the job. He displays self-awareness, constantly re-evaluating his position, his marker. He knows his strengths and fortifies them. His degree was technical, it was academic-heavy and so made use of the MBA to give him nuts and bolts business acumen.
Tanking a traditional eight to fiver, Alon waited patiently for the opportunity that spoke to his inner desire. He must be patient. He hunts like a lion.
Inertia is a powerful force; it’s easy to slump into a state of comfort, to receive the paycheck.  Alon’s awareness of his greater picture affords him the ability to get up and seek challenge, to pursue the knowledge he needs for his next step, to raffle the status quo in fulfilment of his vision.

Hunger breeds success. Hard work breeds success. Humility breeds success. In our “whatsapp’ generation, we demand instant success, we believe we’re entitled. We’ve got to be willing to do anything to achieve, to work mightily to achieve. Place your efforts in your talents, in your strengths.

Seek your talent, seek your strengths .Don’t be Alon. Be you. Be Uber

Dirty Dancing - How To Horrah 21.05.2015

The two things I love about a wedding: the salmon board while photographers document a day, and the washing machine spin-cycle of the horas that’ll leave you in a sweat. the rest is for the dvd.
This article is a short illustration of the horas you should be doing on your wedding day, if youre jewish or just want to be New York-cool.

1.The Classic
This is the go-to hora, its easily understood by all participants. Even the kids that struggled to put the square toy in the square opening will get this hora spot on. One circle of mates going in one direction, and an inner circle of mates going in the opposite direction. four rotations and you have a successful dance. spinning too fast could alter the internal comfort zone of the venue.

 2.The Square

                                                                    The Square is a little harder to arrange, afterall not all of us are accountants. But you really have to have buy-in on this dance. You don’t need to choose team mates, just grab the closest chosid, pull him to you tightly, shoulder to shoulder and command the floor. you'll be required to separate the participants into 4 groups. This isn't the Civil War, for here North engages South and East engages West. North and South move towards each other bumping chests, then return to their original spot. East and west do likewise. If you're creative, you might get your team mates to clash into the opposing team backwards. Try it. It's fun.

 3.The ‘You spin me right round like a record player..’ manoeuvre.
This is really basic. Your best mates make a giant circle moving in a chosen direction, using the classic, right foot forward, then left foot forward , then right foot behind left foot hora step. You the groom jump into the centre and grab your old man, while your boet grabs your uncle. You begin doing frenetic circles, toes against each other  holding hands. It's a roller coaster and you didn’t even have to fit under the gold miners hand.

 4.Sifting soya

This move is daring and the groom has got to give his go-ahead. You’ll need 2 fresh table clothes, big enough to sift rocks, but not let them through. Usually as many lads as possible hold onto the edges of the cloths while the groom jumps onto the stretched ‘skin’. Think, fire fighters. From here on in, he has paid his entrance money and the ride takes its course. ’Ground control to Major Tom’. The lads proceed bouncing the cloth up and down, the groom with it. Like bouncing beans on a drum the howls of laughter or screams of fear will echo off the Sandton Shul halls walls. The lads must control the grooms flight and direction. Houston we have lift off.

5. ‘The Bridge over the River Kwai’
This dance is ‘extreme’.  Each of the guests grabs a partner, face to face, interlinking arms, creating a tight bond. Each pair gets close to one another, shoulder to shoulder. The groom runs and jumps onto the ‘bridge’ arms in front like Superman. It’s critical that his feet are held down by the participants. The groom gets bounced forward, momentarily suspended, flying. 'Is it a bird?, is it a plane?, no, it's Moishe'. A dream come true.

6. The 'A' train

This dance ain't exactly a night out in Manhatten, but it'll make uncle Max happy to be part of the festivities. It comes about when we're lost for ideas on the next move. This is the dance that gets you a view of more than the big flower pot with its hay fever pollinating gladioli. Here you’ll walk the length and breadth of the dance floor, gaining a fish eye view of a whose who at the wedding. Evoking the figure '8' is common in nature, even educated bees are doing it. Should this dance hold one's attention for long enough, that number might be achievable. All you got to do is grab the closest yid on his shoulders, ensure he does likewise with the next closest yid and just start heading uptown.

 7. The Wrecking Ball

This vigorous move is an exciting assault on the senses. You're clustered in groups of four, huddled spinning, spinning. it might happen that you collide with other clusters. this dance is galactic, and my personal favourite.

8. The 3 Scoop

Who doesn't love a 3 scoop? As a regular wedding goer I am yet to see this move, or achieve it. my lungs often shredded from screaming '3 circles, 3 circles'. The 3 Scoop is made up of 3 concentric circles rotating in opposite directions. 'People, it just takes a little bit of organisation and innovation. that's all.' this is undoubtedly the golden ticket of hora manoeuvres and looks phenomenal from a bird's perspective.

                                                                            

 9. The Skipper

If you ever had dreams of being like Rocky Balboa but never been to Philadelphia, now is your chance to show how good a skipper you are. No need to guide a ship through stormy water or land a wayward rocket on the moon, just jump over a moving string. strong legs and out stretched arms and a quick reflex will get you applause. two lads each take the ends of a long table cloth turning it into a 'rope' for skipping. the protagonist, the person who wants video coverage has the courage to go ajumping. this is school playground kind of fun.

 10. The Bucking Bronco/Hold the Hankie

This move takes initiative. Someone from either men's and woman's section must run to get a chair for both the bride and for the groom at the same time. Splitting the red sea couldn't have been more difficult. then you require strong lads to heave the groom/bride upon the chair, twirling them and showing them off like a marvelled Oscar statue. The idea is then to get the bride and groom together to share holding a handkerchief... sigh...love

 

 11. Pop the Balloon

The brides organiser friends make sure she has things to pop-long polls wrapped in beautiful ribbons with colourful balloons attached. The bride is placed on a chair with a sharp object while her friends holding the polls circumnavigate the lucky lady. as they pass by pop pop the bride goes.

There are many more hora ideas, so be innovative, be exciting and make sure to entertain the bride and groom.

Bowling For Ballen - The Tale of a Two Scoop 19.05.2015

The king of ice-cream,  Paul Ballen.

 I scream, you scream, we all scream for Ice Cream.
Like the arrival of The Beetles at the Met, the ice cream frenzy is extra-planetary.

Of dad from NY City and of artist mom, split in two, a twin, Paul Ballen experienced life less ordinary, a life more exotic. Cultured in the arts, worldly in travel, and with a taste for food, the world was his perogan.

Educated in the black, whites and blues of King David Victory Park, he followed the beaten path.
A BA in History and Psychology and an honours in Clinical Psychology, he was a little uncertain.  And so, a gap year filled with numbers, a PDM at Wits business school. 

Holidays filled walking the streets of New York City while visiting his granddad was life education, Paul got his. The steamy streets, the sweat dripped brows of hot New Yorkers, and the jungle humid caverns of the Metro underground. I love New York in June. ‘So who wants an ice cream?’

Paul’s sister’s boyfriend got an ice creamer maker. In 2009 Paul wanted an ice cream maker too. Churning out a batch of ice-cream had the neighbourhood screaming for more. After throwing his first 'ice cream and waffle' day at his folk’s house in the summer of ’09, the drooling throngs of fans arrived. Paul’s Homemade Ice Cream had erupted.
 

With social media ripe for launching, lots of ‘likes’ on Facebook , images of the ice cream, of the machine and the process on Instagram, and a streaming Twitter feed creating further hype, ice cream orders flooded in.  His one over-worked ice-cream machine was increased. His artillery became 3.
Under pressure to progress, his mom designed a logo, he filled tubs, continued doing ice cream and waffle events and pushed hard to get into stores. One, then two. Braamfontein. Illovo. They released the flood gates, and the ice cream flew out of hipster central.

Things just happened, they fell into place. One meeting led to another. Roger, his dad, advised, 'have meetings, chat to people and things will happen'.

A gaping gap in the market, and the right space in time assisted Paul. There was momentum.
There were doubts in his mind though. ‘Should I do this?, do I have the time?, will this work out?, Should I not be pursuing a staid office job? Once the deliberating debate with his mind had settled, the realisation was that ‘I’m young, and I’ve nothing to lose’. And so he took the leap.

Ice-cream making is a creative process, requiring traditional business aspects along with a need for a passion for food. Paul understands he has many skills, none specific and this pursuit has allowed him to utilise his vast array of talents.
Paul’s Homemade is changing our perception of ice cream as a crafted, artisanal product made with care and patience. It’s  associated with memory, it’s not trending, it’s not a fad, it’s sustainable.

The two scoop has gained momentum. With the growth of the business, Paul and his creative spirit have now been twinned with Josh Amoils and his business acumen. They have since moved in to new premises, a building in Orange Grove, a yawing ships cabin.

‘Operating your own business has its difficulties, and criticism is directed at you.
It’s a heavy blow being up against the ropes. You've got to be passionate and driven enough to ensure the product is successful.’ Paul is fighting a market that is driven by economics, that wants a cheaper, value-for-money product. Adrenalin, belief and passion drive Paul, there is no time for sitting still.

"Is it important to have a goal?" I ask. Ballen responds, 'Is it your personality?
We’re unique. He didn't ever anticipate being where he is. He never ever said, 'I’m gonna be...' Some people have a better understanding of their skills and strengths allowing them to envision their pursuit.'

His success is seeing a product people enjoy, appreciate and identify as being quality. 'Ice Cream is only the beginning'.
‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts’, Winston Churchill

Motivation, a strong work ethic, a responsibility to clients, a ‘no half measures’ attitude , some vision and support from his parents have been cool components in his rise. His parents gave him the chance to try. All our experiences are learning curves.

Live each day as it comes, be passionate, reflect on what you’re doing and reassess. Be happy, the moment you aren’t happy or you aren’t learning or have doubts, it’s time to move on.

Next time you’re considering a two hour session at a psychologist, lick a scoop of Paul Ballen’s  Homemade Ice Cream and stretch a smile.

Walkman's, Hotmail, North Star Takkies 23.04.2015

In a series of Interviews i did, the Russian Bear Hunter next caricatured Jonathan Liebesman, Holywood Director. You might recognise his most recent flik, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I called the United States and at the other end of the ‘dog n bone’, was Lily, PA  to Jonathan Liebesman, Hollywood Director and good guy with a good head of hair.

Those late Sunday afternoons when the stray boerie was left on the bbq and the sun was dipping beneath it’s clouded blanket, the carte blanche soundtrack beated a limp feeling in our hearts, there we were playing tennis-court cricket focused as the great Hansie. But tonight as I spoke over the crackled line to the States, I found out he wasn’t focused on the game, he was dreaming of making movies.

I grew up with Jono, we got dirty riding bikes in velds and playing hourless cricket, we drank grape Fanta, and swam till we turned to raisins. We lived through the lens of Steven Spielberg’s viewfinder. As we grew up, that lens found Jonathan and he sought it.

Jon races through his career like Eastwood hunting the Ugly on the moving set of a Western.
King David, AFDA ‘s South African School of Motion Picture Medium and Live Performance, NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, short film, agents ,LA Hollywood , Darkness Falls, popcorn coke and Box Office Number one.
Like John Wayne to wild horses, I reel him in. I need to pull him back to get where he was, where he is and where he is going.
At NYU in 2000, Jonathan reeled in the Student Short Film Award at the Austin Film Festival and the Hollywood Young Filmmaker Award at the Hollywood Festival. His adaptation of Roahl Dahl’s ‘Genesis and Catastrophe’ had quivered the nostril hairs of movie  agents in Tinsel Town.  No sooner had he picked up the award, the cameras for Darkness Falls were rolling and Jonathan and baseball cap were sat in the director’s chair.

As a young school going lad, Jon wanted to make movies that he wanted to see. He put all his efforts, concentration and focus in achieving this dream, of making  the silver screen his reality.

The film industry is a cage fight. As the director, you fight hard for what you envision, for what you hope millions will see.  Bidding for the opportunity to direct a movie is stripped of Hollywood glam and red carpets, it’s gladiators fighting  till the death for an opportunity to create, to turn picture boards into movie motion. To retain creative integrity the director sets out to compromise as little as possible. You’re chosen for your skill set, for your conviction, for believing in what you’re presenting and making them believe you are the best.

Jon defines his success as being able to do what he loves doing, being able to make a living creating movies.
Jonathans sensitivities  and humility transfer over the ether as he engages where he is currently. He acknowledges success; that it has come through a constant inner drive and determination. Realising that you’ve reached the pinnacle, remember to enjoy it, remember to appreciate it. That is success.

The industry is a scene from a mob movie, it’s tommy guns, black coats and sock daggers. Jonathan is dumbstruck by the lack of integrity, fidelity and trust that Hollywood’s film industry imbues. He holds dearly the importance of family, and the trust that comes with his familial relationship. He advises never to be surprised by anything and don’t take business too personally.

Every opportunity to direct a movie is seen as an achievement. Jonathan takes little for granted.

If he had to koki pen his highlights of his time in the hills of Hollywood, directing his favoured actors,  Ralph Fiennes and Liam Neeson, two actors that starred in his number one flik Schindler’s List would no doubt be the pinnacle.
Life isn’t that rosy when you receive a pasty review, however, when you’re in the field he so dearly devours, lowlights aren’t even worth while mentioning.

Extracting Excalibur from the rock is less difficult than following one’s passion. It’s seldom the practical option, however, whatever you do, find something within that which you are doing  that you love and indulge in it.

So the next time you’re at the cinema watching Battle LA, Texas Chain Saw Massacre:the Beginning or Wrath of The Titans hold fire for  the director’s credit for you’ll see a familiar name. Jonathan Liebesman.

Dairy Don't Do It, Eat Sorbet 09.02.2015

A while back I was taxi’ed through the grottiest areas of Lagos, Nigeria. Our client was researching beauty parlours in this more-24-hour-city-than-New York City. We hopped puddles of raw sewerage, sticking out like Tweety birds in a coal mine, as we peeked through windows of back door salons where Lagosian woman with technicolour nails, and fire red lipstick chatted as they were being plucked, pulled, painted and frizzed. But who cares, this isn’t about me, this is about Ian Fuhr.

Leaving university mid-degree to sing in cocktail bars floored his folks, but it was a passion and love for music that landed him at Gallo Records. After 18 months flipping through vinyl LP’s, he departed, leaving behind his first and only experience clocking time.

Fuhr’s sheltered Jewish upbringing dodging matzo balls didn’t exactly expose him to the realities of apartheid South Africa. It was only until he landed himself in a managing position at Kmart, a consumer goods company he and his brother established that he’d be touched by South Africa’s ills. He had his work cut out for him naively managing a compliment of staff who were expected to be productive and ethical, yet simultaneously suffering the dramas of a cruel regime. Launch, a learning curve.

Meanwhile, music in the racks of Kmart introduced Ian to two popular artists, Letta Mbulu and Caiphus Semenye. Cementing a relationship with these two exiled stars, he was granted the distribution rights of their tunes in South Africa. This led to Fuhr establishing a record label, Moonshine. Flogging the label in ‘85, he returned to Kmart.

On his return, using Kmart as a test tube for mending walls, he developed programmes to assist in bridging the disparities of the black staff within the work environment - promoting blacks into management was unique for the times. This experience heaved him in to creating a race relations company called Labour Link Consultancy. After a seven year itch, Ian returned to the newly named Super Mart, which the brothers Fuhr primed for disposal to Edcon in 2002/2003.

Super Mart was Ian’s springboard. He activated the opportunities presented to him. I don’t know what defines an entrepreneur but Ian’s case presents a study.
Not dictated to by degrees or predetermined paths, not straight-jacketed by the lure of loot nor the sniff of success, not afraid to fail, not afraid to explore Fuhr tried, that’s all he did, he tried. ‘Life is what happens while you’re busy making plans.’
Relying on a pioneer’s recipe of intuition, courage and determination, following the paths which lead to other paths which lead to further paths, Ian created the doors to opportunity. For Ian, as an explorer, a pioneer there are no road maps, or evidence for the journeys he takes. A fighting entrepreneur paves the path, draws the map, engineers his/her own highway, his own trajectory through investigation, research and will.

Ian discusses intuition, for it hints that something is inherently right but there is no evidence to prove such; courage, for there will always be obstacles and challenges, and thirdly; determination, for, without it, you won’t be able to see your venture through to completion, this coupled with a naive confidence that it'll all be okay.

Drawing on his life’s experience, his relationships, his visions, his efforts and his intuition, he kick started his next adventure.
While laying on a massage table, chatting to the masseuse with an ear close to the ground, the opportunity presented itself.
Sorbet, not a two-scoop, but a chain of beauty stores.

 Telling me he’s not got the face for the cover of a magazine, at first he didn’t think beauty to be a great idea. But having the itch for diving into existing, established markets, to upset apple carts, Ian heeded to intuition, and the masseuses coaxing. Through investigation, he determined the fragmented industry had no multi-unit chain. This was his opening. And so with a lion’s courage and a dung beetles determination he leaned in. With sufficient cash from the Edcon deal he went on a buying rampage, picking up independent beauty salons, spinning pumpkins into chariots. And so Sorbet came to be.

As he’s grown up sprouting grey hairs, his success has been his contribution to the lives of others: what have I left behind, how have I touched the lives of others?. Sorbet has given Fuhr the opportunity to greet 1000’s of guests, to influence them positively, to turn them chipper. Today Sorbet numbers 117 stores and continues on the march.

I remember cruising down Grant Avenue in 2005, listening to Sheryl Crowe thinking a new ice cream store had arrived, alas. That year, 6 were launched. This this isn’t about me, this is Ian’s story.

Baking It Good 08.04.2015

This is a story not about the Russian Bear Hunter, but a girl baking it good.

While on my Wednesday run, in the dark of the morning, trying to keep up with my sibling, I heaved out that I’d just interviewed Linda Lipschitz. I managed to get out, on one breath, that she’s the softly spoken woman with the jet black hair who created Belles Patisserie. As we hurtled up Knox street, my lung in my throat, he said, ‘and, so, what did you learn?’ having quenched my dry lips with the lick of my tongue, I said that I was struck by how she’d created a business from nothing- no baking degree, limited business knowledge and years of focus elsewhere, yet ingrained with a desire for self actualisation, she created something alive. ‘Dude’, he said, ‘you’ve got to watch Ratatouille’.
And so in a messy dorm room in the Old City, I did. ‘Not everyone can become a great artist’, Ego, the food critic said, ‘but a great artist can come from anywhere’.

After 19 years as a speech therapist and an academic, enough was enough. She had pulled the plug on a career that lasted a generation, aching for a new lease on life and a whole lot of fun. She left the profession unable to define her future, unable to envision a path. She pondered, and she considered. Her continuous inquiry lasted five years speckled with the birth of two kids. The thought of being a stay-at-home mom did not bring fire to her spirit. And yet, in her, a passion for all things tasty, burned .

As a foodie with buds for pastries, no croissant on the Highveld could tickle her fancy. And so she decided to begin baking. She had a chef teach her how to bake thee croissant, and a host of other flacky, fluffy delights while all the time enjoying the creative process.
On a journey to America she came across the Red Velvet cake, as yet unseen in Johannesburg.
On return, on family vacation to the Cape she didn’t see the light of day until that velvet beamed a bright red. Sun up to sun down, she beat and mixed and tasted and swirled and licked and pondered and kneaded. She read and she investigated, she dabbled and she experimented. And finally she had it. The magnificent Red velvet.
‘I want to run a baking business’ , she said. Her husband wasn’t too enamoured and responded, ‘When you have some sales, call me’. And so she hired a chef and baked cupcakes and tarts and all things nice, and dropped taste boxes throughout the hinter land.

For Linda, it was important that the cakes didn’t just look good, but that they had one’s taste buds doing triple pirouettes.
The store, ‘Life’ loved her Red Velvet and another client, ordered ‘100 lemon meringues by Friday’. Her pastries had traction in the mouths of fans. She had started a business.
Linda, her daughter and a best friend baked from the kitchen, then the garage. And when the orders expanded she took on a pastry chef.

‘When the student is ready, the teacher appears.’
The time had arrived to call her husband who advised her. Linda knew nothing about business but surrounded herself with all the right people. She stresses the importance of a mentor, someone who can see the greater picture and assist in guidance.
As tough as it was, she realised it was time and necessary to relinquish some responsibility, continuing, though, to oversee everything but still driving creative decisions.

3 years ago her head chef departed, opening the door for her current French chef, and together they’ve opened up a store. From baking in her garage to her flagship in the Blubird Centre, to a factory employing 80 people, the screen play for a buoyant business has been written.

Every business has its difficulties-flexibility and the ability to adapt are imperative except when it comes to her cakes-clients demand the same tasting bite every time.

A book, ‘Creating something from nothing’, she read to her kids reads, ‘start small and dream big’. Just begin. Try new things, be innovative and have fun. We limit ourselves by our beliefs and what we’re expected to be. Don’t be afraid to start something in your study, in your bedroom, in your closet. Never follow the recipe. Remi didn’t.
‘Belle’ says the goal is imperative, however there is no ideal, no perfection. ‘Forget about time, one cannot put a time limit on the course of life. Live in the now.’

For Linda, success is personal success. It’s about being happy with your level of behaviour in everything you do, how your children mirror you as a mentsch, that makes you a success.

As I leave the country in pursuit of a vision, of clarity, I reflect on Linda’s journey. We have got to keep moving forward. Break the shackles of societal demands and pursue that which is burning inside of us.
See the world through Red velvet tinted goggles.

Cat Gut Suture 17.10.2014

In Israel, fridges explode with wedding themed magnets, mullet hairdos are seen as high culture. Cut, stone-washed jeans are the epitome of power, tinted hair is bourgeois and ‘gangdam style’is only now receiving Youtube hits from this little sliver of democracy. Cliché and hummous drip heavily off the mouths of the inhabitants, but with the arrival of the Jewish festivals, their unique expression is abundant.Heading out the Old City, beyond the castellated walls dodging the slick light-rail, I stroll on up towards Mea’Sharim, the Charedi vein of The Holy City. The white-lettered blue street sign guiding me towards a shtetl-like past. Here the streets are gummy underfoot and their pin-hole width cause me claustrophobia.

Squeezing me, squeezing me, the oesophagus movement pulls me in. The glossless stores peddle utilitarian wares, but it’s the array of kippot, stringy, stripped garments, pewter-ed goblets and thumbed Torah books that are the treasures in this sheenless environment. Little snotty nosed kids with flailing cork-screw payors run helter skelter in their tiny whites. Hurtling, rimless cars force pedestrians to crabwalk along crowded narrow pavements. The area bristles, it is bustling. The narrow drag sprouts side winding roads that encourage cascading perspective. The suburb is bursting as an over-stuffed falafel. With it’s haphazard facade, a patchwork quilt of necessity. Beauty and harmony are stuffed in a back pocket. The organic evolution of the buildings, a creaking ship’s hull, it’s yawing grunt an expressive sound echoing beyond Jerusalem’s borders. The monotone dress and grey scale backgrounds place me in a 1940’s movie reel. Colour is left for high concentrate sodas.

This is an eye-contactless stroll.

The dark hues turn dramatically to softer greens as the stock-exchange-like Sukka-markets open to selling etrogs and lulavs. Palm leaves sprawl across the landscape softening the urban edge. The search for the perfect spear-like lulav and lemon-lime textured etrog fills the minds of many. Eye glasses, magnifying glasses, and a sense of the best ensure an intricate inspection. The air is scented by the sweetness of the 4 species tenderising the hearts of the anonymous throngs. As the night charges bull-like into the red day, spirits are high. Cutting a long diagonal swathe through the teen-heavy Ben Yehuda Street, the Cobb and I bounce through coarse Nachlaot, Jerusalem’s hipster central. The once-working class area is now home to hippy, sandal-wearing Jews. Quarters are close, and one can hear voices through walls. The temporary Sukkas abound, packed tightly, decorated in many an extraordinary kind of way each revealing its owner’s leanings. My eyes, the spies of my body, seeking , searching, oggling at the outdoor activity and the celebratory action the festival delivers. We alley-dock into Yomtov’s party.

With his huge fox-haired streimmel hovering as his halo, his white, silver embroidered kittel his regalia, and his curled-to-a slinky set of payors, Yomtov saunters confidently into his Sukka, his palace.

His guests, drawn to this heavenly body, gravitate towards his energetic pull, staring starry-eyed. Here he reigns. As he sits seated in his bear-clawed throne, he’s handed his acoustic. Plugging it deep into his Marshal, the amp hisses. From the palm-leafed covered Sukka drops his microphone. ‘I need someone on drinks’. I took the lead grabbing six bottles of wine. His nephew popping a red, presents the bottle to his uncle. Swirling the deep ruby in his giant glass goblet, the aroma tickling the flaring fancy of our host he takes a giant glug and commands us to dance. In the throes of excitement, I just stand, ponder my position, pull my lips as wide as they can stretch, feeling so out of character, and in total disbelief I glean a giggle.
As the night slipped deeper into another night, I returned to Mea’Sharim.
With my eyes open to their widest aperture, soaking up life’s sensitivities for an experience, I nervously joined Mea Sharim’s Simchas Beis Hashoeva parties. These Sukka parties abound in the most religious areas in Jerusalem.

 Entering this giant, swollen hall, pummelled black and blue by a robed throng, heaving Chassidic Jews link arms moving in a snake-like trail. We tear open the bind, grab hands, and are immediately drawn into the swirl. I have no control, no-one does. The tide pulls, it pushes. We try tread water but you’ve got to give in. In a foreign place, in an unusual setting , in a distant landscape, that gummy smile returns.

With sweated arms, we leave being cooled by the breeze of the changing seasons. The streets still athrob for another 6 days of celebration.  After my mind had been rattled by excessive thoughts and wanderings, this festival brought me to a place I could smile once again.

Tearing away the carapace of frustration and growth that’s been still-born stunted, i’m slowly regaining my taste for experience, and being once again energised to place myself in obscure situations to gain obscure stories. My awareness continues to evolve, my thinking continues to be  sharpened and my place in the world is slowly being chiselled. This is a journey about a lad, a lad named Dan.

 

Brides Head Revisited 11.09.2014

This isn’t a journey slapping the streets of New York sniffing out sneakers, nor is it a journey trudging through Finnish snow to get a glimpse of the feted architect Alvar Aalto’s Paimio Sanatorium, nor is this a journey about flipping through comic books in downtown Tokyo. This, this is a journey of understanding. It’s about understanding who I am, where I am, and where I’ve been.

After months seeking solutions to career fatigue and my tether frayed, it was by blessing that I got to see Sassoon’s movie on the late Rabbi Goldfein. With the pearls I saw produced by the Yeshiva Gadolah, I decided on my life’s next strategic move. Yeshiva in the Old City of Jerusalem.

Pulling the plug on a job that was good to me and leaving my azaleas, my Poppy and my dearest behind, I booked passage on the cheap-as-chips Ethiopian. Relaxing on 3 seats was a dream, and though the kosher grub went down like a lead Zeppelin, my good fortune saw me being bumped to business class on the home stretch.Dropping into Ben Gurion, I, a Litvak sweated a stream while my eyeballs fogged up at the humidity. My hands clammy, clutching the new shekel, I rode backseat  in a shirut as it heaved me from side to side as we criss-crossed the valleys and hills of rocky Jerusalem. Dropping off my fellow passengers, the taxi snaked across the lunar landscape sweeping past pockets of green and clusters of milkybar buildings set deep in the contours of this historical land. Staring outwards, the welding-light bright sunshine reflecting off of the Jerusalem stone forced my eyes to squint, hindering my ocular experience.

Rising out of the mall, the masons masterpiece, the pedestrian gates of the Old City, greet me. The Harp player caressing her strings creating memory through her song takes my mind off of the knobbly cobbles beneath my feet and the tourist trinket stores corrupting the treasured experience. Having breached the Old City, my time warp begins, my spirited journey is launched.

I stare with heavy penetrating eyes into the Wall, puncturing history. Working through the onion layers of my thoughts to find my emotion, tears turn me vulnerable. I need to think deeply with much introspection to understand my location in time, in space and in spirit. The ‘hair on the back of my neck’ moment doesn’t materialise, needing to be massaged over time.
For now I leave the Wall behind and rise up and out of this sanctuary heading towards the Yeshiva i’ll be attending for 3 months. Finding the Yeshiva with the help of a printed wall map, I knock, knock, knock on heaven’s door. I’m greeted by the madrich who leads me to the dorm rooms. And so I settle.
I wear no yarmy, no white shirt, and no black pants. But I know I’m in the right place. The seforim which clad the periphery of the Beis Midrash, await my imminent plunge. The structured form of the Gemorah, and the holy black text await the opportunity to become animated. This is G-d’s country, and I’m in it.

The learning frustrates me, it pains me, it’s traumatic, this isn’t fun, but I know this is where I ought to be. The sea is vast, but I’m slowly building a boat that’ll set me journeying through the liquid Torah. Through study I work on myself, building character, awareness. Through speaking to people I gain knowledge about me. Through this experience I hear my mind speak. It’s an extraordinary journey of movements of growth.
Three months might not be enough to resolve Dan, but slowly I’m skinning the apple, revealing, little by little, more of the core. I hope to garner tools with which i can fill my tool bag of life, to be able to negotiate the difficulties and the pleasantries of life’s marvellous musings. What a life. What a journey.  This is a story, about a lad named Dan.

I’d chosen to go to Yeshiva Bircas Hatorah in the Old City having met the Rosh Yeshiva, Rabbi Tagger in the ‘burbs of Joburg, South Africa. With a hand shake and a smile by the salt-and-pepper bearded, charismatic Rosh, it was a done deal.

As I narrowed in on my destination, the aroma of coffee and Israeli chocolate-jammed pastries tugged at my nostrils delivering me to the entrance of Mamilla Mall, my approach to the Old City.  With its bougainvillea shading, sculpture-lined walkway and documented stones numbered and consecutively positioned, the city of old reflects the city of new.

The Old City is mangled spaghetti. Weaving my way through the tight network of hooking streets, the passages, an arms-length in width, tinted in sandy Jerusalem stone, tower above me huddling me in the city’s grasp. The narrow streets, coursing like veins, pulsing with people, instances and nuances pulls me like a gushing pipeline, streaming down past yeshivas, and squares, past the Hurva, burgerias and pizzerias, plummeting towards the heart centre of the Jewish people, the Holy Kottel. Pooled at the Western Wall, Jews of all types collide. Typical, non-typical. Black hat, black yarmie, white yarmie, an army yarmy.  A streimel, and a ‘nah nach nachman’ wooly one, a baseball cap, a crochet and a bowler.  All one nation, unified, spilling their spirit of emotion, turning to jelly at the Walls sight.

The beauty the city holds in my mind is pummelled as I make the prerequisite erev shabbis journey to Machane Yehudah, the street market. Here i’m jolted back into reality. Naive as a pimply teen I head into the bowels of this food lovers emporium and like a pinball i’m ricocheted from one person to the next bouncing off aggressive bobbas and over tanned servicemen. My shins splintered, bruised by pram wielding mommas. Trying to seek a deal on hummus I find myself forking out more than Israel’s military budget. I’m traumatised, moving upstream against the clashing crowds, I burst into sunshine, into freedom, vowing never to repeat the journey again.

Smoking Cigarettes 20.06.2014

There are sweet wonders in this world of machinery. There are reliable machines. There are machines, simple, efficient, and steady. There are those that are built to last, those built rugged. There are those aggressive in stance. And there are those that are blistering in pace. There are those you’d want as a trusty friend, and those that you’d name. There are even machines fuelled by bottom- less tanks giving the cockpitted pilot unhindered journeys, unhindered experiences. There are those enigmas of machinery that make the cover of magazines. There is this machine perched in my garage. It’s the Toyota Tazz 1300, bleached white and stainless. I’ve pushed it to its limits and I know it has further to go. My white Toyota Tazz, huge underhood, Italian under foot.

Me, my Sugar and my Tazz rocked the east of Africa. Mozambique. The darkness. The journey was one in search of a product to return back to SA to make my Scrooge fortunes.

With a fuel tank larger than a Ukrainian powerlifter, the sipper sipped. Nelspruit, Komatipoort. Lebombo and after 5 hours we breached the border posts without interruption/corruption. The open road into Maputo is a drag. Our vehicle hovered above the darkened, heated tar racing past the tracer-bullet like divider lines.  All is a blur, nothing scenic, nothing for the eye. Every kilometre is destructive as the bugs splat face first against my windshield turning Tazz white into Jackson Pollak.

We sweep past Maputo, but the white shirts are out. The Tazz pulls purrs to the side and we blah blah blah to the officer, he gives us a check, an arrogant nod and some attitude, and we’re off with a grunt. After some 14 hours of road work we heave a sigh of relief. We’re in Xai Xai, a little one road town African in energy, European in structure. The street’s bursting like paw paw seeds. Dust hoverin

g at nostril level clogging my vision. We’re still ten kays short of a good time. The sun is double dipping and my legs are turning to sweaty liquorice.
We reach the beach, a sandy road and an arrow to our location. I’m thinking this ain’t all that bad and then I feel the car losing traction, the back wheels violently sidestepping like Joost on an All Back defence.
I’m not sure. I take my foot off the gas and well, now we’re done for. Stuck stiff like beaten mousse.
My hands crashing against the steering wheel in dismay.  I want to bawl my eyes out. The Tazz’s super fluorescent lights tearing through the liquid black of the African darkness , dust criss-crossing the beam playing chicken. A planetary interlude. Dead silence. 1 kilometer from anywhere. Upon hands and knees we shovel sand, the dust fine dune enveloping the tires still.
This wasn’t The Bear Hunter hunting alone, here he had his sugar by his side, and this scenario racked my nerves.
As we locked the car up, by the light of my head torch we walked leaving behind the disgruntled, stymied beast. She of chipper smile, and calm remedies tried desperately to sooth my angered nerves.
We reached lifesaver safety. Two mozambican locals smiled, walked us back to the car and with iron arms dug us out. Once they’d given me the all clear made like Tom Cruised and did a Days of Thunder. My eyes steely, my arms stiff, and my foot flat we ramped ditches, dongs, hillocks and humps. I nearly soiled my self but me, my car and my self were free.

Wooah, what an experience?. With my heart throbbing inside my throat over whelming my apple this was an outer body experience. My Tazz, a beast of burden, punching above its weight was an overwhelming champion. And with my sugar on my side as a coolant we endured.

Matthew Broderick Mind Games 01.06.2014

Comrades 2014

For six months you give everything you got. You give your heart, your iron structure, your soul and your will. You compromise on the late nights, you limit the liquids, and you set aside the carbs. You turn your focus inward. You see illness as danger and injury as trauma. You see rest as weakness. You count the days backwards. You alter what you did last year, working harder this year. You see warm summer mornings invaded by icier winds and an over throw of winters hues. You see the sun’s  arc peak and drop. You see the green over-fed trees turn gnarly, nobbly at winter’s appearance. You beat the tread of 1200km together with your running partner. You scrawl each run down, each hour of sleep and each minute of mileage. Your guilt is your strength. You’re in it and, you’re committed.  Your sugar is on the sidelines watching and your brother is there as a spire. Big Al is there with his famous P and J zarms. It’s a giant of a day. This is the year. This is the year.

Me and Marty linked on the Saturday eve. We slept in single beds in Pietermaritzburg. We ate chicken breasts the night before.  We stood side by side in our pen. I sat behind my glasses. He behind new emotion, new experience and a new start.
And that was the last time we were together.
They say the race is 90 percent mental. And as my mind’s wanderings travelled beyond where I was, beyond the distance of Pietermaritzburg and Durban, it wasn’t the fitness of my body, but the malleability of my mind that was my unravelling.
My 2014 edition of the Comrades Marathon was my thoughts crusade.

My energy had bottomed out turning the day tough. I remained introverted, stuck behind my shades. My eyes and globular brain holding my misery, my pain, and my many wonderings of the years thoughts. The pains of my career traumatising my mind space, the years of tumult scarring my jellied tissue. Where am I going and what am I running towards?. Mumbling very little. Marty drove the pace, pushing us half way in 4hours 50.it was brilliant. But still I felt discomfort. Physically, I was steadfast.

At 55km I forced Marty to leave me to run our own races.
62, and with 28 to go, I sat down. Finished to the world. A half litre of water gushing down my gullet. Brushing aside the concerned comments, I stepped back onto the heated road, still my legs uneasy.  My body was deflated, my mind warped. My body double bent, a crowd member offering a hand. And then Carmy K gave me the 3^rd.
At the top of Fields and with a half marathon to go, I crushed a coke down my throat. As the power aid careened past my parched lips, coating my furry teeth, hastening down my gullet, gaining super electric energy, rushing past my stopped heart, the defibrillator-like effect on my spirit was galactic. From 0 on the speedometer to a hyperventilating 160, id been brought back from oblivion.
My lips turned from bull nose to a smile, a vessel pooled with excitement, spunk and power.
Fields Hill blessed me with rolling speed, and trundling energy. My pulsing pistons purging my sluggishness. My chatting chirping and yodelling driving the unwaivering crowd.

With 13 to go I bumped into Marty. Pinetown. Rooted to the ground he had nowhere to go. Marty’s muscles had left him stranded, splintered. I had to say goodbye, again.
With 5km to go, Elton, with the claws of a backactor scooped me up, and together we hurtled our punished bodies into Durban and onto the softened turf of Kingsmead Cricket Stadium getting us in under 10:30.
You never know this race, a chiselled body demands a chiselled mind.