Wild Trip, Surf Cows and Brainless Bikinis

Upgrade. Double dose. An easy fix with a long pause. It is a four day week-end, nothing to worry about, just a dent in the ordinary, a bump in the road, a ride in the sun.

Thursday afternoon and it suddenly seems that the weather will be nice after all. On the terrace, waiting to escape with the others, someone’s talking to me; asking if we still have a King in France and begging me to translate the “crude” lyrics of the French anthem. Sigh! Where’s the good life? Seven hundred miles south, I think to myself, but we have to be quick: in four days it’ll be gone again. Six in the evening and we are good to go, stuff the trunk, fill the tank, feed the boys and flee the town.

We follow the road for long hours deep into the night, under the sharp rain, up in the mounts of the Drakensberg. Just passed midnight we reach our first stop, a small village of shadows of huts, silent and wet. Meet your shelter for the night, a dry shack with a dark straw roof. Time to sleep, time to rest, time to forget the rest and let real life evaporate into a grey cloud of anxiety. Poof! Gone. As we fall asleep, I think about the Drakensberg’s mountains surrounding us quietly. In the obscurity we can’t see them but the view is breathtaking; at least that’s what I heard.

Good morning, have some pudding? No thanks, I’ll eat Julien’s dish instead. Scrambled eggs with soft tomatoes and greasy bacon for breakfast is just De-licious. Half a pound of half baked yolks in the gut for tight turns in the hills is just Eat-Vicious. 9a.m. and we hit the road. Crack! The surrounding valleys are hidden by a thick fog: a white cloud, no sick smog. As I drive away from this nurturing land, I think about the Drakensberg’s mountains surrounding us quietly. In the mist we can’t see them but the view is breathtaking; at least that’s what I heard.

On the coast, East of East London is a little town called Cinsta. That’s where we land at 7pm. “It’s getting dark, too dark to see”. Again. For diner we eat braai meat and meet Swiss girls high on what not.

- Hello, how you doing? Can we sit here, I ask.
- Sure, what’s your purpose in life, she enquires.
- We build wale-ways, replies Fish.
- What, she says.
- Trains, he replies.
- Ah. Why you laughing, she asks me.

She asks me!

The following morning we wake up early, to the sound of snores and chatty brainless students living life on the edge of their bikinis. Too late. We woke up too late for the activities. It’s fine we’ll go surfing. Too late. We woke up too late for any boards to be left. In the mean time I have to talk several times to the girl behind the counter, a treasure of despise and condescendence. The Buccaneer’s Backpacker is one of those places where you feel at home, especially if you live on a campsite along with two hundred teenagers too cool to be friendly and staff… just too cool: so you won’t get it. But it’s fine we’re cool in our own way, we spend the day on the beach. At one point Fish and I are playing ball, when four fit dudes with tattoos and goatees ask if we want to play rugby with them. Deal! You’re in for a treat. Two pale skins running in-between still pounds of flesh. Wizardry. And in the end they capitulate.

Salty and sandy, we take a quick shower before slipping inside the car for a smooth ride along the wild coast. Now stop! Wait a minute. What’s that sound? My empty belly. There is always time for a quick lunch especially at four o’clock in front of the ocean. Two hours, two bottles of wine, a seafood platter and a chocolate fudge brownie with ice-cream later we are satiated. Happy and laughing – reminiscing the outstanding waiter who could almost speak a little French – we take a quick look at the map before slipping inside the car for a smooth ride along the wild coast. At the end of the day the sky is red, the grass is warm and the air is soft. You can almost touch it, at that point, the good life. We arrive at night in Port St Johns and climb up into the jungle monkey’s haven. It’s a weird place with good vibes: On top of the hill you can see the moon reflecting in the ocean; underneath the bar you can see a St Bernard sleeping with drooling saliva and a black cat between his paws. We go to bed in our small dorm and force ourselves to silence until we eventually become unconscious. In the middle of the night, an ex-colleague of mine from London that I didn’t know very well stands in the middle of the room in front of me and stares. Then somebody I know well – yet that I can’t identify – sits next to me and starts talking into my ear, her lips close to my cheek. It’s annoying but I can’t get away from it. I know something is not logical but I can’t put my finger on it. I tend to remember my dreams less than I used to, especially since I’ve been away from home.

The next morning I wake up early. I contemplate the three inanimate bodies lying next to me. Then I take a walk outside, see the small clouds rushing in between the hill towards the ocean above the river, see the girl in the swimming pool bathing at 6am, see the St Bernard still drooling and sleeping, see the monkeys jumping in the trees. I sit in a hammock and reflect upon how peculiar sleeping is. The concept of dreams and nightmares, of lying unconscious next to other people, the strange ritual of humanity rushing to dark rooms to lye down on a soft mattress for a third of the day, pass out, wake up all dizzy and fuzzy without any fear of what could have happened. After that and yawning too much I go back to bed.

At 10am, Larsen drives us down in his white pickup truck to the river. We take a ferry and wait on the beach for horses and a ticket to wild coast beauties. An hour and a half later, bored of waiting we meet a girl from the company that was supposed to take us on a tour, she confirms our doubts and so we leave disappointed (but pain free). We head for the beach, eat in a colourful Swiss restaurant with the kitchen fitted in a painted trailer in front of a beach covered with cows. At the Wooden Spoon, meet the mean house cats eager for some meat’s fat, meet the baby girl that looks like a boy and walks in circle pulling up on her pink pants. Then it’s time to surf. At the surf shop next to the restaurant we meet Mike’s friend who’s unaware of many things. So we go back to the Wooden Spoon and ask for advice:

- How much is it to rent ?
- The boards are not for rent.
- Eish! For sell only?
- No, for borrow…

Water is chilly at first but very bearable; we stay in the water pushing the board around for more than two hours. We are the only whites on the beach. Around us children and adults play in the waves fully clothed and in the alley above, people are barbecuing. The light is amazing in the branches, I gaze. There is nothing else you need. Welcome to the good life. We leave a little later, walking along the shore in between girls dancing in front of sound systems, with the board under the arm like true surfers we wish we were. On the muddy path leading to the car, meet Harry – a hairy intoxicated local – walking around in circles waving his beer bottle way above his head. A t night, we try all restaurant of Port St Johns before deciding to settle for an oven-baked pizza at home – jungle monkey’s – around a candle-lit table.

The following day, we wake up to the thrilling sound of coughing and throat gargles. Meet our neighbors: nice people. We get a quick breakfast. Suddenly Anne-Elodie and Julien jump out of table. There is a black cat with a large chunk of it’s neck’s skin missing and it’s bleeding heavily. It’s normal, says Larsen’s daughter, it’s been bit by a monkey. (Jungle monkeys… Bloody animals if you ask me) Reassured by the explenations of the adolescent we finished our breakfast avoiding blood stains on the table and the bench. We jumped in the pool and greeted Larsen before slipping inside the car for a smooth ride across the Drakensbeg. I knew the view was breathtaking.

Along the way, we let it slip away, the good life, and by the end of the day, after ten hours of driving we come back to reality, to traffic jams, big city life and obscure nights. As if the grey cloud of anxiety had been suddenly blown to our faces, strait from the exhaust pipe of a rusty cab. Take a deep breath, let your lungs fill up. And now what? We wait for another soft kiss from her, this tempting mermaid with bleu eyes, the good life.

One Flew Over Club Tropicana

Chilly. I wake up cold in the middle of the sky. Flash Back. Is it last weekend again? No, no, no. This is next Saturday.

Zululand here I come. I arrive in Richards Bay and walk around the airport looking for a taxi to La La Land. I see a pilot with a big mustache and a bored look, High there how you doing my name’s Damien. Let me take you to Rocktail bay, he says, where turtles lay and monkeys sway next to the lounge cocktail bar.

“Let me take you to the place […]
Where strangers take you by the hand,
And welcome you to wonderland -
From beneath their panamas…”
WHAM!

A strong Dutch accent and a soft handshake, meet Peter my pilot. Check that: on the weekend I take a private plane to sandy beaches to meet my parents. You wanna sit in front, asks Peter. Cop-pilot seat, yes please. Hop in and hop hop, off we go, driving a cloud in the clear bright sky. An hour later: we’re landing there, he says to me while pointing at a 50m long earth strip in the middle of a forest. No, we can’t. Yes, we do. Rough, tough and down we land. Hip, hop and Hop off. And the plane takes off again without me. No house, to antenna, nothing. Not even a bench. I wait for twenty minutes under a tree for my next taxi to arrive next to the airport attendant and his notebook.

At the lodge I indulge. A quick lunch and through the green hills and sandy paths we drive. A quick break and along the beach we walk for a long time. On the sand and bare foot for a long time. Watching the waves brake ashore and crabs hide in the foam for a long time. Waiting for the wait to end and the walk to finish for a long time. Back at the lodge, I take a shower outside – under the sun – and I indulge. I fall asleep and wake up before dinner. Up there in my room, in this cosy chalet perched in the trees, I watch the sun set over the wild jungle. Dinner’s served, D-lecious, shrimps and roast beef with mushrooms and iced chocolate mousse. I indulge. Half passed eight and the dark night surrounds us like a silk scarf. Time for us to go see sea turtles hatch.

We drive the roofless car on the beach, underneath the Milky Way I had left last week. We spot a couple of 2-hour-old turtles rowing on the sand towards the ocean, or towards our lights. Uh… Shut it down, turn it off!

Zwiff, I wake up next morning to the sound of monkeys chasing dreams on my roof. After breakfast we dive in a lagoon and snorkel. Fishes, all around, all colours and shape, some not even fishes. A yellow skate with electric-blue spots, shoals, a fluffy poisonous white and burgundy fish and all kinds of stuff. Half an hour later, we’re in the car for Jo’burg. A seven hour ride to end of the weekend.

For dinner, at the Godfather, I order two grilled sardines, four prawns and two langoustines with butter sauce and a bottle of Stellenbosch, reminiscent of the bountiful waters of the morning.

Blueberry Chocolate Muffin

Rhythm’s going to get you. Thursday night means Carfax: club in Newtown. On that day it’s reggae only, with the sickest DJs after midnight they tell me. I say I hope they get better.

Out of a Jazz concert with Don Laka at the civic theatre, we cruise around desert streets and dark alleys until we reach a warehouse with Carfax written on it. It is adjacent to an old plant, with immense silos reaching the stars. This is off. And we’re in.

Inside the lights are dim; there is only one blue lamp in the dancehall and a green one for the DJ. It’s a colorful crowd, a group of individuals, attractive people. Dreadlocks, massive sunglasses, women with shaved heads, piercings and long white smoking bits of paper hung to the tip of their lips. Most people are black laid back party maniacs and it feels good to be surrounded. There is a strong sent in the place, smoke, people, perfume, alcohol; it’s powerful and hypnotic; nearly pleasant. Everywhere I look there is beauty, unconventional gorgeousness, esthetics of character. On stage is a young DJ/MC with short ‘locks shouting in his mike and spinning the disks: striking purity of juvenility. Oyo oyoyoyo. Beside me is a couple of overweight women dancing together: cunningness and fun that you wanna hug ; in the back stands is a huge black man with an afro, three times me, dancing next to the blue light looking like a giant blueberry… Around me is a united crowd, around me is the music jumping jumping. “Red Red Wine” slides in the air. It’s all good, a mouthful of Africa right there for me: a big blueberry chocolate muffin.

Vinegar in My Oil

It had been a while since it last itched. It started again when I received my stained shoe-box last month in a container coming from home. The feeling glided for a while, a few weeks: a slight craving. It was not as strong as it used to be six months ago.

Yes, I forced myself to start again upon a friend’s request. He wanted a work before leaving the hospital. So I did. It’s done: nothing that I am proud of, not a satisfying outcome, just another brick in the wall.

Yet since then the call seems greater than ever. Ideas fly in my mind, sometimes too quickly to remember, and the feeling of frustration has become constant.

More paintings from Tany @ www.dejavu-production.com

Fly High in the African Sky

Chilly. I wake up Friday morning in the middle of the sky. Fifteen minutes before landing and I have goose bumps from the cold air injected in the plane. When I get off, I feel the warm embrace of hot air and bright light on my skin. Kruger Park here I come.
The airport is minute, only one landing-strip. We meet our chauffer at the edge of the dusty lane, Hi there how you doing, and I follow my parents into our cab. Sweet fatigue is massaging my brain irresistibly. I fall asleep soon after that.
Twist and Turn. Bump. Bang! I smash my inert head into the steel frame of the window. Rude awakening. As I vigorously rub my head, I see a tall Giraffe eating leaves from a tree. Kruger Park here you are.
At the lodge I sip lemonade, check out the room and take a shower. Only an hour to go before it all starts. Only two hours before sunset.
At 5pm we hop in the land cruiser, a massive 7m car, roofless, door-less and comfortless. We drive along sandy roads in the bush. The sun slowly turns orange, the air is thin and kind. I’m good. Welcome to the good life. In a tree, close to a forgotten path, lies a mighty leopard. Resting on a thick branch, the animal holds the wood in between his legs like he’s hugging a big mama. A cool cat with nice fur. You can see his belly rising and dropping slowly at each breath it takes. The sun sets and colors the scene like you would like to. The feline looks at the horizon from time to time. When we leave, we get stuck under the tree; right on top of us is the leopard, looking straight down at our heads, Hi there how you doing.
We see rhinos and there cubs: a fat male with a pointy horn – Just a massive piece of dark grey skin walking slowly in the grass – Amazing. We sip some whine next to a small lake where a lonely hippo laughs and play around in water like an obese kid who’s got nothing better to do. You watch out for him though, the big boy’s moody.
At night after diner, I go back to my bungalow. The light on my porch is lit; all the insects are out and about flying around like crazy weirdoes in carnival outfits. African insects, the ones too big to swallow in one go. It’s Pearl Harbor in front of my door, so I jump inside and bring in a few that quickly disappear in the darkness and start making odd noises. I crash on my bed and fall asleep inside my mosquito net cage.
I wake up at 4.30am. A big Mama is holding biscuits outside the mosquito net, Hi there how you doing, and she puts the kettle on and vanishes. Time to get up. Kruger Park here I come.
Meet Harry, my furry neighbor. A 15 cm long yellow-brown African squirrel. The guy is a maniac, a beast; he bites of any insect’s head he can lay his hand on. On the floor outside my lodge are butterfly wings scattered all around like rose petals, lifeless bodies of praying-mantis and beetles sprinkled on the floor like ice topping. Nature is beautiful even in the sickest ways.
In the early morning the temperature is already ideal. The views and images are breathtaking. Buffalos by hundreds, leopard, lions cubs, elephants cubs you name it, we saw them all. The weekend was a succession of naps at unexpected times, food served in the middle of Eden, sunsets and sunrises, safaris and long drinks. In the end none of this matters. I’m good. Welcome to the good life.

On Sunday I leave the bountiful land for the airport. As I am walking up the stairs of the small plain I catch a last glimpse of the sun, of nature, take in a deep breath of hot air… and then I dive into the cold sterilized world of consummation. Read GQ, drink port wine in a jet-like plane at the end of the weekend, I fly high in the African sky but something isn’t quite right. So where’s the good life?

High Five!