Sunday, September 9, 2012

Faded red, smiles and a camera: a limited budget chronicle

This is long overdue, so long I have forgotten about the piece, rewritten it, lost it through a series of highly unfortunate events involving myself, a sub standard laptop carrier, the wet streets of Grahamstown and a shady businessman. 

All that aside. Here is the third attempt, at the first instalment of what aims to be a five part chronicle; the travels of myself and my partner in crime, interjected by characters familiar and unfamiliar. Two weeks of traipsing around the southern most tip of this continent, jangling from town to city in the faded red confines of the "rooi glorie." 


Part one: 

Running around my parent’s house franticly looking for the last few things to shove onto the back seat of the faded red Nissan, I give her a fleeting kiss and head off, in search of my notebook and a cell phone charger.

Anxious sweat as I drive up the Outeniqua Pass, on our way to Oudshoorn and the KKNK, probably best described as the Afrikaners’ last affirmation of what it’s  supposed to mean to be a Boer in post-1994 South Africa.

Cheap cowboy hats and boerewors fumes, we get out and start making our way toward the main hub of activity. Stalls litter our way and the capitalist urge to consume grabs me by the neck slowly suffocating me, I fumble around and find her hand in the dry heat, my sweaty palm already caked with what is to be a long hot day of trawling through endless stalls. It’s still early and I’m unable to convince her that it’s time to get a drink so we head, fully sober, into the noise. I pre-emptively buy her a scarf for her birthday and we head on, finally it’s noon and she suggests lunch and a drink.

We head to the nearest booze tent only to be reminded that it’s Good Friday, by a wiry old man preaching to a crowd of grandparents and young children. I guiltily sip my beer as I watch the ice in Mia’s wine melt and we chat about the hilarity of our position. She smiles and gives me kiss on my sweaty forehead... We’re waiting for a friend to meet us in this mess so we can head out toward the coast and our next port of call; Vermaaklikheid.

Sitting on the pavement outside the Pick’nPay smelling of PortaPotty cleaning liquid and Steers down the road, we see Mel approaching, we load the car and I bid a thankful farewell to the heat. Mia’s mixed CD blasts the past into our ears as we take Route62 and then head toward the coast.

A steady pace, my passengers napping as I hit the turnoff onto the gravel road to Vermaaklikheid, a primitive little town on the banks of the Duiwenhoks river. I’m wet, cold and a little miserable as I stumble into the big farmhouse with the baggage. A little loft room, more of an Owl’s nest, with mattresses on the floor, cosy with a lantern casting a warm glow over the jumble of things we brought on this trip.

Supper and some whiskey, a bohemian crowd around a rickety plastic table. Overflowing ashtrays and hearty laughter as I accidently tip a bench and I grip at Oliver’s crotch for support. As I slowly start to wind-down, I snuggle up to her as we move inside.  A grey weekend, endless cups of Rooibos, reading and general laziness, a quick walk in-between bouts of rain, just to get some fresh air, returning to my refuge by the roaring fireplace and the various half-read novels I thought I would finish over the holiday.

Three nights of pastoral bliss, and off we go to the Mother City. Two extra passengers and exasperating traffic over the Easter weekend, Sir Lowry’s pass a winding line flowing onto the plato of Somerset West and Strand, holidaymakers heading back to their little space, somewhere around the big mountain. Franschhoek, Oliver gets off and we move on, Mia and Amy chatting as I navigate the urban sprawl. A rushed goodbye at the airport and we’re alone.

The Backpackers a little shoddy; phone calls home, just to check in…

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

The dead line


Anxious sweat drops slowly slide down my arms as I hammer the keys, franticly trying to come up with a viable sentence or two.

My fingers desperately search for the right combinations, little patterns which I have come to know off by heart, writing and spelling becoming a rhythmic exercise timed to the beat of expectation. Hastily I try and arrange a few more characters and relay some mundane little wisdom that I have come across, disguising it as one of my own. The guilt only comes later and that’s not the greatest concern at the moment, it’s the encroaching absence of time.

A place only known to those who have ever been expected to come up with some product of original thought. That’s where my problem lies, the originality of what is created.

Like Conrad’s Marlowe states “Men who come out here should have no entrails...”

The deadline; an impending doom, the last breath before the plunge, that fearful moment when there is no more time left and no more changes can be made. The finality of the product becomes reduced to the last second left before the click of a mouse as it becomes open for the world to see.

Gathering in speed and ferocity it comes reeling at me, the force which drives, scares and pushes me to produce, often leaving me by the wayside beaten and betrayed. The rhythmic ticking of the omniscient narrator, sitting, hanging or strapped to each one of us directing the flow of our contrived little attempt.

Tonight as I sit and enjoy the freedoms of my youthful excess, dabbling in things that no self respecting Calvinist would even dream of, you might stumble upon these inane ramblings, skilfully disguised as something which might have some meaning -  maybe if you try and read it in context..

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

26 restrictions


Rhythmic clattering on black keys as the symbols appear and make meaning. Slowly at first as the idea is born, slowly gathering speed, becoming more urgent as the flow of thought starts to take shape and become one coherent whole. Brief pauses between structured lines of black on white.

Symbols arranged in seemingly random order, relevant only to those that have been taught to decipher the meaning of each individual letter, and the combined meaning of endless possibilities, well approximately: 403291461126605635584000000 combinations.

The author makes his way through the endless combinations, dictated to him by the great authorities of his time. Oh, Oxford you wondrous bastard you! 1,010, 469.7 words to choose from and still sometimes his is unsure of what to type next, unsure of the way the words must appear on the stark whiteness in front of him. Because somewhere out there in the swirling mass of information, someone might just happen to glance at this attempt at creation. A feeble attempt at creating, making something out of nothing more than a structured flow of consciousness ad 26 symbols. 

Clattering away the symbols become words and as the flow increases in pace sentences are formed, each different to the previous but somehow connected. Connected by an invisible stream of understanding, shared by all who are able to decipher the message. Not understood the same way, but understood none the less. Or so he hopes as he punches the keys and ends off another sentence with a period, or punctuation. Depending on where you are from... 

Saturday, January 21, 2012

My Muse


Rusteloos sit ek en staar na nog ‘n produk van die kits-satisfaksie nasie...

Buite is dit nat en bedompig soos my handoek wat vuil or my stoel hang, seesand orals. My bruigebrande hande bewe na gisteraand se uitgelate gekarjakker saam met die wat ek nog kan verda. Slukkies swart koffie en ‘n beskuit wat al begin sag word pamperlang my deur hierdie oggend wat ruik soos gister se sonroom-sweet.

Ek maak my oë toe en prober die naarheid terug hou: ons was saam op ‘n uitkyk punt, ek het jou laat skrik. ‘N frons wat vir my waarsku en ek wat speels, nog ‘n keer oor die reling hang. Ek terg jou want jy is deel van wie ek is, jy is die deel wat ek soms wegsteek vir die afskuwelike hordes. Mense orals, ‘n mengelmoes van klanke, reuke, kleure wat my bombardeer. Tog voel ek veilig as ek saam met jou is. My ander ek.

Ons het langs ‘n rivier gesit en ek het vir jou skaduwee gemaak. Elke nou en dan is ek jou skaduwee as jy bedrywig raak en ek half nutteloos om jou woel, jou aandag soek. As ek moeg is deel ek my stilte met jou. Ek vat jou op uitstappies, neem jou saam orals waar ek kan, maar soms moet ek jou agter laat, soms moet ek afskeid neem.

Tog bly jy by my, jou klein skelm, jy!

Ek soek jou erkenning, en deel jou geluk. ‘N spannetjie ons, ek en jy. Jy gee my die dryfkrag om my oë oop te hou as die middag lank word, of die mense my irreteer. Laatnag of vroegoggend, jy maak altyd jou deur oop as ek bedremmeld kom klop en vir water vra, lafenis vir ‘n jeugdige siel wat in sy domheid nie brieke kon aandraai nie.

Daars ‘n holte in my bors waar jy soms kom skuil, jy wegkruip as die wêreld jou elke tree teister. Saam sit ons twee en deel ‘n koppie tee, ek met my sigaret. Die vuil lug hang om ons in die laatmiddag terwyl voëls en karre saam sing en ek nog ‘n waansinnige droom aan jou verkoop en jy dit sonder betaling by my vat en koester soos ‘n kosbare besitting...

Ek betrap jou soms erens in ‘n hoekie deur die dag, onverwags maak jy jou tevoorskyning. ‘N glimlag tref my tussen my ore en ek giggel sommer van opgewondenheid. Jy sluip aan die buitewyke van my drome rond en stel my gerus as ek in ‘n koue sweet uistlaan en na asem snak, beddegoed op die vloer.

Met moeite staan ek op, die skerm blêr nogsteeds sy propaganda. My koffie is koud en die beskuit is op die vloer. Ek kyk om my rond en besef jy is weg, soos ‘n hammerslag tref dit my: ek dra jou waarokal ek gaan, want jy is my muse... 

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Social malcontent


There is a dry scratchiness in the back of my throat as I walk down another familiar passage to a bathroom that smells of ammonia and piss...

Strangers glance at me as I stumble past, through the maze of people and chairs littering the small space, hazy with the smoke. Anxious chatter, slowed down by sips taken from overpriced drinks. I weave my way back to the table; friends are waiting, chatting about another year that has flown by, gobbled up in the day to day. The tedious nature of “getting the next thing done!”

Empty smiles greet me as I sit down and take a deep drag, eyes watering I try to become part of another predicable conversation. As I shift my weight, it dawns on me: I abuse social lubricants to make it through, to impress and express these strange feelings of dejected malcontent toward people that I no longer seem to find interesting...

“I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.”

Monday, November 28, 2011

Afrikaner Dom


Afrikanerdom...

Afrikaner Dom

So sit jy in die hoekie van die klas, penorent rug teen die muur. Aan jou bruingebrande bene is die khaki wat jy so hard teen geveg het. Om ‘n identiteit te skep. Kyk hoe sit jy daar, “branded” in jou T-shirt, selfoon in jou hand, jou hedendaagse Trompie.

Jy sit daar in jou hoekie vasgevang tussen die muur en die klas. Die onderwyser, Bybel in die hand met gebalde vuis kyk stip na jou elke beweging, daardie onwrikbare Calvinistiese gewete, sy hand warm om jou keel. Jy maak jou oë toe en dink terug na Vrydagaand.

Op die ritme van watookal deur jou are gepomp het, het jy dit afgeskud. Daardie neerdrukkende juk, die naarhied in jou keel as jy nog ‘n straatkind met ‘n geoefende rympie van die hand wys. Jy weet wie jy is... Klippies en Coke, die reuk van nog ‘n warm oggend in die Kerk, tussen Ouma en jou sussie – “sy’s nou ‘n Model hoor!”

Ongemaklik sit jy daar tussen Hemel en Hel ou mannetjie, jy wat jou jeug in die veld gelos het en redding kom vind het in die hande van jou vyand. Die stoel’tjie is klein, maar gelukking vermom jy jouself soms in die strate van Sandton as ‘n “nuwe Suid-Afrikaner” deel van die rainbow nation.

Jy bly sit. Of so kom dit voor, maar erens diep binne, onder al die jare van trek, veg en verloor. Onderdruk, verdruk, klop daar ‘n iemand aan die deur...  














Monday, November 21, 2011

Mediocrity


Up, down. Sigh, up...

Out of bed, the smell of stale cigarettes, dirty socks and me. Bleary eyed I turn on the first song I see on my media player. Tentatively I start to wake up, eyes clear, windows awash with the weather outside. Towel, barefoot run down the corridor and the day begins...

Wet hair and a black cup of coffee, franticly trying to get body and mind to cooperate, messages are being sent, very little received and I am the victim of a broken telephone. Cigarette, sigh. New song, the habitual struggle. Blank stare, eyes moving over the screen, hand darting restlessly across the page, feint and margin directing the flow of ink.  Sweaty patches slowly advancing despite the cold outside. The droplets flying in, little spots of wetness on my desk, straining under the pressure of another underachiever wielding the weapons of six months of subtle indoctrination.

Racing thoughts on this gloomy afternoon. Cigarette, coffee and a yearning for time to pass. “Sitting, waiting, wishing hoping for the best, expecting the worst.” Another cliché heard as I sit sharing some nervous laughter with my house mates, huddled against the cold. The wear and tear of just another year embodied in my routine existence.



"I don’t wanna work in a building downtown / Parking their cars in the underground     Their voices when they scream, well they make no sound / I wanna see the cities rust / And the troublemakers riding in the back of the bus..."