A day at the races

Early this year I covered the J&B Met for a magazine. It was interesting.

What I know about horses is dangerous. The sum total of my knowledge is that they featured prominently in the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the girls who rode them when I was at primary school always smelled faintly of a paddock and had bigger arms than me. I'd also had the misfortune of going to the Vodacom July some years ago, an experience which made me swear that I would never go within 100 metres of another horse race again (My question to everyone: what is it about paying a lot of money to dress in uncomfortable clothing, get crushed in crowds and scorched in the sun for a full day that makes everyone so excited about the July? Because if you want an excuse to get drunk and flirt with scantily clad girls or guys with popped collars, that's what Toti's for, and it's cheaper.)

So considering this and the vast depths of my ignorance of all things equine, it was with some trepidation that I covered the J&B Met. Would it be obvious to all and sundry that I couldn’t tell a stirrup from a bridle, a stallion from a nag or a jockey from a gaily-dressed child? Fortunately, it seems that about three-quarters of the 45,000 or so people who went to the J&B Met this year were as badly versed in horse-lore as I was. What was also fortunate was that my wife could join me, and we were given tickets to the J&B Marquee.

It’s hard to describe just how awesome it was without seeming hyperbolic. If modern day oil sheikhs were nomadic and threw lavish parties in Bedouin tents I somehow doubt they could top it. There was more excellent food and drink than you could shake a riding crop at, mostly inoffensive live entertainment (though in a mid-day radio kind of way) and beautiful (and, in many cases, deranged) fashion to gawk and – if I'm being honest with myself – laugh at. Suffice to say much of the day was spent in a gastronomic daze, alternately heading between the buffet, ice cream station, bar and racetrack to yell at the exhausted horses as they ran fruitlessly in circles. I wish I’d had a copy of a gossip rag on me, because it would have been a fun diversion to play celebrity bingo. Michael Mol! Marc Lottering! Bryan Habana! Roxy Louw!

Early in the day we decided that we needed to get in on some betting, but realised looking at the programme that we had no idea how to pick a winning horse. So, as one does, we went with names that appealed to us. I ended up backing the splendidly named Eagle Squadron, which I thought could only be as sleek and fast as its title. Shockingly, a horse’s name has little to do with its speed. This would be a hard lesson I struggled to learn throughout the day, as all the horses I backed lagged traitorously towards the rear.

It was hard not to be romanced by all the abundance around me – all that food and drink couldn’t appreciate itself – but at the end of the day as we trudged through the horse pat bestrewn grass back to the car and passed the unwashed masses groaning in the dust and dressed in sackcloth, I realised a simple truth. Horse-racing is only worth a damn on someone else's dime in an air-conditioned tent while feasting on craft beer and fillet. Also, it helps to pick one's horses properly when betting, and for that I'll develop a foolproof system in the future, probably based on the jockeys’ outfits.

It's been a while...

What the flip, guys? In the year since I last posted on this stupid blog, Greta and I left our jobs, moved to Cape Town, then after four months left the meager things we had going on there, and moved to Phuket, Thailand. It's been scary, it's been gnarly, it's been fun.

We've seen a guy riding a motorbike with a live eagle on his handlebars, dogs that look both ways before crossing the street, a dude with too many thumbs (it is as it sounds), kiff beaches, a bunch of jungle, lots of really sunburnt British people, a wasp killing a tarantula, a whole bunch of stonefish while snorkelling, and some other stuff that escapes me. Suffice to say, it's pretty interesting here and we're having a good time. I should post some photos, but I'm feeling lazy today. They'll come in time people, I'm a work in progress.

I've had a chance to make a heap of progress on my book (which has subsequently stalled again since I started working full time again - I'll get there eventually folks), so I thought I'd post a short, actiony clip from one of the chapters I'm semi-happy with. Fun times.
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It’s a typically glorious Cape Town summer afternoon. The sunlight glints off every reflective surface and I start to feel better. The trees are green, the mountain looks awesome and the detective seems to believe me. Maybe I won’t find out much more when this becomes a full-blown police investigation, but at least I’m not going to be sitting in Pollsmoor Prison wondering whether I’m to be the new plaything for the 26s or 27s.
I direct Detective Roberts to my hotel, but it’s a slog. The traffic in the city is a pain. I remember being told a while back that Cape Town’s traffic is so bad because the roads weren’t designed for 21st century traffic volumes. I can believe it. I really need to find a guesthouse or something in a pleasant suburb away from the nail-on-a-chalkboard irritation of city traffic.
Eventually we get to Camps Bay. There’s no street parking in front of the hotel, so we have to park about 200 metres up the road. Opposite us, loads of people hang out on the grass and walk on the promenade. A few yachts ferry sightseers a little out to sea.
Unsurprisingly, the hotel is pretty busy when we walk though the foyer. Detective Roberts is as quiet as ever, though I can tell his mood is light. Finding new evidence is probably like catnip for the po-po.
We wait a few minutes for the lift, and take it to the eighth floor. I don’t ordinarily like staying so high up in any building – I can’t help but imagine the innumerable, freak ways I can plunge to my death, and I’m a little ashamed to admit that these imaginings sometimes keep me up at night – but there are few rooms to choose from over Christmas. A panpipe version of My Heart Will Go On warbles over the speakers. The lift stops on our floor and as we walk down the passage I realise the song is following us. The scourge of muzak.
“Can I have your key card?” Those are the first words the detective has spoken in about 15 minutes. He must be in a good mood; he swings his car keys around his finger as he whistles along to the panpipes. My estimation of him takes a sharp downward turn.
As he opens the door he drops his car keys.
“I’ve got them.” He opens the door as I bend down to pick them up. He takes a few steps inside the room before stopping in surprise.
“What-” I look up from behind him as he fumbles for his shoulder holster. There are four quick bursts of muffled gunfire, and blood and flesh explode from Detective Roberts’ head and back as he falls backwards against me. There is hair and something soft and warm in my mouth. I scramble back, spitting, as more shots hit the plaster of the wall above me, which is flecked with gore.
Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap. I find my feet after what feels like forever and sprint the few metres down the passage to the stairs. Another bullet bursts into the wall just next to my head. I half run, half jump down the stairs. I can hear a few pairs of feet thudding in the stairwell behind me. My back feels so naked, but I can’t turn my head or I’ll fall. A bullet zings against the railing next to me and I shriek. I make sure I keep against the wall and more bullets zip into the steps from above. I can’t tell if they’re getting closer or not, and it feels like I’ll never get to the bottom. I pass a lady who glares at me. I’m only a few seconds past her when she screams; they’re pretty freaking close.
I finally reach the bottom of the stairwell, burst into the foyer and sprint across it to the doors. People start yelling just as I reach the street and turn right up the road towards the detective’s car. I try to zigzag a bit in case they start shooting, but there are so many people on the pavement I doubt they would. Just before I get to the car I turn around and see two guys in suits running towards me about 30 metres away.
I duck into the car as one guy takes aim and hits the windscreen on the passenger side. I turn the key and pull off. A car swerves around me, hooter screeching. Ahead of me, one of the guys is standing in my lane. He fires a few bursts as I duck my head below the steering wheel and floor it. Bullets smash through the windscreen and rip into my headrest. I hear people screaming and cars skidding as their drivers hit their brakes. Suddenly there’s a thump, the windscreen breaks and something hard smacks me in the head, blurring my vision momentarily. More bullets hit the side of the car and then I’m past the shooter. I lift my head and wrench the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding ramming into the back of a parked car. A few more half-hearted shots ring out but nothing hits the car. I floor it and weave through the busy evening traffic for a few kilometres.
I shake my head and try to clear my vision, but the wind is blowing against my eyes through a huge hole that’s been smashed through the windscreen. Only then do I see the body in the passenger seat.
“Holy cr-” I panic, and tug the steering wheel to the left by mistake, and jump a curb before jamming anchors. It’s one of the shooters, minus some of his head. His legs are up against the headrest, and his head rests against the floor. Blood, bone and what I can only assume are bits of his thoughts and personality pool on the carpeting. Bits of glass litter his body, glittering in the evening light. A stray hair still in my mouth reminds me of the detective. I open the door and puke into the street.
I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. My body feels like it’s turning in on itself, like my oesophagus will burst out of my mouth and envelop me so that I look like a giant, glistening sausage. I vomit until there is nothing left to bring up, and after a few extra agonising dry heaves my stomach stops bucking my body further towards the ground. I close the door shakily and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. My mouth tastes foul; I’m ten-years-old and have gastro; I’m an awkward 17-year-old, drunk out of my mind at a crappy action bar, eyes glazed, conscience numbed.
“Hey man, are you okay?” A young guy materialises at my window. I can’t respond before he sees the dead dude, swears and starts running. “Call the police, call the police, there’s a dead guy in that car!”
Crap. I start the car and roar back onto the road before anyone else can get to me. Where the freak do I go now?
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Each day a new adventure

New shoes have magic in them. Not the magic of bewildered bunnies spilling out of top hats or lovely assistants being sawn in half, but one deeper, older, true. You pore over the unopened box as if it is a locked chest marked ‘secret codes’, or a covered cage with some exotic beast trapped inside. You lift the lid and there is a hiss as life is breathed into twin creatures. You pause as you sense movement beneath the thin paper covering them – was that the stirring of consciousness or just your breath disturbing their shroud? You peer closer and then their scent hits you; it’s pocked cricket balls with unravelling seams lying in freshly cut grass; it’s brown Kiwi polish just as you open the tin; it’s a khaki uniform sweaty after a day at school when the corridors slingshot you around corners, into teachers, away from girls, onto fields at tea break; it’s glops of mud mixed behind the tennis courts to throw at little brothers. You pull back the paper carefully and there before you are your glowing, magic shoes. They are a rich brown, of earth and adventure, and they shine like the crown of your uncle’s head. They appear unmarked to anyone else, but their tag and instructions are plain to see, written into their form and character like a secret message: Here be the vessels to adventure. Never be hindered by any puddle, tree or grownup. Wear deliberately.
You lift them out of the box and rub the smooth leather with your fingertips, introducing yourself to the friends who will carry you on many adventures. You get the new socks out of your cupboard, kept aside for this very moment, and slip them onto your feet, followed by the first shoe, and then the other. You tie the laces tightly and meticulously, even making sure each one is exactly the same length, the bows the same size. And then you are ready to take your first steps. Seated on your bed, this is not a moment to rush into. You wiggle your toes around and gasp; there’s so much room and yet they fit so snugly!
You stand up very slowly, being sure not to move your feet a millimetre…
… and then you’re off, shooting through your door, down the passage, out the back door, through the gate, down the road, the new soles slapping the hot summer pavement joyously. The croak and rasp of leather harmonises with the strain of branches under clambering limbs as your feet scrabble against bark. You jump down with a thud only new shoes know how to make, and all around the neighbourhood old men cock their heads and think of being young again, and the boys trapped behind their eyes dream once more of cops and robbers, hide-and-seek and footraces.
The bell clangs noisily in the distance and you’re the last one through the gate and into the hall for assembly. The headmaster, the one you and your friends giggle at for his red face, walks past you, takes a look at your shoes and gives your head a pat of approval. The boy next to you is asked to report to his office with clean shoes straight after assembly. You can’t help but smirk in triumph. Your shoes squeak pleasantly against the floor all through maths, and you experiment with making them creak at different pitches during English and Afrikaans. They carry you through history and geography flawlessly as you rub off the day’s smudges and almost-scuffs with the sleeve of your shirt.
And the bell tolls one last time, and this time it is a wonderful sound. Before a girl can try to talk to you or the teacher carry on past the lesson’s end, you’re out the door and the classroom catapults you into the afternoon. None of your friends can run as fast as you, catch snakes like you can, climb to the highest branches with your skill this afternoon. They’ve allowed the magic to seep out of their shoes; some of them never had it in the first place. But the magic yours possess is powerful, the bright leather sparking energy and sending it through your feet to rattle your body alive as it’s never felt before.
With dusk heavy in the air you disband your ragged group and scamper home towards warm supper, a reluctant bath, the threat of homework and a soft bed to gather you up when your swollen head hits the pillow, your dreams carrying you far away, in a pith helmet and steaming jungle one minute, crouched in summer puddles cupping frog princes in your hands the next. And all night your shoes prowl in their box-cave, their growls and shuffling filling the night air with the rumour of pirates, of Jock of the Bushveld, of old maps rustling in a decrepit backpack.
Tomorrow will bring with it new adventures. As will the next. And the next. And the…

Giants

When you’re young, you find comfort in what to you are unchanging reference points – a parent, tall as a giant, whose legs you can cling to for comfort; or a grandparent, who always has and always will live. When you are little, grandparents are eternal, as old as time itself, stoic markers of a world that makes sense because they’re in it – they’ve seen it all and can guide you through the confusion life brings. And when they’re taken from you, the world seems a much bigger, scarier place. It rocks you.

Granddad was one of my reference points. He was like a tree, unchanging in my child’s eyes down the years. His white moustache was always immaculate. His bearing was always upright. There was a precision in his movements that was wholly unique. He was always busy with his hands, and I loved going into the hallowed grounds of his neat workshop, watching him shape wood using one of his lathes or planes, bent over a bench, adding a slight whorl or nick to something. Just the smallest whiff of sawdust takes me to his workshop on a hot day, the cicadas screaming from the trees like the world will end.

I think we all lost a reference point last Sunday morning. Whether you’re a grandchild, son, daughter, cousin, niece, nephew or friend, a marker has been uprooted next to the one sweet Dordor left. It’s impossible to talk about Granddad without thinking about Dordor. But we can take heart that he has gone to his reward. And we each can keep those special memories we all have of them – dust motes swirling in Granddad’s workshop, long chats about the latest book Granddad was reading, lunches under the tree in the garden, sneaking jam drops from the pantry, crosswords on the veranda in Ramsgate.

I miss Granddad more than I can say, and I can’t wait to see him again.

Margins v. 2.0

(Whew! Time I dusted off this old blog! I wrote this for Greti's birthday last month.)

His presence in the house was like a child’s breathing. He skirted around objects as if afraid to dirty them, the click of his crutches shy and delicate. When he sat on the couch, he perched on the edge lightly, never sitting on the cushions in full, foreign comfort. He often hid his stained fingernails by balling his hands slightly. His cheeks still stung where his beard had been shaved off. She’d often catch him running his fingers along the wool of the thick jersey she’d given him. Their cohabitation was a dance they performed in a stilted rhythm, neither really used to it, not quite sure how to speak or go about the tiny minutiae of every day life.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.” He said it without looking at her. In fact, he rarely made eye contact.
“I’m glad you like it.” They continued eating in silence. She liked to watch him eat. He savoured everything in a way she’d forgotten to do. He didn’t chase the salad around his plate, toying with it like she did, and seemed to genuinely like the broccoli she had to force down. She wondered how many hot meals he’d ever eaten.

The first time he’d come into her house, she’d felt ashamed. His leg was freshly set in plaster and he was struggling to get used to the crutches, so initially he spent large chunks of his day in the lounge. Whenever she saw his eyes flick around the room to all the expensive trinkets she’d collected over the years, her cheeks would flush. She tried not to calculate what they’d cost her, and how long that money could feed and clothe him. She wondered if he thought that too.

He’d been reluctant to stay with her, but she had insisted. He knew it was guilt that made her take him in, but once in her home he knew it was loneliness too. As he became familiar with the house, he noticed all the signs. The single bed, always neatly made. The underwear he saw drying on the line outside was all function, no frills or delicacy. There was no sense of there being space for another person’s clutter; every surface had a knickknack of some sort, every cupboard brimmed with the things a single person will collect over the years without someone else to curb their hoarding. The small dining room table had been set for one when he arrived. The couch had a bias on the cushion directly in front of the TV, home to just one body. And there was a tentative longing in her.

She struggled to fathom him. She sensed the wit and eloquence beneath his timid, cautious exterior. That he was well educated she had no doubts, she just wondered how he had gotten to where he was. But she was afraid to ask him, lest she seem judgmental or condescending. She found that she often had to guard her words, and catch herself before saying something that would seem unkind or patronising. She found it easier to share her home with him than she thought she would, but reasoned that it was easy because he did not impose himself on his surroundings. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was little more than a whisper. He did not watch TV or listen to the radio. Instead he would sit quietly, unmoving, deep in thought, or pick a book from her shelf and devour it in one sitting, his brow furrowed, his lips forming the words silently. She would watch him for long spells, sometimes forgetting to catch the smiles that slowly curled at the corners of her mouth.

He slept in the spare room. It was just like all the other spare rooms you find in single-occupant houses. It was neat, the curtains had a floral print, and when you opened the cupboards there was a whiff of mothballs and musty boxes. She had bought him some clothing; plain t-shirts, trousers, underwear, socks, a jersey, running shoes. She’d tried to buy him nondescript clothes that he wouldn’t feel awkward in. She hadn’t thrown his old clothes away – she’d felt it would be arrogant of her – and so had washed them and put them in a bag. He had shyly accepted the clothing, and when she gave them to him they had both mumbled in embarrassment before she feigned needing to make a phone call. He kept his few things very neat, and she liked it when he spilt food on his shirt and clicked his tongue in dismay.

“You must be mad!”
“Why? I ran over him! It was the right thing to do.”
“The right thing to do would be to kick him out right this instant! He could take advantage of you in the night!”
“He wouldn’t.” A whisper, “Besides, I lock my door.”
“I should hope so! When will he move on?”
“I hadn’t thought about that. When he’s healed I suppose.” She twirled the phone cord around her finger. “I actually quite like having him around.”
“Well I think you’re being very foolish-”
“You’ve made it clear what you think. Look, I can hear his door opening, I’ll call you again next week.”
“I just want you to be safe!”
“I will be. Bye bye.”

She hadn’t thought about the end really. Until this point there had only been the now, and making supper, and asking after his leg, and if he was okay. She hadn’t thought about what would happen when the cast came off. Would he go off one day while she was out? Would she make him?

It was no accident this happened while I was listening to some shmetal...

Margins

His presence in the house was like a child’s breathing. He skirted around objects as if afraid to dirty them. When he sat on the couch, he perched on the edge lightly, never sitting on the cushions in full, foreign comfort. He often hid his stained fingernails by balling his hands slightly. His cheeks still stung where his lengthy beard had been shaved off. She’d once caught him running his fingers along the wool of the thick jersey she’d given him. Their cohabitation was a dance they performed in a stilted rhythm, neither really used to it, not quite sure how to speak or go about the tiny minutiae of every day life. She ashamed of her wealth. He ashamed of his lack.