Change In Plans

This post was also written several weeks ago, just after we returned from a family trip to Madagascar.

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Greetings from Antananarivo!

We have spent the last ten days on our long-awaited family trip to Madagascar.  This has been #1 on India’s adventure-travel list for longer than I can remember.  Nearly every American that we mentioned our planned trip to made reference to the animated movie, “Madagascar”.  The majority immediately started singing the “I like to move it, move it” song.  I caught myself humming the song dozens of times while we were there.

Madagascar is a big island, and is not just underdeveloped, it is practically untouched.  We flew at low altitude over half the country, and out the window you see nothing but low mountains and sand.  No roads or electricity or agriculture.  The capital, Antananarivo is dusty and sprawling, with houses and huts built on the hillsides, and the valleys filled with rice paddies (very incongruous).  Legacy of French colonialism, we found a pastry shop that made amazing croissants and fancy desserts. 

Madagascar had a bloodless (pretty much bloodless) coup a few years back, with a young former disc jockey taking power from the elected President, who is now in comfortable exile in Johannesburg.  The DJ (as the French-backed interloper is universally identified) must not have much of an internal-security apparatus, because every Malagasy we asked told us what a lousy president he is, and how they angry they are at the French for installing him in power.  Something will have to give, but in the meantime, the country bumbles along in warm poverty.

India engineered the trip to start very rustic, and become more luxurious as we went along.  Our first night was camping in pup tents in a national park called Nosy Mangabe.  The park is an island in a huge bay, about 500 km north and east of Antananarivo.  We took a calm 90 minute boat ride from the airport in Maroensetra.   It was definitely pretty rustic. 

We tramped around the woods with our guide, finding lots of lemurs.  All of the animals in Madagascar are slightly and weirdly different from their mainland counterparts, reflecting ancient forks in the evolutionary tree.  Lemurs are more feral than monkeys, and much cuter too.  The mouse lemur is a little furry guy, about twice the size of my fist, but with these huge double-silver-dollar size eyes.  They appear to be about 40% eye by surface volume.  If there is ever a global cute-animal competition, the mouse lemur has my vote.  Tallulah caught dozens of frogs, and they all had disproportionately big triangular heads, and strange coloration.  The leaf-tailed gecko adheres itself, upside down, to a tree trunk, tucks in its feet, sleeps, and can not be dislodged.  It is like a parallel universe of slightly bizarre animals.

We moved from the island to a slightly more civilized tent lodge down the eastern shore of the bay.  This was rustic beach living: sunset kayak trips, snorkelling, walks in the forest, dozens of lemurs around.  There were only four other guests, so they organized lots of activities for us, and we sat in the open-air lodge in the evenings, drinking South African wine and playing Uno with Tallulah and Zola.  Our kids are good travellers, I think.

On the morning of our last day, it poured with rain, and the calm bay was whipped up to 2-3 foot swells.  Not ideal for a long crossing back to Maroensetra in an open rubber-duck boat.  It was slightly nerve-wracking, but I held Tallulah in my lap, and we all clutched ropes and seats tightly.  I was only worried a couple of times that we might capsize, which would have been a real problem.    Only later I found out that this bay is filled with sharks, and when a ferry went down a couple of yars ago, nearly everyone was eaten in a feeding frenzy that must be shark legend to this day.  Even with ponchos, we got soaked by rain and sea spray.  No one was sorry when we got to town and went to the airport.

The last part of the trip was at a Relais & Chateaux lodge called Anjajavy. on the dry northwest coast. Nothing rustic about Anjajavy, which looked like it was designed to be photographed for “exotic honeymoon” stories in bridal magazines.  It was quite magnificent.  At Anjajavy we could drink the tap water, and walk on well groomed trails (looking for more lemurs).  Our chalets were air-conditioned to the point of chilliness.  They organized a private lunch on one of the beaches, and we swam in the pool, then the ocean, then the pool.  We tracked hairy-legged crabs, and toured a very creepy cave, highlighted by the skeleton of a long-extinct species of lemur.   We snorkelled on the reef, and visited a sacred baobab tree on a remote island.  With charming reverence, our guide made us cover our bare legs with kikois before we could approach the tree. 

I have no idea how they supplied this 5-star resort: everything must have been flown in.  The staff all spoke French, and were very professionally trained.  Bone-crushingly expensive, but very civilized.

Somehow, though, Madagascar took a serious physical toll on India and me.  I broke two toes running in the forest in the twilight of dusk: I was too lazy to put my shoes back on after the 6^th river crossing, and tripped over a root.  Genius point!  I wrecked my Achilles tendon trying to play soccer with a group of young men on a regulation-sized sand field.  They were kind enough to let me play goalie when I couldn’t limp around any more.  They were also kind enough to let Zola score a few goals, and high five him after.  Finally, I opened a 10-inch cut on my shin trying to right the catamaran that I had capsized about 250 meters off shore.  This sailing accident was a complete debacle of hubris and irresponsibility on my part, and probably destroyed the boat.  I could practically hear my deceased father laughing as we bobbed around in the warm water.  I am incredibly glad and relieved that Zola was not hurt.  By the end of our trip, I was hobbled, and humbled, and feeling about 100 years old.

Most dramatically, India fell into a tree and massacred her face while running on our last day at Anjajavy.  She was about 5 kilometers from the hotel, so she ran back for 30 minutes, with blood spurting from just below her eye and from the bridge of her nose.  She is pretty tough.  When she came in, it looked as though she had killed a small animal with her teeth.  Fortunately, Anjajavy has a doctor on site, who came to our room at 7am, and field dressed the wounds.  When we got back to Cape Town, our friend the plastic surgeon took out dozens of wood fragments and put in six stitches.  India was back on the road a day later.  Did I mention that she is tough?

[Post-script note: two months later, India pulled another giant splinter out of her face.  She said, "I knew something didn't feel right."]

So, Madagascar was pretty cool, and we are glad that we went. The wild life is truly unique, and the rough beauty is spectacular.  Unless they find a lot of oil and gas (which they might), it is hard to see great prosperity coming to Madagascar, though.  I don’t know what has replaced it at the top of India’s must-see list.  I have a suspicion I will know soon.

Greetings from Cape Town!  This was written a couple of months ago, but I figured I would post it anyway.

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We have had many adventures and misadventures since I last wrote in this blog.  I hope that my reader hasn’t gotten impatient and looked elsewhere for platitudes and unfunny stories about our kids.  Our “plans have changed again”, in the sense that I took a full time job after a couple of years of goofing around, we really committed ourselves to living in South Africa, and we got a puppy.

Rather than writing a long summary, I think I will write a few short posts, and try to leave out the boring stuff.

Two weeks ago Friday was Tallulah’s 7^th birthday.  It was fun for us to remember her 4^th birthday, in 2008 at the Umaid Bavan Palace hotel in Jodhpur, India.  The staff there was wildly indulgent, and she got three chocolate cakes during the course of the day.  With three cakes, she insisted that she had three birthdays, and that she was 7 years old.  Zola was 8, and I think she did this to drive him crazy, which it did.  Now suddenly, she is 7, and I feel the sad sweetness (or sweet sadness) of her childhood racing away from us.  Prestalgia for our daughter as a little girl.

For her 7^th birthday, India and Tallulah organized a cheetah-petting party for 30 girls at Spier wine estate in Stellenbosch.  Spier is more like an entertainment  destination than a wine estate: it has a cheetah-rescue center, predator-bird rescue center, a big outdoor African-themed restaurant, an outdoor amphitheatre, wine-tasting rooms. I am not even sure there are vineyards.

We rented a mini-bus to take 10 girls, and all of the others came with India and a few other Moms from Tallulah’s class.  On the way out, the girls sang funny (surprisingly bawdy) songs and radiated enthusiasm and confidence that I hope they keep for their whole long lives.

The cheetah handlers selected a big male, and had him lie on a table in a courtyard.  As the handlers held the cheetah down (gently), the girls approached in pairs, and were allowed to pet him.  It was all very professional and calm.  Zola and I went up together at the end.  I had never seen a cheetah except from a game vehicle, and had always thought of them as pretty wimpy, relative to the lions and leopards, and even the hyenas.  Cheetahs run down their prey and trip them with an ankle tap, and suffocate them before eating, rather than tearing them to pieces while still alive.  They suffocate by clamping their jaws around the windpipe of the poor antelope or bok who is becoming dinner.  I saw a cheetah kill in Kenya many years ago, and it was somehow seemed quite civilized (maybe not for the antelope!)

Up close and personal, the cheetah was magnificent.  Huge, and muscly, and beautiful.  His tail alone was nearly a meter long.  He projected violent power masked by grace and calmness.

After everyone had petted the cheetah, we assembled the girls and marched them off toward the outdoor restaurant for cake, and face painting and games.  We walked down a narrow outdoor passageway, with high walls on one side and a chain-link fence on the other, and a wooden gate at the far end.  Behind us we heard a shout, and saw two small, female handlers struggling to restrain the cheetah.  Then the cheetah broke loose, and ran down the corridor through the screaming kids.  Newsflash: cheetahs run really, really fast.  It took 10-15 seconds for the panicked handlers to catch up at the far end of the, grab the leash, and get the cheetah away from the girls.

The cheetah had a muzzle, so I wasn’t too worried about anyone being bitten (or ankle tapped and suffocated, I guess).  I was scared that the big animal would run over a small person, or even just whack someone with his tail.  It would have been a tough thing to explain to parents who had entrusted their baby to us for the afternoon.

Fortunately, no one did get hurt.  Some of the girls later claimed dramatically to have claw marks, but I saw most of those little scratches being self inflicted with fingernails.

The party was a big success.  Faces were painted, games were played.  The cake, a three-dimensional cheetah lying on a field of green icing, was devoured.  I spent the evening driving the mini bus all over Cape Town, delivering 7 year olds to their parents.  It is one of the few times I have felt unambiguously useful as a parent.

Happy Birthday, Tallulah.

Greetings from Cape Town!

Like suburbanites the world over, I was sitting on the front porch drinking coffee and reading the Sunday newspapers this morning.  The waves were massive and messy, and there were no surfers or body boarders out, even though it was sunny.  Mid-winter in Cape Town is pretty sweet.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a giant flipper come out of the water about 250 meters off shore.  I grapped the binoculars (and Tallulah), and we watched a viagra right whale breach and flop back into the waves.  It is the beginning of calving season, and the whales are moving down toward Hermanus in large numbers. 

We saw the whale spout a few times, breach again, then wave a flipper and swim off toward Cape Point.  Unbelievable and amazing.  I tried to get a picture, but it just looks like foamy blue ocean.  Anyway, a photograph couldn’t capture the blueness of the sky, the rocky mountains behind me, the lushness of the mid-winter fynbos, or the kids playing happily on the beach.  The sighting will have to live on in the mind’s eye.

We have two sets of friends coming from New York this week for a visit.  For all of them, it is their first trip to South Africa.  I hope they see the same natural beauty that has kept us coming back to Cape Town for the last 20 years.

Greetings from rainy Cape Town!

About half an hour ago, I heard beautiful singing from the windows
outside my office.  I thought it must be a church group, or (unlikely)
related to Friday services at one of the local mosques.

I looked down to the street, and discovered a tiny protest rally under
way by the South African Communist Party.  About 12 singing protesters,
surrounded by roughly an equal number of police officers, all blocking the
entrance to the offices of a law firm.  I am slightly surprised to find 12
practicing communists outside of North Korea or Cuba, but in SA the
dialectic continues.

Two women held a printed banner reading “Socialism is the future.”   Next to them,
two men held a hand-printed banner reading (with less conviction)  “Socialism is a future.”

Many of the other protesters were holding up signs written on A4 sheets
of white printer paper.  I was too far away to read the handwriting on the signs, so the
purpose of the rally remains a mystery.  The singing sounds wonderful, though.

Earlier this morning, I ran into one of India’s long-standing friends and former
colleagues at a coffee shop.  Albie Sachs has been a playwright, a freedom fighter,
a constitutional scholar (and co-author), and one of the original justices on
the post-apartheid constitutional court.  I would normally describe him as
“a man in full,” but that would be ironic, because he lost an arm and an eye in
when the apartheid government tried to assassinate him in Mozambique in the 1970s.

Albie retired from the bench, but was completely up to speed on India’s new campaign for Safe
Spaces.  He is writing a movie script, and raising a 4-year-old son (Albie is 71).   Zola’s
Grade 6 Social Sciences class did oral reports on Albie’s life.

We chatted for a while about politics, and I realized that this was a little like having a conversation with
John Marshall back in 1805. Life in a young democracy can be frustrating and a little scary, but
it is never dull.

Greetings from Cape Town, where Spring is in the air.

I have been negligent about writing anything for the last several weeks, so
you have missed our trip to the U.S., my Mom’s birthday party, our three
weeks at the Beaverkill (just great for all concerned), a quick trip to London,
an Irish wedding, a long flight home, and re-immersion into our
South African lives (in progress).  Whew!

Not enough time to recount it all in excruciating detail.  Just a short
post on two achievements by India and Tallulah.

The “Run Outside” part of this post’s title is in honor of India completing
the Hout Bay Trail Challenge two weeks ago.  HBTC is generally considered
the toughest trail run in the country: about 36 kilometers (the route changes
year to year) and about 7,000 feet of climbing, all on narrow dirt and sand
tracks.

India started in the dark at 7am (she sent an SMS at 6:45 reading, “I am cold and
lonely and a little bit scared.  I hope someone adopts me.”).  She staggered across
the finish line at 3pm, completely shattered.  To make the “Challenge” more of a
challenge, the organizers added 6 kilometers and another 400-500 meters of
climbing to last year’s route.  The winning time was about 60 minutes slower than
last year’s winning time.

India is super tough, but she ended up exhausted and with huge respect for the HBTC.

The “Play” part of the post title is for Tallulah’s participation in the St. Cyprian’s School
140th Anniversary play this week. 

About 400 girls were on stage for the finale, but Tallulah shined like a very happy little star. 
She has been singing all of the numbers, and dancing around the house for weeks.
Watching with pride - sports, concerts, plays, ballet - is one of the greatest things about being a parent.

Greetings from the Catskills!

We have been in the U.S. for just over one action-packed week: Nashville, New York City, New Hampshire for my Mom’s birthday.  Now we are spending some time at our riverside shack in the Beaverkill Valley.  This place, and these people, are very important to us.  The only constant in Zola’s and Tallulah’s lives has been late June and early July in the Beaverkill.

My last post was about Zola.  I nearly dislocated my shoulder patting myself on the back so vigorously because I “knew my son so well” and “had such a close relationship.”  Smugness goeth before a surprise.

A few days before we left for the U.S., in the middle of his mid-year exams, Zola announced that he was getting baptised while we were in Nashville.  This came as a complete surprise.  He offered three pretty good reasons: (1) he has been taking Bible classes at school, and based on what he has learned, he wants to be a Christian; (2) all of his Tennessee relatives have been baptised, and he wants to feel like more a part of his family; (3) he isn’t sure if there is heaven and hell, but if there is a hell, and he can avoid it by being baptised, wouldn’t it be stupid not to take that precaution?  Reason #3 seems pretty compelling.

India, Zola and I had a few longish talks, and we offered our complete support.  I am still amazed that he initiated this whole process, contacted his uncle to perform the baptism, and went through with the whole thing in front of 2,000 Sunday parishioners.  Good for him, God bless him.  We applaud the independence of thought and action.

Zola also surprised us by doing better than expected on his mid-year exams, even in Afrikaans.  He is getting the hang of the South African school system.  It still seems slightly crazy to march them around like miniature university students, and expect them to teach themselves a lot of material, and write big exams starting at age 9.  Now that he’s 11, maybe it makes more sense.  Nevertheless, this is what we signed up for.  I am glad he is finding his stride.

Our trip to the U.S. has been good.  Because a full year has passed since we were in the Beaverkill (or in New York City or in New Hampshire), India and I keep marvelling at how quickly time has passed.  Not a huge amount seems to have changed in any of these places, but this may reflect investigative laziness on my part, rather than actual constancy/stasis.  We haven’t had enough time to catch up properly with anyone -friends, parents, kids, cousins- to get past the first-order facts of what is different in their lives.  Maybe during our time at the camp and with our Catskills friends. 

This is Zola’s 9th year in the day camp here: he started when he was 3.  It has been deeply reassuring to him to jump back in with the same kids and counsellors.  It is Tallulah’s 5th year.  Her baby friends have grown into young ladies.

Last night we had about 20 people over for an impromptu cookout by our pond.  I offered a simple blessing before the meal; actually, more of an appreciation than a blessing.  A cookout by a pond, with old friends in the summer twilight is not a grand or historic event.  It is not life-changing, but maybe it is life.  The appreciation was for how many things have to “go right” in order for this occasion to take place: our health, co-operation from the weather, having a beautiful place and the community of friends, a grocery store near enough and open, ability to travel from far and near.  All everyday miracles that I hope to not take for granted.  The recent invention of giant marshmallows, about the size of a baby’s head, is just a bonus.  

It is good to be home.

Greetings from Johannesburg!

We got back from Paris yesterday afternoon (again via Istanbul - long trip!), and I flew to Johannesburg this morning.  On my way to the airport, I stopped by Zola’s school during his mid-morning break.  I summoned him off the soccer field just to tell him I love him.  Zola was a little embarrassed in front of his buddies, but still let me give him a big hug.

One of the great joys of the last couple of years, when I have been more focused on family than on work, has been that I have gotten to know my kids better than I ever would have otherwise.  Being with Zola in Paris last week, I really spent some time with him, and have been thinking about him a lot.  He is 11, and seems on the verge of adolescence.  That said, he is still very much a little boy, full of love and wonder.

Based on what I have observed, here is a portrait of my son aged 11, written in terms of likes and dislikes.  First, what Zola likes:

Everything about soccer - since the World Cup, his obsession with war (which superceded his 8-9 year old obsession with Pokemon) has been completely superceded by an obsession with soccer.  He enjoys playing, but he is more interested in soccer teams, and soccer players, and soccer trivia, and soccer history.  He reads and re-reads soccer magazines and books, dresses only in team jerseys (particularly Barcelona and Chelsea), follows the games religiously, and cares deeply about La Liga, Barclays Premier League, and the UEFA Cup.  He plays FIFA 2011 on his computer whenever we let him.  A typical Zola conversation includes a detailed description of some Barcelona goal, a hypothetical question (”Would you rather be a sub for Barcelona or a starter for Schalke 04?’) and an analysis of Chelsea’s league table standing.  Usually there is a truly obscure fact or two thrown in about the Uruguayan national team or about the free-kick conversion ratio of Spanish mid-fielders. 

Reading -   He plows through long books with intensity and purpose, forgetting to eat, or sleep, or watch where he is walking (ouch!).  Zola particularly likes book series, such as “Gone,” “Hunger Games,” “Alex Rider,” “CHERUB,” or “Artemis Fowl,” and “Percy Jackson” and “Twilight,” in years past.  Once he has gotten comfortable with a group of characters, he treats them like friends, and wants to spend all of his time with them.  He is sad when he finishes the last book in a series, and frequently rereads a few of the books just to savor the relationships.  He seems to be good at math, but doesn’t have the same passion that he has for books.

Chocolate - In Paris, Zola tried to subsist only on pain a chocolat (morning), Nutella crepes (day time), and chocolate mousse (dessert).  He also liked the baguettes.  We try to balance his diet with real food, but given his druthers, he would consume mostly chocolate.  He seems to get chocolate on his face a lot, and is oblivious to it. 

Physical contact - since he was little, Zola is happy and comfortable when he is in physical contact with someone else.  He likes to hold hands, or sit on someone’s lap, or lean against me when we are together.  Leaning against India or me, while reading the fifth book in the CHERUB series, maybe while eating a pain a chocolat

is like the triple play of Zola happy.  If there are no people within proximity, he loves the sensuous pleasures of blankets and terry cloth robes, similar physical sensation.

Everyone having a good time - more than anything else, Zola is happy when he is surrounded by people who are happy.  He is a natural impresario and cheerleader.  His happiest moments in any athletic activity are when he is moving down a field with his team mates: that is more important to him than scoring goals or winning the matches/races.  Like a pure Myers-Briggs extrovert, he physically draws energy from the presence of others.  As one of his teachers said, “Zola just wants to be loved.”  Don’t we all?

To a certain extent, what Zola doesn’t like is the converse of these likes.  In addition, though, by observation, he really doesn’t like:

Trying new foods - he committed to trying new foods in Paris, but every time he was confronted with a strange fork, he made a horrible face, stuck out a millimeter of tongue, sniffed several times, and took the tiniest of tiny nibbles.  Then it was back to his plain pasta or baguette.  He would protest, “But I tried it!”

Instability and lack of routine - our vagabond lifestyle has been hardest on Zola.  The lack of routine in his school day (12 subjects served up in seemingly random order with different teachers and folders and rooms) is also hugely challenging for him.  When he gets into a daily and weekly rhythm, he physically relaxes and thinks/writes and behaves well.  Once that is disrupted, he seems to struggle.  Familiarity, comfort, predictability, rhythm.

Perceived injustice - he is most sensitive when it applies to himself, but he observes situtations impartially and often concludes, “That’s not fair.”  When it involves soccer, he is even critical of his favorite teams if they have gotten unfair advantage.  I think this reflexive belief in fair play and equity comes from his Mom.

He is still a very sweet, loving, cheerful little boy.  I am saddened that these are exactly the characteristics that are most likely to be coarsened out of him by the painful process of growing up.  Nice kid.

Zola

Greetings from Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport, where the rich diversity of human culture is always on display.

We have played the ‘packing for Paris’ word game with Tallulah about 9 million times. It drives her crazy when I say I am packing “a Tallulah.” She says, “I’m a person, DAD! You are supposed to be packing things, DAD!” It is difficult to capture in written form the mix of exasperation, humour, and polite indulgence (as if for a not-very-bright puppy) that Tallulah expresses with the word “DAD!” The mix may shift toward exasperation over time.

So yesterday we were packing for Paris for real. India, Tallulah and I all felt woefully dowdy and un-hip, in our Cape Town duds. It’s a paradox: South Africa has great design and housewares, but ugly clothes and shoes. Not sure why. Zola was oblivious. India and Tallulah have made clear that they will be packing a lot more on the trip back from Paris than on the way there. The woman at the check-in counter even remarked, “You are traveling light.” Ha ha. Wait until she sees what we come back with.

On paper, Turkish Airlines is a convenient way to get to Europe. Direct flight from Cape Town to Istanbul, with an hour stop in Johannesburg. Easy connection to anywhere. The planes are brand new, and the in-flight entertainment is great (important for traveling with kids). It is also much less out of the way than changing planes in Dubai or Abu Dhabi.

So in theory, this should have been easy and pleasant. Back in our travel-round-the-world days, I think it would have been fine. We are out of practice, though. No one slept well on the flight. External factors played a role. The screamingest baby in the history of air travel was seated one row in front of us. Even the flight attendants, who are used to this kind of thing, realized it was a hazard to flight safety: someone might pull the emergency exit to get away. They seated the mother and baby in the galley for most of the flight. Seriously.

Even though the flight was not very bumpy, a half dozen passengers around us got airsick and barfed. Zola was awakened when the woman sitting behind him spattered projectile vomit on his hand and arm. Nice.

About an hour after the vomiting, the cabin was filled with a horrible smell of rotting meat and pumpkins. Zola had gotten his unintended revenge by taking off his shoes. I double bagged the shoes in plastic, and put them in the overhead compartment. His socks were still pretty offensive, but at least we didn’t get moved to the galley with the screaming baby.

Finally, my fingers swelled a lot during the flight (sympathetic reaction to watching ‘127 Hours’ on the awesome in-flight entertainment system). I switched my wedding band to my pinky, which wasn’t quite swollen enough to hold it on. Somehow the ring dropped deep into the mechanical bowels of Zola’s seat, clanking as it fell. When we landed, after all of the other passengers had disembarked, they sent an engineering team to disassemble the seat. 15 minutes later, we all applauded as a flight attendant slipped the ring back on my sausage-like finger.

We straggled down the steps to an airport bus, jammed with our fellow passengers, who had been waiting for all of this time. If looks could kill, all four of us (even sweet little Tallulah) would be lying dead on the tarmac. I felt badly for a few passengers who must have had tight connections, and shoved us out of the way as they sprinted out of the bus at the terminal.

So, we are slouching around the airport in Istanbul for a few hours. Tired, ratty with each other, and generally off of our peak travelling form. When we get to France in 5 hours, we can rest a little, unpack for Paris, and start enjoying our holiday. Adventure awaits.

Greetings from Cape Town!

We have been back in South Africa for about 16 months, and I am starting to recognize patterns a little bit.  A few that come to mind are described below.

Labor strikes

- April and May are strike season.  Last year, I could not believe how much strike activity there was, and how little people seemed to notice.  Seeing a slightly reduced, but similar, pattern this year, I realize that labor action is just part of the annual rhythm in post-apartheid South Africa.  Contracts are coming up for renewal, and the combination of strong unions, a history of mass action, and a still hugely inequitous division of income mean that there will be strikes.  Over time, organized labor’s influence will decline, and workers and management will figure out a more collaborative means of resolving differences.  In the meantime, every April/May, we will expect strikes.

Easter traffic - the top story on the hourly news broadcasts over Easter weekend is always about traffic.  South Africa has a four-day weekend for Easter, and kids are on school holidays.  There is also a massive religious gathering (>1 million members of the Zion Christian Church) in a remote northwest corner of the country.  A big percentage of the population is on the road.  The Thursday and Friday news is always about how many cars are going through various traffic pinch points, mostly between Johannesburg and Durban, and where the impossibly long, multi-kilometre, traffic jams are.  There are also lots of interviews with traffic police, promising to crack down on speeders and drunk drivers.  The news later in the holiday period will be about the number of traffic deaths, with commentary on whether they are higher or lower than last year’s totals.  There will also be stories about the horrific accidents that kill >10 people at a go.

Road Racing - Closer to home, I am observing India’s behavior pattern before a big race.  She is running the 2 Oceans ultramarathon tomorrow morning.  Whenever she is extremely fit, and  gearing up to run a fast race, the few days beforehand are tense, and she has a host of small physical maladies.  Advil gets taken, general fretting occurs, and she says, “I am just hoping to finish.  I don’t care about my time.”  I think she will run her personal best tomorrow, and will finish in the top 2% of women over 40.  Just a guess.

Reading - Also closer to home, I am recognizing a pattern in Zola’s behavior.  Whenever he and I are driving somewhere together, I want to talk and spend quality time with my son.  He just wants to read his book (he is plowing through the CHERUB series of spy-kid novels by Michael Muchamore at the moment).  I think I was exactly the same when I was 11, and I would guess that my parents felt the same way.

Surfing

- Finally, I spent the last two mornings surfing at Muizenberg on the Indian Ocean coast.  Muizenberg is the surfing equivalent of a green beginner slope on a ski mountain.  The water is warm, the waves  (even when they are big), break slowly and gently.  A few hours at Muizenberg, on the big boards, and I convince myself that I can actually surf.  As happened again this evening, I take this new-found confidence into the colder and much more treacherous waters in Llandudno, outside our house.  Suddenly, I can surf Llandudno much better.  I come back to the house full of excitement: I can surf.  This is proof.  Two more sessions in Llandudno, and I will be humbled and demoralized (and physically battered) again.  The highlight today was that Zola went out and surfed in the deep water at Muizenberg.  He looked great and had fun.  My selfish hobby can sometimes be recharacterized as Dad & son time.

Summary - pattern recognition is the single biggest benefit of aging.

Kids on Beach

Greetings from Cape Town!

The title of this post is a lame leonine play on words. The fact is that I am bursting with husbandly and paternal pride.

I got back from Istanbul on Friday afternoon.  Right after I landed, India, Tallulah and I piled into her car and drove up the West Coast.  We went about 120 kilometres north of Cape Town to the village of Langebaan. Zola stayed over with a friend back in the city.

The last time we stayed in Langebaan was 1991, when I gave a speech to a Rotary Club there. It has not changed very much.  India and I  had forgotten how beautiful the lagoon and the islands immediately west of the village are.  For dinner, we sat at the same outdoor restaurant that we had eaten at 20 years earlier, watching the sun set over the still water and the low hills.  Magnificent South Africa.

India was out the door before 5 am to catch a bus which took her to the starting line of the West Coast Marathon. The race was supposed to start at 6:30, but there was a big logistical mess.  Only 8 of the scheduled 21 buses showed up, so the organizers announced a one-hour delay. By now, the sun was up, and the temperature was already about 85 degrees. India rallied a group of rebel runners who wanted to start immediately, concerned about cooking in the sun.  The organizers threatened to disqualify her and her little posse.

After much to-ing and fro-ing, India and the rebels were allowed to take off at roughly 6:50. Because the start time was ambiguous, her race time and finishing place were also ambiguous.  As far as I could tell, only one other woman runner crossed the line before her, so I am giving her credit for second.  26 miles in scorching heat, and she practically skipped across the finish line, smiling and giving high fives all around.  Superstar.  Well done! 

It was really hot - nearly 100 degrees and no shade.  A large man in his 50s collapsed in front of me, about 100 meters from completing the half marathon.  His running partner and I put his arms over our shoulders and we dragged him, semi-conscious, toward the medical tent (and finish line).  A race official shouted at me, “Sir, this competitor will be disqualified for having accepted your help!”  I said, “Ma’am, with all due respect, I think being disqualified is the least of his worries at the moment.” 

Many of our South African memories seem to occur at the intersection of drama and officiousness.

Showing no ill effects, India showered, packed our things, and we raced back to Cape Town by 1pm.  Having passed all of the qualification exams only a week earlier, Zola was competing in the two-day Western Province Surf Lifesaving Championships.  We got to Clifton Beach just as the competition was starting.

Surf lifesaving may be the best sport ever.  The athletes (called “nippers” for unknown reasons) compete in running races on the beach - relay races, sprints, flag races, long runs - and swimming races in the open ocean.  There are lots of varieties and combinations (e.g., run-swim-run), and ocean races involving lifesaving equipment like malibu boards.

The nippers get a lot of exercise, they learn skills and learn to respect the ocean, and it is fun.  It also involves spending a lot of time with your opposite-sex team mates while you are all wearing bathing suits.  What’s not to like?  During the competition the nippers have to wear little club-colors skull caps with chin ties, and these don’t look very cool.  Aside from that, though, what’s not to like?

Like all South African sports, surf lifesaving is brutally competitive at provincial (and national) level.  There were about 250 athletes from 10 different clubs.  Zola had never competed before, and he had just squeaked through the qualifying times in the swim, so we hoped for the best.

Zola competed in every single one of the 12 events over the two days.  He was middle of the pack in the running events, which was fine.  His relay team nearly made it into the finals, but were disqualified when one of his team mates dove over the finish line with a flourish.  You may be sensing a theme: South African race officials seem to love disqualifying people.

I was most proud of Zola for his performance in the ocean-swimming events.  In each event he had to sprint into the water: cold and full of jelly fish, but fortunately no big waves on the competition days.  He swam out about 40 meters, turned right at a buoy and swam 60 meters parallel to the beach, turned right again, and swam back to the beach. In some events he paddled a flotation device, a long malibu board or a boogie board, and in others it was just a swim.  Also, some events were relays and some were individual.  There was a lot of swimming.

In the first two individual events, Zola came last in his heat of about 20 boys.  He stumbled out of the surf, frustrated, but sprinted across the finish line as best as he could.  In the malibu race, he was spitting mad because another boy had kicked him in the face and knocked him off the board.  Probably not on purpose.

In the last individual event, Zola was in last place when he turned at the first buoy, and in last place when he turned back towad the beach.  Rather than giving up, though, he swam as hard as he could, and passed two boys before they got to the beach.  He ran across the finish line with a huge smile.

The final event, after two tiring days in the sun (I am completely sunburnt, incidentally) was the famed “Iron Nipper.”  This comprises all of the individual ocean events done back to back.  It takes about 20 minutes of heavy exertion to complete.  Although he was nervous, Zola didn’t hesistate.  He ran and swam, ran and paddled, and ran and paddled, and ran.  He finished second to last in his heat, but tried his hardest every second of the way.

When the competition ended, there was a prize giving.  While the judges tallied scores, and chose the provincial team, and got out the medals and trophies, the civilian adults stood in the Clifton clubhouse and drank beer in the shade.  The kids sat with their clubs on the beach.  The tallying took a long, long time. 

The kids started singing their clubs’ fight songs, loudly and proudly, and without a shred of self-consciousness or irony.  Each club tried to outdo the others.  Soon, kids were dancing arm in arm, and shouting their songs, and laughing and mock-taunting the other clubs in the fading sunlight.

From the clubhouse balcony, I watched Zola in the crowd below, and felt almost weepy with pride and love.  Singing with his team mates and friends, his arm around one of the girls he may have a little crush on, laughing, and feeling blissfully like part of the group.  If he hadn’t qualified and competed, this moment would never have been available to him. 

Zola didn’t win any medals, and he certainly didn’t make the provincial team.  His club came fourth in the province, which seemed like a good result, and he contributed a little to that.  He can practice his swim strokes, and be more physically fit, and understand the technique and the tactics a lot better next year.  He already has the determination and the willingness to try.  Maybe this is my response to the Tiger Mom.

film jumping broom

Note book title and lion in background