Climactic Conditions & Being a Surfer's Girlfriend

Being the girlfriend of a surfer has taught me many things. I’ve always had the travel bug and surfing inevitably takes you in search of new places, so it’s a good match in more ways than one. Together we’ve churned up the dust on lots of pothole-filled back roads on our way through isolated sections in not-for-tourists zones, where the locals look up at you in surprise because visitors are a novelty. I can unpack a boot, jack up a car and change a flat tyre in 5-minutes flat. I’ve become a practiced wave photographer – enjoying my time on the beach while snapping up lifetime memories that can be savored and celebrated. I’ve found myself in the middle of the ocean – kayaking or snorkeling where I would never go alone – taking in the beauty of aquamarine water, seeing the shore from the other side, meeting inquisitive sea-friends and strange alien looking plantlife. I’ve been dunked by walls of seawater, sputtering to the surface like a fledgling painfully trying to learn to surf my own fun. I’ve gone on adventures when most stay inside cozy under a duvet – braving the rain, the wind and the cold – to catch a glimpse of Mother Nature gracing the seas with big swell, big waves and big dreams.

In surfing, the convergence of a myriad of factors makes for perfect conditions: the wind direction, the swell height, period and direction, the angle of the beach, the tide and the cycle of the moon – Neap or Spring – the time of day. For some surf spots these things unite only on rare occasions, making the event one of significance and worthy of the chase, to travel at odd times, seeking out the dream. I’ve always been spontaneous but now the weather patterns have become a deciding factor in my life – beach holidays are no longer decided by the condition of the sun but by the direction of the wind and on storm patterns emerging from the deep Antarctic. Hand-drawn synoptic charts, plotted in purple, red and orange, have taken me as far away as Mozambique and Namibia, and just about everywhere in between.

As co-pilot on surfing adventures I’ve learnt that when the time is right and a window of opportunity presents itself in a moment, you have to be ready. And even though I’m not the one suiting up and jumping into the sea, there are many fringe benefits like the exciting feeling of discovery, experiencing beautiful landscapes and taking in the magic of the sea. And so it was that I found myself awakening in the cozy predawn darkness on a wintry morning – rising, dressing and rushing to the car for a new expedition. We were chasing the tide and the dawn for the promise of a new surf spot up the West Coast of South Africa.

We drove through the darkness blanketed by fog – at times visibility was limited to only a car’s length, maybe two. The headlights punctured the mist with inadequate shafts of light. Eventually the mist lifted and the dawn presented itself to us in shades of pink, orange and yellow – lighting up the sky in beautiful streaks of colour. We arrived at our destination on a lonely strip of beach, seemingly isolated yet managed by a gate keeper who greeted us with clipboard in hand and made friendly small talk as he slowly signed us in. We were at the doorstep of a beach resort, and were obliged even though we were not guests. Paperwork completed, we were finally free.

We got started on our walk – 4-kilometres to go – and celebrated as we found ourselves starting the day in the West Coast, taking in its few unmistakable characteristics – a red dirt trail, scrubby bushland crowded by one colourful succulent plant after another, thorny bushes, lucent green and dark rich browns in the dew of the morning, everything wet, and birds – everywhere birds, gliding through the long view of the Swartland.

We eventually found the spot through the wonders of Google Earth, a GPS-enabled phone, and hearsay. We celebrated as we found ourselves in view of Table Mountain across the bay, shrouded in pink clouds. The beach had a steep pitch and as the waves broke on the shallow sandbar the water rushed back down the slope, crashing into the sea, churning and causing a great wobble on the surface. The backwash caused the waves to double in height and as they closed out the sound reverberated like thunder.

After the surf we were back in the car and passed by the harbour – the fishing boats had come in, laden with hundreds of Snoek – some of them still gasping, drowning in air – and an assault of relentless screeching seagulls circulating overhead, their noise overwhelming and as charming as nails on a chalkboard. The fishermen called out their prices, one voice on top of the next, all the while cleaning the fish on the side of the boat, splattering blood, dumping the guts and tossing the fish into boxes for transport. We scored two enormous fish – a rare treat.

We headed home through Darling – a small town made famous for its history, quaint buildings, a local satirical celebrity who makes his living by poking fun at the government while dressed as a woman and last but not least, wine farms. We drove through rolling farmland lined with row upon row of grapevines with yellow and brown leaves, about to fall to the ground before a winter’s sleep during the rainy months to come. We stopped at Darling Cellars for a taste of their berry-rich Pinotage and were greeted by the farmer’s wife from behind a giant tasting bar made to look like a wooden wine barrel. She generously treated us to samples while straight-talking stories of farm life in a gentle voice that masked her sharp wit.

Our day complete, we returned home with memories of the foggy journey, a pink sunrise, the discovery of a new place, photos of beautiful surf, the freshest Snoek possible and Darling wine. We were only an hour from home but it felt like we’d gone so much farther. I couldn’t help thinking how nice it is to be a surfer’s girlfriend and co-pilot on trips that take you to so many more places than the surf spot alone, and that once again leaving things to chance – or rather to the weather – turned out better than we could have ever planned.

An Ode to My Car, Bev

People love cars – their first car, their first “nice” car, that old classic that’s just like new, and even an old bomb that just keeps ticking. Cars represent more than just transportation – when you have one, the ideas of freedom, travel and adventure become an everyday reality. You don’t need to rely on anyone else, and there’s no need for public transport – you can go anywhere you want, whenever you want. You can travel the open road – see new things, live, breathe fresh air. You can get to work and back. You can come and go as you please, on your own time, on your own terms. Listen to your own favourite music. Let the windows down. It’s your own private getaway, like a mobile VIP club.

We love our cars so much, they’re more than just “things” we own – we give them names, invent personalities for them, and even take our pictures with them. To some of us, our cars are more like friends – remember the first time you met? And how about all those road trips you had together? The older the car, the more love we show them, especially those old clunkers we dream will drive on forever – like my car, Bev.

Bev is a 1985, light metallic blue 323i BMW coupé. This year, she turned 25-years old, only eight years younger than me. In a few more years she’ll be considered an antique and if there was such a thing as “doggie years” for cars, most people would consider her to be elderly, plodding towards the twilight phase. But Bev’s got a secret – she’s not nearly finished.

She’s got a strong build and lots of spit-fire – perhaps it’s her German descent. She smokes a lot these days and drinks more than she used to, but after all these years of service, I suppose she feels she’s earned it. She took good care of herself for most of her life and today she looks a lot younger than she is, but over the past few years she has had a tough time, with bouts of downtime when she wasn’t feeling herself and had to slow down. Her eyes aren’t as great as they used to be, especially not at night, and she’s got a few niggles like getting grumpy when you rush her, or completely passing out on odd occasions. But sometimes she surprises you with her pep, picking up the pace when the occasion calls, making me remember how she was in the good old days. The mornings are a little harder and especially when it’s cold she needs a little extra help getting started. But once she gets going you can tell she’s happy by the way soft way she talks along the road. She loves to travel almost as much as me and together we’ve been to Mozambique, the Drakensberg Mountains, Namibia and everywhere in between along the South African coastline.

Even with all these good times together I know Bev won't be around forever. I daydream sometimes about having a nice shiny four-wheel-drive number – maybe I’ll even spring for air conditioning. Then I can escape to the bumpy, sandy, pot-hole laden roads of the great unknown with less risk and more comfort. The world will seem more beautiful from behind my new windscreen, and I’ll feel invincible as I look out at others’ breakdowns and strain to remember what those times used to feel like – way back when. No more not-starting, no flat batteries or kick-starts, no more tow-rope-towing, and definitely, no more “bad-car-days” that leave you stranded on the side of the road. My new ride will be amazing… but the truth is – she's pretty far away, a change would be expensive, and I’d have no way of knowing if the new times would be as great as the old times. And anyways – Bev is right here with me and she's still my trusty sidekick. May you drive on forever, Bev – drive on.

I am a Foreign National

I’ve been privileged for the past four years to be able to live out my dream – a work permit in South Africa has enabled me to live and work in this beautiful country, travel within Africa, and stamp out boundaries towards becoming a better person. As a Foreign National, the privilege comes with a fair amount of strife – moving to another continent wasn’t such a breeze as I naively imagined while planning my move from sunny Southern California. Some say “change is as good as a holiday,” but imagine changing almost everything in your life – all at the same time.

You move into a new house, neighborhood, town, region, and country. You live in a new time zone, in a new hemisphere, and ‘home’ is more than a day’s journey away, cramped inside a tiny space and at an exorbitant price. You contemplate the similarities between your position and the pioneers of yesteryear – you are surrounded by strangers and new things, nothing is familiar, you feel like you’re living on an outpost, far away from the “same” and the known. Driving is now an adventure, in a manual shift car on the “other side” of the road. You teach yourself to look right-left-right before crossing, and fight the urge to look the other way around, as you have been ingrained to do since childhood. A small task like grocery shopping becomes a drawn out affair as you’re faced with a sea of brands you’ve never seen or heard of before – perhaps the one with the red label is fair, or maybe that other one – over there?

Your seasons are swapped around so holidays that used to be cold-weather ones are now sunny-bikini ones, and, in your new country you’ve got new dates to celebrate – like Youth Day, Family Day and Women’s Day. You do so with joy, after all, you’re getting an “extra” day off, one you’ve never had off before! But the feeling becomes bittersweet when you realize you’re the only one who seems to know about your old favourites, like Saint Patrick’s Day, Independence Day, Halloween or Thanksgiving.

You have new friends now and no matter how you try, you just can’t seem to keep up with your old ones – email, online chats and the telephone seem so inadequate when you’re trying to describe your new life, an average day, your new friends, or the man you’ve fallen in love with. Time passes and even though it breaks your heart, it seems impossible to avoid missing out on life-changing milestones, like anniversaries, engagements and weddings, first pregnancies and births, or even saying good-bye when someone you love passes on. You are far, far away – you straddle two worlds, two lives, two understandings, two sets of friends, two points of view – you can feel yourself changing, growing, becoming more “you”. Here there are new things to try – new food, new places, new languages, new words and slang – even in English. You pick up small learnings each and every day, like that a “hat” is actually a “beanie” and a “cap” can be called a “peak”. Your accent changes, your mannerisms, too – things become easier, more natural, you start to call this ‘home’ and remember times ‘here’ instead of ‘there,’ life becomes more comfortable on top of your new grown foundation.

You begin to feel familiar, now you have context. You have history here, too – you know how it works, at least more now than ever before. You feel happy – you’ve done the battle with loneliness and discomfort – you’ve grown and achieved new success – you can start to take off now, to greater levels, to push greater boundaries. You know you’ve made the right choice – this is home now, there are still new places to explore, new things to learn – you want more. You feel like you belong here – like you’re no longer a stranger, you might actually fit in. But then you realize one thing – your visa is about to expire, you’ve got only 30 days left.

It’s time to visit Home Affairs to apply for more time – you gather your documents, you patiently wait in the que. You put on your most pleasant smile to those attending the room packed full of other foreign nationals who, just like you, jockey for their own fate. The air feels a little thicker in here, you can feel the pace of your heartbeat going a little bit quicker – what if, what if, what if? You try to laugh at yourself for being so affected and glance out the window at life in the city, moving on, as usual. You think about your past, the present, the unknown future – you have trouble swallowing. Your future hangs in the balance, somewhere between getting that stamp – or not.

Port Dreams and Calitzdorp

A visit to Calitzdorp is sort of like a step back to another era – once off the main road, the streets are few, narrow, and lined with colourful Bougainvillea, the houses are thick-walled and set back in ample shade, the building that holds the town museum looks like part of the display, the police station is friendly and relaxed, and you get a quiet feeling of being in a place where time moves a little slower. This is an honest place, like a little welcoming gem in the dusty, lonely expanse of the hot Klein Karoo. It’s blessed with a climate perfect for growing sweet, sugary grapes and as a result is home to South Africa’s top two producers of port – Boplaas Family Vineyards and De Krans.

These winemakers consistently score the highest marks in the John Platter ratings guide and aren’t shy about telling you through the many sign-boards posted throughout town. Every few hundred meters there is a reminder peeking out through the flowers at you, making it nearly impossible to leave without stopping in for a try. I had to make a choice between the two wine farms and chose Boplaas because of its older history, since 1880. It was easy to find – I just followed the signboards like directions on a treasure hunt, and within moments I found the shaded car park and made my way up to the tasting room.

Dark and cool inside, I nearly forgot it was only 11AM and got stuck into tasting all versions of sweet and smooth goodness. The Cape Ruby port was dark, plumy and ripe with fruit – I imagined myself enjoying it with a rich, gooey, dark chocolate dessert, perhaps with raspberry sauce. The Cape Tawney is grown on 20-year old vines and aged for 12 months in Portuguese oak, and you can tell – it tasted like raisin molasses, perfect on its own or over a rich vanilla ice-cream. The Cape Vintage Reserve is aged for 2 years in Portuguese oak and was the Grand Daddy of them all, living up to its five-star reputation with ease. It has a dark, deep purple colour and tasted smooth, regal, and heavy with blackberries.

At the end of the tasting I found it difficult to choose which treasures to purchase – would it be ruby, tawny, dark and plumy, pink, raisin-like, or berry delicious? Finally I settled on the Cape Tawney and the Vintage Reserve and now that I’m back at home, I have the even more difficult task of waiting for the perfect opportunity to enjoy them again!

Details & Cellar Door Prices

-Tasting: R20 per person, unless you make a purchase over R200, then it’s complimentary

- Cape Tawny Port Vinter’s Reserve 2006, 4-stars JP Guide, R100 per 750ml bottle or R41 per 375ml bottle

- Cape Vintage Reserve Port 2006, 5-stars JP Guide, R150 per 750ml bottle

Unpolished Eland's Bay

The wind was picking up from breezy to howling. I had been sitting on the beach, enjoying a pleasant moment alone and view of the beach from under my gazebo until it nearly blew away. With one super gust it started to flex and I jumped up to put it away before it could break. It seemed to take forever to fold the frame down and I tried to stay focused even with the flapping of the cover in my face and the wind pulling in all the wrong directions. I must have been quite an entertaining sight to passersby, dealing with all of this on my own, but to my amazement they seemed not to notice me and my flapping gazebo at all, like I was invisible. I finally managed to get the thing down and packed it away to safety, and even though I was covered in dust and sand, and had somehow lodged a thorn in my foot, I couldn’t help feeling a little triumphant.

I turned back to the view of the beach, littered with piles of dried kelp, empty mussel shells and the odd crayfish tail. The sun was setting behind the mountain, a misty haze filtered the air and a set of perfect waves were peeling down the line – one of the best left-breaks around. I was in Eland’s Bay on the West Coast of South Africa, an out of the way place with a subdued charm that would be easy to dismiss at first glance.

A rough-and-tumble town, Eland’s Bay makes no effort to cover up its soul as a true fishing village. The Crayfish Factory at the Point is the center of activity for a salty bunch of fishermen who wear standard-issue green overalls and operate weathered row boats out to sea, the same kind you find being used as decorative lawn ornaments all over the West Coast’s more touristy neighborhoods, placed like maybe they had washed up in that spot a hundred years ago never to be disturbed again.

Church Street holds most of the town – a hotel with a restaurant and bar, and a few small shops where you can buy basic essentials noted on the sign-board outside, like “braai hout” (firewood), “vleis” (meat), “melk” (milk) and “brood” (bread). You can get by with English but if you really want to connect with the locals you’d better brush up on your Afrikaans.

We had planned to camp at the local caravan park, located right at the beach. But with a growing gale-force wind and the sense that I was being exfoliated away by the airborne sand, we needed a back-up plan. We decided to enquire about accommodation and by a stroke of luck there was a cancellation! I wondered if the weather forecast had anything to do with it? The sense of relief was pure joy as we went from feeling stranded outside in a dust-bowl to jubilation.

We stayed in a cabin, more of a Wendy-house on stilts. It was tiny and looked to be built with the love, sweat and tears of the owner himself, nail-by-painstaking-nail. The place had no-frills yet everything you need for a perfect weekend away – a view of the sea framed by the Babbejaan Mountains (“Baboon Mountains”) to the left and Verlorenvlei (the “Lost Marsh”) on the right, one of the largest natural wetlands along the West Coast*, where sunrise breaks through the morning fog to reflect pink, yellow and orange. The peaceful quiet is broken only by the occasional passing of a freight train that runs through the center of town on its way north towards Namibia.

The beach in front our bungalow was a perfect launching point for our kayak, with a few channels of calm-water opening up between the waves. We readied the kayak and our fishing gear, hoping to come back with some of the West Coast’s famed sea-fare, and waited for an ideal moment when the water was at it most approachable. When it was time we took off, paddling hard and fast to get through the arriving set of waves. The walls of water came rising towards us lifting the kayak higher and we crested each one of them but only just in time. Not in the mood for a swim, we kept up the pace and paddled hard with deep full pulls in unison until we reached the backline. After a quick celebration and a few breaths we dropped our fishing line and trolled around, visiting the surfers in the water who were waiting for the next set, and then watching them take off with hoots and laughter. It was nice to experience Eland’s from this vantage point and share in the excitement of the moment.

We paddled back towards the Crayfish Factory and two fishermen in a row boat, about to go off on a mission. They were friendly and chatted with us about our fishing efforts, telling us about some magic spot 5-miles away where we could “definitely” catch the crayfish we were dreaming about. We said maybe next time, it seemed a bit far and they laughed as they began their paddle away.

Back on land we decided to go for a walk up in the hills where you can visit a Bushman Cave, just south of the Point on the “wild side” that’s unsheltered by the bay. You reach the cave after only a few minutes uphill from the road and its opening forms a perfect arch that looks out towards the sea. Inside, the walls are filled with 5,000-year-old** traditional rock art including paintings of antelope like the Eland, sheep, fish and silhouettes of people. The most incredible paintings though, are the hundreds of red handprints, all over the wall, seeming to reach out towards you from another age.

The beach below the cave is a gathering place for what seems like hundreds of seagulls, cormorants and other types of birds. We walked towards them and caused quite a stir, with crowds of them squawking and taking flight as we approached. No matter what direction we took a new path opened up and I imagined, in a mischievous kind of way if Moses might have felt like this crossing the Red Sea. When we finally made our way to the water’s edge I understood what all the fuss was about – a storm had brought up a big swell the week before and with it thousands of mussels had washed onto the beach, still alive and fresh from the sea. The birds were gathering the mussels, flying high in the air and dropping them on the rocks below, breaking them open for easier eating. Some of the shells were as big as my palm, the biggest I’d ever seen – and we immediately took our opportunity to gather a few treats for ourselves.

Happy and sun-burnt we returned to our little bungalow on the beach, grilled the mussels on a hot fire, enjoyed a glass of cool champagne and watched the sun set. A seafood lunch and an amazing view, it was the perfect finish to a West Coast getaway.

*http://www.environment.gov.za/enviro-info/sote/nsoer/resource/wetland/verlorenvlei.htm
**http://www.kalaharipeoples.net/article.php?i=119&c=11

Writing a Ticket to Freedom

So one day I decided to become a writer. I haven’t started yet, but it sounds like a good plan – I can make my own hours, work wherever I like, and spend time with the people I love. Over and above the positives, the decision was also spurred out of exasperation – the realization that I’ve been working in a not-so-glamorous desk job, where the effort-to-fulfillment ratio is no longer working in my favour.

So what made me think I could do this? You see, I have a history of this kind of behaviour, of making a decision and then diving in wholeheartedly. If I had a motto it would have to be “do it or bust”. About to graduate high school, I decided to go to a private university. When my parents couldn’t afford the tuition, I landed a scholarship and studied abroad in South Africa for six months. After university, I decided to move to California – it sounded nice and sunny. I had no job, no contacts, and just enough money. I took a road trip and when I got there I decided to stay. I needed a job so I decided to work in Advertising – I had been thinking about it since attending a presentation about it at a Career Fair. It sounded interesting so I got out the Yellowpages and called every listing until I landed my first job. After seven years I decided to move back to South Africa, I missed its natural beauty and the raw feeling of being on the edge of the world. It was calling my name.

So after living in South Africa for four years I’ve found myself looking at my path here and feeling a little disappointed at my achievements. Before the move to SA I was full of romanticism about my new beginning. I would travel, see new things, meet new people, focus on life – not work. I guess all the freedom was just a little overwhelming because at some point I crossed the line back into familiar territory – work, work, work. The trouble with being a good worker though, is that it doesn’t just take eight hours a day – it takes almost all of them. You can’t be a good worker unless you’re passionate, and you can’t be passionate if you’re waiting for 16:59 on the clock to start packing up to go start your day. The worst of all, you can’t think about beautiful things when your mind has been cluttered with appointments, politics and the boardroom shenanigans of the Corporate Empire.

So I’ve decided that by becoming a writer I can focus on being the person I want to be, and have time to think, to dream of lovely life. Time to actually have the experiences I dream about – traveling into the unknown to the Transkei, up the West Coast, to the Karoo, the Overberg, Mozambique, Namibia and beyond – and most of all, the small nondescript towns in between that no one ever talks about but which leave you with a true feeling of a place, its gritty history and the people who have built it through generations of time.

I’ll explore all these places through meeting the locals, eating new foods and through rough-and-tumble camping. I’ll focus on other activities at home, too – I’ll finally learn to surf and overcome my hesitation to dive in the freezing Atlantic – I’ll catch my first crayfish. I’ll kayak the ocean and small, mellow lagoons. I’ll climb mountains and learn how to take beautiful photography. I’ll teach myself the art of cooking and pastry making. I’ll become a better mountain biker – no more falling on the downs because I’ve squeezed my brakes in a panic! I will no longer be afraid of baboons in close proximity. I’ll sample fine local wines, braai with friends and listen to the ocean through open air on the night breeze.

Being a writer sounds just great. I just have one question I’ll need to answer before I can begin. – I wonder, “What I should write about?”