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Kashmir – Part 2

By Johnie Jonker

General Observations

The Town

Electricity availability in Leh was sporadic, and generators were widely used as back-up. The electricity supply was cycled geographically during the course of the day, e.g. barracks early morning, officers mess midday, and after dark, the town. The best level of mains supply measured, was 180 VAC, generated via a pumping scheme further upstream in the Indus River. Huge variation between the town houses – upmarket – and the small-holding dwellings – basic – exist.  All the smallholdings have been terraced level in order to produce crops.

The amount of work that this must have taken boggles the mind. These people simply does not take no for an answer.

Money

Legal tender here is the Indian Rupee and US Dollar. No credit card facilities exist – neither VISA nor Mastercard – not even at The Bank of India. Due to the acclimatization delay in the start of the testing – Rudi had left before me due to prior appointments elsewhere in India – I was running short on cash. I eventually had to make my concerns known to my hosts from India Army Aviation, and they allayed my fears by offering to help me out should I run short. I managed to just make it, but literally left Leh with only small change in my wallet.

Religion

Buddhism is the major religion in the region, introduced by Japanese monks that came here on pilgrimages centuries ago.

Two major religious structures are used, namely a Stupa and monasteries.

A Stupa is not a building one can enter, but is basically a solid round structure with 4 alcoves depicting Buddha and the temptations he had overcome.

All over town – not only in the monasteries – you find prayer wheels of various sizes.

This is a mechanical device which contains a book of Buddhist prayers which is automatically paged as the wheel is rotated. I.e. the wheel “prays” for you.

At the Tiksey monastery two rows of smallish prayer wheels lead from the corner of the main building. Once you start spinning any wheel, you HAVE to spin them all, going round the corner to complete the action. I do not know what happens should you miss one.

Similarly, prayer flags are strung between buildings. The prayer is written on the flag, and the wind then prays for you as it blows the flag to and fro. Even on vertical flag posts this is common practise. Neatly packed stone walls in town and throughout the countryside also have a religious connotation, as the rocks on the top layer have been painted or engraved with prayers.

A large number of monasteries, mostly constructed on hilltops, are scattered across the region, for example at Shey, but especially the one at Tiksey, which is of Tibetan origin. It is almost like a Mediterranean village packed into the hillside at an altitude of 11800 feet ASL. The road there winds through a beautifully green countryside abounding with water, and passes by many rock paintings and engravings, all with a religious significance. It is at Tiksey where the well-known two-storey tall sculpture of a seated Buddha rises through two floor level, enabling you to only see half of it at any time.

Accommodation for the senior monks was basic – similar to a cave, really – with a room with a bed and then an adjoining “kitchen”. The more junior incumbents shared a dormitory of low beds. I possibly discovered the origin of the Asterix character, Cacofonix the Baird, while visiting this monastery.

The Buddhist musicians would sit motionless in complete silence and darkness in a room – a 5 second exposure was required to register an image on film – and all of a sudden, as if by pre-arranged invisible inaudible signal, let rip, each with his own instrument, generating a wall of sound, typically used to flatten the walls of cities in the olden days (Jericho comes to mind).

Business

A large percentage of the really good handcraft – especially carpets – sold in India and the Middle East, actually come from Kashmir. It is extremely difficult to exit one of these shops without at least buying something. Items were priced reasonably due to the fact that the tourist season had officially closed, and if you consider the detail in the craftwork, worth it.

Thursday is paraffin day. A tanker would come round, and the locals would then bring their containers and buy the quantity required, carting it off on a wheelbarrow or simply rolling the drum home.

And it looks like it’s exclusively a woman’s job. Also in town, an open air market where locals sell their – mostly clothing – wares.

Daily Activities

So what do the people do here? Farming – yes, if you have land. Becoming a Buddhist priest or temple official is regarded a career here. It is difficult to say whether people age prematurely due to the bright light reflected off the mountains, perhaps due to the harsh sun or whether it is in their genes, but you tend to see the women – who appears to be the main cultivators – looking like they should be sitting in a rocking chair knitting away, enjoying the spoils of grandmotherhood. But no, they are out tending the fields and animals.

Agricultural methods are basic, with virtually no mechanization, pretty much how your gran did it in her younger days. Walking the donkeys in a line across the sheaves to thresh the chaff from the wheat and then winnowing it in the wind, is but one of these methods.

Laundry day

Well, if you have no washing machine or wife, the only thing to do is to take all your clothes off and, wearing only a loin-cloth, do you own laundry.

The water literally gushes out of the ground through the grass and flows into a little rivulet which is used for this purpose. All this just outside the hotel entrance.

Local Manufacturing (or Boer maak ‘n Plan) 1

Every morning on the way to the base, we would travel through an industrial area.  Do not confuse the term “industrial” with anything modern. One shop had a huge belt-driven lathe – I don’t think they make them this big anymore – that could be …

Kashmir – Part 3

By Johnie Jonker

The People

The general feeling is that the locals are an extremely friendly, helpful, polite people, without malice or arrogance, sincere and unspoilt by diplomacy.

Also no beggars. Only (some) children wanting to pose for photographs for a pittance. Well OK, not really a pittance. The only English they knew was “One dollar!” which equated then to 42 Rupees (R6) which was probably better than daily wages for most people living there.

Swimming after school

One afternoon, after being requested to not come to the base, sitting in front of my room on the second floor of the Hotel Shamba-La I heard a youthful chatter approaching. A group of primary school boys on their way home were passing just other side the hotel property wall. An earth dam was being filled on the property next door, so they decided this was a good time for a “swim”. They took off their school uniforms and had great fun. The water was shallow – I do not think any of them could really swim anyway – so they could walk on the bottom with their hands, with their heads above the water. When they had done, they sat out on the rocks to dry before they put their clothes on again. The rocks were next to quite a busy pathway leading from town to the residential village, and they made casual conversation with passers-by, completely unselfconscious about their nudity.

The Hotel Manager

Upon our arrival at the Hotel Shamba-La, it was time for negotiations, which went more or less as follows:

Mr Wanchok explained that the hotel was officially closed for the winter season – Rudi and I were the only guests – and that if we did not mind washing ourselves out of a bucket of hot water instead of the running water in the en suite bathroom, he would reduce the hotel rates from the in-season $100/day to 38$/day.

He explained that due to the erratic electricity supply they heat their water with a donkey – but one of substance. This was plumbed into the hotel rooms, so you would get hot water whenever you opened a tap. However, it was expensive to keep this system going for just 2 guests, and they would rather use the auxiliary donkey – which was more the size of two 44 gallon drums – and bring each of us a bucket of hot water every morning.

The Chef, Waiter and WaterCarrier

Lal Bahdur was a migrant Nepali worker, who was employed by the hotel for the duration of the tourist season – March until October – where after he returned home untill the following year.

Lal’s English was less than rudimentary, but each afternoon when we got back to the hotel, he would come round and enquire as to what we would like for dinner – Western, Indian, or Nepali food. Regardless of what you chose, he would always end the order with an “And Cheeps”, and happily go off to create something truly enjoyable – with chips – which he then of course also served.

Other than the food, Lal was responsible for the hot water supply in the hotel. This comprised getting up at around 4 am every morning, stoking the donkey and at the pre-arranged time, knock on our doors with the hot water. The bucket was big enough to sit in, with your legs hanging over the sides – once you added cold water to prevent scalding your buttocks.

The Driver and his Cousin

Although the hotel manager had as his personal transport a 1948 Willys Overland Jeep, a Suzuki SJ410 with driver was available for the guests, for both work and sightseeing. Our driver was a local with the name of Sangay.  He also came up with suggestions of where he could take us in terms of sight seeing during our idle time, for example the Dalai Llama’s house just outside town.

The daily commute to the military base was along a road following a river. Construction was executed by laying rocks from the river side by side and then tarring over it. So the ride was quite bumpy, and in the back of the Suzuki, I had to sit with my head cocked to the side to prevent my skull hitting the roof over some of the bumps. I learnt this on the first day, but only after first compressing multiple neck vertebrae – at least, that’s how it felt – during an unscheduled, rather exuberant, dip.

Sangay’s  cousin was a Buddhist monk at the Tiksey monastery. Following a visit, we were already back in the Suzuki to start our return trip when said cousin came running up and Sangay translated that we were invited for tea. So we went.

On the way back, Sangay invited me for MORE tea, this time at his house. We picked up two hitchhikers after Sangay enquired from me whether I would mind. They really are such a polite people.

His wife was out visiting with friends, but his mother was home, tending his son. Should you ever be offered some Ladakhi tea, accept at your own peril. After the tea is brewed, a piece of fat is dissolved in it (instead of milk, as due to the erratic power supply, fridges are not common), and a teaspoonful of salt added.

Self-preservation soon displaces politeness, as your host keeps on topping up your cup from a handy flask as soon as the rim becomes visible above the level of the tea.

The leaving of paradise

Flights into Leh can carry up to 120 passengers. However, return flights can rarely carry more than 75 passengers, sometimes without their luggage, due to the density altitude.

Density altitude in flying correlates with the power loss experienced at reef altitude in the case of normally aspirated cars, where the air is thinner than at sea level, where engines are tested and specified. So where a normally aspirated car experiences an 18% power loss in Johannesburg, it would experience a 32% power loss in Leh, due to the altitude being 10500 ft Above Sea Level. So the 737 simply does not have enough power to get airborne prior to using up all the runway.

A queue of desperate visitors, trying to get out …

Truck calamity

By PG Jonker 

Wednesday, September 11, 2006 

At 22h39 my mother in law sat around her house, minding her own business.  The house is adjacent to a general dealer and an offsales.  Then she heard a noise.  Loud.  It sounded like a helicopter.  The noise lasted for a few seconds, and then something hit the building with a massive bang.  A chopper fell on my house, Anita thought. 

She went out and walked around the building to the front to see what has happened.   It turned out that a truck driver with a load of fish on his maiden trip to Stompneus Bay miscalculated the last bend in the road, 200 meters from his destination.  What Anita heard was the noise of the exhaust brake, and then the bang as the lorry overturned 270° and went right through the side wall of the shop. 

Tragically, the driver was killed on impact.  No-one could get to him for hours until they got another truck to pull his truck out of the shop.   By 03h00 the other truck arrived.  However, it was evident that the stricken truck would not leave without the building.  It took a few innovative plans to get it out of the building without damaging the building further. Only then could the driver’s body be removed. 

By 09h00 the tennant of the shop already started with emergency repairs to the walls.  Later the local Grade 2 class arrived in a neat row on an educational tour to see what  it looks like when a truck goes through a building.     

Workers from the nearby factory came with smaller trucks to work away the tons of fish that were scattered around.

While they were busy the school came out.  Two lads from the local primary school came walking by. 

“Hey, it stinks, né,”  observed the one. 

“Ja, just like old folks’ bums,” confirmed his friend.

Only by late afternoon the mechanical team from the SA Police Services finalised their investigation.   Thereafter the rather impressive exercise followed to get the truck back on its wheels. 

By 14h30 the truck was back on its wheels.  By 17h00 the rented security guard arrived to watch over the shop for the night.

On a sad little heap I found the personal belongings of the truck driver.  A coffee bottle, some extra clothes.  And a cap with the insignia:  “Skoonma se gaai” (a humorous / friendly version of “My mother-in-law’s a*se”).

PGJ…

Oom Gert

[Also in English @ https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=554]

Deur PG Jonker

Oom Gert Smit het altyd die lorrie gery by Suid-Oranje Vissery op St. Helenabaai.  Mooi stadig, geduldig, met ‘n lankmoedigheid wat hom hom uitgeknip gelaat het vir die werk.

In 1970 rond skaf die fabriek ‘n MAN loskop lorrie aan.   Hierdie lorrie het Oom Gert se baba geword.  Hy alleen het die lorrie gery.  Vir dekades.  Die lorrie is soos ‘n baba opgepas, het nooit vinnger as 80km/h gery nie, en was te alle tye in tip-top kondisie.  Oom Gert het mooi na sy goed gekyk.

Op ‘n dag is Oom Gert op ‘n trip Luderitz toe.  Maar dis ‘n lang pad, so hy moet ‘n hulpdrywer saamneem.  Oom Gert is nie lus vir ‘n hulpdrywer nie, hy kan self ry.  Maar hy neem nou maar sy hulpdrywer saam, want hy moet.  Dié is ewe bly om ‘n slaggie weg te kom van die fabriek af om iets anders te doen.  En om ‘n slag ‘n kans te kry om die MAN lorrie te bestuur.

Vroeg oggend vertrek hulle op St. Helenabaai.  Oom Gert bestuur.  Tagtig km per uur, soos altyd.  Teen 80km/h vat dit nogals ‘n tydjie om op enige plek uit te kom, maar dit vat in besonder lank om by Luderitz uit te kom.   Maar Oom Gert is nie haastig nie.   Oom Gert stop ook nie eintlik nie.  Die trok het groot dieseltenks, en dit is hoogstens blaaskapasiteit en miskien honger wat Oom Gert noop om te stop.  Oom Gert raak ook nie moeg nie.  Dus, teen die tyd wat hulle in Luderitz kom is Oom Gert se hulpdrywer al moeg gewag, maat hy het nog niks beurt gekry om te bestuur nie.

Maar nou ja, ten minste bied Luderitz ‘n mooi uitsig, en die vooruitsig om lekker in ‘n gastehuis te oornag, reken die hulpdrywer.

Die lorrie word afgelaai in Luderitz.   ‘n Uur later reken Oom Gert:   “Ek is haastig, kom ons ry.”

“Hoe bedoel oom dan nou?”

“Ons ry terug huis toe.”

En daar is die trok weer op pad terug op die langpad,  St Helenabaai toe, steeds met Oom Gert (heelpad) agter die wiel, 80km/h, tot op St Helenabaai.

Oom Gert het later afgetree.  Die tannie is later oorlede, en Oom Gert het alleen in hulle huisie aangebly.  Tot hier in Augustus 2010 toe inbrekers een nag gekom het.  Oom Gert het nie die aanval oorleef nie.  Hy was 88 jaar oud. 

Rus sag, Oom Gert.  Ons harte is seer dat dit só gebeur het.

PGJ…

Uncle Gert

[Also in Afrikaans @ https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=551]

By PG Jonker

Uncle Gert Smit used to drive the lorry at Suid-Oranje Fisheries at St Helena Bay on the Cape West Coast.  Nice and slowly, patiently, seldom in a hurry.   The job was cut out for him.

In 1970 about the factory acquired a new MAN lorry – a horse and trailer.  The truck became Uncle Gert’s baby.  He was the designated driver, and him alone.  For decades.  He cared for the truck like a baby, never driving faster than 80km/h, and the truck was always kept in tip-top condition.  Uncle Gert looked after his stuff nicely.

One day Uncle Gert had to do a trip to Luderitz, Namibia.  It is a long way to Luderitz, some 1500 km’s.  So Uncle Gert was instructed to take a co-driver along to assist with the driving on the long road.  Uncle Gert was not too keen on taking someone along,  he could manage, but he duly obliged.  The designated assistant driver was quite happy to go along.  It was a good excuse to get away from the factory, and at last an opportunity to drive the MAN truck.

They departed very early one morning from St. Helena Bay.  Uncle Gert was behind the wheel, and off they went at 80km/h.  Now, at 80km/h it takes a while to get anywhere.  More in particular, it takes a while and a bit to travel some 1500km’s at that speed. 

But Uncle Gert was in no hurry.  Also, he did not stop too often.  The truck had huge diesel tanks, so only bladder capacity, and maybe hunger, might have caused Uncle Gert into a brief stop.  Uncle Gert also did not get tired of driving.  So by the time they reached Luderitz, the co-driver was tired of waiting for his turn, but it was not happening.  Uncle Gert drove the full distance.

The co-driver found some consolation in the fact that Luderitz offers nice views, and at least they will be sleeping in a nice guest house there.   

Well, not so.  With the cargo unloaded an hour later, Uncle Gert got in the truck.  “I’m in a hurry, let’s go.”

“How does uncle mean now?”

“We’re not sleeping over, we’re going home.”

And off the truck went, all the way back to St Helena Bay.  Once again with Uncle Gert behind the wheel all the way, at 80km/h.

Uncle Gert later reached retirement age, but he only retired some years later.  After his wife passed away Uncle Gert stayed on in their house, on his own.  That was until one fateful night in August 2010 when burglars came to relieve Uncle Gert of some of his modest earthly possessions.  Uncle Gert did not survive the attack.  He was 88 years old. 

Rest in peace, Uncle Gert.  Our hearts are sore that you had to go like this.

PGJ…

Kaptein

Deur PG Jonker

Die een vreemdheid van die Weermag (diensplig) is dat gewone burgerlikes skielik in ‘n rangstruktuur moet inpas waar iemand wie dalk buite die Weermag laer as hy op die sosiale voedingsketting sou wees, nou bo hom in die bevelstruktuur staan.  Dit kan lei tot konflik.

Neem nou maar byvoorbeeld rugby.  Diskobolos, Kimberley, lank terug.  Een van die dienspligtiges is ‘n vermaarde rugbyspeler.  Hy weet wat hy doen, en hy kan dit goed doen.  Ook is hy gewoond dat, vanweë sy bewese vaardighede, hy normaalweg ook die aanvoerder is van enige span waarin hy speel.

Maar nou werk ding effens anders mos in die Weermag.  Die Kaptein (ek meen nou die ou met die drie sterre op elke skouer) is ook die kaptein van die rugbyspan.  Dit beteken nie dat hy noodwendig ook weet wat hy doen nie, maar hy is nogtans die ou met die hoogste rang in die span, en daarom is hy ook die aanvoerder van die span.

Tydens ‘n oefening begin die dienspligtige nou lekker in sy element kom.  Hy is in sy gemaksone.  Hy oefen sy hart uit.  Hy moedig sy spanmaats luidkeëls aan, gee raad waar nodig is, en komplimenteer waar komplimente aan die orde is.  Dis sy ding daai, hy is gewoond dit werk so.

Die Kaptein, aan die ander kant, is ewe gewoond dat laer range luister wanneer hy praat, nie terugpraat nie, en oor die algemeen slegs praat wanneer hulle opgeroep word om te praat.  Dit is nou in soverre dit sy staande mag lede betref van laer range.  Dienspligtiges, daarenteen, figureer nêrens op sy radar nie.  Hulle word nie eens mee gepraat anders as om hulle periodiek wit muur toe en terug, of brandkraan toe en terug te jaag nie. 

Kaptein begin dus nou redelik gefrustreerd raak met hierdie dienspligte wat nou so half lyk asof hy die span begin oorneem.

So stop Kaptein nou eers die oefening en roep die dienspligtige nader.  Dan dring hy by die dienpligtige aan om te weet wie die kaptein is.  Dis soos daardie retoriese vrae wat jou laerskool juffrou vir jou vra.  Jy weet wat die antwoord is, maar terselfdertyd moet jou gou vinnig probeer uitwerk wat die eintlik doel van die vraag is, juis omdat die antwoord voor-die-hand-liggend is.  In hierdie geval was daar natuurlik ook nie veel variasies op die tema nie, en was daar ook net een antwoord:

“Jammer, Kaptein, nee, Kaptein.  Kaptein is kaptein, Kaptein.”

PGJ…

Kla jy of spog jy?

Deur Johnie Jonker 

Solank niks skeefloop nie, word koshuis-ontgroening deesdae nie-amptelik met die spreekwoordelike “hout-oog” beskou.  Die moeilikheid kom as die proses te ver gevoer word en iemand beseerd – of erger, gekrenk – daarvan afkom. Die nadraai hiervan is nie goed vir enige universiteit se beeld nie, vandaar die amptelike ontkenning dat daar enige ontgroening plaasvind op HIERDIE kampus. Slegs verwelkoming en oriëntering.

Dis moeilik om te sê wanneer hierdie aktiwiteit amptelik by universiteits-koshuise weggeval het, maar itv die 1976 Helshoogte eerstejaars was dit defnitief nog nie die geval nie.

Behalwe die algehele gebrek aan slaap, was die mees helder onthoubare geleentheid een aand 11-uur in ‘n “squad”, afmarsjerende na Coetzenburg se swembad. Die eerstejaars gaan nou swem – maar meneer, ek het nie ‘n baaibroek nie!

Aangesien die ligte om die swembad af was en niemand anders daar was nie – dit was in die week voordat die ander studente na die kampus teruggekeer het, en dalk was daar boonop nog nie ligte daardie tyd nie – was ‘n baaibroek toe nie ‘n nodige voorwaarde om te kon swem nie.

Ons trek ons klere uit en spring in – groot pret – totdat daar aangekondig word dat kampusbeheer op pad is. Nie dat enigeen daar toe al geweet het wie/wat kampusbeheer was nie, alhoewel ek glo iedereen wel oor die volgende paar jaar per geleentheid sou uitvind. Maar die aankondiging het ‘n dringendheid daaromtrent gehad wat jou laat dink het dat dit iets moes wees soos Antjie Somers, wat ek uit ‘n betroubare bron verneem het, toonnaels op haar toebroodjies eet.

Dus spartel almal kant toe, net om agter te kom dat die klere wat ons so neffens hier op die graswal neergesit het, nie meer daar is nie. Amper asof dit weggeraap is. Net ons skoene dui nog die plek aan.

Nou val ons in die pad – hierdie keer egter nie in ‘n ordelike peloton nie – met hoë entropie en spoed. Twee beproefde militêre tegnieke word hoofsaaklik toegepas: Rig-op-die-bondel, wat ‘n mate van afskerming bied solank jy in die middel bly, en heg-en-steg vir die meer onafhanklike lede wat die kortste pad met die meeste dekking terug koshuis toe gesoek het.

Ek het darem nie net my skoene aangehad nie – my horlosie het my een pols bedek. Nie dat dit tot enige voordeel was nie, want toe ons tussen Erika en Serruria deur hardloop, het almal in elk geval uitgevind PRESIES hoe laat dit was, toe daar vanuit die niet ‘n paar 2e-jaars karre verskyn met ligte op helder wat ons al toetende van agter af inspireer.

Wonderbaarlik, terug by die koshuis, het al ons klere in ‘n hoop voor die hyser gelê en almal was verlig en eintlik erg tevrede met hulleself dat hulle as groep die eskapade kon meemaak.

Daar was wel iemand wat redes aangevoer het hoekom hy darem ten minste met sy onderbroek aan wou terug hardloop. Dis nou nie dat hy sy beswaar aan die groot klok wou hang nie. Dit was eerder ‘n geval van die ongemaklikheid van die hang van die groot klok self.

Die meeste van ons het stilweg by ons selwers gewonder: “Kla jy, of spog jy, my ou”?

JJJ…

Night Nav

By PG Jonker

The Friday we sailed from Table Bay to Mykonos, Langebaan, on the Downwind Dash.  On Saturday we had the Pursuit Race which finished at about 17h00.  I’d rather not say how well it went in either of the two races.

Skippers Matthys & Ralph then decided it’s time to head back home while the weather was good.   Should the weather turn resulting in a strong sea and South Easter against us, the prolonged pounding Mafuta would take is simply so bad that the yacht will then rather have to stay docked at Langebaan until the weather improved. 

We put the mainsail up for stability and motored out of the Langebaan lagoon into a windless sunset evening.

We left the Langebaan lagoon and turned in a Southerly direction, heading in the general direction of Cape Town.

[Lighthouse on the Southern head to entrance to Langebaan]

Now this is the epitomise of peace and quiet.  The soft throbbing of the three cylinder Volvo engine underneath us (one feels it, rather than to hear it) has this absolute tranquilizing effect on me.   OK, maybe the sea sick pill was also doing its bit in this regard.  But this is the most serene setting I can imagine.

[Skipper Matthys Lourens deep in thought]

By nightfall it became rather chilly.  Well, it actually became really cold.  We became engulfed in very dense fog.  It was a moonless night, and with the fog around you it had a rather disorienting effect.   Thank goodness for a GPS and experience skippers.

We aimed for House Bay, a snug bay on the Northerly side of Dassen Island, about 11 km’s off Yzerfontein.  The plan was to lay over there until the next morning, and then motor home at first light.

As we approached Dassen Island its lighthouse could be seen coming around every few seconds.  However, entering House Bay turned out not to be as simple as motoring in and dropping the anchor.  The navigational map of Dassen Island bears names like “Foul”, and “Roaring Sisters”, and the remains of ships unsuccessfully navigating around the island bears testimony of it not being plain sailing.

House Bay is in the form of a horse shoe (well, this is probably the typical form of any bay, not so?).  The idea is to try to enter, and stay, as close as to the centre of the bay as possible to steer clear of the dangerous parts.  Apart from the lighthouse’s light coming around regularly, however, we could see absolutely nothing.

Johan van Dyk made himself comfortable at the navigation table where he plotted our position on the map from GPS readings every two minutes.  Mafuta barely moved.  I was posted on the bow as a look-out.  In the pitch dark and fog I would hear the surf breaking, and see the light from the lighthouse.  However, the next time I would hear the surf or see the lighthouse, it would be clear that the yacht in the meantime turned through 50 degrees or more, without me getting any feeling of movement at all.  Very disorientating.

Eventually, upon Johan’s instructions from the nav table, the anchor was dropped.  By that time his map looked like kiddies’ art.

When the sun came up the next morning we could see that we were positioned perfectly more or less in the middle of House Bay.

The good conditions prevailed, only now without the fog, and we motored back to Cape Town in a further uneventful trip.  More or less uneventful, depending on who is telling the story.

After a nice, sea sick pill induced nap, I eventually came up from down below to see what’s happening outside.  Still being half asleep I stood right there where the boom’s slight movement gave me a wack at the side of my head.  This convinced me to go back down below for another snooze.  An hour later I felt somewhat more rested and went back up again.  Peering out over the ocean something caught my eye and I stooped down to see what it was.   Just as I stooped down, from the corner of my eye, I caught sight the boom swinging past my head, this time missing it with only millimetres.  It would have been an exact repeat of the incident of an hour earlier if something did not distract me!

No further incidents detracted from a very enjoyable weekend.  I still sport the bump on my head, though.

PGJ…

Rugby op Nuweland

[Gepubliseer in By, 3 Mei 2008]

Deur PG Jonker

SA v Australië, Drie-Nasies, Junie 2007

‘n Vriend bel my die Saterdag-middag omtrent ‘n halfuur voordat die toetswedstryd tussen Suid-Afrika en Australië op Nuweland begin om te verneem of ek belangstel om te gaan kyk.  Ek moet net eers die kaartjie in Milnerton gaan optel, sê hy.

Ek spring in die motor en ry van Durbanville af, tel die kaartjie op in Milnerton, ry deur die (op daardie stadium) verlate strate deur Kaapstad en arriveer vyf minute nadat die wedstryd begin by Nuweland.  Ek het goeie hoop om darem nog die grootste deel van die wedstryd te sien.  Maar dis nogal ‘n storie om parkering te kry.  Op en af, heen en weer, ek is later heel verdwaal.  Ek kry uiteindelik parkering, maar seker 2 km weg van die stadion af.

Nou draf ek maar aan stadion toe.  Ek kom van die Suide-kant af, net om agter te kom ek moet by hek #24 wees, wat heel aan die Noordekant van die stadion is.  Toe ek dus uiteindelik natgesweet binne-in die stadion aankom toe sê die horlosie teen die Suid-pawiljoen daar is nog 14 minute oor van die eerste helfte.  Die Springbokke loop 10 – 3 voor.

Nou strompel ek na my sitplek toe. Op pad sountoe skrou ‘n ou hier van die kant af vir my ‘n hartlike verwelkoming.  Ek weet nie of hy van nature joviaal is nie.  Eintlik dink ek hy het my met iemand anders verwar.  Ek groet ewe hartlik terug.  Ek mik na my sitplek toe, maar daar sit reeds ‘n kêrel.  En hy konsentreer regtig hard op die spel.  Ek spring op en af, roep, swaai my kaartjie rond, maar daai man sien niks behalwe die rugby nie.  Ek sal tog meer moet begin eet dat ek bietjie kan lyf kry.  Gelukkig is die 2 sitplekke agter hom oop, en ek sit maar sommer daar. 

Die toeskouer regs voor my draai om en berispe my dat ek so laat is.  Ek vra om verskoning en verduidelik dat ek mos nou eers drie-uur my kaartjie in Milnerton moes kry en deur die stad moes ry en parkering moes soek en moes hardloop na die stadion toe en …..  Hy is baie bly ek is daar en skud blad met my.   “Ja”, kom dit van die sitplek agter my af, “waar was jy, ons wag al heelmiddag vir jou!”

Miskien is dit die ding van rugby kyk op Nuweland.  Almal is baie bly om jou te sien, al weet hulle nie wie jy is nie, en selfs sonder dat hulle gesuip is.  Jy moet darem net vir die regte span skree.

Die rugby kyk self is bietjie van ‘n teleurstelling.  Dis amper soos om sonder my bril TV te kyk.  Dour ver jaag 30 ouens ‘n rugbybal.  En van waar ek sit kan ons nie die groot skerm sien om die kyk-weer aksie te sien nie.  Maar die stemming is besonders.  Alhoewel dit nie te watwonders was op die stadium wat die Springbokke 19-10 agter was nie. 

Twee jong latte probeer die Mexikaanse golf aan die gang kry, maar dit hou net so 5 rye sitplekke ver.  Die man agter my verduidelik ‘n mens doen nie ‘n Mexican wave as jy verloor nie, net as jy wen – dis hoekom dit nie werk nie. Maak eintlik sin, meen ek.  So leer mens allerhande goed van rugby as jy op Nuweland is.

Seker die grootste momente van die deel van die wedstryd wat ek wel gesien het was die 2 skepskoppe deur Frans Steyn.  Toe hy die telling gelykop maak met die eerste een is dit omtrent soos ‘n donderbuis wat afgaan soos almal op die pawiljoen mal gaan.

Die man wat op my sitplek sit en sy pel twee sitplekke verder aan is Ozzie ondersteuners.  Tussen hulle sit hulle rasta-pel wie ‘n Springbok ondersteuner is.  Hy kry maar swaar terwyl Suid-Afrika agter loop.  “Ek kannie mee’ hyshou saam met djille wat virrie vikeere span skrie nie!” hoor ek hom protesteer.

Maar met Frans Steyn se eerste skepskop verander sy posisie vir die beter.  En toe Steyn  minute later die wen-skepskop doen, toe is Rasta erg tevrede tussen sy twee pelle.  Dit gaan nou baie bieterder met hom, dankie.

Ná die wedstryd moet ek terug na my motor toe.  Dis nogal bedrywig.  Daar is derduisende mense wat, om een of ander rede, almal in die teenoorgestelde rigting beur.  ‘n Ouerige oom is ongeduldig met ‘n jong man wat teen die stroom in beur en wil weet wat hy dink hy doen.  Die klein wysneus reken toe:  “Nee, ek weet self nie,  Oom, ek loop maar heelmiddag so heen en weer”.

Op pad na my motor loop ek agter ‘n paar groot lummels met hul Springbokbaadjies aan.  Mens voel nogal braaf so tussen die manne.  Maar hoe verder ek loop, hoe minder word hulle, en hoe meer word die parkeer-aanwysers.  Sommige van hulle het ook groen baadjies aan, maar vreemd, dit het net nie dieselfde trefkrag nie.  Dis ‘n redelike stil straat waar ek darem uiteindelik my motor kry, die informele karwag betaal en koers kry huis toe.

Voorwaar ‘n interessante middag.

PGJ…

Writing Exams

By PG Jonker

Not too long ago I had the dubious privilege of having to write a few exams.  For this purpose I flew up to Gauteng to sit the exams in Pretoria, whilst staying with brother Johnie.

The day of the second exam started off pretty promising – we woke up without having been burgled.  That nogals counts for something in Gauteng, I thought.  

As I had a positive experience with the first exam I reckoned today should be even better.  I mean, statistically the previous paper had only a 50% success rate, as opposed to today’s exam’s with a statistical 80% success rate.  Meaning that, statistically, I had a much better chance of doing well in today’s exam.

I drove into downtown Pretoria with Johnie’s Subaru with what appeared to be the whole of Pretoria’s mini-taxi drivers having conspired to bump into me.  Having successfully dodged all of them, though, I eventually got to downtown Pretoria, with the map on my lap, that is.

That was the good part of the day.

I started with the easy part of the paper first.  However, somehow I could not remember, or think up, the answers.  Fortunately, of course, my motto of “do your best and crib the rest” applied splendidly, as it was an open book exam.

However, it soon dawned upon me that, even with the assistance of my books, I could not find the answers and that I will be sitting this exam again on the next occasion.  I was not thrilled.  No offence meant towards those offering the course, but it really ain’t fun, you know?

To make matter worse, as I bravely proceeded, I gradually started overheating, sweating profusely.  To the extent that I later realized that I was not feeling well and that I was a candidate for fainting (“passing out” just sound so much more masculine, don’t you think?)  It must have been something I ate.   To prevent extreme embarrassment (in other words, limiting the experience to embarrassment ordinary), I got off my chair and knelt down in the isle, with my head resting on my hands.  Trying my best to remain conscious. 

Those in attendance seemed to understood this as a simple gesture of humbleness and merrily proceeded, minding their own business. 

After a whille I felt better.  So I got up, but decided to go outside for a while to get some fresh air.  Halfway there, however, I realised that lying down would now really be a nice thing to do.  It also appeared to be medically indicated.  So I lied down.  You should try this when you do an exam again.  It is very refreshing. 

By then the invigilator was very concerned.  I assured him that I was all right – this is how I normally write exams, and that I was actually having a great time.  So I encouraged him to proceed invigilating.  Something which he reluctantly returned to. 

After a few minutes I felt much better, went back to my chair, and finished the exam.  The invigilator, however, was not convinced by my swift recovery, and kept  invigilating vigorously and in concerned fashion in my close proximity.  He even brought me water –  to drink, that was,  I mean by that time I was sufficiently cooled down to function normally again.

Having then rushed through the rest of the paper I eventually found most of the answers that I could not find two hours earlier.

Back at Johnie’s place (have you ever noticed how difficult it is navigating with a map on your lap in the dark in peak-hour traffic?) I sheepishly told my sister-in-law of my ordeal.  She responded promptly by giving me 2 teaspoons of ginger brandy in a glass of ginger ale.  These 2 teaspoons more or less equalled my alcohol consumption for 6 months. 

So considering myself slightly loaded, I went to bed to sleep it off.

There should be rules against exams, really.

PGJ…