Saturday, March 24, 2012

Cycling the Argus

I am not sure what possessed me to do it - perhaps a realisation that the clock is ticking and that every year it would be harder to do so, but this year I decided to enter the Pick n Pay Argus Cycle Tour 2012, or "The Argus" as I think most Capetonians and entrants tend to call it. The race has a number of claims to fame. I believe it is the largest timed cycle race in the world, with over 35 000 entries. It is 110km long and the route takes in some of the most spectacularly beautiful scenery imaginable, including and probably most famously Chapman's Peak Pass, with its sheer cliffs below and above. Given all that it is, I suppose a better question would be why have I not been riding it every year.

I rode the Argus in 1983, as a UCT student and I think I finished in 4 hours and 20 minutes. In those days the race was ridden in April, so it was cooler, and there were less than 20 000 cyclists as I recall, so the going was easier - one left Cape Town fairly early in the day, even if one was unseeded. Also, the race finished in Camps Bay, at the football ground - which would be impossible now - and it was consequently about 10km shorter. That year I rode a very heavy and rather under-geared "racing bike", which I had bought from a school friend in the 70's for the princely sum of 55 rands. It did the job. I repeated the exercise on the same bike in 1988, by which time I was qualified and working in kwaZulu Natal. I drove down for the race with a few friends. The bike had been kept at my parents home and I literally picked it up, pumped up the tyres and rode it the next day. I don't remember my bum touching the saddle before the actual race. I think my time that year was something over 5 hours. I do recall having to walk up the dreaded Suikerbossie Hill.

So I guess I had all that in mind when I saw an advert for the 2012 race and decided, on the spur of the moment, to enter. I mean how difficult could it be?! I knew that I was half marathon fit as a baseline and blithely imagined that running 21km in 3 hours would be about as difficult as riding 110km in 7 hours. I no longer possess the racing bike I rode in 1988 - it got lost somewhere in the intervening 24 years. I have two bikes - one is the electric Ezeebike about which I have written before - clearly wouldn't be able to use that. The other I call "the skadonk" - it is a sort of mountain bike-road bike hybrid, which I took off a friend for R500 a few years ago and which has sat rusting in my garage since then. It weighs about a ton, makes funny noises when you pedal and sports a "pompa pompa" horn. I rather like it, and it is quite comfortable, but it certainly isn't built for speed or anything approaching speed. I thought that it would be good enough for 7 hours.

About a month before the race I took it out for a test ride one afternoon and managed to get it over the Glen Cairn expressway, with a great dealing of huffing and puffing and not a few expletives. It was making some odd noises which I didn't recognise as having been in its previous repertoire, so I took it to a friend who knows someone who services bicycles and he said he'd have it looked at. The guy greased a whole lot of moving parts and fitted a new sprocket and it seemed to be going better when I got it back. Then things took an unexpected turn - my friend decided he wouldn't be able to do the race himself and offered me his bike which is a rather magnificent "Giant". You can pick it up on one finger, it makes hardly any noise at all, goes like the wind and is really a pleasure to ride. What could I say? - I was very grateful and accepted. The pedal clips were a challenge and in the end I decided not to use them, but I got the hang of the bike's other eccentricities and soon felt comfortable riding it. Well, perhaps comfortable is not quite the right word. After my first ride I experienced numbness in my perineum and scrotum which lasted a few days! The same thing happened after my second ride, so I went into Sportsman's Warehouse and blew the last of my Christmas money on a pair of padded riding shorts and a padded seat cover. I cannot say that these solved the problem but they certainly helped. I also bought some riding gloves as my thenar and hypothenar eminences on my hands felt numb and sore and ready to revolt, and again they helped some but did not solve the problem. In defence of the salesman, he did warn me that this would be the case.

When the great day finally arrived I was, predictably, ill prepared and not a little anxious, but I think I knew I could at least finish. I had been allocated to group OC, starting at 9.48 am and the fourth last group to leave. Large groups of riff raff, to put it bluntly. Not sure what the parking would be like, I drove through impossibly early and parked at the UCT Graduate School of Business, which is comfortably close to both the start and the finish, and was free for me as I still have a UCT parking sticker. I carefully offloaded the magnificent machine from the rack and sorted out all the bits and bobs that go on it, went to the GSB loo about three times in 30 minutes, and finally took a very slow trundle across to the starting pens in Adderley Street. Of course there were cyclists simply everywhere - cyclists of every size and shape and colour, in conventional gear, in fancy dress, in very little dress at all. Bicycles of all types as well. Quite a few tandems, but also some unconventional cycles. It really was a most colourful and pleasing sight. The weather at this stage was perfect - not a cloud in the sky, and just comfortable. No wind. This would later prove a problem, but at 8 am it was lovely. I watched a few groups depart and then made my way across to the OC starting pen. There were some portaloos nearby with a long line of ladies in waiting, but no gentlemen, which was puzzling. Then I spotted the reason - there was an open French style male urinal nearby, a four berth, so to speak, with all users facing the centre and just enough low walling to make it legal. I stepped up to the plate and did my thing, feeling a little sheepish as the line of women was only about 2m away. The chap facing me noticed my expression and said encouragingly "Well, think about it, you'll never see any of these people again in your life"!

I joined our group's queue and soon we were being herded slowly in the direction of the starting line. They were using both sides of the Heerengraght and releasing groups alternately, which seemed a sensible idea. We had the obligatory music (I was glad to note that we have progressed from "Chariots of Fire") and the countdown, and then we were off. I saw a colleague at the start, gave her a hug and then lost her, and didn't see anyone else I recognised the entire race - such was the size of the field. By now it was hot and there was still no wind, which did not augur well. We trundled up the Eastern Boulevard, raced down Hospital Bend and puffed our way up Edinburgh Drive. Our legs were still fresh and strong and so, although it was tough, I'd didn't hear much complaining. On down Wynberg Hill and a long flat pedal to the end of the M3. So far so good.

The next challenge was Boyes Drive. I had heard horror stories from other riders so was expecting the worst. The old race went along Main Road, but with all the roadworks, this has been impossible since 2008 and so we are now stuck with Boyes. As it turned out, it went ok. I didn't have to walk and in fact quite enjoyed it. Then the steep descent into Kalk Bay, with the danger of mass pile ups. Fortunately none in our group. I had arranged to meet herself and the princesses in Fish Hoek. They were there, along with a number of other Fish Hoek faithfuls who raised a resounding cheer as I cycled up - very heartening. We had a small challenge getting through the riders to meet but managed to avoid causing any major disruptions. I was severely scolded for not drinking more, given two fresh bottles of cold juice, 2 bananas and a chocolate and sent on my way, still feeling good. That feeling carried me through Glen Cairn into Simonstown and it was coming out of Simonstown that I hit my first snag. As I have said, the weather was getting hotter and hotter and there was scarcely a puff of wind. Some well meaning spectator on Simonstown Main Road was very kindly hosing passing cyclists down with his garden hose. Very welcome. Unfortunately he hosed my face which had the effect of washing a good deal of sunscreen from my forehead into my eyes. I spent the next 10km trying to get it out. My eyes watered so badly that I had to slow down, keep left, take my sunglasses off, wipe my face with my shirt - I tried everything, but it was really only when we got over the top of Smitswinkel and I could get some speed up and some wind in my face that the situation improved.

The ride past Scarborough and Misty Cliffs was superb - there was a slight sea breeze which, if not exactly cool, was at least a breeze, and I think we all felt better. Then it was the toil up and over the hill to Ocean View, so more sweat and more sunscreen in the eyes. This time I took my glasses off and dropped them, losing the nose piece in the process. Down on Kommetjie Road someone stopped suddenly in front of me and in the process of jamming on anchors I managed to do something to my chain and had to stop and fix it. I was getting increasingly irritable and dis-spirited -and of course the day was just getting hotter. I saw herself and princess firstborn again in Sun Valley. I must have looked like crap because they looked worried. But I said I was ok to go on, refuelled and said I would see them later. The next hour was frankly diabolical. As soon as I hit the first uphill of Chappies I got a vicious cramp in my left calf muscle. I tried to ride through it but was forced to stop and dismount. Then the chain came off again. I walked the first section, feeling depressed. Chappies has a short downhill before the main incline and I cycled this, but once again, as soon as I hit the incline, the cramps returned. I quaffed volumes of fluid but it helped nothing. In the end I walked most of Chappies. The sun baked down on us. There was an accident up ahead and so eventually everyone was walking. We were not a happy bunch of campers!

At the top of Chappies was a refreshment station and for the first time I made use of it, drinking quite a lot but also allowing the kind gentleman to pour cold water over my head. It felt heavenly. Then there was a very long freewheel down into Hour Bay, which would have been wonderful, but by now there was a warm wind in our faces, presumably a berg wind, and my bum was so sore that I literally had to shift position every few minutes to avoid it rejecting me. But the scenery was grand and the company spirited and somehow we made it. The ride through Hout Bay and up the dreaded Suikerbossie was purgatory defined. The locals were wonderful, but it did little to lessen the pain and the fatigue. I heard later that the temperature was 42 degrees Celsius - some have questioned that, but I can believe it. After what seemed like an eternity we reached the top and gratefully began the 10km freewheel into Camps Bay. Or at any rate that is what I did. There were many who came whizzing past, pedalling furiously. I lived in Camps Bay for three years and knew what was in store, so was happy to let gravity do its thing.

At the end of Camps Bay beach is a stiff and nasty little climb to Clifton - not much if you are fresh but quite challenging after 100km. Somewhere around Bantry Bay I began to get my sense of humour back with the realisation that I had only about 5km to go, and that "this too will pass". I actually enjoyed the ride along Beach Road Sea Point, maybe because by this point I could in fact no longer feel my bum! Suddenly we were at the finish and someone was shouting at us to keep going and not stop, someone was giving me a medal, someone a Coke. The chap next to me congratulated me and I him. He said this was his 23rd Argus, and expressed the opinion that this had been the worst. He was referring to the weather. I believed him.

I made my way to the traffic circle and found a shady spot under an overhang. Foolishly, I sat down with my back to the wall, and sent out some sms's and tried to make a few calls. The networks were so congested that this proved challenging but I did eventually succeed. After about 20 minutes, I thought I had better be going. I tried to straighten my leg and let out a cry of pain as my thigh muscles went into spasm. A fellow cyclist saw me and made some sympathetic gestures, said something about this happening to rugby players as well. Thanks for nothing! Somehow I eventually managed to get up and hobbled the 200m or so to my car, loaded the bike up and drove slowly home. Family and friends were full of congratulations and sympathy. My body felt like I had been run over by a truck, but mentally I felt good - I had finished in 5hours 39 minutes, which meant averaging just under 20kph over a difficult course in very hot weather. I later learned that I had come in the 22000's out of the 33000 who finished the race, which I think is not too bad with no training and for a fiftyish year old amateur. Will I do it next year? - I may. Chances of getting that sort of weather two years running must be fairly slim. Lastly I must say that the race organisation was absolutely superb, so well done to the race committee and everyone else. I think the Argus is an institution of which the City can rightly be proud.

Now for the 2 Oceans ....

 The Miracle Machine. Truly a thing of great beauty...
The Kink sms'd me after the race and said: 
"Well done on finishing. Did it come out easily?!"

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Some more observations from a Cape Town railway commuter

If you want to see life, taking the metro is one way to do so. I don't mean Life, as in jet setting, bungi jumping, Big 5, scuba diving, sushi and 5 star cabernet. I just mean life, with a small "l".

This morning, I took up my usual seat by the window. I say window, but you have to understand that the perspex is so scratched and/or graffiti'd that they might as well replace it with masonite. Well, at least it lets some light in. The benches in the "old carriages" (they are all antediluvian, but some are just older than others) are arranged as three-seaters and two-seaters, facing one another in pairs. Not the most efficient seating pattern but there you are. I normally opt for a two-seater as they tend to be less of a crush, but the two-seater where I was, was downwind of the window, and the window didn't shut properly, so I went for the larger one. When we got to Muizenberg a man got in and sat beside me. He was so large (in all directions - very tall but also very fat) that he took up both seats. He wore shorts and a large teeshirt, strecthed tight over his somewhat pendulous gut. I tried not to stare in case he took offense and decided to throw me out the broken window - he looked as though he could easily have done so. I waited in interest to see what would happen. As normally happens, the train filled up fast at Steenberg and Retreat stations. Soon there was standing room only and the spaces next to the doors were overcrowded. Folk were standing in the passageway as well. Yet noone tried to edge into the third seat on our three-seater bench. I guess they felt they might be smothered, or else that a man so large must surely be sweaty and malodorous. Or maybe they thought that about me! He eventually decided to get off - at Mowbray I think - and I was delighted to see two people take up the space that he vacated. One often hears jokes told along those lines, but this was for real - he gave up his seat to two ladies.

Coming home I was treated to something different. I was in one of the "new" carriages - they have the seating arranged longitudinally along the sides, with more space in the middle. I found a seat near the end of the carriage and was getting out my headphones and Blackberry, planning on listening to a podcast or audiobook, when my ears were accosted by music. Of sorts. Three people were edging their way sideways down the center of the carriage, two of them holding hands. I think one, maybe two, of them were blind, and being led by the third. One had an electronic keyboard strung around his neck on which he was plonking out what we would call a "three chord wonder" - tonic major, sub-dominant major, tonic major, dominant seventh, repeated ad nauseam. The other two were singing - one an octave below the other, in unison. I know not what - it sounded like a scripture song or hymn, but I didn't recognize it. What was interesting was that there was little or no relation between the key being played in on the keyboard and the key the singers were belting forth in. They were in tune with each other, but not with the instrument. I expected it to correct, but it never did. They simply sidled their way into the next carriage and I didn't see them again. I should mention that such performances are not uncommon, although I haven't heard one quite this bad before. We quite often have duets - a blind woman led by a sighted man or vice versa. Some of them are quite good, even harmonizing. The lyrics seem invariably to be fairly simple three liners, sometimes in English, sometimes in isiXhosa, sometimes in a mix of the two. It makes a nice change to the usual hum of the wheels on the rails, the conversation and the occasional unwanted juke box. If I have some small change I am happy to throw it into the tin when it comes round.

Metro trains are by and large fairly reliable, even given what everyone says about them. At least that is my take. It may have something to do with the particular train I take or the line which I use - I gather the "central lines" are far less reliable than the "southern line". But all trains have problems now and then. I have been stuck on the London underground and the Washington metro more than once. So it was that at the end of a one hour trip on a hot afternoon we trundled out of Kalk Bay, past Clovelly, and crossed over the Silvermine River and then ... stopped. About 100m from Fish Hoek station, which was the terminus. And so we sat .. and sat .. and sat. In think for about 10 minutes. Now in London or DC when this happens the driver is very quick to get on the PA and tell everyone not to worry and what the problem is. Cape Town metro trains do not have such a facility. They have a PA at the stations but nothing on the trains. So you have no way of knowing whether you are waiting for a train to come past, or whether the engine is broken and in no hope of recovery. To make it worse, the doors are locked, pushing the emergency button does nothing (I didn't try but someone else did), and the windows are too small to get out. You could conceivably jump off from the gap between the carriages, but it looked decidedly unsafe and foolhardy and was almost certainly illegal. So we sat. Most of us, being on our way home, were not too stressed. We found another track to listen to on the iPod or simply carried on reading our books. There were however, two young ladies - they looked about 19 - who were incensed by what had happened. One in particular looked in the mood to commit murder. It was she who tried the emergency button. When nothing happened she stuck her head out the window and shouted very loudly, "Hey, driver, drive this f**king train, already!". Of course no one responded. She then threatened to do the jump, but her friend persuaded her not to. So she did the only thing she could - phoned her mother, and had a long and loud conversation with her about how useless Metrorail was and what an idiot the driver was. We were all very glad when the train eventually lurched forward again. I was still home by 6.30, in time for dinner.

Then there are the vendors. They hang out at Cape Town station - I haven't seen them anywhere else. They sell anything from newspapers to cold drinks, to sweets and chips. They move rapidly from carriage to carriage during the five to ten minutes before a train is about to leave, plying their wares, telling everybody what they are selling and at what price in a language which roughly approximates English. I haven't quite worked out how they manage to get onto the platform - normally one needs a valid ticket. There must be some sort of special dispensation for them. They perform a valuable service, but I do wonder what happens to all the litter. On the DC metro one is not allowed to eat or drink at all. In London one is. I like to munch an apple or banana when I am on the train, specially in the morning, but getting rid of the core or skin is problematic, and I usually have to take it with me when I get off.

For all the problems - torn seats, graffiti, dirty floors, dirty walls, dirty windows, lack of air-conditioning, breakdowns, cancelled trains, cable theft, and I could go on ... rail travel has a charm which even these have not robbed it of, and for now I am happy to be a rail commuter. It is definitely much greener, definitely much cheaper, and generally more convenient when it comes to parking and the like. I have now read 300 pages of Armstrong's "Holy War" and listened to a half a dozen podcasts as well. I am walking 15km a week just to and from the stations. Where is the argument then? And now we hear that our government plans to spend some vast sum of money of rail upgrades over the next 5 years, partly to create jobs. Wonderful, say I. Oil is about to run out, petrol prices can only go up, we don't yet have an affordable hybrid car, let alone an electric one. I'm all for it.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Becoming a rail commuting civil servant (again)

So this week I started a new job as a civil servant. I was one for the first 10 years of my professional life - 13 years if you count the army and my internship, which I guess you should - and then I worked in academia and for an NGO for another 11+ years. And from that you can probably work out that I am round about 50. In time I shall likely write a blog or two on the job itself, but suffice to say at this stage that I am reeling from the culture shock and having to adjust to what appears to be an extremely inflexible, intolerant and dehumanising environment. Perhaps if I had never left I wouldn't find it strange - but nearly a dozen years of doing things differently has made it difficult. Anyway, enough of that for now. Early days. Maybe they are having as much trouble adjusting to me as I am to them.

What I thought I would write about is some of the other aspects of this change. Bear with me.

My new office is in the centre of Cape Town, quite close to the central railway station. Road traffic into and parking within the CBD is a nightmare. If you can get parking, it is expensive. Years ago (12 to be exact), I used to take the train. I generally got the 6.30 out of Fish Hoek, which was an "express", as I recall - missing out a good few stations along the way, and taking just 50 minutes to get to Cape Town station. The monthly ticket for "Metro Plus" (1st class), cost about R230 I remember. That allowed one to use the train as many times a day as one needed to, get on get off, and so on. No question about it, the cheapest way to travel. Once in a while there would be glitches - trains not arriving, or just stopping in-between two stations for minutes on end, no explanations given, but these occurrences were fairly infrequent.

My first pleasant surprise was when I went along to my local station last Saturday to buy a ticket for the month of February. MetroPlus Fish Hoek - Cape Town monthly. Guess what? R240! I couldn't believe my ears. I asked the lady who sold it to me what time the earliest train was. "Oh," she said, "they start around 4.30!" I explained that I had somewhere around 6 in mind and she advised me that I would probably be best getting the 6.10. The next thing that happened was that I read an article in our local magazine, the Full Circle, about Metrorail. It was by Colin Jones, who I think used to be the Dean of St George's Cathedral. It appears he now lives in Lakeside and commutes daily to Woodstock. It made for depressing reading - clearly he was not enjoying being a rail commuter. But being of Scottish descent, I was not about to waste my R240 ticket so resolved to give it a try anyway.

I have had to adjust my waking hours. On my first day I was awake at 5 and out the door by 5.45. I don't think herself knew what had hit her. She offered me a lift to the station, but as it is only 1km (exactly - I measured it) and it wasn't raining, I said I would walk. I activated Endomondo (got to get all the mileage I can out of this) and then an audiobook through the Blackberry headset, and set off at what I thought was a respectable pace. My train was waiting for me, pulled up alongside platform 3 - I think it may in fact park there overnight. I found the three MetroPlus carriages - they are always the ones closer to Cape Town and got onto the second from the front. There was only one other person on board. I found a seat as far from the door as I could, close to a window and settled down - put on my specs, checked emails on the Blackberry, wrote one or two, and then got out my book, which currently happens to be one on the Crusades, by Karen Armstrong, called "Holy War". At 6.10 there was the sound of a whistle, a jolt or two and we slowly trundled out of the station headed northwards.

The first 5km of the trip takes you along the False Bay coast. The railway track runs between the Main Road and the sea, and it really is glorious. Unfortunately, the windows are so scratched or so dirty that it is difficult to see anything - I think they replaced all the old glass ones with perspex or plastic because of the vandalism. But on a good day you can open them a little and still see the blue waters and the rocks and, best of all, smell the sea. The trains could best be described as grimy and run down. I don't know how often they are washed or cleaned, but to me they don't look well cared for. Doubtless Metrorail would say they don't have the money or the staff, or they might argue that there is no point when the trains are constantly being vandalized - which is sad.

The trip takes 60 minutes, barring stoppages, which means one is doing an average of about 35 kph. Not exactly burning up the tracks, but if you took a car it would take as long or longer. The advantage of the train is that it is a lot cheaper, that you can read for an hour, and that it is definitely greener. As you get to Steenberg, Retreat, Plumstead and Wynberg, the train fills up. Soon there are no seats to be had, and often very little standing space.I suspect that my father, in the same situation, would have offered his seat to the first woman he saw standing. I am afraid I don't - not unless she is old or pregnant. I find it very difficult to read standing up, and I am taking the train so that I can read. QED. Go figure.

At the Cape Town end it is mild mayhem. In the bad old days there were two exits from the platform - on the West side was the exit for Europeans and on the East side for non-Europeans. They were entirely separate, in line with the apartheid philosophy. Nearly everyone was happy to see the end of that. Now we have one exit - the East exit is closed. So everyone bundles out and then careens along to try and get out first, bumping into people selling ticket holders, cokes, chips, passengers waiting to get on, security officials - the human wave just washes right over them. You can hang back for a while and it becomes a little more civilized - if you have time. Once you are through the ticket check and across the great concourse (which itself is an education - a bit like driving across the main road in the middle of Maputo - go one space, stop, go one space, stop ...), you get out into a large courtyard which borders Adderley Street and from there it is relatively free flowing. Cape Town pedestrians are of course famous for never obeying any traffic lights or traffic signs - in fact it is probably true to say that in the CBD pedestrians rule and motorists simply have to make a plan. I have never seen a pedestrian fined - where would they start?

I survived my first day. At four o'clock sharp the entire office simply emptied, which was an odd feeling. I remember this being a problem from my previous stint as a civil servant. I used to work on the 22nd floor of a building in Dorp Street. There were, as I recall, 6 lifts on each side of the building, 24 floors, and I don't know how many hundred civil servants working there. The majority of them left work at 4 sharp. The result was that if you were in the top half of the building, the lift never came, and you ended up taking the stairs - down 22 floors. Fortunately the reverse did not apply in the mornings. Anyway, at 4.30 I looked around and could not see a soul in the whole place. I very nearly could not get out, but eventually figured it out. Imagine having to spend the night in a government office!

Back at the station I found a train and a seat - the advantages of getting on at the terminus - and performed my ritual with the Blackberry and the book. The carriage filled up and soon we were on our way. This time our journey was enlivened by the musical talents of a blind person and her guide - they wandered up and down the carriage singing Jesus songs - the kind one sang in Sunday School all those years ago. In tune, quite nice harmonies, but I knew I didn't have any change in my wallet, and even if I did was not too keen to take it out of my bag. We haven't had any itinerant preachers yet - I recall them being rather trying. Talk about a captive audience. There are always the earphones if it gets unbearable.

So the reverse journey progressed and little by little the train disgorged its load, whilst picking up one or two extras here and there. The names all came back - Woodstock, Salt River, Observatory, Mowbray, Rosebank, Robdebosch, Newlands, Claremont, Harfield Road, Kenilworth, Wynberg, Wittebome, Plumstead ... I remembered them not only from those years as a civil servant but from my days as a medical student. It is summer right now and quite hot most days, although the south easter does cool things down. The trains are not air-conditioned and the only cooling option available is opening the windows. What is interesting, and quite pleasant, is the way the temperature gradually drops as one goes south, until by the time you get to Muizenberg you are starting to feel more comfortable - and of course there is that wonderful whiff of the sea again. Of course, it is helped by the fact that the trains empties, but it isn't only that - there is definitely as gradient. Retreat, Steenberg, Lakeside, False Bay, Muizenberg, St James, Kalk Bay, Clovelly ... we round the last corner with a screech of metal and Fish Hoek station is in sight. Another rugby scrum getting through the ticket check and under the subway. Endomondo on, Audiobook on and the final 1km walk home. At my door by 5.30 - remarkable - don't know when that last happened. In time for a run before supper. Half hearted attempt to watch some TV and do some work thereafter and then in bed by 9.30. Maybe I could get used to this...

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Namibia

Namibia
I hadn't been up this way since I was up here wearing a brown uniform an carrying an R5 automatic rifle. That is another story but it ended with my flying out of Walvis Bay in a "Flossie" which as I remember was a large transport aircraft in which whatever passengers there were sat in sort of hammock-style chairs, arranged longitudinally in the fuselage. There was no inner skin to the aircraft, as one has in a commercial jet, which meant that it got really cold and that the noise of the engines was deafening. They did provide us with earplugs, I think. That was about a month before I "klaared out" - got my demob. And that was that - my third and last trip to Namibia. So when the opportunity arose to revisit Windhoek, I had somewhat mixed feelings, but decided to go.
For some reason I was booked on Air Namibia. I asked my boss somewhat nervously if he had ever flown with them. “Oh, yes”, he said, “cheapest way to get to Europe - via Windhoek on Air Namibia.” Suitably comforted, I forbore asking for a change in my booking. The flight left CapeTown at around 6 pm on a Sunday. Our plane was a small twin engine jet - an Embraer, I think. Seated about 30. I had a window seat on the right and an empty seat next to me, which was nice. We had a smooth take off and the captain warned us we would probably have turbulence later on as there was thunderstorm activity all the way from the Orange River northwards. He was right, but it wasn't too bad. The sun was setting in the west and in the East we could see these huge banks of cumulonimbus with frequent flashes of lightning illuminating them. Rather pretty I thought, although I was glad they weren't too close.
I fiddled on my iPad and wrote the odd email. Before long the captain was on the blower again to tell us we were commencing our descent. Not sure why they tell you - you can always feel it. Again we were warned that we should expect turbulence on the descent and again it didn't happen. To make up for it though, he dropped the aircraft onto the runway with such a jarring thud that I thought the wheels would fold. They didn't. It was raining lightly when we disembarked and to my surprise we were asked to walk through the rain to the terminal building - no bus being available. That was a first for me, though I didn't really mind - it wasn't very far. I filled in the inevitable immigration form and handed my South African passport to the immigration officer. She was in the process of quizzing me about my intended activities when a fellow from the WHO came bustling up, ascertained who I was and told the young lady that he would take it from here. I felt like an immune diplomat!
For some reason the international airport in Windhoek is about 40km out of town. I remarked on it to a colleague from Antwerp and he said that this is the modern trend. Can't imagine why. Takes over half an hour to get there. I thought maybe it was all the mountains around the city centre - it kind of lies in a ring of high hills, a bit like Blantyre, but then many cities have much larger mountains close to their airports, mine being one of them. I chatted to Lord Charles on the way in and it went relatively quickly.
We were staying at the Safari Court Hotel. From what I can make out it is on the Gobabis Road, near the University and Technical High School and right next to the old Windhoek airport (which is presumably no longer international). Also nearby is the Windhoek country club, where we would be having our meeting. The hotel is a solid six story building, actually quite attractive in a sort of monolithic way, with nice grounds and pool. The rooms are old - mine had a radio next to the bed with "preselects", and it lacked a safe, but otherwise it was comfortable enough. Small planes, and an occasional larger one buzzed in and out of the airport. They started early in the morning but mercifully did not go on late into the night. I made daily good use of the gym and pool, both of which were world class.
The mornings were crisp and clear - maybe it was my imagination but the air in Windhoek just seemed a whole lot clearer than in Cape Town. I could see the surrounding mountains clearly, even without my glasses on. In the grounds some small birds played - nothing spectacular but nevertheless rather special. I heard a lot of Afrikaans spoken, which made me feel quite at home, as well as a fair amount of German. Of course, the meeting was in English. Unfortunately I did not get a chance to go out and see the city.
What else can I say about Windhoek? It rained a lot. I think it rained every afternoon in fact. Thunderstorms with lightning. Bad enough to keep me out of the pool. We were told that rain in December is unusual but welcome. The food was excellent and the beer was world class - Windhoek lager and draft, Hansa Tafel-lager - we get these brands in Cape Town but it somehow felt more special drinking them in the town where they are brewed. I had roast oryx at dinner one night - a type of buck - very good. One new thing about the WHO meeting - one no longer has a morning break for tea or coffee and pastries. They are now called "fruit and health breaks" and those delicious pastries and muffins have been replaced by bowls of apples and oranges. The public health part of my soul was all tumultuous applause. The hedonist part was protesting loudly - "get a life!!!" The Internet connection was slow but reasonably reliable. The Namibians I met seemed uncomplicated, friendly folks, proud of their young democracy (older than ours come to think of it, by about 5 years). They sang their national anthem with gusto. We sang the African Union anthem as well – first time I had heard it. Not bad. The words are very idealistic and flowery, but hey, what’s wrong with a little naïve optimism now and then? They seemed to get the balance right – enough pomp and circumstance to keep the politicians happy but not so much that it got in the way of the workshop proceedings. I am not a fan of large meetings but this was a reasonably productive one.
Before I knew it it was my last night and I was clearing the cupboard and packing. Then the long drive back to the airport and a short wait for my plane. Everything went smoothly, although some of my European colleagues were delayed – the SAA plane from Johannesburg was late landing, late taking off and in consequence one of them missed his connection to Zurich. I told him next time he should come via Cape Town!



So that was Windhoek. General impression: clean, pleasant, well run. Should probably go back and visit it again sometime, with herself and the princesses.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

Getting to the top of the hill and the concept of a parabolic life trajectory

Getting to the top of the hill and the concept of a parabolic life trajectory
This morning I ran, with about 10 others from my club, from Noordhoek to the viewsite at the top of Chapman’s Peak Drive and back. Tens of thousands of runners and cyclists will know this stretch well, because it is part of both the Pick ‘n Pay Argus Cycle Tour and the Two Oceans Ultramarathon. It is one of the most breath-takingly beautiful runs imaginable, with the mountain soaring up, vast and sheer and threatening, above you on the one side and the drop to the foaming white waters of the Atlantic on the other. Absolutely magnificent.
Of course, your legs soon let you know that you are running up a hill. You climb about 160m over the course of 5km, which is not inconsiderable, although I didn’t personally find it as heavy going as Ou Kaapse Weg, which I ran the previous Saturday. One of the important things about running up a long, steep hill is knowing where the top of the hill is, so that you can pace yourself and plan your run better. Which got me thinking about my own life …
As I recall from my Grade 11 mathematics, specifically the geometry part of it, the equation y=x  gives you a different graph to the equation y=x2 and different again to the equation y=1/x. One gives you a straight line, one a parabola and one a hyperbola, as I recall. Most hills are not straight lines – they are either parabolic or hyperbolic or some combination – you trundle along for a good few km, climbing gradually and then you do a lot of climbing in a relatively short distance and then ease off again to climb the remaining meters more gradually - sigmoid. Of course, having made it to the top, you have the opposite experience going down the other side or, as I did this morning, going back down the same side you came up. The trick, as I said, is knowing when the summit is coming and when you have “made it”.
One hears some senior citizens described as being “over the hill”, which is usually meant in a derogatory sense, to mean that they are past their best, have lost some or most of their faculties or capacities, and are really not to be trusted with responsibility. In that sense, I guess none of us wants to be “over the hill”. But in another sense, I am greatly looking forward to being “over the hill” – in the sense that I can take stock of how far up I have climbed, can enjoy the view, can ease off on the throttle and just enjoy life for a while. It seems to me that far too many of us stick to a straight line (never easing off) or even hyperbolic trajectory (peddling faster and faster as the “target” approaches – usually retirement). As we approach middle age and then retirement, we fail to recognise that, as my similarly-aged squash partner said to me the other day, “there is now more sand in the bottom half of the hour glass than in the top half!”
I have made a conscious decision to throttle back, as I approach my 50th birthday, to take a little more time to smell the roses, or the coffee or whatever. To listen to more music, to read more books, to walk and run and ride more, to spend more time with my loved ones, to spend more time in prayer and meditation. On Wednesday I start a new job. There is no guarantee that it will be any less demanding than my current job but here’s the thing – it will allow me at least two hours a day of uninterrupted reading time on the train into and from the city centre, and it will force me to walk for about an hour a day, to and from the stations at both ends. It will very likely mean an end to my global wanderings, or a severe curtailment thereof, and a bit more local travel. I spoke to a friend this morning who is turning 70 this year and cannot decide whether he should continue working or not – he is a financial adviser and is worried about selling his business and handing his clients over to someone he doesn’t know well or trust completely. I can understand that. On the other hand, he has already had one heart attack, is moderately overweight and must be a good candidate for a second one. Surely he can see the writing on the wall…
So this is my plug for a parabolic life trajectory. Give it all you have got for those first 25 years of your working life – that is the way we are designed. Make your money, travel your travels, take your chances, live life to the fullest. But then know when to ease off on the throttle so that you can enjoy the view. Recognise when you have reached the summit. Don’t be afraid of the trip down the other side. You may have to put in extra effort once or twice when the south easter hits you or you hit an unexpected incline. You may, indeed, have to put in more effort than others. You’re not paralysed – just free-wheeling – the engine is still running under the hood. But don’t keep gunning it right up to the last minute just so that you can have the biggest nest-egg in the family, or the suburb or the city. Your biggest nest egg is your physical, mental and spiritual health – look after that first.
As 50 approaches, I am really looking forward to being “over the hill” (the princesses would say I have been for years, of course). Or at least being able to see the summit for the first time.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Berlin revisited

Second trip to Berlin
Why would anyone want to leave sunny Cape Town where the temperature is 30 degrees Celsius and most of the sane population is on the beach, travel for 12 hours on overcrowded aeroplanes and then spend a week in a grey hotel in a grey city with grey skies where the night-time temperatures are negative and even during the day they struggle to get out of single figures? Not sure – next question…
Anyway, that is what I did. Part of my job. Life is tough.
Saturday
I have recently acquired an iPad, which I just love. One feature I use a lot is iTunes and specifically the podcasts one can download through iTunes and iTunesU. I have quite a backlog of podcasts to listen to now because every week more are added. My favourites are BBC History podcasts (did you know that Matilda agreed to marry Alfred after he had assaulted her in church and dragged her down the aisle by her hair?), Justin Breilly’s “Unbelievable” (basically a Christian apologetics program which generally manages, I think, to cover opposing views on religious and philosophical matters in an intelligent and reasonably balanced and fair way) and APM Krista Tippett’s “On being” (a somewhat similar program on faith, religion, ethics, philosophy, but much broader and not exclusively Christian).
Anyway I had an hour or so to kill before boarding at Cape Town so went to the SAA business lounge (despite the fact that I was flying Lufthansa – have recently been upgraded to Voyager Gold again), got something to eat and drink, sat down and plugged my headset into my ears (so I thought) and switched on a podcast – I forget which one. Funny, I thought, it seems very soft, so I found the volume control and turned it up to full. I was still struggling to hear it and it was only after a minute or two and some funny looks from my fellow travellers that I realised that my headphones were not in fact plugged into the iPad properly and that the podcast was blaring forth to all and sundry in the lounge – the reason that I thought it sounded a bit soft was that I had earphones in my ears. Embarrassing!
Sunday
Fairly uneventful trip. Landed at Frankfurt well before dawn and had the usual circus getting from one terminal to another through passport control and security before the boarding call, but somehow made it. It was dark and rainy when we took off for Berlin and dark and rainy when we landed. No snow this time. Tegel airport at Berlin (Berlin has more than one airport) is small and pleasant – well, small compared to Frankfurt and as pleasant as an airport can be. I think it has less than 20 gates and only 2 terminals, which puts it in the same league as Cape Town or Nairobi – manageable.
Having been here before I knew what to do this time. Weekly ticket (7-tage-kaart) for Berlin AB (i.e. you can’t use it beyond zone B, which is fine), cost me euro 27.20, which I paid on my credit card. All very efficient. Tried to buy a SA-European plug adaptor, but they didn’t have one. No great surprise. Found Bus 109 (“Zoologisher Garten”) which was on the point of departing. Validated my ticket and found a seat.
Found the Hotel Kurfürst easily enough. You have to get off the bus at Bleibtrau Strasse and then it is just a short walk up a side street. It is not a grand hotel – I gather it costs 60 euro a night for bed and breakfast and it advertises itself as being 3 star. But it is nice enough. This year they had me on the fifth floor. There is a very small lift which only goes as far as the fourth floor, and then one has to take the staircase. Odd. In fact there are many aspects of the hotel which are odd, but quite nicely odd. Maybe quaint would be a better description.
Once I had showered and stowed all my luggage I had a look out of the window. It was raining lightly but I figured I could bear it and didn’t want to miss the chance of a nice walk, so I took to the streets in running shoes, tracksuit bottoms and my US anorak. I switched on the GPS / Endomondo gizmo – I have discovered that it works even if the data connection is switched off – presumably communicates directly with the satellites, not through the cellular network. The rain got worse so I pulled out the jacket’s hood and must have looked like a bit of a weirdo but kept relatively dry. I walked down Kurfürstendamm and picked up a Café Latte Vente (the biggest one, €3.95) from Starbucks on the way, sipping it as I walked.
The zoo was open but at €12 a visit I wasn’t keen. Instead I took the path just after it which runs into the Tiergarten and on my map is labelled “Gartenuber” – not sure if that is the name of the street or something else. Anyway, it runs next to the “Landwehrkanal” and meets Katharina Heinroth Uber at what I think was the Botanical Institute – a large and grand but rather run down looking oldish building. I crossed the Kanal and headed into the Tiergarten proper. Something was really agitating the Endomondo voice-prompt – I had it on Autostart so that it would stop timing when I stopped (for instance at a traffic light) and start again when I restarted. She (it is a female voice) kept saying “Workout paused” and then a few seconds later “Workout resumed”. I eventually got tired of her and put her on mute.
In the middle (roughly) of the Tiergarten, where the major roads meet, is a large traffic circle called the “Grosser Stern”, in the middle of which is a monument called the “Sieges Säule”. The circle is very busy so they have two pedestrian underpassed with fine and massive marble gateways on either side of the “Straße des 17 Jun” – the main road which runs from the Brandenburg Arch west through the Garten. In the basement of the monument they have a small museum which details German National monuments in general – very interesting. It costs €3 to get in. You can then, if you have some energy and are not afraid of heights, climb the spiral staircase to the viewing platform which is about 15 feet above ground-level, or to the top of the tower, which I guess must be about 100 feet up. I did both. I am not good with spiral stairs or heights, but I looked steadfastly at the wall, and there were sufficient handrails and safety bars that I felt reasonably safe and did not throw up. The view from the top was worth it.
I then wandered up to the Arch (which is impressive but doesn’t quite compare to the Arc d’Triomf or Big Ben, I don’t think). On the way you pass the memorial to the 20 000 odd Russian soldiers who died taking Berlin. I think they might even be buried there. Odd that it should be in what was formerly West Berlin, but there you are. I walked a few blocks down Unter den Linden which is more a pedestrian concourse than a street really. Then I went north a block and doubled back up Dorotheastrasse to the Bundestag, which really is impressive – much more impressive than the Arch I thought. I could have caught a bus back to the Zoo but it was only a km or two and early so I thought I would just walk.
I saw a man “riding” an electric motorised three wheeler – looked fascinating and I was particularly interested because of our experiences with the bicycles. He was friendly enough to allow me to take a picture. A little further on I found what seemed to be a very tall steeple, complete with bells, but not church. It said it had been built by Mercedes Benz, and had a picture of someone playing what looked like an organ. The notice was in German and mentioned something about “Carillon”. Didn’t make sense at the time but I later figured out that he plays the “organ” which plays the bells. Must be quite something.
At this point I became aware that my bladder was filling or full and here’s the strange thing – the Berliners, for all their frightening competence and efficiency, had made no provision for me or people like me – not on a Sunday anyway. I found two public toilets and they were both firmly locked. What to do? In SA I would probably have just found a tree and relieved myself, but it was mid winter and none of the trees had any leaves. I imagined the headlines – “South African doctor appears in Berlin court charged with relieving himself in public”. As if to  confirm my fears, a patrolling police car came gliding past, all but silently. No that would not do. Rule number one when travelling abroad – do NOT break any law, no matter how trivial! To cut a long story short (pardon the expression, no allusion to gadgetry intended), I made it to MacDonald’s, not without some discomfort, and was so grateful that I promptly ordered and ate a Big Mac, large fries and large Coke (non diet), which the helpful packaging informed me pretty much wiped out the 800 kCal which Endomondo had told me I had expended on my long walk. Sigh …!
I was in bed around 5 and for the first time in many months slept right through till 5 am Monday morning.
Monday and Tuesday
The course is run at the DRK Kliniek, which I have just worked out stands for the German (Deutsche) Red Cross Clinic. It is an attractive complex of oldish buildings on Spandauerdamm, just past S Bahnhof Westend, about an hour’s walk from our hotel, about 20 minutes on the bus (109 then 45). Lovely old red face brick with large wood-framed glass windows and steep roofs. High ceilings – impossibly high – they must have been worried about ventilation and TB. I must do some research but I would think they are about 150 years old. The days started with a hearty breakfast back at the hotel – cereal, fruit and yoghurt or something which I was informed by my Belgian friend was “plattekaas” (very tasty but I expect rather cholesterolific as well as calorific), fresh rolls or speciality breads with jam, cold meats or cheese – there was a good selection of gorgonzola, brie, camembert, emmental and a few others – washed down with a couple of cups of good filter coffee. They were intense and long and the evenings were spent preparing for the following day, so not much to report. The weather remained reasonably polite with only occasional light rain and temperatures generally above zero degrees C. It was black before five pm each afternoon and we went back to our hotel in the dark. Most nights I worked till around 9 and then took a walk down Kurfürstendamm towards the Tiergarten to get my fix of a Latte at Starbucks. The shop-fronts on “Kur’damm” are about 50% of clothes and shoe shops. Just about all of them were having a “sale” but the sale prices were frankly ridiculously high – €700 for a suit, 400 for a jacket, 300 for a pair of pants or shoes and so it went. Nice to look at but there it ended. They were closed anyway. Food prices were less scary but still high – a light meal such as a pizza or salad or soup around 5-10€; a more substantial meal like fish or a steak €10-15 and the more expensive dishes towards €20 – about twice what we would expect to pay in Cape Town.
Wednesday night
The Faculty dinner. Much anticipated, particularly by me, since we were told it would be at the same venue as last year and for an entire year I have been telling everyone who would listen how wonderful the beer was there. Brauhaus Lemke, which is just opposite Schloss Charlottenburg, advertises that its beers are “frisch gebraut für Sie, direkt aus unserem Lagerkeller”, and that is exactly how they taste. It was a clear, cold night so we walked from the Institute to the restaurant, which takes about half an hour. We had booked a table and managed to get about 12 of us around it, on the broad wooden benches. What to drink? There was an impressive offering of beers – seasonal beer, weise beer, wheat beer, and a few others. I ordered a large (500mL) seasonal beer which duly came in a long slender glass, and appreciatively started to slurp it. It really is good. The edibles were more difficult. I do try and eat local specialities when I travel unless they are prohibitively expensive (like salmon), morally bankrupt (like veal) or simply unappetising (like eel or Brussel sprouts). So I went for curry-wurst, which the Berliners say is a Berlin speciality, but which I gather a number of other German towns also lay claim to. It came as a large plate of fries and about 10 slices of sausage, covered with a curry sauce. It was good and tasty. Not sure that it was very good or very tasty. Not sure that I would have it again in a hurry but at least I can say I have had currywurst. All the while the beer sampling continued. I tried a tall non-alcoholic wheat beer, then moved to a 4*100mL sampler (Bierkostprobe), which included Lemke Original, Lemke Pils, Lemke Weizen and Lemke Saisonbier. I decided I liked the wheat beer best so finished off the evening with a final small glass of that. We then walked back to the hotel and managed to stay on the pavement.
Friday
We finished up around 3.30 so I had the late afternoon and evening to myself. Most of the others were flying out that afternoon so I was on my own. Someone had found me the Classical Music page from a local newspaper – not sure which one – from which I learned that I had quite a wide choice – “Ben Hur” at the Berliner Dom, Puccini’s “Turando” at the Deutsche Oper, organ recitals at the Emmaus Evangelical Church, the St Marienkirche and the Sophienkirche Mitte, concerts with varied programs at the Groβe Orangerie, the Haus des Rundfunks (sic!), the Hochschule fur Musik, Bizet’s “Carmen” at the Komische Oper, works by Chopin, Glasunow and Karlowicz at the Konzerthaus, something called “Lust, Leid und Lied” at the Lichtburgforum, a “garagenoper” festival at the Theatreforum Kreuzberg, piano classes with a professor at the UdK Konzertsalle Bundesallee or a Mendelsohn violin concert at the UdK Konzertsalle Hardenbergstr. Quite a choice! In the end I went to none of the above. I decided to go to an organ recital at Nikolaikirche, which was advertised for 17h30 – no ticket price quoted. I Googled Nikolaikirche and discovered that it was in the Nikolaiviertel, near the radio tower and the Alexanderplatz. Quite a distance from my hotel but I figured out I could get there if I took an M19 bus to Bulow Str and then the 148 to Alexanderplatz. Ja well no fine. The buses were very crowded and we had some delay to allow a lady in a wheelchair to alight and later to disembark (de-light?), but otherwise all was going swimmingly. I arrived at the church at 5.25 and was a little surprised to hear the magnificent organ in full swing. I hauled out my newspaper and asked the lady at the counter, in very broken German, whether I was in the right place, showing her the advert. She told me the concert had started at 5 and was almost over. She also looked at me in a somewhat pitying way as though I was an escaped imbecile. I pretended to look at the books and CD’s on sale while I caught the dying strains of the recital – whoever it was was very good. The music ended and there was some faint applause. People started to move out. I tried to go into the body of the church to get a look at the organ and was sharply corrected in German by the usher – something to the effect of not being allowed in without a ticket (despite the concert having finished). I grunted in her direction and left.
As I was close to the radio tower (Berliner Fernsehturm), and since we had missed going up it last time I was here because the weather was so bad, I thought I’d check it out. Eleven  euro’s and about 15 minutes later I was on the observation deck a couple of hundred metres above the ground. The view was good but I am not sure it was worth 11 euro’s. It is quite nicely done with information boards around the perimeter every few meters, letting you know what you were looking at. The biggest problem I thought was that the windows are set at an angle – perhaps 60 degrees to the vertical so that you are looking out and down, if you know what I mean. All very well, but at night what happens is that the interior ceiling lights get reflected off the panes and it is well nigh impossible to get a decent photo. There is a bar on the observation deck level and a restaurant on the next level up – I had a look at the prices and decided that I wouldn’t be eating there anytime soon. I didn’t stay terribly long – maybe 10 minutes, but I wasn’t sorry I had come.
Back down at ground level I found the main road which runs into Unter den Linden and followed it roughly west, towards the Brandenburg Gate. There is an old-looking church right next to the tower called the Marienkirche. Last time we were here it was closed – this time it was open. I popped in and there were about four elderly folk milling around, looking like they were wanting to close up. The outside is beautiful old stonework, the inside spacious, with tall white plastered walls. There didn’t seem to be much else going on so I left. If I may be permitted a general comment, I haven’t found German churches terribly welcoming. Either they are firmly shut or else they appear to be geared up simply to fleece tourists. The idea that some visitors may be there with intentions slightly more spiritual than a desire to photograph the elevated pulpit, the high altar or the great organ doesn’t seem to have occurred to them. What would they say if I told them I had actually come to meditate or worse – to pray?! Are those words still part of their vocabulary? – they used to be! Perhaps I am being unfair.
I soon found Unter den Linden and followed it to the Gate. There was a keen wind blowing straight into my face and I was glad I had on a beanie and gloves. The zip of my anorak was malfunctioning so I had to hold it closed with my gloved hands which probably made me look as though I was bursting to relieve myself and clutching my crotch in consequence. WTF! From the Gate I followed the perimeter of the Tiergarten to the left, past some very fancy-looking office or apartment blocks, I am not sure which. To my right the Garden trees looked dark and somewhat ominous, yet there was a father pushing his toddler in a pram and another man walking his very small dog just meters away from the edge of the darkness. Fearless Berliners! You wouldn’t walk there if this was Cape Town!!
I passed the Sony building with its astounding architecture, but didn’t go in. I was heading for the Concert Hall where the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra is based. I was on a mission. Last time I was here there was a concert with Sir Simon Rattle conducting and Yo Yo Ma on cello playing Shostakovich, I think. The cheapest ticket was 70€, so I passed it up and have regretted doing so ever since. This time there was due to be a performance of Edward Elgar’s “Dream of Gerontius”, conducted by Daniel Barenboim. I did not know the soloists’ names but I do know the music – I sang tenor in it myself once, many years ago (25 to be exact). I think it is a wonderful piece of music and I was very keen to hear it live again. The lady at the ticket booth spoke good English, which made a nice change. She told me there were still tickets, in the “G zone” – “Block Sonderpl, Reihe 1, Platz 4”, which I later learned indicated that they were “special seats” - and the cheapest was 30€. I did a quick calculation and decided it was worth it, so handed over my cash.
It was still early, so I went across to the shop to see whether there was anything affordable to buy. Some of the CD’s on sale made my mouth water, but the standard price appeared to be around 20€ and I figured I could get them cheaper back home. Pity. I made my way to an usher and asked the way to zone G. I am not sure whether it was just my imagination or if she really sniggered as she started explaining (in German) where I should go. [Maybe she thought I was asking about the G spot!]. Up this staircase, then up that staircase, along the corridor, up another staircase and then another. Hang on, I thought, how many staircases can there be? To cut a (very) long story short, the G zone seats are the highest in the house. There is a left and a right G zone. I was in “G-links”. Maybe you’ll get the idea if I tell you that we were just forward of the great organ along the left wall, and about three quarters of the way up the 32 foot pipes! I could see why they were the cheapest seats – for one thing you needed to be an trained mountaineer to actually get there. On the other hand, I was in Row 1, which meant that I had nothing between me and the orchestra except a piece of glass and about 50 feet of free-fall. The sound, when it happened, was beautiful. In fact, I wondered whether we didn’t perhaps have the pleasure of hearing a better balanced sound than those privileged folk who had mortgaged their houses in order to sit right in front of Herr Daniel’s podium. I guess I shall never know, since I very much doubt I shall ever sit there!
The “Dream of Gerontius” is an oratorio, built around poetry by Cardinal John Henry Newman, who lived in the 19th century and wrote the poetry in 1865. It concerns a man’s dream of his own dying and of his soul going to face judgment. Needless to say it has a happy ending – Christ spares his soul and he goes to Paradise. The theology is a little, shall we say, heterodox, but the poetry is beautiful and the music is sublime. The solo parts are for the man and his soul (tenor), a female angel (alto) and the Angel of Agony – what a wonderful name! - (bass). The mixed choir are sometimes demons and sometimes “angelicals”, which must be a little disconcerting. It is set for a largish orchestra, complete with harp and grand organ. I like Elgar a lot. I am probably most familiar with his sacred choral music but I am also fond of his cello and organ concertos and his symphonies. I am not sure exactly why his music speaks to me, but it always has. So to me this was just superb – hearing one of the world’s finest orchestras under one of our best conductors perform some of my favourite music. I sat in my lofty perch and just soaked it up. I confess that more than once I had to wipe away a tear or two. I cannot see how anyone could not be moved by it, but clearly some were not – the fellow beside me disappeared at interval (or maybe he spotted an empty and better seat somewhere).
Too soon it was over. Herr Daniel and the soloists came back, and back, and back, were given bouquets, undying affection and tumultuous neverending applause and then finally left. We all moved slowly out – out into the cold of a windy, wintry Berlin night. A short walk took me to my bus-stop and after a mercifully short wait my bus appeared. Very soon I was back at Bleibtraustraβe and my hotel, it was then that I realised I had not eaten anything since lunchtime! I figured Starbucks would be closed – the one in the US near our apartment always closed at 9. The only nearby place open was the wurst takeaways on the opposite corner to us. I forget its name, but it doesn’t look like much – stuck away on the ground floor of a building which is being renovated, it looks a bit like any corner café in Cape Town or Johannesburg. But it isn’t. This place evidently got the prize recently for the best Currywurst in Berlin, which is saying something! It seemed that most folk were getting their wurst on a plate, swimming in the sauce. That didn’t appeal to me – too messy. I asked him whether I could have mine on a roll and he agreed. I think it cost me about 3€ and it was delicious. I washed it down with a Coke from the hotel room fridge and sank into bed thinking it had been a good day.
Saturday
Last day in Berlin. Woke late (7) simply because I could. Breakfasted late (8) for the same reason. My plane was only leaving for Frankfurt at 7 pm, so I had plenty of time. I checked out and left my baggage at the hotel, then headed down Kurfürstendamm to the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. This is the one which used to be very grand, in the days of Kaiser Wilhelm, I guess, but was all but flattened in the war, from the bombing and then the street fighting. Most of the church was destroyed but the entrance hall remained standing as did the steeple, except for it’s top half – it kind of got lopped off, leaving a ragged edge. In consequence it is sometimes compared to a carious tooth – just the shell with the ragged edge remaining. I have extracted teeth like that and it isn’t easy – they usually break up leaving little bits behind in the socket. Since the war they have built a magnificent hexagonal chapel with a fine new organ. The walls, which must be around 30 feet high, are constructed out of thousands of square glass bricks. At first glance they all appear to be blue, which in itself is nice – it gives a very peaceful ambience to the place. But if you look more closely they each have varying amounts of red and yellow as well – so the three primary colours. Allusions to the Trinity? – I wonder. Anyway, there was supposed to be an organ/violin recital there at 10 a.m. I got there around 9.45 and heard the organ was once again in full swing, so assumed that once again I had misunderstood the German way of announcing the time of a concert! As it turned out, the violinist had not pitched up and the organist was practicing – I think he was due to give a second recital on his own in the evening. So over the course of the next hour I sat and listened to him practice. Of course, I did not know what he was playing. Some of it sounded as though it must be Bach or Buxtehude. I recognised some Mendelssohn. At one stage he launched into some very loud avant garde piece which could have been Messiaen. He certainly put the instrument through its paces, and we heard not only the big diapasons but the bass pedal reed and the ranks of trumpets put to good use. When I had had enough I quietly left. It had not cost me a cent.
I decided to spend the rest of my time walking around the Tiergarten for a last time. It was a fine day, if cold and there were many people who clearly had the same idea. I went clockwise from the Zoo. The north border of the garden is the River Spree and I had a very pleasant stroll along its south bank for a km or so, until I got to the Bundestag – the German Parliament. It has to be seen to be believed. The old building, which is colossal and monumental (no other words to describe it) is flanked by these ultramodern geometric concrete and glass constructions. I have been told that after the Third Reich there was a feeling that never again would government business be conducted in secret, behind locked doors, and so many or most of the offices are glass fronted and had it not been a Saturday, I expect I should have been able to see everyone at their desks. I like the idea – I think we could do with some of that spirit in SA.
I passed the Hauptbahnhof – the main Berlin Railway Station – and after consulting my map realised with something of a shock that until 23 years ago, the place where a train was travelling out of it would have been invisible from where I was standing, obscured by that insane Wall! Couldn’t quite get my mind around it, but there you are. Politicians like that should probably be euthanized at birth, for the good of all – if only we could predict which they would be. Then back to Unter den Linden, through the Gate again, and this time a slow wander through the Garden, down many an “Allee” and “Weg”, past many a statue, some of people well known to me, some of folk I have never heard of. It was a lovely brightly sunlit balmy afternoon and I enjoyed my walk immensely. At last I fetched up back at the Zoo.
I made a short stop in a large sports shop and admired particularly some of their cycling gear and accessories, but the prices, even on “sale” were really high and I didn’t buy anything. I saved my remaining euro’s for a last Café Latte Vente and cheese roll and the Starbucks in Kurfürstendamm, drank and ate them while walking back to the hotel, retrieved my baggage from the reception lady, left a tip for the cleaner, and hopped on the 109 to Tagel Airport. En route I had to strip off several layers of clothing – those buses are superheated and I had my long underwear on against the winter’s day. Don’t know how Europeans and Americans manage – I find the central heating quite oppressive and it can’t be very good for either one’s health or the environment. OK that is my rant for the day.
At Tagel, I managed something I have never managed before – getting into the business lounge in a foreign country. This by dint of having recently been upgraded to Gold. Ah, the life …! Had a couple of beers while I sat and wrote this, and shall have to stop now as they are about to call my flight.
Did the same thing at Frankfurt and fulfilled another long time desire – ate frankfurters in Frankfurt! And then it was time to board the big beast for the very long haul back to Cape Town.
Sunday
After a long, hot but otherwise uneventful flight, back in Cape Town. Strong south easter taking the edge off a rather hot day. As ever, good to be back.

The organ and windows of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church 
 The Bundestag and the River Spree
The “Grosser Stern”, in the middle of which the “Sieges Säule”
 The Brandenburg Gate
Trees in the Tiergarten

Saturday, December 24, 2011

The Hide

The Hide

The bricked path to the Hide leads under shady acacia trees,
alongside lush lawns, next to beds of colourful wild flowers;
I approach slowly, reverently almost,
Binoculars in one hand, iPad in the other,
My head covered by a New Balance running cap,
A Holiday gift from my colleagues.

All around are the strains of birdsong,
Nearby a kingfisher chants shrilly from his lofty dead branch;
Further off the water dikkops wail mournfully, quietly;
The bottlebird warbles from his bush down by the riverside,
Far off, high above the river, a pair of fish eagles call majestically to one another;
All the while the river flows, rumbles, rushes, washes, swirls, singing its own powerful song.

I slowly, unsteadily mount the creaking central wooden staircase ladder;
Uneven slanting steps cause me to lurch and sway and almost fall;
I grab the handrail and the whole Hide seems to rock.
The assembled watchers look round, frowning, disapproving.
I mumble an apology and tiptoe to a vacant place on the bare wooden benches.

The obvious regulars are quickly picked out – the brilliant red bishop, Egyptian geese,
Egrets, bulbuls, babblers, spur fowls, weavers, prinias, swallows, swifts …
No one is that interested in them and neither am I.
Ticked them all off long ago.
No, we are here to Wait and Watch.
Watch and Wait.
Watch for the Coming.
Wait for the Revelation.
Will it be today?

The minutes tick by.
The lowveld afternoon air hangs thick and heavy about us.
Birds come and go, but nothing new happens.
There is peace here, and quiet,
but it is an expectant peace, an excited quiet.
Something momentous may happen today.
Something new may be revealed.

Suddenly, a gasp.
Inaudible, but felt.
A Watcher has seen something.
We follow the direction of her binoculars to the reeds below.
Another gasp, a group gasp.
Someone says the words “cuckoo finch”.
We all reach frantically for our books or iPads and page or type furiously,
In-between drinking in the sight of this diminutive yellow-brown creature,
flitting around in the reeds below.
We envisage ticking it off, chalking it up – a lifer!
The old man in the corner is silent, calm, unfrenzied.
For a long while he just sits and observes.
Then he intones in a deep voice through his white beard:
“Weeeaaaavvvvverrrr…..”
A groan, felt but not heard.
We return to watching and waiting.
Perhaps this is not the day, not the hour.
We must remain faithful.
Revelation could happen at any time.

Devotions over, we make our peace and leave quietly,
Singly or in twos and threes.
Out into the hostile world of the unbirded,
Those lacking our magnificent obsession.
The stairs creak again under the load. The structure sways.
The last watcher leaves and the Hide lies empty, deserted,
Maintaining its own watch.

oooOOOooo