Teaching Terrorists

The Blue Moon trip came to an end for me in San Diego, where one final bender resulted in my walking back from town to the marina along the highway at 3am (flight out at 5). I wasn’t in the state of mind to measure anything, but by my hazy calculations the trek was about as far as walking from Balito to Salt Rock along the beach. The walk didn’t hold the same perks as the Balito hike once did though, in which I was aided by samoosa-wielding fisherman and on more than one occasion was welcomed into the group to throw a sparkplug or two in for some shad. The Old Brown Sherry also warmed my spirits and carried me through. Walking the San Diego highway was slightly distressing, and was it not for my comatose state I probably would have feared for my life. Too many movies about truckers and hitch-hikers..

So with the epic adventure aboard M/Y Blue Moon concluded, I switched vessel to flight EK 761 en route to Dubai. My cabin on the yacht began to feel like a bit of a luxury once I was seated on the plane between two ninja’s heading for Saudi Arabia. There wasn’t much conversation.

With my folks living in Dubai I was keen to settle down with a cold beer and return to a normal pace. The Republik of South Africa was out, since the world cup was about to start and flights back home would cost you the deed to your house- and I had little more to my name than the clothes on my back. When I got to Dubai though it was clear that I had miscalculated somewhat, as I stepped out onto the tarmac at 5am to be greeted by a steemy 32 degrees. Dubai summer is not for ants. I was now seeing the pattern between flights entering vs flights exiting the emirates, and understood why I could quite easily find a flight into Dubai. Humans were fleeing!

Once settled in the desert it was time to do some work. I had decided to teach English in the Far East in the coming months, and got offered a job in the meantime at a local language school teaching private lessons to 3 kids. It sounded very chilled and I was keen to get some experience as well as some cash. In hindsight the years that those kids stole off my life didn’t quite balance with the joys of imparting wisdom. I soon discovered that my 3 students were Afgans whose family had fled the capital due to your everyday problems such as rising petrol prices and US air strikes. In their case the grass probably was greener on the other side..

With my “students” sitting before me I began to anticipate a few problems. Aged 8, 10 and 12 - One ADD, one autistic and one painfully bored - I was no match for this trio. The fact that lessons were 3 hours each and bathroom-breaks were frowned upon made me more nervous. What had I walked into? I dived in head first, employing every tack and bit of wit that I possessed to keep these animals under control. Before each lesson I would have to carry out a recci to search for anything they could break or use to inflict pain. Sugar had to be hidden, doors fortified and the public warned. Their arrival on the premises was heard, not seen. Keep in mind that 3 hours learning a second language is a prospect that would strike fear into most- but these terrors were not ‘most’. I learnt that it was their school holidays and they had been pawned off by disinterested parents into summer-camps, swimming lessons and the low point of their day: English. They had also been spoilt to death and had no grasp of what an authority figure was. Basically it was a catastrophe. Think matric finals with no breaks and gremlins stapling your tie to your shirt throughout. There were times that people walked past and it must have looked like I was teaching hand-to-hand combat. At the end of one torture session and old Israeli sailor came up and hugged me. He said, “They are evil”. It was for all purposes, a nightmare. I had such respect for our teachers at school. Why would they put themselves through this? I felt like calling up Mr. Amos and apologizing for making his life hell. Was I being punished and if so, when would it end?

At the glorious end of my contract I sat down and thought about what I had subjected myself to, and contemplated whether I wanted to spend the next few months doing the same. The purist teacher argument of “the privilege of teaching another soul” was, by this stage a joke to me. The question was; could I physically survive? After much deliberation and advice from mates teaching abroad I decided to push on, under the influence of a promise that these kids were the worst that I would ever encounter. With teaching experience now under my belt I was in demand and could choose where I wanted to go. Thailand, Japan, Vietnam? The list was as endless as it was glamorous. Do not ask me why I chose Korea. It’s going to take me a while to answer that myself.


NB Tip- Be nicer to your teachers. It will come back and bite you in the ass.


NB Fact – Ninja’s, aka Muslim women wearing full burkha’s has now been banned in France for security reasons. Trust the frogs.

Un tequila por favor

We were now heading up the West Coast with Cabo San Lucas in the cross-hairs. To be fair it isn't really Mexico, more like Little America – a tourism Mecca to the yanks who flock here for Spring Break, honeymoons and sport fishing. It's found on the Baha Finger, which sounded more like a WWE move than a stretch of land. Its the Penninsula that stretches down from California into the Pacific and creates the gulf of Mexico. After a couple of days at sea spent refining our Spanish and cultivating a few stringy moustaches we arrived in the Cabo San Lucas Marina which was a shocking experience in itself. The Yanks were everywhere. We arrived to the drone of jet-ski's and parasail-boats, had to dodge our way between cruise ships and finally docked along-side a couple hundred fishing boats. It was chaos and by the time we were tied up to the dock everyone was a bit nervous to step off into this pit of sin.

The vibe in Cabo is all geared towards giving the common American an experience of what he thinks Authentic Mexico is. Everywhere you go you swaggering yanks can be heard shouting “American Dollar”, and the locals’ eyes will light up as they reel in another victim who ends up walking away saying to his wife “but where else would I get a Mexican hunting bracelet, like the one the red Indians used to wear!” The first  thing we saw when getting off the boat was a Hooters. The second thing we saw was a Harley Davidson store. It really was every American’s little slice of Mozambique, equipped with just enough of America to make things comfortable. Looking past the stars and stripes on every second wife-beater that passed us did revealed a town with a lot of potential. Epic restaurants, nightclubs and beaches (if you can find a spot), made it an obvious hit with escapees of the USA who could now have a Pina Colada in one hand, a big-mac in the other and afford both.

After a meal with the crew of the only other yacht in town – arranged by our 2nd mate who seemed to know every human in the industry – we had a couple of tequilas. We had prepared ourselves for a barrage of alcohol in Mexico. Especially tequila. Between Calicoes, Tiger-Tiger and the infamous Terrace I had consumed my fair share of the stuff and considered myself a bit of a Maneer, (those blue ones at terrace were shockers though). I had seen Tequila with a worm at the bottom of the bottle and was expecting similar such obscenities in the land of the cactus, but we weren’t prepared for what we got in that first bar. The significance of a fucking rattlesnake inside the bottle was never fully explained to us but I’ll just say that it was an eye-opener. Is it necessary to put a snake in your bottle of tequila? From there we staggered out into the streets which now looked understandably hazy. We found ourselves in some kind of club and felt like rock stars amoung the sea of delicious Latino’s giving us far more attention than we were accustomed to. I must have been looking fantastic. It was either that or my patented “mamba dance” that was becoming a global cult (not really), that were drawing them in. I wondered whether it was the fact that I was now in a coutry where moustaches were cool and these lasses thought my snor was helping to throw out a Pablo Escabar vibe rather than the pornstar that it turns me into back home.  The music video was short lived though, and a gloating Hans pulled me aside to tell me that these chicks were all escorts. Columbian hookers. A quick back-hand across the cheek was called-for to wipe the ridiculous grin off my face and bring me back to Earth, and Hans obliged. My South American wingman tried to reason with me that these women were no good, no good at all. In English that 28 Tequilas and a Peruivan mother-tongue was making hard to decipher, he reminded me that I was above this and that I would never think about such things in South Africa. “Same Same as back home”, he said. “But different”. Alas he was right and I spent the night brushing off liberally-dressed beauties that would otherwise have never given me a second glance.

We had a couple of days to kill, thanks to a very chilled captain and itinerary. We rented a few cars and headed off into the real Mexico- we had had enough of the Yanks and wanted to see some countryside. It wasn’t long though before we were being labeled Gringo’s and could be spotted snapping up ponchos, local brews and anything else claiming to be authentic. The group was a salesman’s dream and we must have spiked foreign investment in the region in a matter of hours. Our destination was a little town called San Jose where it was rumoured that the original Hotel California still stood- the one that the Eagles made famous. Yes we were becoming US patriots by the day. The trip also served as a training ground for the crew’s recent photography infatuation which was becoming a pandemic and meant that anything that moved seemed to be showered in light and left dazed and confused in our dust. The town was the kind of place in which you’d expect Antonio Banderas to bust out of a saloon at any moment to engage in a gunfight with 14 bandits while playing a guitar solo behind his back. He’s not unlike me in many ways- mainly the manner in which we both take charge and feel responsible for defending the weak. I’ve also got that husky thing going on.

The sight of Hotel California instilled in us hopes of finding a real landmark, something to make up the substance of stories back home and keep poorly-written blogs afloat. Stuck away in a dark corner of the one-horse town, beneath a dingy set of apartments and across the street from the tobacco store was the sacrilegious-looking establishment. The weeping brass letters across the top did seem to suggest a place of legend or myth, with enough imagination and tequila, and it held an uneasy sense of beckoning to go inside. Excitedly we approached the counter to find out more.

“Ola. Is this the real Hotel California?”

“Sorry sinjor, I don’t understand.”

“Um, well you probably get this a lot. Can we check in any time we like, but never leave?”

“No sinjor. You can leave whenever you want, there are exits located at the front and back of the building”

Worried and a little panicked we turned to the barman and asked him to play something by the Eagles.

“Eagles sir? I have no eagles here.”

Deflated and disappointed we slowly came to the conclusion that this was not the fabled spot. Was there even a Hotel California at all? Over a flat bear claiming to be brewed down the road we decided that this misunderstanding had been the work of a wicked opportunist who had spun the story to attract rookies like ourselves into the desert to fall prey to his bar. Wicked –and wise. On the way out our fears were confirmed when we stumbled into the Hotel California souvenir shop- selling everything from shirts to ancient telephones. The Eagles would have been gutted. We left the bar defeated, all with the same line running through our heads : We could indeed check in any time we wanted, but it was time to leave.

After a quick photo-op at the public telephone to prove to my sister that I had attempted to call for her birthday (unsuccessful), it was time to shoot off. Our route took us up the coast and back into little-America. It was this stretch of country that would become my favorite part of Mexico and the country that I thought we had come to see. Stretches of white beaches that rivaled anything we had seen in the Caribbean, with painfully perfect waves since we had no skills or surfboards. We stopped in at a few of these where even jelly-fish couldn’t break our spirits. Racing through the desert was a bit like driving through the Karoo but with less sheep and more bullet-riddled cars. Debates flared up about the Giant Cacti around us, which we finally agreed fell under the collective noun of “a prickle of cacti”, and similarly decided that they were the most ridiculous things we had ever seen. Seeing a real road-runner also presented a crushing of childhood dreams. The truth is that they are embarrassingly slow and stupid and we almost hit a couple. How that coyote failed to catch it, while wearing rocket-propelled roller skates is just unreasonable. I think I had my doubts from a very young age.

We knew we were getting close to Cabo when the whistles and Kanye West dance-remixes in the distance began to overpower the radio inside our car. Another cruise ship had arrived bringing promises of bad jokes and worse dance-moves. But we had now seen the Mexico that we wanted to experience- where a man’s status was determined by the splendor of his moustache and not by his wallet. We had eaten from rural street cars, although the evidence of such things had seemed to leave us very rapidly. Tequila-distilled rattle- snakes and men with real names like Juan, Jesus and Hose were what we had come to see and we now called them our Hombre’s. We turned our attention to the cruise ships and reluctantly accepted our heading- North, America, to the Whale’s Vagina.

NB Fact - The word "gringo" does not come from 1800's wartime in Mexico when defeated US army troops wearing green jackets were told "Green Go!" Wikipedia got that from a Blue Moon post. And it's a lie.

News - 2010 World Cup: Yes, South Africa can

News - 2010 World Cup: Yes, South Africa can

Panama

According to Time magazine the fattest people in the world come from Western Samoa, closely followed by the Panamanians. Don't believe it. When we pulled into Panama City the sun wasn't out, it wasn't midday, and we weren't experiencing a heat wave. But I was hotter then than I am now, in the middle of Dubai summer. By the time we left the following afternoon the crew had lost enough weight to drop the boat into a separate class. There is just no way that you can keep the pounds on in that kind of hellish heat. The task at hand was to wash the boat before lunch, after which we could do whatever we wanted to. We were pumped up and with All-Stars treffers booming out from every deck we made quick work of that boat, but by the time we were finished we looked like we had been scrumming down against the Bulls (at Loftus). I think it's the hottest I have ever been, and I have been in the Erica fashion show so I know some heat when I see it.

We had come through the Panama canal the night before; an eye-opener that was also very very chilled. By law you have to take local crew onto your vessel when going through the canal, who effectively did our job handling the lines. It was a bit of a treat. All we did was hand out cokes, pose for  a few hundred pictures and try to pretend we weren't interested in what the locals were selling, (educational video's). The Panama canal is broken up into a series of locks; effectively chambers which are filled and emtied using gravity and which rise the water level from each coast - West and East - to that of the massive lake in the middle- thus allowing vessels to cross. Each chamber can fit a couple of boats inside while the water is drained or filled up, depending on whether you are entering the canal or exiting it. By boats I don't mean luxury mega-yachts like ourselves. I mean the mankiest buckets of rust claiming to be sea-worthy. Needless to say we attracted quite a lot of attention going through. Think driving through northern Mozambique in a Rolls. Once out of the ancient locks (100 yrs old) and onto the lake, things became far more picturesque and out came the Blue Moon paparazzi- trigger happy as ever. Navigation through the lake is done with the assistance of a local guide who knows the area and is considered a pro. He's called a pilot and is at the top of the maritime food-chain. I'd love to tell you why he is called a pilot and not a guide, navigator or regional expert, but I had learned that there are some things you just don't ask in the yachting industry. You just accept how ridiculous they are. But somehow I don't think the US naval aviators flying F-22 Hornets in desert storm would approve of sharing their title with the salty Panamanian lounging in our bridge. 

Once the canal was defeated,the boat was (reasonably) clean and we were fighting off exhaustion with Red Bull shots it was time to check out Panama City. A confused place grappling with its past while hungrily-embracing a high-rise future, the city is broken into pockets representing every colonial occupation in its history. It also has massive development, a bit like Dubai in  the 90's, (look where that ended up). According to our taxi driver who himself looked like he could fit in on Banged Up Aboad, the huge influx of investment was coming from wealthy Venezualens fleeing their president Chavez.
South America: charming. 

We ate in an ancient little square feeling more like Telaviv than Panama while being seranaded by a Spanish mariachi who saw us as the jackpot. The crew was really getting into the vibe, one of whom was sporting a ridiculous Panama hat accompanied by a cheap stogi. His attempts at pulling of the Columbian drug lord thing had only succeeded in creating some kind of Spanish Genie. I was embarrassed for him.  Hans on the other hand, our (affirmative action?) Peruvian crew member and my roommtate was in his prime, rattling off the local lingo like a Spanish Bond, James Bondero. If he had been busting out the hat I would have been nervous. The bit of showmanship that he was proudly displaying would ultimately be his downfall as the crew was taking notes and making plans to abuse such tools in Mexico. In the end he became our translator/negotiator/mascot and was unwillingly strung behind our touring party on more than one occasion. 

The day ended with a couple of drinks at the local pub. We arrived to the all-to-familiar scene of our engineers in full stride. They had skipped the city tour in search of cheap liquor and unsuspecting women/prey- both of which they had found in dangerous quantities. Engineers are bizarre creatures. One of ours was nicknamed 'Caveman' due to his primitive behavior after a couple (dozen) drinks, which led to his being wrestled away from the bar on occasions when negotiation failed. Think Bakkies Botha in an All-Black test. When we arrived they were communicating in grunts and clicks (stage 4) and had to be talked back to the boat using threats. For the rest of us drinks were on the captain (mistake), who ordered us concoctions that looked poisonous to the naked eye and tasted worse. What can you do, refuse the superior officer? We were a little tender the next day and mishaps were largely forgiven- by the skipper. Mexico was calling and things were just getting warmed up. 

NB Tip- Do what an engineer says. 

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• Things to Do in Panama (panama-travel.suite101.com)

An Office with a View

With vegas bringing the California trip to a close, I had in the meantime been offered a job. The seadogs of the Motor Yacht Blue Moon (see Aussie Day) had lost a deckhand to vacation and severe burn-out and needed a replacement. The deckhand in question was Tim Hull; a 6ft 2", 220lb semi-pro AFL athlete. In a bizarre stroke of luck there was a man matching similar criteria not far away, and I got the phone call from a rather desperate captain, "Aidan. We need you. What's it going to take?"
-sounds like the offer that an asset like myself should have received. In reality it was more of an SMS type deal saying that if I had nothing going on, I may as well drop by for a couple of weeks. The candidate search process that had taken place to reach this point was equally impressive and I was later told by the crew that the captain had said, "what about that Spud guy. He must be unemployed."

Regardless of circumstance I was hired and now part of the Blue Moon crew. The boat had an impressive itinerary- heading down the East coast to Panama, through the canal and up to Mexico for a few days before making tracks for Alaska. Conveniently my time aboard would come to an end just prior to the Alaska leg and rob me of an awesome experience. Tim was a cunning, cunning man. I flew to Savannah GA, on the west coast where the boat was docked for the time being. An awkward place at the best of times with records such as 'second most haunted town in the USA' making up part of its charm. It is essentially The Deep South, which I ignorantly thought would be located in the South, (which it is not). I still haven't wrapped my head around that one. It was the setting of Forrest Gump (another proud claim), which should paint the picture, and this was to be our home for 2 weeks before we sailed South and began the epic trip to Alaska.

The deckhand position aboard a luxury yacht is not an interesting nor a complex one. Aside from brief moments of maintenance, handling lines and driving small craft the common deckhand is not much more than a car-washer. Sure he gets paid like he owns the car but in truth, on any given day he is more likely to have a mop in his hand than a compass. That being said there are various techniques that are proudly employed in every aspect of this glamorous vocation, all of which are learned through trial and error. Being a rookie presents itself with more than enough 'error' opportunities, like rolling up lines like a pizza and effectively ruining them. Painting is another skill that takes time to master, which Tim will agree with when he notices that his radio transformed under my ownership from a jet-black James Bond device into a zebra striped lunchbox. I made sure I was off the boat before he spotted it.


So with 2 weeks under my belt and a crew that still tolerated my blunders on a daily basis, it was time to head off. Sea-sickness and chronic boredom were challenges that I was more than willing to face and we headed South with a sense of vigor that was customary of sailors that had been confined to land for far too long. We looked forward to the weeks of sailing somewhat more eagerly than we did to Chris Marsicano's shocking jokes, and even with the dead-weight contribution that I provided we were a spirited outfit.
Next stop: Panama.

NB Fact - AFL is for little sissy girls

The Real Wine Route

Studying at Stellenbosch leads you to believe that you know a thing or two about wine. We've all been on more wine tastings than we can remember (or can't), and we'd like to think that we could tell the difference between a Bordeaux and a Merlot. In reality we were really only after one thing with such expeditions and it wasn't a deeper understanding of viticulture. That being said us Maties probably still know our way around a cellar better than we do a female, and we sure as hell know more than the boys from UCT about both.

With this in mind we had no choice but to head North to the world famous Californian wine region of Napa Valley, even if just to compare it to our pride and joy back home. We checked into a hotel where the proprietor warmly greeted us and began his "welcome to wine country" speech. But I was having none of it;

"I'm gonna go ahead and stop you right there Ceasar Palacski. I'm kind of a big deal when it comes to wine. Save the history lesson for the Japs."

-was what I should have said. Instead we were roped into his proud-to-be-Californian speel after which he began suggesting vineyards according to price. Price? Yes, gone were the days of strolling onto farms back home and being welcomed by horndogs demanding nothing more than your gees. Anything up to $20 per tasting, we were told. First hiccup. After a quick (for some) change of clothes we were kitted out in full-blooded wine country attire. Or rather what we thought to be wine country attire. In hindsight we did look a bit queer but spirits were as high as soberness would allow and we were keen to get onto the battlefield. We were advised against driving because the cops in this part of the world were particularly firm on drinking and driving, and we decided to heed this advice because we had seen first-hand what lengths a juiced-up cop was willing to go to in order to uphold the law, protect his country from all threats foreign and domestic blah blah Homeland Security whatever. A friend of ours was kicked out of a club back in Florida and, let's just say she didn't go quietly. Well she went quietly back to South Africa after a night in jail, and returned quietly for her court appearance for assault on a 200lb police officer. I'll leave it at that. Anyway we were to rent bikes. We chose the Blue Route advised for children and senior citizens, because years of wine tasting had taught us that this is exactly what we would be reduced to after a couple of stops.

There was no negotiating it, we had to wear helmets. Our protests were ignored along with the suggestion that we lived day to day in a combat zone known as the Republik of South Africa, and that falling off a bike didn't pose the same threat to us as driving home through Santon did. But this man would not be moved and when he began reciting Californian road law we submitted. Our hats (essential) we're brushed aside as we replaced them with 2 times 1977 Tour De France safety bike comfort-line helmets. With the antiques in place and our dignity trampled we began the trip, more elegantly than we would be ending it. Napa valley is bigger than the Stellenbosch wine-growing region, but also more accessible. There are also many mico-wineries which was interesting to learn and meant that we could taste wines from several different winemakers at each stop. This was both convenient and necessary, since neither of us was expecting a call-up from Team Garmin in the near future, and we were trying to limit the cycling, especially in our rapidly-deteriorating state. We found that the winemakers at each vineyard were incredibly proud of their wine and also very technical, compared to back home where the "experts" behind the counter were actually your housemates trying to get you hammered enough to leave. The area is unbelievably scenic and doing the route by bike was definitely the right move, although warnings of DUI charges were found to be a bit of a hoax judging by the cars that littered each wine farm. We didn't mind though; being finely-tuned athletes meant that we always welcomed a physical challenge. The fact that each wine tasting was costing us a small fortune led to us stumbling upon the idea of sharing glasses and paying half price, the way any self respecting South African would. We found that given enough pressure and interest the wine-maker always seemed to top us up generously. We also weren't holding back on stories of Stellenbosch and how we were touring the world trying to find a more impressive wine-region. Appeal to an American's sense of national pride and the creature will open up like a can of beans. Agree with him and he will be eating out your hand. It's a similar concept to that of disrespecting Danie Rossouw to a Bulls fan. Sooner or later he will want to arm wrestle you. So we were making progress and stretching our $20 per stop as far as it would go. But we had to get serious, and purchased a bottle of wine. As you can imagine the vineyards then became far more colourful and the people bloody fantastic!

As our 5pm rental curfew approached we had to high-tail it back to town which sounds easier than it was. The 2-man peloton winding its way through the Napa mountains in fading light was a disaster waiting to happen, and when we arrived back it was tough to adjudicate whether the bike-shop owner was more relieved than we were. He definitely wasn't as drunk. There were still a few tasting rooms open in town and we found one that was run by a student so we roped her in and shared a bottle or four- on the house, and had now transformed into authorities on everything from fermentation to soil composition. It appeared to work. Across the road was the local watering hole where the newly formed 3-ball switched from wine to something that my clouded memory tells me was whisky, but could easily have been anything else. We went to a pricey dinner where we either threatened to, or actually succeeded in pulling a runner. From there things get understandably hazy but I remember feeling numb, as one does in such states. My gut tells me we went back to the hotel, and lets hope that's where we passed out. Probably not.

The verdict on which region is better really depends on what you're after. If you're looking for a cheap pissup with friendly faces then I doubt Stellenbosch can be beaten. But Napa presents a unique blend of impressive wine power-houses and small micro-wineries which are different and more personal than anything present in the Cape. There's also the fact that you can do it by bike which you can't do in Stellies. If you find yourselves in the Valley I say hire one, but anything further than the lame blue route will call on stamina and co-ordination that you just won't possess on your way back- take it from an athletic machine that almost had to hitch-hiked back. The town is as awesome as Stellenbosch, (minus the bergies) and if you've recently won several lotteries then there is nothing to worry about and everything to see, buy and drink.

Ruling : Definitely worth a visit, if not two.

NB Tip- Don't run from a cop. In a similar fashion to dealing with a gorilla or jungle cat, stand your ground. If he senses weakness he will probably taze you.

NB Tip- Johnny Loco bicycles have actually started running wine tastings by bike in Stellenbosch. Email them at info@ctic.co.za or visit http://www.ctic.co.za/establishments/south-africa/Johnny-Loco-Explore/eid/4600/

Golden Gate City

I've never been in to the Big-city Life. Smutting to the song is about the closest I get. JHB, London, LA sort of places don’t really do it for me as much as say, a week in Mozambique. Surprise. The exception for us was San Francisco. On a trip that included Vegas and Los Angeles, ‘Shaky Town’ was always the city that we were itching to get to. Different strokes, Mike Slaghter would say, for different folks. From what we’d heard it had character and a lot to see.

We had stayed inland for the night with some great family friends in Rocklin, and had given ourselves a full day to do all we could in San Fran. We drove across Golden Gate Bridge like pioneers. The traffic jam around us suggested we were not the first though, and had clearly been beaten to the post. There was a feeling of accomplishment inside our trusty Kia, and there wasn’t much that could unhorse us and our spirits. There was some movement coming from the car beside us though; a Wall Steet type that was waving frantically at us while holding a couple of tele-conference calls simultaneously on his Blue-Teeth. It was all a bit unnerving. At first I thought he sensed a challenge from our mighty 1.6l Kia Rio and wanted to drag race across the bridge, (not a bad way to make one’s entrance). I brushed this idea aside though in defense of the Kia, which I decided wouldn’t fare very prominently against his BMW 7 series. So it must be something else that he was after. He seemed to be trying to catch Sarah’s attention. Could he be looking to get lucky? I didn’t think so- she wasn’t at her most graceful. No female looks particularly attractive while taking down an 89 cents Taco Bell wrap with Burger King napkins serving (ineffectively) as a bib. So it couldn’t be that. Was he taking offence to her other obsession, the oriental-inspired photographing technique that we had recently learnt, (shoot first ask questions later)? This yank was starting to disturb our ora and I tried to put him out of my mind. When he stepped over the line and hooted at us, I gave a little rev on the gas to show that I was backed up by Korean-Muscle, and stared across ready for a tussle. He put New York on hold, leaned out the window and said, “Hey Jack-ass. You can tell your broad to quit taking photos, this is Bay Bridge. Golden Gate is the next one down. Fucking Brits.”

We proceeded across ‘let-down’ bridge embarrassed, hurt and a bit lost. I was pissed off. Firstly; these bridges look bloody identical. Where’s the imagination? Second; calling a South African a Pom is a bit like calling a Palestinian an Israeli Jew. And finally; I agreed that Sarah had lost the plot somewhere between Starbuck’s frappechino’s and McDonald’s fries- but had she really become broad?

We made it across the bay and into the city. Putting recent blunders out of our minds we headed to the Piers that line the shore. $20 after parking the car we were walking. Street cars and trams whizzed by, people were walking dogs and in general it was a fantastic vibe. Also, people generally seemed to be less “broad” in San Francisco so at least one of us fitted in.. Each of the piers that used to function daily has now been turned into something else. Offices, apartments and restaurants now occupy the shells that had been standing at the entrance to each pier and it makes for an interested melting pot of lifestyles. At Pier 1 stands a massive farmers market selling everything from fur coats to pig trotters. And this is where we found America’s gem: The Gott’s Burger. In an unassuming cafeteria-style grill called Gott’s we stood in a line that was suspiciously long. Were they giving away free T-shirts, (yes please)? Are they slipping cocaine into every order of “uncle sams’ curly fries”? We soon found out. As we neared the counter somewhat nervously we heard that the same order was being drummed out insistently by customers/fans. When we reached the front, not wanting to hold up the line of impatiently-waiting regulars behind us we ordered the same- A Gott’s Cheeseburger.

The Gott’s Cheeseburger is not difficult to describe. An all-American beef patty. Tomato, lettuce, pickles, and a secret sauce that could bring an end to the Gaza crisis. This comes on an egg yolk bun, toasted for 8 seconds before service. Finally it is half-wrapped so that it stays together without messing, but doesn’t force you to tear your way through to get a bite (Subway). I don’t know if it is made with magic, love, or has hallucinogenic drugs in it but this little cafe is hamburger Mecca. Don’t try and make it at home- you will fail and never understand why. To put it in perspective- in a 12 day trip of California, we took an extra day just to drive into San Francisco and have another Gott’s burger. We had to make sure it was real.

The main attraction of San Francisco, (now that the Golden Gate bridge had lost its charm) was Alcatraz. The Rock. The most famous prison in the world housing names like Al Capone, Bumpy Johnson and the “Birdman” Robert Shroud in its day. The first thing that surprised us was how close it was to San Francisco itself. I estimated it at a Midmar-Mile away or so, which deflates the story of the mighty swim that 2 escaped convicts had to make and how they probably drowned. I did the Midmar Mile when I was 13, with a broken arm hovering above the water in a Checkers packet. And years later I was dropped from the 3^rd team swimming at Kearsney College. So my gut tells me that the story fed to the American public about the escapees failing to complete a paddle across the bay when their lives and freedom depended on it was the usual crap that falls under the cloak of National Security. Nicely done criminals.

The island tour is pretty impressive and makes me regret never doing the Robben Island tour back in Cape Town, because I hear it is even better. Funny how you seem to neglect those touristy things in your own country when often they’re awesome, especially in South Africa. We did the whole bit, standing behind the bars, eating in the mess hall etc etc. It was pretty blind but we had to. Once we were off the island we took a tram up past all the piers, along with every other tourist in San Francisco (locals don’t even use the things apparently). And finally we decided that we had to drive over the Bridge, the real one. In a similar fashion to our entrance to the city, we exited over the Golden Gate Bridge in rush hour traffic, (this time at 5pm). With Sarah snapping away as if we were exiting Earth we finally got to the viewing point on the other side of the bay. It’s a massive park-type deal with a café en alles. Predictably the orientals were dominating the interesting viewpoints and the whole place took on a Chinatown feel which was, different. I had a photo taken standing next to bronze statue overlooking the Bridge. The guy in the statue was some old Navy seadog, but I still feel there should be a statue of the two convicts instead. Pay a brother his dues..

We left San Francisco expecting to tick a box off on our list. Instead we ticked off another- best burger in the world. My advice on the city is this; do Alcatraz, do the Bridge and do a street tram. But for the love of god do Gott’s Café.  

NB Question- The view of San Francisco from Alcatraz is awesome. However the view of Alcatraz from San Francisco is very average, so really, who got the raw deal?

NB Fact- Gott’s café can be found at 1 Ferry Bldg Marketplace Shop #6, as well as in Heaven.

The Second-Best Road in America

Before starting the road trip we had talked about doing the 4500 mile drive from Chicago to Vegas- route 66, the most famous road in the world. Wisely we decided against this because I don't think two people can drive for 2 weeks and not murder one another or at least leap from the moving vehicle. What the second leg of our California trip held was the Route 101. A stretch of coastal road 450 miles long linking LA and San Francisco. We expected a lengthy drive and decided to take it in two days. What we didn't expect was taking most of the first day to find our way out of LA. Admittedly, we weren't a championship rally team. If fact we were kuk. I'm better with a math equation in my hand, (standard grade please) than I am with a map. Even with a GPS on board we were a road trip recipe for disaster. And this was not bush-whacking through Bangladesh, we were cruising though LA. It took us many disputes and a few close calls to end up on the road that would take us North, towards our Holy Grail- San Francisco.

There are parts of the 101 that take you through Karoo-like plains, parts that take you into one-horse towns, and cliff faces that rival Cape Town's beloved Chapman's Peak. We experienced driving rain, intolerable heat and everything in between. Wildlife ranged from Elephant seals to toothless Hillbillies, and I think we counted 17 McDonalds along the way (that delicious yellow-and-red 'M' drew us in on more than one occasion). We were forced to stop for the night in a motel straight out of Wrong-turn, and decided that the proprietor must have murdered everyone in the area because there didn't seem to be many competing for his business. The next morning we were treated to passing through Big Sur, Monterey and Carmel. At the latter I drew on my negotiating skills and used "overwhelming fatigue" to convince Sarah that we had to stop in at Pebble Beach where the Masters was to be held a couple of months later. Strolling into the clubhouse of one of the famous golf courses of all time wearing baggies and slops, we felt slightly out of place and a bit like we were dirtying the marble floors just by being there. We slipped out the back and found what we could in the trunk (boot) of our Kia that would raise our game to look like we actually belonged at the course. In Tiger Tiger gear – anything to hold on to the dream - we re-emerged looking like we deserved a place at the club. I again explained to my navigator that I couldn't drive on an empty stomach and insisted we get a bite to eat. While being one of the best settings I have ever shared a meal, the sting that Pebble Beach's Stillwater Restaurant dealt on my wallet encouraged us to hold the remaining 4 McDonald's outlets on our route in a much higher regard. By the end of the trip we were using coupons. Before we left this historic sight there was time to record the moment with a couple of snapshots, and this is where we discovered that once again the Koreans had beaten us here. Clearly they did not hold the same reverence for the course that I did since their kids were building sandcastles in the bunkers surrounding the 18^th green while they played air-guitar with the flag. I decided to do the noble thing and respect their culture by telling on them to the marshal.

With full bellies, empty wallets and failing camera batteries we pushed on. San Francisco was in the distance and we'd had enough of the Kia which, by this stage was looking a bit like the Huis Dog digs after a session of pre-drinks. We'd defeated the mighty 101, just.

NB Tip- Find the cruise-control button in your car before getting to the destination.

Los Angeles

I needed a breather. We had saved enough cash to survive for a few weeks and we headed for the West Coast of USA. Let's leave out the tale of getting back into the states with the Green Mamba since we all know how that one goes. The two of us planned to do as much of the state as was possible in our short time frame of 2 weeks. There were more than a few disputes about what we were to leave out but for the most part I think we road tripped the shit out of that place.

We started in LA and were immediately shocked by its sheer size. We would later return to the city and we still did not have the faintest idea of where anything was. Daunted and a little intimidated we set out with notepad in hand to begin scratching off the to-do list (okay no notepad). First stop was Universal Studios; my compromise after refusing to go to Disney World. I've been to the place and unless you are below 12 or hold a pensioners card it gets a bit monotonous. In truth I was impressed by Universal. In the minutes we had in the park before we were stampeded by thousands of rabid children tearing towards the rollercoasters, it really was quite a spectacle. You've got to keep your sense of humour and remember that you really are a tourist and not in some way above that. And if you let yourself go with the relentless flow of Koreans, and have polarized-protection against the onslaught of flash camera's it actually is pretty interesting.

In the Universal Studios lot, (this is a parking lot, for humans outside the USA) we had a spontaneous decision thrust upon us. A brash and abrasive Tour Bus Driver, i.e. a true American ambassador, approached us with an offer we couldn't refuse. We were told that since his bus was only half full we could take the tour for half price, (about the price of a small property on Clifton). He threw out one attraction after the other like only some salty seadog can do with his bait. This man was sharp though, or should I say seasoned. A real salty dog. On spotting Sarah's Gucci handbag he tossed out the moneymaker: Rodea Drive. "The most famous fashion avenue on the planet, with the likes of Paris Hilton frequenting the store-fronts each day." She was hooked, and I had no chance of derailing that train. It was like whistling at a deer in the headlights- you're wasting your breath.

So off we went through the Hollywood hills, surrounded by Koreans that were now in hysterics and out of film. Thank god. We stopped in at Hollywood Blvd and did the ultimate tourist bit by taking pictures of the stars along the pavements. Michael Jackson's star was rumored to be somewhere in the depths of a crowd numbering a couple dozen- led, for some reason by the Koreans. They really are taking over the world, watch out. By the time the tour ended it was late and we were buggered.

After a day of full-blown tourism as well as terror we got back to the hotel and passed out. Our trip had barely begun and already we were being schooled to the fact that we were far from match-fit for this expedition. Time would tell.

NB Fact- Los Angeles residents are called Angelenos

NB Fact- Ricky Martin came out of the closet weeks after this picture was taken. He's still the steamiest man alive.

Australia Day

The yachting industry draws crew from all corners of the globe, but mostly from the Tri-nations trio. Be it Fort Lauderdale, the Caribbean or the Med (apparently) there is no shortage of Aussies, Kiwi's and Saffas. Despite us Afronauts having to jump through flaming hoops just to be granted entry abroad, the lure of the American dollar is just too attractive to pass up. Even the infamous Green Mamba that we carry in our back pockets isn't enough to keep us out. The Australians are drawn to to the watersports vibe that the yachting industry offers, and the Kiwi's, well I presume they will leap at any opportunity to get out of that country of theirs. Can you blame them?
Despite the equal presence of this tri-fector, it is the Aussies who have somehow granted themselves an entire day abroad to recognize whatever contribution they claim to make to the world. Thus, Australia Day. 24 hours that the Caribbean yachting community is forced to endure paying homage to Aus lifestyle. Naturally this takes the form of drinking, and not a whole lot else, (admittedly it does take place in St Maarten where drinking is the national sport). Everyone dresses up what they perceive to be Australian attire, so naturally we looked ridiculous.

It is a day devoted to competition between the crews of all the yachts. As we had adopted the proud stigma of "unemployed" we were taken under the wing of one of the boats- Blue Moon. The competition was broken down into three parts: Raft building, boat races and finally a boot-camp style team relay. The crew of Blue Moon had become seasoned veterans in this game. A predominantly South African crew possessing just enough Aussies (two) to find loopholes in the competition rules, Blue Moon was a force to be reckoned with. With the addition of us jobless wonderers, we were unstoppable.
The raft-building was a one horse-race. With our Aussies sniffing out a discrepancy in the rule book, (a skill developed from ancestral Aboriginal trackers) our raft was powered by a 1200 horsepower jet ski- instead of the tried-and-tested paddles. We cloaked this in a vale of palm trees and ropes. It proved unnecessary though, since the only other team with a respectable craft ended up sinking theirs in the marina on the way to the start line. The competition had gone down without a fight.
The second section, boat races was stitched up before it began. With half the team consisting of boheameth veterans from Blue Moon out to prove a point, and 2 jobless squatters that has been on a binge since arrival on the island bringing up the rear of the team, we were never in much doubt. It did get close towards the end, when we had bend the regulations to our advantage in true Australian style. With the bitter taste defeat as well as of Beck's Premium in their mouths, our competitors had to look to round 3 to restore some pride.

The final chapter was a grueling relay of each team's completing 3 laps of the putrid dock. With an intimidating array of obstacle in the way, it was not for the faint-hearted. It required stamina as well as big match temperament, something that Australian's have never possessed much of. Our strategy was to rotate our team for each of the heats, (another tact made legal only by the fact that we were honouring the Australian way of life). As disgruntled competitors tried to regain some pride from their defeat in the drinking, they predictably ended up gasping for breath and clinging to the pillars to keep from drowning- as our fresh new team swept them aside.

The result was that as a bunch of Saffa's we had come, we had conquered, and we had left with all the booze (by jet-raft). Our only hiccup came during our victory lap/escape from fuming Aussies, when we were pulled over by the coast guard. The charge was overloading an illegal craft packed with alcohol and driven by an intoxicated 1^st mate. We won that tussle one too.

'09/'10 Champions: Blue Moon (and co).
NB Tip- If you can't beat 'em, cheat.

Sin Maartin

Saint Maarten, aka Sin Maartin, aka Sin City. Cast any pictures of deserted white beaches out of your mind. This tiny island is the red-light district of the Caribbean. It prides itself on having a strip club or casino on every street corner. We had left the crazy nightlife of Fort Lauderdale for a place that only differed in the magnitude of its craziness, and in the fact that such debauchery was no longer limited to the night. I found that Saint Maartin was inhabited by two kinds of people; the kind that lost their mind to the depravity and were forced to run for their lives; and the kind that never made it out and now make up part of that depravity.

We arrived to our lodgings on day one. It was a place that made The Bridge look like a day-spa. Hidden away in the depths of some god-forsaken forrest was Sue’s. Our beds had been vacated, we were told, by tourists who had been rushed out due to a mini-pandemic of the deadly Dengue fever! This highly contagious fever was rife in the hostel, and I still don’t know how we survived those few days. After 72 torturous hours we emerged weak, defeated and riddled with Mozi bites (or Chiggas, as we would call them). We checked into a hotel feeling like we had escaped a combat zone. Fortunately we soon found a place at the legendary Smiley’s Crew House- the only place more fabled in the yachting community than

The Bridge. To put things in perspective it was a tiny building with 2 bunk-beds crammed into each room- and we were eternally grateful. This became our base for the next 6 weeks, where we were joined by fresh new recruits from back home who only fuelled the fire that was the Saint Maartin binge.

To paint the picture of this island; it is the meeting point of just about every yacht in the world. What this means is that hundreds of crew from around the world, who have just completed long seasons in the Mediterranean and travelled for weeks at sea now get a chance to unleash back on solid ground. And the island has become well equipped to deal with what this brings. There is a place to go mad on every night of the week. All drinks on the island are half price while the sun shines so that by the time night falls nobody can really walk, let alone make decent decisions. There is the facility to do just about anything you want to on the island, and people go to extremes. Rock concerts, dance parties, theme parties, dock parites. It is easy to lose your mind (and people do). The vibe is so incestuous at times that the only thing you can do to keep from going insane is to drink. At least that was my excuse.

Where the original crew had broken up somewhat, new blood had replaced them and were keeping us stragglers on our toes. Part time work was easy to come by, but so were the cocktails. The males found a way to drink these feminine delights while at the same time dodging the ridicule that accompanied us ordering them. Instead of ordering a Pina Coloda or Strawberry Daiquiri and looking like a complete poof, we found that if you mixed these two together a completely new drink was created with a kick-ass name. “Yeah, I’ll have a Miami Vice.” Shit, it sounds better than ordering a beer. After weeks on the binge, our funds were still breaking even but our bodies were not. I moved into a place free of rent, thanks to Bronwyn and John Bussie Lewis. Here we slept on the floor, spooning in the lounge of Bronwyn’s aunt Margs. She was a celebrity on the island, a South African that had arrived 12 years earlier and failed to escape. She got by on a bottle of Vodka and a pack of smokes a day. She was a legend and looked after me for 6 weeks. In return I had to keep the 7 dogs warm by spooning with them. If I was lucky I would get the little ones in my sleeping bag. Due to Margs’ and her husband Lindsey’s kindness and rent-free accommodation I was able to save enough cash to break free from the island with most of my mind intact. It was time for some sanity. Sarah and I were off to the West Coast- CALIFORNIA!

NB Fact- They sell alcohol at the McDonalds.

Snort Liquordale

So varsity was done. After stretching a 3 year Bcomm into 4 years of Law, BA and finally something resembling a business degree it was time to take off into the great not-so unknown. I decided to head West against romantic ideas of the Far East, as well as my better judgement. Destination; Fort Lauderdale, FL. The plan was to join the luxury yachting industry which held promises of easy work that would take me around the world. While this idea proved to be a bit short-sighted it still provided one massive joll, a couple of arrests and some awesome memories.

America. Forget the land of the free and home of the brave bit. This was the land of gas stations that have cooler boxes of beer behind the counter. In a country that lets you drive at 16, drink at 21 and has drive-though bottle stores it doesn’t come as a surprise that things have fallen a little out of sync.

Our home was a 2.5-star motel called The Bridge. For some reason it had become famous, or infamous, I still can’t put my finger on it. It was ground zero for yachties from all over the world. It looked like the kind of place that you’d see on CNN being bust for drug, human and any other type of trafficking you can think of it. At the helm was Jorge, a Mexican whose proud smile while checking you in made you think you were in a Grand Hyatt. He had two rules. No drugs, and don’t bring the cops in to the hotel. A cynic could draw some contradictions to this ideology, but Jorge’s seasoned grin seemed to put one’s mind at ease.

The hostel held about 50 people at any time. The majority of these were stragglers like me, looking to get into the yachting industry. There were, of course a few low-income yanks who had stumbled onto the opportunity to pay minimum rent while taking a shot at the Brazilian stewardesses. My roommate was one of these. An TSA baggage handler who insisted that he was a pivotal part of national security- a word that would be drummed into me more than once during my time in the states.

It became a common understanding within the bridge that the process of finding a job came in at a distant second to that of finding the next watering hole. Over a couple of weeks we built up a crew of “yachties” who lived only for the next night. We even became regulars at the local gay club (where we found a mascot, see picture). Drinks, for some reason, were free. Payment seemed to come in the sense that we were fresh meat, and we did had a couple of close calls. One mate of ours, Jimmy took his shirt off one night. It was seconds before he was surrounded by a group of grinding half naked Maori’s looking to score. He was helpless. It was animal. I think he still feels like he owes us his life for getting him out of there.

By the end of the Fort Lauderdale stint very few of the team had landed jobs, and nobody was surprised. I’d like to think that we left with our dignity intact, but this was not the case. It was a dogshow. Those of us who had survived without being deported, molested or robbed counted ourselves lucky. We headed for the Caribbean with hopes of toning down the madness. We were wrong. Next stop: Saint Maartin.

NB Tip – Don’t drink too much at gay clubs. You’ll be surprised how liberal you can become.

Boombox (ft. Julian Casablancas)