MAHOOOSIVE

I took some photos of the wild side at Cape St Francis yesterday. These pics don’t do justice to how big it was out there. Holy mustard.

I hope everyone had a great Christmas, or two wonderful days off work if you're not a Christian.

Waves and Goodbyes

It was lucky that the body surfing tournament got moved to Monday morning. In the afternoon the wind came through with sharp teeth, churning the ocean into a field of white horses. Since then the swell has been on the up rise. Yesterday Seal Point was as packed, Like Loftus Stadium during the Currie Cup Final. Today there are serious waves across the Eastern Cape. I took a few shots of Bruce’s and Sowetoes this morning. Take a look at the choka boats on the horizon— evidence of how big it must be out to sea.



Also, spare a thought for the fishermen who went missing on Monday evening. The ocean can be ruthless and cruel, like all acts of Mother Nature. It’s harsh, but this incident points to the many reasons fishermen are on strike at the moment. They ARE underpaid, under compensated for the risks they take and underprepared for the things that can happen at sea.

Rail To Rail Body Surfing Extravaganza

My alarm clock met its doom this morning. At seven thirty it started weeeeee weeeeeeing on the bedside table with abnormal intensity. “Silence, you monster!” I screamed, hurling it into the bookshelf across the room. After I’d slain the clock, I realized it woke me for a reason- it was the day of Rail To Rail’s Body Surfing Extravaganza. I gassed up on coffee and did my best to rally the troops in time for the planned start at nine AM.



The gods sent us magnificent weather for the tournament. Sunlight danced across the smooth waves like a crystal parade. The beach sand was hot under our feet and the water warm enough to bath in. Beach goers were less enthusiastic about taking part than I’d hoped— it was pretty much my friends and family, with a few late entrees. But that was fine. There were enough of us to have a Body Surfing Extravaganza. Maxi just wagged his tail and told me to get a move on. At around ten o clock the chaps were ready to give it hell.





The rules worked like this: competitors all ride the same wave for as far as they can manage. I stood as a marker in the shallows. Those failing to reach me were eliminated from the competition. There were some outrageous performances and a few upsets during the early rounds. One of the big surprises came when crowd favorite, Jeff ‘Anker’ Tanner, made an early exit. The waves were a bit small for someone of Anker’s caliber. Bradly Ballentine put in a noteworthy effort, as did Dieter Khun. Big Mase, Anker’s brother in law, kept form throughout the competition, making it to the final round, along with Ross Lahana, Gene Ritchie and Zok Truscott.
Lahana, who’d been on fire in the early rounds, came in close second to Zok. They pushed each other so much through the morning, it was agreed that they share first prize; excellent sportsmanship from the two standouts of the day. Ultimately though, it was Body Surfing and Save A Pet that took first prize (jusssie, that’s a shocking cliché). A special thanks goes to Gita and Robyn for waking up in time and supporting the event, Meri Ke’ for taking photos, Cindles, Jess and Faye, and everyone who took part. Also to my mom and dad for kindly sponsoring the beers. Thanks guys. The money and food collected for the animals at Save A Pet is great.

5 Minutes of Reflection

I’m not into New Year’s Eve resolutions or sudden religious awakenings. They’re as affective as a shower after unprotected sex. But I do believe in reflection. At the twilight of 2008, I can’t help wondering what the last 12 months have meant.
I took a moment to summarize a few points about this year, splitting them into good and bad categories. It’s a five minute list, so there's bound to be plenty of important things left out. If you have anything to add, please do. Post a comment or send me an e-mail, and I’ll put them on the blog.
GOOD
· Plans for 2010. Everything is going to be ready in time. Germany can relax. We don’t need a fall back plan. It’s on.
· Obama gets elected as president of the USA. It’s not the end of the USA’s problems, but it’s a huge step in the right direction. Bush is walking away from a burning building, handing Obama a kiddy’s beach pale of water as they cross paths.
· Kelly Slater wins a ninth world title with three events to go. Not human, that’s my guess. I wonder where he’s hiding the spaceship.
· South African media. As long as people like Zapiro and Evita Bezuidenhout keep responding to the antics of our politicians and pop icons, we’ll be ok.
· ESKOM pulled their socks up. This time last year, tannies across the country were hissing fire about missing Egoli and Sevende Laan every night.
· SARS. Everyone who thinks that violent crime is the worst thing about our country is not looking at the big picture. SARS is run by bad asses with a job as tough as the SAPD’s.
· COPE. Competition is good for democracy.
· The new Vodacom “Tell Me More” advert. Holy snakes. Its genius.
· The South African Para-Olympics team.
· Local movies and music. Jerusalema and The Rudimentals, for example.
· Rob Van Vuuren wins Strictly Come Dancing. Twakkie brought the heat.
BAD
· Julius Malema. Runner up for the ‘Rail To Rail: Moron of 2008 Award’.
· Robert Mugabe… Winner of the prestigious Moron of 2008 Award. It would only take one man to break into Mugabe’s circle of trust, hide a small acme bomb inside a sponge cake and say, “Uh, sir, Mister President… me and the guys pitched in and got this for you…” I know—
Very Julius Malema of me.
· Manikins. They are getting ridiculously life like. It’s disconcerting. I almost tried to chat one up at Woollies last week. Could have sworn she was smiling and making eyes at me.
· The global recession. Credit cards are the devil.
· Drunk driving. I love how people moan about taxi drivers. Anyone been to Barney’s on a Friday night? The drunk driving is out of control. I’m not saying I’ve never done it; just that it’s a huge problem.
· Danny K. Merciful Heavens...
· Facebook status updates. It’s lame, childish and self indulgent. Nobody cares what you are doing every two minutes.
There we have it. The five minute good list wins 11-7 against the bad. Yeeha.
Please don’t forget about the Body Surfing Extravaganza tomorrow. Should be a hoot.

Rail to Rail Body Surfing Extravaganza

Hello friends,

You are cordially invited to attend and participate in the inaugural
'Rail to Rail Body Surfing Extravaganza', hosted by the enigmatic Maximus
Truscott.

The contest will take place on the 22rd of December, 2008, at Sowetoes
Beach, St Francis Bay, starting at 9 AM Sharp. Late comers will be
excluded from the tournament, but still welcome to join the after party for
a few toots.
Entrée fee is a donation of at least 2 cans of pet food; all proceeds
are going to Save A Pet, birthplace of Maximus Truscott.

The calendar looks as follows:

Tuesday, 22nd December, 2008 (PLEASE NOTE THE CHANGE IN DATE FROM MY INITIAL E-MAIL!)

09:00: Meet at Sowetoes Parking Lot
09:15-09:30: Singing of National Anthem

09:45: first heat goes into the water

Finish time will depend on entry numbers (Tell your friends!!!)

The judging criteria is as follow:

All Methods of Body Surfing are welcome (The Bullet, The Handcuffs,
The superman, The shark Fin). Length of ride is the main objective,
however mud prawning (ie. Crawling with your hands and feet on the
sand to get further up the beach) is strictly prohibited. If you are
spotted cheating, there is a penalty of one extra can of pet food and
elimination from the tournament. (see http://heraldsurf.blogspot.com/2008/11/exclusive-celeb-special.html for an explanation)

Walter ‘6 Fins’ Chokastone has promised to come down and judge the affair, so bring you’re A- Game.

It is a winner takes all event. First prize is a case of cheap local
beer (Castle, Black Label, Hansa) and a victory lap across the beach,
escorted by Maximus Truscott.

To confirm your entry, please contact me on 072 929 1004, or mail me if you are short on airtime. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU GET HOLD OF ME ASAP. I want the heat sheets drawn up BEFORE Monday. Else this tournament will be a shambles. I will not tolerate my dog’s party being soiled upon by loskops!

Thank you,

Clayton Truscott

Soul Muti

This time last year I was worked for a mail order company (specializing in home décor) in Chiswick, London. It was my first real job outside of bars and restaurants. The thrill of having my own desk, a company e-mail address and a pile of clients to phone made me feel just like a grown up. I couldn’t wait to get home on my first day, crack open a larger and start moaning about how the boss was riding me.

The work itself was an eye opener.
I spent all day telling people their orders were not going to be delivered on the dates they were promised. You could basically cut the responses in half.

It was lonely widows and widowers who simply bought stuff for the sake of it. It hardly mattered whether or not the silk parasols and lampshades were going to arrive on time. They just wanted someone to speak to when you called. I could have said the shipment of stock was highjacked by a team of kangaroos wielding laser guns and they would have said, “ah, bless Dear, it’s allriii’”.

The second half of clients wanted heavy compensation or a trinket of my blood sent over instead. “Three months for a disco light! Outrageous!” They’d scream obscenities and curse my family until the office manager came up with a solution. No matter how happy or understanding you sound, telling someone that the goods they’ve paid for will take another three months to arrive is no fun.

“Put me back in the cage, this is heinous!” I thought after my first month.
When people started posting photos of the December holidays on facebook I wanted to crawl into a ball and scream for the beach sand.

So today’s post goes out to anyone sitting in an office far away, feeling like being an adult isn’t all its cracked up to be. Even if times are tough in South Africa with jobs, politics and crime, its still home and we all love it as is, warts and all. Especially when the sun shines and the waves are cranking.

I took a few pics of Anne Avenue in St Francis this morning, showing some of the progress the beach project has made. You can see the level of damage to the parking lot and then how much the beaches have improved since the project went ahead a few weeks ago. Very impressive.

SPFING

I saw a European looking tourist sitting under an umbrella at the beach last week, with burn scabs on his back the size of dinner plates. Where he wasn’t a screaming shade of lobster meat, his skin was matted with peely bits that flaked in the wind. The rest of his family were building sand castles and tossing beach balls in the sun, faces caked in purple zink. You could see the man had been sparing with sun block and was paying for mistake.

Sun creaming yourself up for a day in the sun has become a factor 50 affair. True story. Especially on days like this, where it’s as hot as hell and slightly onshore. The conditions are far more conducive to sharing a few labels with the buggers on the beach than surfing. But you’ve got to watch yourself and make sure you don’t end up like the sad Euro tourist, hiding under and umbrella while his family jols on the beach.

How about Kelly Slater winning the pipe masters? That’s incredible stuff. You’ve got to see the footage on www.aspworldtour.com to fully appreciate how skillful his performance was (not only his, but the other 44 surfers, too).

Bull Nonesense Revisited

A man with matted hair and a forehead piercing gave me a leaflet. His name badge said ‘Raphael’. He was jumping and spinning round, stopping people at random to ask if they’d heard about 2012. He said the world will end in four years. His leaflet explains everything. A major shift in the planet’s magnetic field will reverse earth’s polarity. This is terrible news for the human race. We’re all going to die.
Raphael was less than pleased with the news.

I went back to the shops later and found him weeping in an alleyway. He sniveled into the sleeve of his long coat. His upcoming novel about the extinction of Dodo’s will fall on deaf ears, now. ‘What does this twisted life mean!’’ bellowed Raphael.

I bought two cans of red stripe and took a seat beside him. ‘It’s ironic that you wrote about dodo’s as WE'RE ALL about to check out,’ I said to Raphael. I didn’t get an answer. Raphael shot his eyes at me and made a toilet face. He clawed the beer from my hand and screamed about the danger's of Jamaican beer. ‘That snake venom will end your life!’ yelled Raphael, ‘Believe me! Death is no good for people!’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I answered.
He stood up, lit a smoke and then wondered off to hand out more apocalypse leaflets. Strange cat, Raphael.

“Vot is thees bull nonsense? Vee vill all die enivay,’ said Lienka, my Polish housemate, when I told her the story that night. ‘Yoo are strange boy. Vy do yoo tok to the crazy man?’

I’m glad there are still unsolved mysteries. Stuff like yetis, UFO’s, ghosts, crazy people and god. Earth isn't half as exciting if you take them away. But if you think too hard about it, you'll miss the good stuff, like today's weather.

Independant Biltong Slices

Some things couldn’t work in South Africa. The American/ English system of pumping your own petrol is a good place to start. We’re not disciplined enough to do it. I’m not. Come the 20th of the month, stranded on the way home from a bar in Walmer, car dying of thirst and payday lurking in the shadows like a guilty conscience— I’d struggle NOT to sneak a Rhino’s worth of petrol to get home.
Same goes for refillable cool drinks at fast food restaurants. You’d have people sneaking paper cups of Fanta out the window at Mc Donald’s all day if we had bottomless soda fountains. I don’t mean this in a bad way. There’s just too much hunger and poverty around us for businesses to give away commodities.

There are plenty of things that DO work in South Africa, but probably wouldn’t elsewhere. Freelance car guards, for example. I know people get irritated with car guards, but think about life in South Africa without them? The ingenuity of the car guard movement is a collective act of genius. The market for car guards just created itself out of need. Instead of stealing cars, unemployed people started making sure other people didn’t— for a fee. I’ll gladly pay someone a few bucks to watch my car, while I’m surfing or at the shops.
Vuvuzelas at soccer matches are another one. Where in the world can a swarm of people blow the vuvuzela during a sporting event, wearing a pair of shades like the Niknaks man and be so natural?

Watching the Billabong Pipe Masters online last night got me thinking about this. Several international surfers in the top 45 gave up their spot in the competition, so that local wild cards could compete instead. The local surfers make a living out of surfing on the North Shore, and end up doing better than most competitors from elsewhere, anyways. It seems to be the respectful thing to do. I’ve never been to Hawaii, so I don’t understand the gravity of local rule on the island, but I’ve been reading some pretty heavy descriptions. There seems to be a set of rules and regulations that can only work in Hawaii; a way of doing things that makes the whole experience of going there completely unique. On the Zigzag website, there is a daily blog about the Hawaiian season, complete with details about the contests. http://zigzaghawaiiblog.blogspot.com/.

Hadida's Creek on the first weekend of December

This weekend’s trip to Cape St Francis got off to a slow start. There was no real hurry, but the plan was to leave at 2pm. We knew the waves would be abysmal, so it was more about setting up the braai than anything else.

Helping mom fetch the new washing machine and move the twin towers took far longer than expected.
Security was tight at the used appliance dealer’s house in Central. Three Doberman’s wielding machetes for teeth snapped passops at Zach and I; their snouts sticking through the font gate. We didn’t need to press the buzzer, as everyone on the block came outside to see who was there. “The girls are really tame, I promise! Lilly, Petal, Sal, be nice ladies!” said the little grey haired salesman, as Zok and I scrambled back into the car and locked all the doors for extra safety.
I could hardly breathe when we loaded the ’95 Defy into my dad’s cabbie. My knees wobbled and my arms felt like they’d unhinge at the shoulders, but at least there was a block of steel to use as ballast, should those foul beasts have chosen to strike. Our dog Maxi wouldn’t look at Zok and I when we got home. He sniveled about us smelling like the apocalypse.

The twin towers are a pair of cupboards that stand around 12 feet. They’re not heavy, but grinding them through the house made for a Laurel and Hardy skit.

Mase and I finally hit the road late in the afternoon, car piled up with boards and braaing accessories. Road works on the N2 have become part of the weather. It seems like they’ve always been there. Taking the Thornhill turn off is almost just The Way nowadays, and not a detour anymore. So it came as a surprise to the two of us when we encountered a burly road worker, standing near the gravel road where we needed to turn off. He flagged us down, pointing to a sign that said: ‘Detour closed.’ There were tattoos all over his bald head and he had an unlit, cigar sized roll up cig with no filter dangling in his mouth. I would have said he was a stranded Hell’s Angel if it wasn’t for the luminous yellow municipal waste jacket.
We stopped and I stuck my head out and said, “The road closed?” like an annoying person who doesn’t read signs.
The man lit a match effortlessly on his beard, looked at us and said, “Off the bloody road you shtupid d$$s, Go that way!” pointing South West. So we took off again and followed his order. Who doesn’t listen to someone that could break your arms with the crease in his forehead? “Should we turn back up the road?” asked Mase.
“No bru, I think he’s just given us the short cut,” I answered, “why else would he tell us to go this way?”

A hadida flew over the car, as we headed down a narrow road through an area I didn’t recognize. Nothing looked familiar. Not the green hills that ran like a sea of khaki shorts. Not the lonesome houses that popped up every once in a while. Nothing. The hadida squawked at us and then dropped a fresh white turd on the windscreen, which the wipers spread around like smoke in a bathroom. We planned to stop in J-bay to get petrol on the way, so it was of the essence that we didn’t take chances.

“You’re a kak navigator” said Mase. He wasn’t lying. I have a 97 year old deaf, blind a senile man’s sense of direction. We saw a large troupe of baboons leaping on an empty car lying in a roadside ditch. The alpha male ripped out the front seat out and steering wheel, and had it set them up in a thick baobab tree. He was pretending to drive, while his less sophisticated subjects used the abandoned vessel like a jungle gym.
“That’s our car in a week,” said Mase.

There were a few worried phone calls to family members for directions and the odd dirty word spoken. Our journey seemed to be taking us nowhere. But as we waddled cautiously over a long hill there stood a glimmer of hope within eyeshot: Hankey. We were not lost any more. As we turned onto Hankey’s main road, Radio Algoa reception shot back to life and we drove carelessly to the nearest petrol point, letting out a heavy sigh of relief.



***

The waiting period for the Pipeline Masters has just begun, so check out www.aspworldtour.com to see when its showing live. It’s the last of the WCT for 2008!

Staircase to Sunset

Does anyone remember being outrageously inspired by movies when they were young? After watching ‘Kickboxer’ I spent a few days trying to kick down every tree in my mom’s garden— I wanted to BE Jean Claude Van Damme.
Same story with Indiana Jones. I wore a dusty Stetson I found in the garage and terrorized my old Labrador for weeks, whipping her with a school tie.
I spent a few hours writing rap songs and pretending my dad was Uncle Phill after watching ‘The Fresh Prince of Bell Air’ for the first time. To try and look more like Will Smith, I wore an old cap the made my ears stick out. Anyways, you see what I mean?

It took around ten minutes to clear the sleep from my eyes this morning. I was still up at 3:30 this morning, watching the O’Neil World Cup of Surfing. South Africans Jordy Smith, Greg Emslie and David Weare had me standing on my seat and screaming at the computer. The waves at Sunset Beach were unholy and monstrous. Emslie and Weare secured their place on the 2009 WCT by making the quarter finals, and Smith blitzed through to the final.

When the final heat was over, I felt just like a kid after a good action movie. Hopped up on coffee, I ran up and down the stairs pretending it was a 25 foot sunset beast and high fived myself.

Don’t take my word for it though. Check out www.triplecrownofsurfing.com and watch the footage. i got the cool picture of Dave Weare from www.aspworldtour.com.

A Tale of Forced Redemption and Justice

None of us saw her coming. Not Warren, the cheeky one. Not Rudolph, the smartest. Not Styvies, the one who’d been smoking since he was 7. Not me, the day dreamer. We were in the games room above the bar. It would be three years before any of us ventured downstairs to drink legally. We tried very hard, many times, but in a town as small as St Francis Bay everyone knows how old you are. In any case, the games room had everything we really needed; music, a pool table, TV (and racks of surf movies), a room for our surfboards and Street Fighter 2. During the December of ’98 we must have heard Sublime’s ‘Robbin’ The Hood ‘album a thousand times and played as many games of pool.

Warren was dynamite on the pool table by January. The rest of us could hold our own.

The bar sold food. Back then it was the only legitimate restaurant in the village. Tourists flocked there in season. By mid January the excitement was over and the town felt sleepy again, except on weekends.

I saw a family of five having a meal there when we passed the bar, on our way upstairs. They were from Boksberg or Benoni. I can’t remember which. The father and his three sons looked like the same person at different ages.
The dad was wearing luminous polly shorts and a vest that had great dips in the armpits. The oldest son had a furry mustache like his dad’s.
The middle child had a mousy brown mullet and a bushy uni-brow that looked like it was sketched on his face with koki pen.
The youngest son looked tough. Although they were all stocky and plump, the littlest of them was probably energetic enough to burn off the family diet of ver koek and biltong.
***
The three brothers came upstairs after their meal, unprepared for Warren’s skill. “Challenger pays for the round,” Warren told them after they enquired about the pool table.
We took turns being Warren’s partner, whilst the Boksberg or Benoni brothers used up their money. They lost four games in a row, not managing to sink a ball during two of them.

They insisted we let them play a game without us once, as it was their last R2 coin.

“No ways, “said Styvies, “beat us once and you can play for as long as you like.”
“that’s how it works here, Koos times three,” said Warren.
“Ja bru, it’s a system that makes this place tick. Rules are rules,” said Rudolph.
I was getting stuck into Level 3 on Street Fighter and only heard the conversation.

The brothers took a few moments to confirm. Meanwhile, Warren was clearing the remaining balls from the previous game— he’d soundly beaten the middle and youngest brother playing left handed.

It was my turn to be Warren’s partner when the oldest and middle brother decided to play their last coin. There was electricity in the air. They were fired up, like soldiers on the front line. Victory meant redemption. We’d been playing on their dime for forty minutes.

Warren broke— Warren always broke, and sank two stripes off the bat. The middle brother answered back with a solid in the corner pocket. I scratched on my turn. A great dual was going down.

The Benoni or Boksberg brothers hissed at every missed opportunity; buried their heads in their hands when Warren sunk a ball; cheered for one another when they sank a few of their own.

I was up with just the black ball to go. I bent low and aimed. As I positioned the cue, the youngest brother reached up and whipped the white ball off the table.

‘Give it back, little guy, said Rudolph,’ speaking before Warren or Styvies had the chance to. The boy turned chili red and had tears went rolling down his cheeks. He backed up and stood in front of his brothers, as if to protect them.

‘What you doing!’ said Warren, grabbing the ball from his hands and placing it back in front of me.
‘Play the shot,’ he said. The other brothers stood frozen.

Again I aimed and again the youngest child stole the ball. The middle brother snatched it from his hand and gave it to me. I said thank you. Warren laughed. Rudolph sighed. Styvies went to smoke a cigarette outside.

I aimed my cue a third time, knowing the youngest brother would steal the ball from me. Something about him wouldn’t quit until justice was done. I often wonder if he was the sort of person who went on to be a police man or a traffic officer.

Instead of stealing the ball, the youngest brother ran at Warren and punched him in the nuts. Warren never missed a beat, and answered with a swift backhand to the young boy’s temple. The child let out a defeated howl. His oldest brother picked him up and Styvieshed downstairs, lulling his brave little brother.

“That’s right, take him away!” shouted Warren.

Styvies laughed at Warren, who was bending low and nursing his injured crucial bits. The room was silent otherwise. There was a hollowness in the air. Like we’d trampled a bunny or a small bird to death.

It wasn’t long before we heard massive foot steps rattling the staircase outside. DOOM DOOM DOOM DOOM
“It’s the dad,’ said Rudolph.
‘We’re dead,’ said Warren.
‘Kak, there’s four of us,’ said Styvies.
I never said anything.

Nothing could have prepared us for what came through the door. She looked like a giant, with ratty brown hair that reached the floor and a nose that was as wrinkled and bumpy as the vet koek she fed her three boys. The woman had to bend in half to fit through the wooden door frame. When she stood up straight her head almost touched the roof.
‘Who hit Nathan!’ she cried in a most polite English accent.
The four of us couldn’t answer.

Warren took the first, most aggressive blow. The mother in her must have seen that it was Warren. She wiped the look of surprise clean off his face with a brutal slap. Her palms were big enough to cup a watermelon. Warren spun off his chair and corkscrewed on to the floor.

Rudolph was next. She grabbed him by his ears and thrust his head into the wall, repeating the motion a few times. He dropped like a bag of damp soil.

Styvies was ready for her next move. He dodged the first three right hooks, but wasn’t anticipating a sneaky left jab that caught him under the chin. His chin split down the middle and spat blood like a punctured hose pipe.

I was next. ‘You!’ she cried, pointing at me. ‘Was it you?’
‘No ma’am!’ I sniveled. I couldn’t have moved quicker if there was a fire burning the place down. She was on me like a hot disease. In a Nazi marching style, she kicked me across the room. I wailed in terror as she advanced. She screamed back, cursing my parents in words and a tone that only angry mothers and scared children can understand.

When the dust cleared and we’d regained consciousness, the enraged mother and her family were gone.
‘What thuss ‘appmined?’ said Styvies, who’d bitten through his tongue.
‘Aggravated assault,’ I said.
‘We gotta find out where they’re staying and torch the place,’ said Rudolph.
No, we deserved that… Let it go. We’re lucky she didn’t tear us in half,’ said Warren, holding his cheek.

Notes from an East London Surf Trip: Part 2

After cruising through the Slum Town countryside on Sunday afternoon, we decided to see the new James Bond flik. Now, I love going to the movies, but the ticket and food prices are absurd. My dad has always felt this way about movie theatres and I see his point. "Twelve bucks for movies AND pop corn! Are you buying mandrax? Don't lie to me Bugs, we can help you," I remember him saying when I was in Standard 7 or so.

Strangely though, I feel like a junkie standing in line, fidgeting nervously, waiting to pay almost fifty bucks for coke and popcorn— especially since a bag of kernels and a box of cola syrup probably cost around R9 each. Next to booze and hard drugs, movie theatre treats must have the highest mark up for retail stock.

I’d consider bringing sandwiches and a bottle of Oros if I wasn’t so sadly hooked on popcorn. I have a terrible problem... It brings out the beast in me. A werewolf transformation takes place the moment salty popcorn touches my gums. I can’t get the next handful in my mouth quickly enough. By the time the trailers are done I’ll be half way through my second box. Twenty minutes into the movie I’ll have my cell phone out, using the light to help me put together 20 bucks in bronzies for a fresh box of the good stuff. And screw sharing. I’m a complete pig about it. Even if I’m on a first date, I’ll gladly buy a separate box so that I don’t have to share. When I'm finished my own box I'll steal from hers, too.

Its people like me that keep theatre owners selling treats for a small fortune. Bringing a packed meal to the movies is a far more affective act of protest than whining about the prices I gladly pay… there, I’m done ranting.

On the way back from East London this morning Zok and I stopped in Port Alfred again— this time to surf. It was a welcome break from the heat inside our air conditioner-less vehicle, which was starting to feel like an incinerator on wheels. We had East Beach to ourselves for a good forty minutes before a few locals joined. I managed to take a few pictures before my camera died, but it’s a crying shame I missed Zach’s barrel early on in the session. After getting thrown over the falls twice in a row, Zok stroked into a beast and set his line perfectly. The boytjie’s barrel was so sick it needed medical treatment.

Notes from a Road Trip to East London: Part 1

Hagen Engler wrote a story about PE and East London being Siamese Twins separated at birth and I finally get it. The main difference between them is waves and bars. Slummies has more of one, while PE has more of the other. Back when Turtle Morris was doing the surf report, he’d give a brief synopsis of the conditions in EL, after confirming that PE was still flat.
“What’s he say?” my brothers or friends would ask once I’d put the phone down.
“God hates PE surfers,” I’d reply, “Slummies is 6 foot and perfect.”
“And what about PE?” they’d ask, knowing in the heart of hearts exactly what the waves were like in PE.

This weekend Zok and I made an impulse decision to visit our older brother, Rokso, in Slummies. As we passed the turd factory near Blue Water Bay, I looked over and saw a group of kids playing on a windsurfing board near the river mouth. My dad had a board just like it when we were little. I remember doing the same thing with my brothers on days when we couldn’t surf, because the waves were too small.

No trip up the coast is complete without a Nanaga Pie along the way. My heart nearly stopped when I noticed the store locked up, like it’d been condemned. “Where’s it gone!” bellowed Zok. There were no signs of life. We shook our heads and moved on, mourning the loss of a great institution in a world gone bananas. With our bellies full of lost hope, we pushed on towards an imminent storm, brewing clouds like steam engine smoke.

At the other end of the freeway we found a pot of gold only South African leprechauns would appreciate: The New Nanaga Mega Store! Holy snakes. We had no idea they’d moved. The good people that gave us Lamb and Mint pies have reopened a shopping mall-sized farm stall, with a variety of original flavors that will make you cry. The new building looks fantastic and the pies as magical as ever.



By the time we reached Port Alfred rain was pelting down like gunfire from above. We decided to park the car at East Beach and wait for the weather to calm down. The wind was howling cross shore and the swell was small, but the sand banks at East Beach still looked immaculate. Although we couldn’t stop for a surf along the way, we’ve sworn to do so on the way home tomorrow. PA has some of the best waves in the Eastern Cape. Thanks to the popularity of Jefferies Bay, it’s not over run by tourists and surfing piggies— although you do have to watch your manners and pay the locals their due.

We got to Slum Town on Saturday afternoon around 4PM, at the same time a lightning and hail storm rocked the little city. Instead of dropping our bags off and going for a surf before sunset, we scrambled indoors and cracked a few cold ones, whilst the horizon lit up like a fire cracker.


It seemed as though PE had followed us to EL, as Sunday morning’s surf check reminded me of home. Eastern Beach and Nahoon Reef were gutless and small. Zach sampled the goods, but got out very quickly. “Like pipe,” was the exact expression he used to describe the waves. Even though I expected to feel cheated by the flat ocean, I couldn’t help having a good day with my brothers.



The three of us live in different cities, so the times we get to hang out are as rare as a 6 foot day in PE. We spent the rest of the afternoon driving up the coast to spots like Yellow Sands, Glen Eden and Queensbury Bay. The waves were rubbish everywhere, but walking up and down the beach and picnicking in the hillside was as much fun as anyone needs to have. The stuff you do while waiting for waves is important to remember, like playing in the river, on a dusty old windsurfer, with your brothers.

I’ll have more photos and a comprehensive entry tomorrow or Wednesday, depending on how caught up we get in PA on the way home. The waves are shocking again today, so we’ll have to carry on making the best of what’s around.


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The O'niel World Cup of Surfing continued this weekend at Sunset Beach. When the round of 64 continues this week, we'll see the likes of David Weare, Ricky Basnett (who kicked so much ass in his previous heat it wasa frightning), Jordy Smith and Greg Emslie. you'll find the live feed on www.triplecrownofsurfing.com.