We should be ashamed of how privileged we are

So as I sit here in my comfortable seat on route from Seattle to Houston, with sleep once again in my life nonchalantly passing me by, I think back on yesterday.

For most of the day I really believed that I was being unfairly hard done by. And yes, a spectacular amount did go wrong. But as I am slightly ashamed to admit to, only in the eyes of an ever increasingly spoilt first world participant. Me.

Yes, all the flights to and from Vancouver Island were cancelled because of fog on the Mainland. And yes, when I left home 2 hours earlier than anticipated still juggling multiple insurance balls I felt compromised. And yes again, when the ferry I was due to catch was running 1h45 behind schedule and whilst using the available time near the ferry terminal to grab a bite with Rae, the server delivered our food so late that I had to gulp down my last Pilsner and clam chowder soup (I had ordered bacon and bean by the way) at the same rate per litre, I realised that the day was proving to be difficult.  And yes, when I got a taxi from the Tsawwassen ferry terminal to collect my cricket kit delivered the day before to Seair in Vancouver and my shuttle from there to Vancouver Airport (YVR) passed by without stopping while I was inside administrating the release of said kit, I began to feel a dash annoyed.

With the missing of the shuttle, we recalled the taxi who had just delivered me (at great expense) to Seair and was fortunately not far away yet, to return immediately to facilitate my transportation to YVR. Such was the speed of his return to me and his genuine enthusiasm to get me to YVR on schedule for my (now twice rescheduled antigen test), that it was only after we entered the departures ramp at YVR, that I realized that my passport and phone were still securely placed on the parcel counter at Seair. As a result of another creative driving experience from our East Indian driver, buoyed on by exaggerated tales of cricket prowess from his passenger, did we make what would be a 25 minute roundtrip in quiet traffic, in a surprisingly efficient 18 minute journey in peak hour. Many road rules where rendered not necessary in pursuit of furthering my delivery to serve the great game of cricket.

Safely delivered at the departures terminal, I immediately sought out the antigen test location. Cunningly placed at the far end of nowhere, I joined, on my eventual arrival, one of the two available queues. At the best of times, these are not my favourite the things, but as I grow older, I begrudgingly understand I need to accept and participate graciously. After manipulating my beloved cricket bat, a nastily and deceptively heavy Patagonia duffel bag and finally, the soon to be disposed of hard shelled luggage bag around a 30m stretch of cordoned off queuing tunnel, I finally encountered a human. The information received was not what I desired. Back to the other queue I was sent for some sort of accreditation, although long ago paid for and scheduled on line.  What followed was some sorely needed simmering off time in my initial queue after which I was in invited into a booth occupied by a miserable little official malevolently brandishing a nasal earbud. The delight in his eyes as he twirled this thing 5 times around each of my aged nasal cavities, reminded me of the look dogs have when licking their nuts. Suffice to say, I left feeling a little compromised, sneezing uncontrollably and with watering globes. And all that for just $79.

So off to the checking in process. Surprisingly uneventful. Large suitcase sent to the hold to resurface in Houston eventually.

Me, the cricket bat and the Patagonia lump of lead set sail for the security and it’s set of delightful officials. After removing most of what I considered to be essential clothing, having made various declarations about my lack of investment in lotions and potions of over 100ml and being coerced into a Ned Kelly type “hands up” pose, I was deemed trustworthy enough to enter the US. However, at that stage my bat had not yet emerged from the tunnel of shame. When it did, there where startled and incredulous looks from the officials involved, some alarms and lights sounded and flashed and I was ushered off to the side with my weapon, clearly with what was deemed to have mass destruction capabilities. After an honest and straightforward conversation, I was escorted out of the whole area and returned, under supervision, to my original check in counter. After checking my weapon into the hold luggage, I returned and repeated, from scratch, the whole security process. I have no shame in admitting that, as it was now devoid of other travelers, I placed an emphasis on fouling the place with the most unhealthy and dastardly of farts I could muster. I even went as far as to linger to gauge their impact and left with a proud smile hidden under my mask.

And that’s not all.

By the way, a very sharply pointed skateboard, 2 guitars and a 2 foot long clarinet all made it into the cabin. Clearly not useable as weapons. Likewise charger cords apparently pose no threat. I guess it’s fair to mention that noone had ever died from strangulation by a Gray Nicholls.

I think the world has gone stark staring mad.

And more about first world privilege tomorrow.

The same little hotel

While I always approach rented accommodation showers with some trepidation, this one, while obviously poorly constructed, appeared to have got the basics right. i.e. the controls were two simple turny things and the shower head, while not to my absolute liking in height position, was mounted at about the same altitude as my second chin in the upright position. The cubicle itself had a slightly flawed design, or construction malfunction, which resulted in it tapering from a comfortable 4 foot wide entrance to about 2 foot at the shower head end. Wedging myself out from this confine after my first shampooing attempt was a little disconcerting, but, generally acceptable overall.

“Flatter to deceive” was obviously the building team’s motto as I was soon to discover while undertaking my first occupation. While still on edge from an encounter with the lopsided toilet bowl, I entered the confines cautiously and apparently successfully. What I had earlier seen as a lack of skill by the tiler because of the sheer crookedness of the tile installation through the whole bathroom, was soon replaced by a sort of painful admiration. This fellow had either an undeniable talent for allowing one sharp corner of every tile he laid to protrude marginally and just anonymously enough to inflict pain to any foot placed on the floor or any body part brushing the wall tiles. Or he had a sort of continuous and clearly untreated Parkinsons. However, once I had identified this threat and informed Cari I continued with my adventure.

While the two taps were clearly set apart and thankfully not one of those treacherous combined dispensing handles, neither gave any clue as to the temperature of the water that they were deemed to dispense. I, with experienced caution, set about testing each tap for an indication of the above. After five minutes of low pressure water movement, I would say low enough to not be able to turn a well oiled hamster wheel, I was still none the wiser. In a now mildly irritated condition I went for the full application of each and decided to await the outcome. For a further few minutes very little changed, however after sufficient enough time had passed for me to actually consider a cold bodily insertion option, some lukewarm stuff started to arrive. I would say, realistically from a boiler in some other village. A good shower was had until turn-off time. Somehow, even when responsibly turning each knob at the same speed anticlockwise, the exit was marred by wildly fluctuating temperatures of the hot and cold variant. Both preceded by the adjective “fucking”. In fact, after many, many turns to the left hand knob and minutes after the water flow had ceased, it never reached the satisfying closed position. The plumber too has some skill.

With all this undertaken and after Cari exited the bathroom spotlessly clean and uninjured, we eagerly awaited the arrival of Shaz (my cousin Ivan’s wife), Paul (Shazzi’s brother and he maintains to be, as yet unproven, Ivan’s friend as well) and Andi (Shazzi’s friend). While word had it (from experienced family sources) that the first two mentioned were no strangers to a bar counter, Andi was of unknown experience and talent. As the next few days have unfolded, we now consider this to be an experienced and talented team of barflies with no obvious weak points or personel. In my humble, but experienced opinion, it is likely that Paul is going to earn the title of most versatile, Cari the most controlled, Shazzi the most spectacularly uncontrolled and well connected, Andi the most foul mouthed and most enthusiastic at early morning starts with me, sadly, bringing up the rear. After a bit of prompting and cajoling earlier this morning by certain members of our group, I have decided to add that the three damsels in our quintet, were in my opinion certainly, the most beautiful older women on display in town.

We all, I’m sure, look forward to the next few days of companionship. And Ivan’s arrival on Friday.

More about the “double” room some other time.

Strange little hotel

Strange little hotel we are staying in, the Meson De Mita.

On the beach, constructed of thatch and concrete blocks with rooms placed erratically around a nice beer drinking pool and small restaurant and bar.

When using the services of Booking.com a few weeks back to formalize our contract for sleeping arrangements, we cocked the dates up a bit and did not secure our intended first night. As it turned out, when we tried to book that date about 67 seconds later, Booking.com had cunningly authorized some other couple to have use of our room. So our first night was to be in a so-called “triple” room with nights two and three being in our originally booked “double room”. This is where the strange part begins. 

Our grand “triple” room, at twice the price of the “double” room, was tucked away in the furthest corner of the establishment, up a flight of Everest like steps with the view of an asbestos roof topping the nearby neighbours establishment. The sleeping arrangements were made available in the form of one double and one single bed, both with mattresses so firm that I sought, in the early hours of the morning, the more forgiving softness of the Italian floor tiles for the remainder of my rest period. The size of the room would not be considered, in any neck of the woods, cavernous and only just accommodated me at full wingspan extension. While I have been known to complain about abluting and body cleansing facilities, I make no apologies about adding this one to the list. Let’s say that the builder or builders of this bathroom operated without any of the following at their disposal. Spirit levels, modern tile cutters, skill of any description, common sense, measuring tape and normal building aids. The electrician had provided an excellent light on the ceiling but chose, somewhat narcissitically, to hide the lightswitch almost underneath the crookedly placed sink. So difficult was this switch to locate, that I had to resort, in my neediest hour, to my cell flashlight to complete my many and varied requirements throughout the night. It was only in broad daylight that we finally located the wall mounted switch, which understandably was not when they are at their most useful. The fitting itself should last for centuries as it is likely that only the most determined and resourceful will ever locate it. That’s just the beginning.

The actual toilet was at such a forward leaning angle that both seats, the one with the hole and the other one, would or could not remain upright. Gravity put paid to that. So the upright stance that men generally use to dispose of worrisome liquids was awkward to perform to say the least. One hand holding the seats up at a very debilitating height, the other hand holding the delivery part of the anatomy and a cell phone for nocturnal lighting clenched aggressively between the teeth was far from desirable. The second option required the lifting of the solid seat and then executing a well timed and fluid squatting motion to place ones bottom on the other seat, in the incredibly brief period of time before the top seat fell and rendered the whole exercise invalid. The third option was the crispy hydrangeas outside. No longer crispy.

More about the strange tomorrow. And the shower. And the “double” room.

A little jaunt

As I begin to experience my first fleeting glimpses of wisdom from within and edge my way uncertainly towards an infantile form of mental and emotional maturity, I realize that along the way I have often been a doos.

With my wife, best friend and partner of many years all rolled up into one as my companion, a short trip to Port Alberni was undertaken yesterday afternoon. As we had sought to get away from home for a night of celebration for the anniversary of our official union some 33 years ago, a little planning had taken place on Thursday evening. All the normal avenues for revelry were explored but had led to dead ends. Too far to justify, too expensive for my dusty wallet, in the case of the Chemainus Theatre, sold out, too boring, too miserable in winter and a bunch of other reasons. So it was to Google that we turned.

As we are of an age now that we consider that a good night out might actually involve some planned eating, we pushed the “restaurants near us, but not too close and with cheap motel nearby” button.  Surprisingly, with the TripAsvisor filters having been set to exclude those eating houses responsible for more than 3 customer poisoning fatalities in the last calendar year, to ignore any that offer wine from bottles rather than soft 5litre bags, that are unable to offer discounted Friday evening meals and a few other less stringent requirements, it was to our great surprise that a few such establishments were on our proverbial doorstep. 42kms from our front garden, over “the Hump” is a little blue collar town called Port Alberni which offered such a combination of venues. To South Africans I would best describe it as a place that offers as many attractions as Despatch and Uitenhage after dark, but sadly is without their natural beauty. Basically one of those towns that you enter into at the speed limit of the day, but increase by at least 25% in order to get through as quickly as possible. Not exactly a jewel. Famous really only for the tsunami of 1964.

However, looking back after returning home today, it is with great surprise that I can say this, all while eating some humble pie. We stayed in the cleanest and most inexpensive motel I have experienced in North America, ate one of the finest dinners I can recall at the Little Bavaria Restaurant, then had a breakfast to remember at the Swale Rock Cafe this morning. The largest portions of home cooked comfort food I have yet experienced with bottomless coffee.

Not only did Alberni unveil these unknown treasures to us, but in some uncanny and almost creepy way, we also got to listen to a speech that we will remember for years. As I had had no desire to test the patience of the Port Alberni constabulary responsible for traffic offenses regarding those piloting a mechanized vehicle after and/or during an over indulgence in cider and cheap wine, we had procured the services of a taxi for our journey to the eating house. As our transporter arrived way early and the timing of our restaurant booking meant we would have to stand on a street corner at -1C and in spitting rain for about 45 mins before being admitted, we requested, quite sensibly I thought, that he drop us at a pub of his recommendation near to our ultimate destination. This he did. But this is a very unique pub. A bit odd as it is a pub in an old Church – bringing together 2 of the things that confuse me most in life when I seek refuge and spend too much time in either one of them. But even odder was that, unknown to our driver clearly, the pub/Church was hosting a private function and as we are clearly blessed with a little anonymity, on our entrance we were welcomed as guests and after some enthusiastic hand shaking and air kissing, we were offered food, drinks and hearty Christian companionship. Once we had disentangled ourselves from our exuberant would be hosts and explained that we were actually unwitting gate crashers, their offer for us to stay was not withdrawn, however the downside was to be that the cost of consumption of liquids was to be our responsibility. We had stumbled into a meeting of outdoorsmen and adventurers. Their guest speaker was Shane Mahoney who I had never heard of before. In 30 of the 40 minutes we were there he gave an address that was quite amazing in its authenticity and emotion on a topic that would never have ordinarily attracted us. Sometimes the world works in strange ways. And who are we to question. With the wise words of this strange man still ringing in our ears we headed off for supper.

As I seem to have strayed somewhat from my introductory paragraph, more about being a doos later.

SOUTH OF MEXICO

Escaping from Vancouver Island after 5 months of winter to a new and untried destination (for us), is what we had to look forward to.

And we were. After a wonderful sipping and reminiscing meeting at Vancouver Airport with a far from home Nikki Wichmann, an uneventful flight to and a short layover in Mexico City, we boarded our next flight and were dispatched to the rear of the plane. Having been allocated the unprized middle seat, with Cari at the window, the currently unoccupied aisle seat on my right did not go unnoticed. My tension levels grew as I followed the progress down the aisle of each new passenger that entered upfront, praying for the sound of the cabin door being closed and locked was what I was waiting for.

The last 2 boarded and the cabin was secured. Alas, as the couple made their way past a few open seats and then finally gave that relieved look of finding their allotment, it was right in our space. The husband gave me a withering Hispanic look and deemed me unfit to have his wife sit next to. Wifey, who herself was not of the miniature variety, was then safely guided to the seat behind me, next to an old lady who weighed no more than her baggage. My new neighbour, clad in a wife beater/Despatch Tuxedo or as better known, vest, prepared to load their two backpacks into the overhead storage. From being the biggest guy on the plane, my new mate had downgraded me to a distant second place.

Lifting his left arm in this loading process, unveiled an armpit of the hairy and unkempt variety. It became clear that Old Spice had never made contact with this part of, or, in all likelihood, any part of his perspiring body since he underwent puberty. Tattoed from top to toe, some difficult to follow or read because of the matting of body hair acting as a natural disguise to the many hours of, no doubt, wonderful and skilled artwork, he settled down in his allotted 25C and a generous portion of my 25B. Cari used what was left of her 25A after my natural and unavoidable invasion and flattened, not unlike a gecko, parts of herself against the window.

And so we set off for San Jose.

Sri Lanka today

Since waking up in Sydney on my 57th birthday just 10 days ago, my life has been full of joy, fine camaraderie and fun.

From the time I was re-aquainted with many old mates and then some soon to be new ones, to receiving all my new kit, to the opening ceremony, to opening the batting against England, to our first 4 matches, it has all passed in a bit if a blur. Some of the blur no doubt caused by the local XXXX brew, the rest by constant activity and being involved with 16 other diverse personalities.

New nicknames have come naturally, Baloo, Gullycrab, Buffalo and Nobber being some examples.

Writing this in the bus on the way to the ground for our game today against the tea pickers, the noise levels change from almost rowdy to near silence as we get closer to the venue. Everyone automatically withdraws into their own space. We know we have a lot to do, and today we have to do it.

We are a proud and happy group.

The Bear

About a year ago, early on a Saturday morning, Rae and I saw our first black bears in Canada, in the wild. Training for the Victoria Marathon at the time, we had driven a few kms from home through the outskirts of our little town, Parksville, to the Errington area which is a sort of rural community with smallholdings and farms and nice quiet roads. As usual, we were driving the route first to put water bottles out at measured intervals, ready for my gleeful consumption later. While still wiping the sleep out of my eyes I noticed a larger than usual black shape in the road ahead. From the safety of my car we witnessed our first bear at about 50 meters. It gave us a bit of a look and disappeared into the bush beside the road. With a now very alert Rae, we dropped off a set of bottles about a mile further and then lo and behold, came across Mama and Jnr. crossing the road. As Rae continued with squeaking noises and talks of running cancellation, I ensured her there would be little, or nothing, to be concerned about. I was correct, we ran the route that day unworried by the furry sods and for many weeks after without spotting another.

I guess you need to know where this is going, but first lets talk headphones. As much as long distance running can be tough on the body, it can also be boring. As my noggin is not often filled with self absorbing intellectual matter or blessed with a vast array of factual content to sift through in such times, I decided that the purchase of some sporty looking earphones would make life easier. Roscoe, our gadget child, faxed his friend in the Amazon (who he says is doing quite well), and in turn for a small fee and his close relationship my son, made me a set and posted them to our house. On arrival and after several hours of research resulting in battery insertion, they sprung into life. However, music was still needed. As my Walkman didn’t have a blue tooth, a young person suggested I connect them to my phone. Rae assisted with the $9 purchase of Queen’s “Day at the Races” from one of her friends called Spotify. When I asked when the recording was to be delivered, she said it already had been. I digress and marvel at the modern world at the same time.

Suffice to say, the daily repetition of that particular Queen recording has resulted in it going from one of my favourite pieces of music to nearly the worst. If I hear Freddie Mercury urge me to “ride my bicycle” while I am struggling, on foot, up a gentle incline once more, there could be lasting problems.

As a result of the earphone history, I set off 2 weeks ago Sunday, just after noon to do a 16km run without said earphones. This might have saved me from a very delicate situation. Having miscalculated, frankly just procrastinated my start time, resulting in me running in the heat of the day. Canada you say? Yes, summer can get hottish and a little humid too. About 300m from my halfway mark after an hour or so, chugging delicately up a pesky incline, enjoying the solitude and beauty of the surroundings, thankfully earpiece free, I heard a rustling in the bushes alongside me.

Because the only available shadows on the road were on the right, I was hugging the shrubs with that shoulder. An accurate description of the vegetation, would be best portrayed by thinking Eastern Cape bushveld, and then saying “nothing like that”. Dense and green is what it is. Instinct told me the volume of the noise was not from a field mouse and only Bambi came to mind, as there are hundreds in the area that are continually on the roads or nibbling plants in your garden. In the milliseconds that followed and are on auto replay in my head in slow motion, I simultaneously decelerated (if possible that is) and looked up. Two meters away, the black bear, equally shocked, rose, I guess instinctively, from all fours, to sort of three quarter height and peeled away to his right at the same time. I think I simply stood for a few seconds, then retired to the safe side of the road. The noise of the bear retreat died down and I contemplated my next move. Another 300m to the water bottle, or a thirsty return? Baloo (previously incorrectly referred to as Mowgli) decided that for me, by reappearing twice up the road about 30m away, bottle side. My throat wasn’t that dry anyway.

Subsequent research has told me that Vancouver Island has over 7000 black bears, one of the world’s densest populations and that these VI bears are the largest sub specie around. I will forever remember the shiny blackness of its nose and size of the front paws and claws.

And I’m glad I wasn’t listening to Queen.

 

Into the land of the Hombre

 

I guess when you are on holiday and don’t have the time to write, it means you have been active and happy. Entirely accurate. So it is on the last leg of our return flights, from Calgary to Nanaimo, after 8 days of splendid fun,  that I finally find myself putting index finger to keyboard.

 

Landing in Mexico City on Monday last at 05h45 was the second visit for Cari and me to this country, but the first for Wendy, Clive, Sandy and Dave. With an assorted array of post marathon ailments making themselves felt in one way or another, walking proved to be a rather complicated issue. So sluggish and ungainly was the gait that Dave presented to the Mexican officials on arrival, that he was immediately offered the services of a splendid wheelchair usually reserved for those of great age or of serious permanent physical impairment. His polite declination of the offer was, I feel, influenced rather more by his realisation of the potential for great and life-long future chastisement than an honest assessment of his true condition.

 

My slothlike movements were hampered only by the skinless condition of the big toe on my left foot, a blister the size of a casino chip on the sole of said foot and my black and soon to be nail-less big toe on my right foot. Various chafings in the reproductive area also added to a generally decrepit state.

 

The lasses suffered from stiffness to many and varying body parts and Clive, while the eldest, was, not surprisingly, by far the most agile and spriteleist member of the group at this stage.

 

A quick early morning breakfast at Wings, a 90 minute flight to Puerto Vallarta and we were soon outside the airport awaiting, at my suggestion, the local bus destined for Punta de Mita. As the schedule for the arrival of this transport was difficult to ascertain and it was already hot and humid, we decided to avail ourselves of the facilities of a little roadside cantina where management was pleased to inform us that his Pacifico was well priced and bitterly cold. Despite the largely overpowering odour of seemingly expired seafood delicacies, we rewarded his hospitality with a large beverage order. Or two.

 

Upon the squeaky arrival of the delapidated bus, we contorted ourselves into the available openings and set sail. Built sometime in the 60’s, this previously white coloured contraption, with a manual gearbox, sporting a gear lever the length of a javelin requiring the driver to make largely unnatural movements when grating away between the gear options that remained, the highlight was a windscreen that consisted of more cracks than see-through parts, rendering our windscreen manufacturer aghast. Occupying mostly the fast lane with the finest luxurious sedans and SUV’s on offer, our driver showed a healthy appetite for speed and less than subtle maneuvres. Any gap of greater than 2cm wider than the width of our vehicle was accepted as a challenge with relish by our man while conversing enthusiastically with passengers, texting extensively to his family and friends and squinting hopefully into the sun.

 

Surprisingly uninjured, despite some mental trauma to the less 3rd world travelled in our party, we arrived safely at La Cruz at around noon. Most importantly though, in that short time, our liking for the Mexican people had already been reaffirmed and signalled the beginning of a love affair with the country for the Balfours and Coffeys.

 

Our plane is about to land. More to follow.

 

What a way to get to Mexico

Who would have known, all those months back with me on a frigid September Saturday morning, resting on the couch watching any available sport that didn’t involve overlong people with inflated ego’s, throwing a perfecty round ball into a perfectly stationery hoop of perfectly adequate size in a windless indoor stadium or winter clad arrogant young men with more bodily protection than Churchills’ troops invading Normandy, that I was about to commit to yet another silly venture with David Coffey.

With the time difference allowing for me to watch reruns of the English Premier league while he sipped on a well earned evening beer back in Cape St Francis, our initial whatsapp contact of the day involved the usual pleasantries, requests as to one anothers bowel functioning behaviour, current state of the spouses disposition and other general affairs.

As Dave had heard secret whisperings about my imminent participation in the Victoria Marathon but had filed them in his personal fake news folder, it took my greatest and earnest act of persuasion to convince him otherwise. A photo of my recently purchased Nike Pegasus karaoke version dashing footwear, a second one of me clad in my finest running gear while sporting the said pair, a copy and paste version of the official advertising for the event and finally a commissioned pdf of my bank statement showing the vividly highlighted transaction between the race organisers and myself was all it took to convince Dave. We share such a trusting relationship.

So as I innocently watched Stoke score a dreary goal against their faceless Brighton opposition, Dave was pondering.

“Why don’t we run a marathon together in Canada next year?” was Dave’s initial input.

“Yes, when is good for you?” I replied.

“Anytime after April”.

Followed by a little Googling on my part.

“The Vancouver Marathon is May 6” I advised.

“Ok. Good for me” said Dave.

“Oh Brian, Sandy says she wants to come too for the half marathon”.

“Its a long way to come for a mere trot, why dont we go to Mexico afterwards”

“Ok”

So I went to Cari’s office, who 10 minutes earlier had asked me what was for lunch, and informed her that while her lunch request was still work in progress, I was excited to announce that we were all going to Mexico in May and that there was to be a little exercise  beforehand.

So yesterday, as a direct result of the irresponsible thoughts that originated in Cape St Francis, our family completed a combined 235.8 kilometres over the various race distances. Dave in his umteenth full marathon, Caroline and Rae in their first fulls, me in possibly my last, Kelly in her first half (never having run more than a bath before this), Roscoe in his PB half and the 3 Smyth damsels in the 8km. Clive stood guard and offered free medical advice to all team members.

Everyone finished in time, in good health and good spirits.

And now I sit, pre dawn, a few flights, taxi and bus rides and cervezas later, on the balcony of our magnificent Air Bnb in Punta da Mita with my favourite wife, Clive and Wendy, Dave and Sandy.

And 4 days of this lie ahead.