These past few months have been an inspiration for me. I have rediscovered parts of myself which have been long forgotten and in the process, the clarity of my purpose has returned. I would like to see myself blending my passions into something that makes a real difference in preserving our wild spaces, and this conviction is underpinning my life. These 'pie in the sky' dreams are the things that so many people talk about, but thanks to my experiences thus far, I feel that they are within reach because "The person you will be in five years is based on the books you read and the people you surround yourself with today." Thanks to the last five months of experiences, relationships and reflection, this is what I have discovered:
I am a warrior poet, finding beauty in the little things which somehow have large consequences. I am weaving together my three passions: flying, teaching and the bush. I am providing a platform for students to contribute towards conservation in South Africa, to the longevity of these incredible expansive environments and the life that they support. I am empowering others to share my dream of a world where nature and man are partners. And I am writing about it. So this is me...pilot, writer, environmentalist, tree hugger, idealist, teacher, romantic, husband and father...rediscovering my place in the world.
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There is something about old aeroplanes that is simply intoxicating. I suppose it is something to do with that fact that flying them makes the pilot feel like they are transported back in time. The aircraft are intricately flimsy, braced together by wires and struts and covered in taught canvass. Their wooden structure are often hand-made, and there is something romantic about the idea of men and women dressed in suits and white coats meticulously creating these flying marvels. The aircraft fly differently too, and each one has a distinct personality. They are not driven into the air, but coaxed and nurtured. The touch on the stick needs to be a gentle one, and just like the captain on a yacht, every change in the wind can be felt through the controls. In an open cockpit, like our Tiger Moth, the pilot is more akin to a motorcycle rider than anything else, and the sense of freedom, exhilaration and escapism is unrivaled. Old aircraft have their own histories and stories too, like John Illsley's Aeronca C3 with little more than a few horses produced by its tiny engine, it managed to fly from England to South Africa in the 1930s. The pilot even did an engine overhaul in the bush, replacing the standard pistons with high compression ones using only a few tools for the job. Then there is an aircraft like the Dragon Rapide owned by Mark Sahd, an aeroplane that is an icon of pioneering flights across Africa. Flying in formation with a Rapide has been a long-time bucket list dream of mine, and at the Petit Vintage Fly In, I was afforded the opportunity to do just that. After taking off in our yellow and blue Tiger Moth, balancing rudder snd aileron in the strong crosswind, I looked behind me to see the silver twin engined biplane clawing its way skywards behind me. A gentle turn to the right brought me closer, but the speed differential was too great, and I was only able to formate on the Rapide for a few seconds. And even though the moments were numbered, it was one of my most memorable flights.
Earlier, I had sat in the cockpit of the immaculately restored Rapide. It felt just like how a real aeroplane should, with plush green leather embroidered with the DH of de Havilland. Wood panelling in a shiny varnish lined the interior and in front of me, an array of old instruments stood at attention, their needles like soldiers, ready. The stick moved silkily from side to side and the view out of the sliding window made one feel like a real captain of the skies. And even earlier on in the day, I was holding the lead position in a formation of eight other aircraft, all vintage types. As I looked down over the drought-parched landscape, I could place the shadows of my compatriots, their biplane and monoplanes bumping around the sky with me. We had Tiger Moths, Chipmunks, Cubs and a Flybaby knitted together in their positions, and looking out onto each wingtip, I felt that this is what real aviation is all about. Stepping back in time with friends and their toys, releasing ourselves from our technologically driven world into a place that just seems simpler and more authentic. I guess this is why I love to fly. I stand on the edge of a turret of rocks that looks out over the beach. Above me, the sky are bluish hues of grey, clouds overcasting the sea. Beneath me the waves ebb and flow with a therapeutic rhythm, its tumbling roar works like a sedative kneading my shoulders. Steam whips from a hot cup of coffee, and I look out onto the bay. In the distance, I see dark shapes begin to materialize in the breakers. They come closer, just behind the white water and I can make out that they are dolphins. They play in the surf, their dorsal fins cutting the water and their tails splashing as they dive down. I think that they are feeding, as I take a sip of my heart-warming coffee. Occasionally, one dolphin jumps clear of the water, its body bending like a banana as it makes an arc in mid-air before returning to the ocean. They are graceful in their frolicking and I sit mesmerized, the sounds and sights as assault on my senses. Some light breaks through the clouds and the smell of salt mingles with the rich aroma of my coffee, and I think that there are few better ways to begin a day
An escape. An escape to an underwater world where sounds are surreal and breath is precious. Colours are vivid in the fluttering shapes of fish. It is as if God was showing off when he painted this underwater retreat. There is beauty and grace in their movement as well, efficiency at work. My earns are numbed to the terrestrial and replaced with a candy-popping of continual activity. Shoals of silver, spots and stripes have synchronized movements, mind-reading a change in direction like a flock of closely-knit birds. The current is whimsical as it gently nudges me around the expanse of water, and my own breathing is a loud contrast to the subtle gilled respiration of my underwater friends. As I dive further beneath the surface, I find orange and white clown fish hiding amongst the coral and hands of blue angelfish darting between the rocks. Nurseries of fingerlings huddle close together in the inaccessible places and in the sand floor, hermit crabs make laborious progress. I feel free to float and fly in this oceanic paradise, the outside world forgotten.
I retreat to the bush because I love to;
Because I love the wild places where elephant are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly; Because of all the social climbing, cellphones, and assorted meaningless distractions I thus escape; Because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate, my retreat is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion; Because the wilderness does not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience; Because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time, and I for one don’t want to waste the trip; because mercifully there are no telephones in the bush; Because in meandering African landscapes I can find solitude without loneliness; Because red wine out of an old tin cup always tastes better out there; Because campfires are better television sets; And, finally, not because I regard the bush as being so terribly important but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant – and not nearly so much fun. (Adapted from Robert Traver) There is something very therapeutic about driving on a long trip, particularly if the roads are relatively open and the scenery is spectacular. Such was our drive down to the south coast yesterday. Bella and Brindy were asleep and so I kept company with my thoughts and my favorite songs. As 'Yesterday Again' hummed through the air waves, I tapped the steering wheel and in tune with its rhythm, whistling to myself and enraptured by the vista on all sides as Van Reenen dropped into the Drakensberg. On the hazy horizon, I could just make out the snow on the higher peaks, sprinkled like dust in the distance. I wondered who decided on the curves and undulations of the road through the veldt. Were they part of an old mountain pass and their detours dictated by fallen trees and rocks long since withered by time? Who were men that toiled at hard labour cutting this route through the earth, living on the side of their daily efforts, shivering away at cold winter nights and sweating their hardened muscles by day. Did they encounter curious leopards and arid buck as they worked, and was the night sky a glorious unpolluted version of what we see? Did they pause for a moment each day and breath the inspiration of the scenery around them, or did they detest it for its hard, uncompromising, back-breaking character that must have made the work so difficult? After all, the Drakensberg is called 'The Barrier of Spiers'. I wondered about the thousands of vehicles, just like mine, who had made that pass, and each of their hopes and dreams of idyllic holidays resting on that drop towards KwaZulu Natal. Roads are incredible things. They allow their users a chance to escape, to run from and to, and they allow introspective perspective. And of course, they give us a place to just be and to just think...a space which is becoming increasingly difficult to appreciate in our fast-paced modern world.
The copper sand undulates in endless dunes.
Patterns blown through eternity By fingers of God's. These desolately gentle mountains Migrate To an Eden of rock and plant As my quiet ascent Moves with the wind. Giraffe shapes in morning light Radiate shadows drawn by a child With elogent elongated legs. A paternity of Oryx March for water like the mirage they defy. And all there is is silence The distance between the earth and me grows But somehow I feel a fusion betwixt My heart and the landscape below. My new found perspective Offers my soul breath And it is almost as if I am caught In the current of a river Above a dry Namib Desert. |
ContentSome thoughts about things, sometimes philosophical, sometimes just musings. The world through my eyes... Archives
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