Confluence

Cruickshanks Piers

Description

Each River is unique, winding a course through a valley of its own making. But at a confluence rivers meet, each taking on the strength of the other as they join forces and head towards the sea.

Sujets

• Bateaux
• Bateau
• Water Sports
• Sports
• List of water sports
• Canoeing
• Recreation
• Sport
• Histoire du sport

Informations

• Publié par: Pan Macmillan South Africa
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781770104747
• Langue: English

Extrait

Confluence

There are a few exceptional days in an athlete’s life when their body is on song on a different level from other great days or great performances that they produce. On even fewer occasions, this happens for a sporting partnership or team. Day 1, Dusi 2014, with Siseko will be etched in my memory forever.
Piers Cruickshanks
It’s hard at first to paddle with a guy you don’t know. If you don’t know his culture and you don’t know his story or anything about him. It’s hard if a guy’s from a different race from yours. But that day was great. We showed the guys something out there.
Siseko Ntondini

Confluence
My Journey Beyond the River with Siseko Ntondini
Piers Cruickshanks
MACMILLAN


Thank you to ADreach for its support of this project.

First published in 2017 by Pan Macmillan South Africa Private Bag X19 Northlands Johannesburg 2116
www.panmacmillan.co.za
ISBN: 9781770104730 eISBN: 9781770104747
© 2017 Piers Cruickshanks
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
In the photograph section, unless otherwise indicated, all photographs are from the author’s personal collection.
Editing by Craig Higginson Proofreading by Sean Fraser Design and typesetting by Fire and Lion Cover by K4 Cover photography by Jetline Action Photo

Contents Prologue: Dusi 2013 Part 1 Born to Run Searching for Meaning Goat Races and Dodgy Knees The First Paddle The First Dusi A Pristine Valley Submerged into the Ethos Green and Gold Part 2 A Spark is Ignited The Discovery of Power Park Slaying Giants Good Times Classroom Visit At Home in the Valley of a Thousand Hills Pressure Cooker Part 3 Dangwani to Johannesburg Township Life Being Good at Something Paddling in the Storm Mausi and the Big Bucks Township Fun Nkosi Mzolo Dark Times Against the Grain Fire Fighting and Travelling ‘Kade Ucabangani?’ ‘What Were You Thinking?’ Road Trip into the Valley Disappointment and Opportunity Part 4 A New Partnership Musical Chairs Dog on a Leash Injury and Frustration Return to Dangwani and the Mountain Melville Koppies Training for Dusi 2014 African Time Dusi 2014 Movie Finish Part 5 Dare to Dream Inspired by Real Events Returning to the Koppie Paddling at Orlando Shoot in the Valley Epilogue: Any Given Thursday Acknowledgements Photographs

Prologue Dusi 2013
Tiny splashes flick up from behind the line of water in front of me. I pull on the blades, approaching the top of the weir confidently. A moment later, there’s rushing water all around me and I’m scraping down the concrete slope. I brace my paddle on the right, straighten, then punch through the wave at the bottom. As I hit the aerated water, I take a tentative paddle-stroke on the right. There’s nothing there. The blade’s broken. In a moment, I’m under the white water, then grabbing for the boat, but it washes away from me. My legs are caught in the washing machine beneath me, kicking and floundering. The boat turns sideways, pushed by the current, and then folds in half, wrapped around a half-submerged rock. The current pulls me past it. I reach out but it’s too far.
I swim for the bank and clutch into some reeds to pull myself out. Then I’m running up the bank, tripping on the uneven ground, over rocks and through the long grass. When I’m well past the boat – still trapped by the relentless current – I dive, recklessly now, in my fury and impatience, into the water. My hand grabs the tail and it swivels for a moment but then holds tight, not budging, even with my weight pulling on it. Reach by reach, I pull myself against the relentless current to the upstream side of the boat. Digging my hands between the rock and the smashed Kevlar, I lift the boat. The vacuum created under the boat sucks and heaves and I’m pushed with the boat over the rock and into the current once again.
An hour later, I’m in the middle of the river. The water laps at my chest and I know I’m not going to make it. I’ve stopped twice to tape the boat up but the damage is too much. I won’t be paddling to Durban. After pulling the boat to the bank, I start to put one foot in front of the other. One step at a time is as far as I can think. The nose catches on a branch in front of me, so I reverse, only to find it catches again behind me. I drop the boat and push it through a small gap in the thorns and brambles, clambering after it myself.
I look left and right. It’s a motocross track. I turn left. I know Durban is to the left, but the entrance to the track could be either way. After twenty minutes of lugging and walking, the track does a hairpin turn and there’s a tall fence in front of me. It’s too far to go back, so I push the boat over the fence, nose first, and then the rest. It crashes to the ground on the far side of the fence. A dog barks. I climb the fence gingerly – through exhaustion, not care. I’ve walked perhaps 10 metres when the dog barks again, followed by another and then another. But they’re mechanical barks, with little intent. So I push on through the bush, weary and wary of snakes. Soon the bush opens up and I’m in the middle of a junkyard, it seems. Old trucks are parked in dirt, perhaps for the last time. Then the dogs bark again. Behind me. I turn and see them rushing towards me. I hope that if I ignore them and feign a lack of interest and fear, they’ll move away. Besides, I’m too tired to care much. They follow me, a short distance behind, barking incessantly. Through the bush, I reach another fence. I push the boat over it and start to climb.
The boat sinks again – although there was no other way – I had to paddle past the reeds on the left and the steep bank on the right. Once more, I pull it to the side, swimming and dragging the boat after me, but the mud is soft and deep. I push the boat and pull myself on my stomach after it. The reeds are tall, all around me. Eventually the mud feels hard enough and I’m on my knees, then my feet, dragging the boat. Then I’m walking across the neatly clipped fairways of the golf course and I know it’ll be over in half an hour. I walk and walk.
Eventually, just before I reach the finish, I find the race winner, Lance Kime, standing there and waiting. He shakes my hand and I congratulate him. A worthy champion. At the finish, I float and swim across the finish line. Timekeeper John Oliver and organiser Brett Austen-Smith thank me for finishing the race. The prize-giving has been over for ages. The spectators are long gone. It will soon be getting dark. A few local fishermen look on in interest – or maybe it’s just scorn.
‘Well done, Piers.’
Siseko Ntondini emerges from the dusk, stretching out his hand.
‘How did you do?’ I ask him.
‘Eleventh.’
‘Bad luck. But it’s good experience.’
‘Sure.’
He looks at me as if waiting for something more.
‘Just keep training. There are many races still ahead of you.’
But I’m not really in the mood for a chat. I want to be left alone. I want to go home.
‘So, Piers …’
‘Ja?’
‘I was thinking … maybe, next year, do you want to paddle the Dusi with me?’
‘There are much better guys.’ I give a weak, half-hearted smile.
‘No, but I want to paddle with you. You and me, we can be good,’ he insists.
‘I’d love to, but give it some thought. You’re paddling so well. See if you can find someone better.’
Right now, I’ve had enough. My body aches and I wonder whether I’ll ever race the Dusi again. I’m nearly forty. And I feel it.

Part 1

Born to Run
I sit watching Steve Andrews – middle-aged, some say ‘over the hill’, dark-haired and serious – as he leaves his old khaki Land Rover parked where the dirt road ends. He looks completely out of sorts here and he’s obviously aware of the attention he attracts. From here, the township looks dusty and miserable in the heat of the day. He begins to follow the path and then stops to speak to a young man sitting on a rusted metal drum to the side of the path. He asks for directions. The man points towards a neat row of shacks ahead. Steve walks slowly towards them. As he gets to the top of the hill, Duma, the man he’s come to see, emerges – and looks surprised to see him.
It’s a poignant scene in the film. The actors are convincing – unbelievable, in fact. The cinematography is world-class, epic at times. Then there’s the plot. The story takes us on a journey of discovery, of friendship, of tremendous growth and liberation. It’s a story that can crack your heart and then put it back together again – only bigger than before. I love the story, but it’s not our story. I never visited my friend in the township like that, although I would have liked to have done so. For me, our story starts a long time before.
As a kid, I was a born with a love for endurance sports. I loved all sport, but I particularly loved sports that required continuous physical exertion. Cricket was a non-starter. Hopeless at batting and a wayward bowler, I was sometimes put in a team because I was an excellent fielder – happy to run and dive to stop certain boundaries. Except under the high ball – then I was useless. Tennis and squash I could tolerate, but soccer, hockey, rugby and athletics I loved – and cross-country was heaven. At Pridwin Preparatory School, where I spent eight happy years, cross-country was not only compulsory, it was considered noble. On one weekday afternoon a week during the winter term, we were expected to run a 3-kilometre loop between some pine trees and across the grass of a local park – James and Ethel Gray Park – for house points. And we were expected to give everything. The headmaster demanded it. I felt such a sense of patriotism, loyalty and