Per Aspera Ad Astra...

We live, then we die. Our heart beats millions of times, then suddenly stops. We are either alive, or dead. There is nothing in between. One life, live it!

Sitting outside the church this glorious summer day, I wait for my daughter to come out of Sunday school.  These young children slowly file out of the church hall, all tender and naïve, with their lives ahead of them. I wonder which path each will take. A tribute to Gary Moore plays on the radio. I listen to his voice in an interview, followed by Parisienne Walkway. Most people do not know the meaning behind the words of this song. Philip Parris Lynott was born in Birmingham in 1949, the illegitimate son of an Irish Catholic teenager. He grew up in Manchester and Dublin, and seems to have constructed an elaborate mythology about the father he never knew, and after whom he was named, Cecil Parris. In January 1976, an up and coming pre-Moore Thin Lizzy was featured in the weekly Titbits magazine. The story came to the attention of Cecil Parris, and led to the two meeting for the first time, but if Parris was pleased to find he had a rock star son, to Lynott his newfound father was a bitter disappointment. "Parisienne Walkways" was an attempt to reconstruct the lost romance of the enigmatic figure he never knew.

Thoughts of my own father flashed though my mind. Being quite an eccentric man, he had always encouraged me to do the most adventurous and often outrageous things, for which I am eternally grateful. Way back then, he knew that one day you would only regret the things that you never did. So, with that philosophy, we tried everything and absolutely anything that seemed of interest and out of the ordinary.

It feels like yesterday that I was a young choir boy, spending many fun filled days running around the cathedral grounds after morning mass. Days and long hours would be spent practicing at perfecting our young voices, other days spent sitting at the mammoth pipe organ that was such a thrill and privilege to play. This monster had four manuals, a two and a half octave radial concave pedal board, dozens of stops and presets, and breathed from an enormous blower below the church. The routine of starting up this giant before mass was always exciting. To any young boy, all of this resembled a flight deck from some ancient Da Vinci contraption, or something out of a Jules Verne storybook. At the slightest touch of our fingers we could bring the entire cathedral to shake from floor to rooftop and bell tower. Rehearsals of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue, Baroque era pieces such as Jeremiah Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary would while away the time, always played with gusto and the enthusiasm of a young heart. Often these recitals in the empty cathedral would get totally out of control, with the priest running in from the rectory with arms waving in the air to quiet it down.

There were the holidays at a small coastal fishing village of Port Alfred, where we lived in an old mill house right on the rivers’ edge. The house had been there for centuries. Originally sailing ships on route from the east would tie up alongside the millhouse and offload their supplies for the settlers along the Eastern Cape of Southern Africa. Beneath the house was a cellar, with a tunnel under the road leading through the hill to an old castle above. The tunnel had caved in years before, but as young children we easily imagined the ghosts of sailors in the dungeon below. Year after year I would go paddling down the river in my canoe. Soon it was proudly replaced by a small wooden dingy, powered by a two horsepower Seagull petrol engine. This little two stroke engine would scream away on the transom, making any kind of conversation with a friend impossible, and waking up the old retired locals as they took their afternoon nap. It would move the boat at a snail’s pace of perhaps two miles an hour. Hearing us from far down the river, my mom would have an hour’s warning to prepare supper before we even arrived at the jetty. At the end of each day, salty and suntanned brown, we would unbolt the engine, and haul it up the steep wooden jetty to the garage beneath the house where it would be rinsed down and oiled. The boat was often laden with crabs crawling around at our feet, with the few fish that we had caught which would be grilled on the outside fire.

It was on one of these summer days that a huge fish appeared swimming along the river surface past the house. But, fish usually do not swim on top of the water! In an instant I was in the canoe, paddling frantically in pursuit of this strange fish. Finally, exhausted and about to give up, I reached it. The poor fish also looked rather tired, and for the next ten minutes or so I grappled in an attempt to get this fish the size of a child on board. Eventually it was safely at my feet, and with the canoe just about ready to sink, with tired aching arms I paddled back home. The fish survived, and after resting a couple of days in an enclosure next to the jetty, it was released, this time happily disappearing below the surface. We assumed that it must have been washed in through the raging river mouth half a mile away from the Old Mill house. The nights would be spent watching the river mouth from upstairs, where fishing boats would battle their way in through its treacherous waters, waves and strong currents crashing against the two rocky piers that stretched out into the Indian Ocean. Violent storms and lightning would illuminate the mouth at night. Inside the house hung old pictures of sailing ships that had made it through and tied up alongside the Mill House, and then there were the hundreds of wrecks strewn along the coast. This house had seen so many characters and events in all the time it had stood here, it seemed to have the souls of a hundred sailors and pirates within its walls, or so it felt to a young boy.

From that day onward, I had come to realize the joy of saving any living creature in order for it to live longer. That river went on to provide us with an endless variety of animals to rescue, from seals, penguins, dolphins and just about anything the sea would wash up each day. To this day, I carry with me a burning desire for conservation of any living creature

During my early years, I had already developed symptoms of a mysterious illness with frequent spells of pain and blindness. At fourteen years of age I was on all types of treatment. Despite this, I was determined to one day pass the physical test to join the Airforce.

At that time, I was already familiar with the South African Airforce motto….which I would always hold on to.

                  “Per Aspera Ad Astra”

        “Through Adversity to the Stars”

Sean

A lynx and Hade-da's...

Being a lynx, and considering her wild nature, it was not unexpected that soon she would take command of the house and its inhabitants. Everyday would become an adventure, from Rosie’s game of chasing the hysterical maids into the toilet at the end of the garden, where we would find one of them perched on top of the toilet or clinging for dear life from the rafters. The news of this much feared animal quickly made its way into the township where the African staff lived. Gardeners would disappear and never return, and building workers would often refuse to enter the property. After all, the native population had an inherent fear of these predators, told to them in villages by their forefathers. After each mock attack, she would turn and stroll away, then roll around on her back with joy and glee as though nothing had happened.

The rustle of shopping bags would bring her charging into the kitchen. All chicken and meat would be packed away with haste, often having to throw a piece across the garden in order to ‘move’ her. Local butchers had come to know about Rosie, and always had a treat of venison or springhare ready to send home for her. On every shopping visit they would be eager to hear about the latest of her antics.

On many occasions, family dinner or lunch would be reduced to a serving of only vegetables, with Rosie having snatched the chicken or Sunday roast from the kitchen counter. I soon found her in the long grass under her favourite tree, endulging in a fine leg of lamb. Family gatherings would be centered around the movement of this unpredictable and at times illusive cat. Friends would be seated around the dinner table chatting for hours, while we thought Rosie was safely locked outside. Without warning, a sudden hiss would explode from under the table, chairs and furniture scattered as family would fall over themselves trying to escape. During all the conversation she had quietly slipped in, not to miss out on any gathering or company. In her defence, I would agree that she had become annoyed at someone's continuous boring ramble; she had sensed my irritation and decided that enough of this, and voiced her own opinion with a tremendous hiss from below! She would be loved by a few, and feared by all others.

At just a few years old, Rosie had reached adolescence, and started practicing her instinctive hunting skills. Every night she would settle down on the bed next to me. Sprawled out at full length, she would take up most of the bed. A few hours after midnight I would be jolted awake as the pillow would be ripped from beneath my head, the hot breath in my face, and growling of what appeared to be a possessed creature at my side. The second pillow was now torn away and cast aside, then the duvet would be pulled off in a vicious tug of war. Next went the mattress, an entire queen size bed with me still clinging on top would be dragged across the floor. Her jaws were locked onto the corner, while her powerful legs pulled the mattress from its base. I would be left without any protection, leaping onto the bedside pedestal. For years I could never understand this relationship between Rosie and the pillows, until one day the obvious dawned upon me - I had always preferred to sleep under a duvet and pillows filled with feather down. Rosie had waited for me to fall asleep, and at night she would hunt and kill the bed! Nothing would survive her claws and teeth, with her captured pillows being torn and plucked.

This was the nocturnal side of having more than a handful of a cat in the home.

A pair of large birds called Hade-Da’s had taken up residence in our garden. These are large, heavily bodied brown birds with long pointed curved bills, who are notorious for their screeching sound of “Haa- Haa-Haa de da”. Within a short time of Rosie watching these two from a distance, one day she felt it necessary to put her stalking skills into action. The pair of large birds were on the lawn when she decided to launch herself from a low crouch into a sprint. While I held my breath from afar, I realized that her dash had something peculiar about it. In an instant she had reached the two birds, but pulled up to an abrupt stop just inches away. As she stood there, the male bird took one step forward and decisively pecked her directly on top of her head, right between her proud tufted ears ! In an instant she had dashed for cover. Looking confused and dazed, the ever feared lynx had now been outwitted by a bird!

The two Hade-Da birds lived happily within the garden, and at each flight they would let out a loud screech overhead, as if in gesture to Rosie watching from below. Within a few months they had their first chick, who would perch on the wall for hours gazing down at this lynx. Soon he also learnt how to let out this Ha-Ha cry, just to add to Rosie's daily source of entertainment.

Every moment of the day is filled with an adventurous event, and through the eyes of nature life itself is a blessing

Sean

A rose has thorns, a cat has claws...

African summers over the inland Karoo region create dry, arid flat plains with sparse vegetation. This is sheep and goat farming territory, along with a variety of wild buck, springhare, and hundreds of other small wildlife, all perfect food for the survival of the sub-Saharan lynx, or Rooikat as it is commonly called.

Under the camouflage of this dull, red-brown sandy bush and grass, the ruddy coloured lynx is almost impossible to spot, moving around with stealth and speed. In the open grassland, dotted with large brown rocks, the unsuspecting herd of sheep graze, with newborn lambs at their sides. Suddenly the bloodcurdling scream of a lamb sends chaos throughout the herd. Too late for some, the Rooikat charges through, attacking randomly until a few lambs, too slow and paralyzed with fear, are viciously attacked. This is the lynx’s killing field, excited at the smell of blood, he swiftly darts among the sheep. Apart from groundspeed, the lynx can launch itself up to three meters into the air, easily catching wild geese and pheasant as they take to flight.  He has been here for centuries, and along with his larger feline relative the leopard, they have lived off this land. Lion, Cheetah, Caracal, Serval and African wildcat have been just some of the predator cats sharing this vast open land.

As I walk along, the tiny red brown bundle in my hands hisses and spits. Her coat as soft as velvet, with her oversize black ears appearing like huge leaves. She is more beautiful than a rose. Just a few days old and her claws are already razor sharp. She will grow into twenty kilograms of muscle, jaws equipped with fangs to kill, and claws to tear through the flesh of any prey, the most aggressive of all the cats and feared by many. When confronted, this cat does not back down nor retreat, quite the opposite, launching itself into a full frontal attack, and always instinctively going for the soft part of the throat.

This tiny bundle would be called Rosebud, and affectionately to be known for years as Rosie.

For many weeks there would be virtually no sleep, with Rosie chirping like a bird every few hours as she would call for her bottle. The call of a lynx is a high pitch call sounding like that of a bird, cleverly disguised for nature. However, as a mature adult, an aggressive warning of an attack is a growl accompanied by loud spitting and hissing. A milk formula carefully prepared with a supplement of essential trace elements, all years of research involving many veterinary biologists. The basic formula consisting of raw milk, egg yolk, glucose and calcium, to which the supplement is added. Within two months a lynx is weaned onto a diet of solid foods of raw red meat. This was our beginning of our wonderful journey with Rosie the Rooikat.

 

                       " A rose has thorns, a cat has claws; certainly both are worth the risk."

Sean

Crossing the hemispheres and into the Balkans...

Flying across the length of Africa by night there are no signs of lights or civilized life below, until ten hours later the orange glow of Cairo appears. Soon we were across the mediteranean ocean. It was the day after Christmas.  At forty one thousand feet we flew just above cloud ceiling, a white woven pattern of cloud as far as the earths’ edge, it seemed.  Below us were the Balkan Mountains, Bosnia, Serbia and names such as Sarajevo and Kosova went through my mind. The nose dropped and we were in a steep descent into a white out cloud for what seemed like endless time. The aircraft pitched and banked as we headed for earth, continuously buffeted by turbulence. This felt like some kind of military bombing sortie, this pilot had to have been ex-military. The Russian woman seated next to me had now become very quiet. Having spent years in the Air force, I thought of how absurd and ironic my situation was. Having spent thousands of days in a unit whose purpose was to shoot down Soviet Mig fighter jets from our African skies, I knew all too well that one of our Hilda or Cactus missiles (acquired from Arab countries through obscure ways) were capable of bringing incoming Russian fighter jets down. Here I was, flying over the northern hemisphere in an aircraft filled with ex-communists !

My thoughts jolted back to the present as we broke through cloud at almost ground level. Below the wing tips lay the pine forests, mountains and valleys, with clusters of small villages tucked away in the snow clad hills of Bulgaria. The undercarriage met the icy runway, and with all reverse thrusters shuddering in protest we eventually came to a stop.

Inside the terminal I frantically looked around for the contact person who had promised to meet me Soon realizing this was not to be, I bid farewell to the Russian woman, and stepped out into a foreign winter.

With the ground temperature reaching minus thirty degrees, my arctic coat offered just enough protection. I had travelled from the African summer heat of thirty degrees plus. A difference of sixty degrees overnight.  Clothed in layers of thermals, gloves and boots, I made my way along ice covered road surface.  It would be seven days before my next contact person would meet me in a town hundreds of kilometers away. A young woman named Zdravka, in a town I had never heard of.  Outside the airport I was confronted be a yellow sea of taxis, all arguing where they would take me to. Within minutes I was bundled into a taxi by the most convincing driver, who spent what seemed to be too long driving me around Sofia. As the city lights faded behind, the car skidded to a halt, and I was unceremoniously dumped on the outskirts of town. The driver had yelled at me and snatched fifty euros from me. Lurking beside this dark road and railway track was another group of drivers. I gathered my thoughts while they laughed and jeered…the game was on. The main wiry looking villain opened a knife and slowly cleaned his nails, spitting on the ground. It was apparent that my fate lay in their hands…I had been set up. Thirty hours of travel had left me tired and annoyed, any fears I might have had were dispelled by this rough bunch of thugs’ behavior.

Further down the dark icy road, a group of striking girls dressed in fur coats and boots looked like a fashion parade on the run. Stupidly, I asked them if this was a dangerous area. After a long, hard stare one of them replied “Thiz iz Bulgaria”.  So, perhaps my appearance was obvious as a foreigner, but I quickly reminded myself that I had grown up in Africa, in a land where danger is all around by day and night.

My cellphone had no reception, and rapidly the city was disappearing into darkness. Within minutes one would freeze to death outside. I took my second chance with the oldest looking taxi driver. A rough, old man with a different look in his eyes. This man drove me out of the predicament and dropped me off at a small hotel. Another fifty euros in his grubby hands, but I was grateful to him.

As I collapsed on the hotel bed I thought of how far I had come, but still faced the journey ahead to reach my ultimate destination high up in the north central Balkans.

Within a few hours I was out on the road again. The attractive blond girl loading the bus looked completely out of place, and would have appeared more fitting on a Parisian ramp. She frantically shook her head from side to side, repeatedly shouting “Da!” as I enquired whether this bus went to Veliko Turnovo. The bus pulled away, leaving me up to my knees in the snow. I had just missed the bus, in my mentally exhausted state I had forgotten that someone shaking their head here meant yes!

Later that day on the next bus, it climbed through mountains and tunnels, passing dozens of villages along the way. The entire country was covered in a thick white blanket of snow. We arrived in Veliko Turnovo that night, a beautiful city with medieval streets and a walled castle.

Once off the bus, the little yellow taxis ground slowly through the snow. The guest house where I was booked to spend the next few days waiting for Zdravka was full. Not again! The owner yelled something about it being Christmas and drove me across town to the old soviet era blocks, grey unpainted concrete apartments with rusting metal. Within minutes she was demanding more money from me for this apartment, as well as costs for her guest house room, and then swiftly departed.

The entire city was snowed in, with no sign of shops or let alone food. As I sat alone in this old communist building, I contemplated how I would venture out in search of some sort of food. In the event of getting lost, there would be no one to assist. Communication was impossible, not that there were any people crazy enough to be out on the streets anyway. My body was screaming from exhaustion and hunger, and felt as though it was shutting down. The only sound at night was the howling of dogs outside in the frozen elements. With all the last strength and will power, I ventured outside, slowly walking up the icy road, climbing over snow piles and I eventually found a café and long needed food!

A few days later I met Zdravka, who gave me a warm welcome and introduced me to her Bulgarian culture. We then continued the journey north to the village were my newly purchased house awaited.

Who would have believed that I would spend the following year travelling repeatedly in and out of this distant country!

Regards

Sean

It blew the windows out...

As I ignited the gas torch in my left hand, it crackled. The hose exploded down its length, a blast followed as the oxy-acetylene gas mixture blew the cylinder through a concrete wall. Windows exploded out across the main street. We were tumbling down the stairwell. One blast after another, we watched from below as our workshop ripped itself apart. The entire top floor of the building was ablaze. Years of constant work were now on fire, fuelled by the gas pipe from under the main street in the heart of the city. In the surrounding streets chaos ensued…this was the 1980’s, and South Africa was experiencing regular terrorist bomb blasts. The country was on edge. Police and bomb squads were on the scene. The city centre was quickly cordoned off, with sniffer dogs searching for more possible bombs. Still the fire raged on, threatening the entire structure of the building. Firefighters were battling to extinguish a blaze that now had a constant fuel supply. Finally the main gas supply was located and turned off.  My jewellery workshop, which I had just invested borrowed money into, was now destroyed. This was my life and soul blown up in flames. My only form of income was in a pile of ash.

I sat on the pavement and wept. The workshop, with all its specialized tools and equipment that I treasured, was now a smoldering shell. On the ground floor an art shop with special brushes, papers and canvases was the victim of water and smoke damage, the owner hysterical for weeks to come.

Days later we entered the dark, wet sarcophagus. Cleaning up would continue for months. Long days were spent with goldsmiths carrying buckets of rubble downstairs. The insurance company refused to pay, eventually settling with a cheque for one tenth of my costs.

My only option was to start again. I had staff to pay, debt, and the challenge of minimal equipment. Day by day we slowly climbed back from where we had fallen. Not only did we recover, but went on to purchase our own building, which was to be the permanent premises for Aztec Gold Jewellers. We would go on to supply diamonds and the finest jewellery to clients from all over the world.  Years later I would look back upon that day as yet another one of life’s hurdles.

When faced by a brick wall, break it down and walk through, you never know what lies on the other side.

Regards,

Sean

A Lion at the camp...

Amidst the sweet smell of jet fuel hanging in the early morning air, the high pitch sound of helicopter turbines starting up, the South African border around the Okavango is a haven and natural habitat for the most beautiful wildlife in the world. Ironically this was now also occupied by thousands of troops and special forces in the long war against communism from the north. There are many stories to be told about Terry the lion and his long and happy relationship with the Recces.

One night, one of the Operators was tasked to give Terry some food, as he was occasionally fed while at Fort Doppies. This particular Operator did not appreciate being tasked to do this job in his free time, and was quite annoyed. Taking the meat for Terry, he went to look for him, and found him not far outside the front gate of Fort Doppies.

It appeared to the Operator that Terry was in an uncharacteristically bad mood, as he growled at the Operator, and made striking movements with his front paws. Terry also didn’t look in good shape. The Operator was also not in a good mood at having been tasked to feed Terry, and this unusual and annoying behaviour towards him by the Lion further annoyed him.

The Operator therefore unceremoniously threw the meat towards Terry instead of taking it right up to him, and stood there shouting at the Lion for a few minutes.  He then went back into Fort Doppies and walked into the pub – where he saw Terry sitting at the feet of the other Operators.

The Operator had found, fed and shouted at a wild lion !!!

In later times, Terry used to like walking into the Operators sleeping quarters during the night or early hours of the morning, and would jump on top of them in their beds and try to go to sleep there – while crushing them.  Terry’s sudden appearance would also terrify the few visitors who occasionally entered Fort Doppies.  As a result of this, some anti-Terry barriers were erected around the housing during period when visitors were going to visit, or when the Operators needed a good night’s sleep. Visitors coming to Fort Doppies who had not been there before were also informed about Terry when they arrived.

At one stage, a group of cabinet ministers arrived for a visit to Fort Doppies. This visit was not looked forward to by the Operators due to their apolitical mentality, and the fact that some of the statements that had previously been made by one of these cabinet ministers in South Africa did not conform with the Operators view of human relations in our country.

Therefore, when the group arrived, it was neglected to inform them of the existence of Terry, and it was also neglected to inform them that the toilets at Fort Doppies were situated well outside the anti-Terry barriers. To this day, no-one can figure out how we actually forgot to tell them, or how we forgot to task anyone to tell them.

Consequently, and possibly through a stroke of grace, the very person who had made the unwelcome statements decided to go to the toilet first, which he did.  Having completed what he went to do, he opened the door of his toilet cubicle to leave, and found himself face-to-face with a huge male lion, sitting on its haunches right outside his toilet cubicle, looking him right in the eyes.

Although some of the Operators in retrospect thought that they heard the screams as they started, this just happened to coincidentally coincide with the volume of the radio in the lounge being turned up substantially so that nothing more could be heard, and so it was not until several hours later that the person’s disappearance was noted, and a rescue party was launched – which strangely enough started searching on the opposite side of the base to the toilets, and arrived only much later at the last point of search – the toilets – where a very peaceful Terry had fallen asleep outside the only closed and bolted cubicle.

Fort Doppies was never visited by these people again.

'Terry is the only Lion so far to have been awarded
Honorary Operator Status
by the South African Special Forces'.

Excerpt from The Recces.                                                                                                                                             

I simply ran the pain away...

In my pajamas, I ran from the hospital. Across the road the park sprawled with its winding paths. Blinded with a headache and vomiting at intervals, I ran through the park oblivious to the pain, breathing fresh air as I reached my stride. The year was 1974. I was sixteen years old and had been a runner all my life. This year had been spent in hospital under observation and having tests for a suspected brain tumour. It would take twenty more years for medical technology to diagnose the multiple lesions on my brain. My white cells had already started ravaging my own body and demyelinating the nervous system.

I simply ran the pain away. My years as a boy holidaying at my grandmother’s farm hotel in the hot, arid Karoo had taught me the thrill of running across the vast open veld, racing wild animals along dry river beds. With clay between my toes, I was a boy filled with all the spirit of the African bush. Behind the hotel, separated by the Fish River, lay the wide open farmlands where thousands of sheep grazed. Here too lived the farmer’s greatest fear, the lynx and the jackal. Post colonial South Africa in the sixties was abundant with people of colourful character; Traders and cattle farmers, travelling salesmen and migrating entrepreneurs. The evenings were a spectacle of excitement as the giant generator resembling a locomotive hissed and burst into life. The smell of biltong drying on the verandah, butter being churned by one of the native cooks, the hotel bar was a noisy place of strange smelling men at the end of each day.
                                  

 So it was no surprise to see a cheetah lazing in the sun behind the hotel kitchen! My Grandmother had accumulated a menagerie of every living creature that could be tamed. Dozens of cats lived beneath the railway platform right in front of the hotel. It was not uncommon to be bottle feeding tiny Caracals, often orphaned by a farmer’s snare. These Rooikat were regarded as vermin. Leopard were present, Vervet monkeys raided the hotel kitchen at night, baboons barked from the river behind. And then the best part was Spot the Cheetah raiding the chicken run…after all, these chickens would only be served in due course to guests in the main dining hall.

 Only a few years later and a thousand kilometers north, with the African sun on my face, my legs carried me swiftly along while ahead lay one hundred kilometers of dirt track. For many this may have meant a challenge, but my body knew only one thing and that was to run and never stop. I glided along the dusty landscape. They call the camel the ship of the desert for its endurance. Wild buck would run for hours on end in this same environment. I understood all of this. This was 1977 and Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop” was blaring out in every army base across Southern Africa. Oh, did I mention that this was war and I had just crossed a firing line? My Air Defense Artillery unit was deployed all around, with regular incoming targets being fired upon. Constantly tucked away in my pocket was a tattered card with the words…”Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil”

Thirty years later and I am still running, walking and searching for mountains to climb. It is when you stop that momentum ceases, and since momentum equals energy, your soul is sure to die.

"When the root is deep, there is no reason to fear the wind."

Regards,

Sean