Pissing Contest

Pissing Contest

Life teaches us certain facts which no philosopher or mentor can teach you, sometimes we have to walk the road les travelled and reveal our true selves in the mirror of time. As time go buy we have time to work, play and think.

As a tobacco famer we have certain obligations that sometimes stretch deep into the night. Our ovens are coal fired so we have to check the kilns and make sure the fire is properly stoked. Sometimes it happens that the fire went out and we have to re-kindle it. This process can take anything from 5min to an hour. So one night I sat down and waited for the kiln to re-kindle and I started thinking.

I went to a local farming community school where there were no more than a hundred people in total. As a first grader we were kept to one side and we had this petite little bathroom for little boys and little girls. The bigger boys and girls had their own next to ours and we were never allowed inside. So one day our curiosity got the better of us and all the little boys went inside to take a pee, probably the thought of safety in numbers. As we went around the corner to the urinals we were aw struck by this huge big shiny metal urinal. It was so beautiful, we giggled and made our devious plans. So the first three lined up took two steps back and let a rip. Al of them failed, so the next three lined up took two steps back and let a rip. One won the contest. Like a pack of wolves we descended on the taps to fill our stomachs with water and to start over. Ten minutes later the second salvo was fired, with some moderate success. One would win, the others would lose and so it went on. By the fourth or sixth salvo the headmaster appeared right behind us as the last line was firing their salvo. By that time we were trying for four steps back. Well I need not tell you what happened next. All that I can remember is that we could not sit the next day without some difficulty.

So life goes on, the contest that started as a game at the urinals of our school, went on to become sport, academics and finally who has won the trophy of most beautiful wife and most money. One morning you wake up and find an invitation to your school reunion. First you hesitate, you ponder think, and then in a mad rush of delusion you call to say that you will attend. The evening is packed, the head boy and head girl of your senior year takes centre stage and welcomes each and everyone. You are surrounded by Smalltalk, who has achieved what in life.

Sometimes we are so bound by what we have to achieve in life that we forget the simple things, friendship, love and respect. Sometimes we are so burdened with what society wants us to believe that we don’t stop and smell the roses next to us in the garden of time. A while ago I was booked to go and work on the government ambulance service; it is about an hour’s drive from where we live, our plan was to leave early and to have something to eat before the night began. On our way to the big city we decided to swing buy our friends and just say hallo (which constitutes good manners for us farmers) before our shift starts. As we pulled up to the gate we could see their children playing outside, so we phoned them to open the gate. The response was that they are not at home. Later on I confronted them for lying to us and asked them why they didn’t want us to come in. The only reply came in the order of that we should let them know hours before we come. Thanks for that great friendship, was the first thought through my head. Reflecting back on the situation I realised that we are living worlds apart, those of us who decided to break chains with society and not to compete in the pissing contest are those who are not wanted as friends. The problem with these situations is that some of us have acquired skills outside the boundaries of normal dictated life. So I found that sometimes these people keep in contact with you just to use your skills and play along as friends.

Sitting back thinking and pondering over the situation I realised that some of us have to work so hard and keep on lying to ourselves so that nobody can see who we really are. Some of us use alcohol and drinking with friends to hide where we come from. Others just need to keep up with the Joneses. Those same Joneses, who will chew you up and spit you out. I remember a situation I caused as a student because of my own arrogance, back then I was sort of involved with a political party, but I had a dream, to summit mount Kilimanjaro and I tried to get funds raised, finally the university agreed they would use it as a publicity stunt and I could join them, just weeks before the planned summit I was kicked of the team. It was my idea I thought, and in anger and rage I ran to the relevant newspapers, or anyone who would listen. The pissing contest was on. I lost in the end; the Dean called me in just to inform me that I was on thin ice.

So we think we are better because we have something that others don’t have money, skills, ideas the beautiful car, wife and the house with the dog and picket fence. We piss at each other, just to piss others of so that we can be king of the urinals. Rudyard Kipling wrote a very true peace and I would like to use a phrase “If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,.” If all of us would apply what Kipling wrote, then there would be no need for a pissing contest. 

Short Stories: People on the Road

Sorry for those who are English I wrote this story in my mother langue!

Mense langs die Pad

Lughawens,flugtaven, airports, noem dit in enige taal en selfs die mees armste van die armes verstaan waarvan jy praat.  Dis mos die plek waar jy op die vliegtuig klim wat jou iewers heen vat.

My eerste kennismaking met lughawens was in my eerste jaar as student. Vir die een of ander rede het ek gedink ‘n uitreik na Tanzania sal die in ding wees om te doen. So bevind ons groepie studente onself of die destydse Johannesburg internasionale lughawe. Ek staan sommer so oopbek en vergaap my aan alles om my. Die boertjie van Brits het nie veel verstaan van die dinge nie en met ‘n ligte bewe in my broek betree ons die vliegtuig. Die eerste ding wat ek doen is om ‘n duidelike inspeksie van die toilet te gaan maak. Wou net seker maak die ding werk regtig met vakuum. Die vlug was maar vir my soos bus ry net minder spasie en geen stop plekke langs die pad vir ‘n ou twakie nie. So neem die vlieg ding ons na Dar Es Salaam. Hier ontmoet ons vir Pastoor Kuta en ons word voorgestel aan ons ryding, ‘n afgeleefde 19 voertsek Toyota of wag was dit nou Nissan, Isuzu, ek kan nie meer so lekker onthou nie, maar die ding was oud. Al wat ek wel onthou was dat dit warm en bedompig was. Dit was iets uit ‘n ander planeet. Ek wat myself nie eers verwerdig het om agter op ‘n  bakkie te sit in ons eie land nie sit en kuier so lekker met die nuwe mense dat ek skoon vergeet om ‘n twakkie te maak.  En so ontmoet ek vir Dewfry my tolk en vertroueling vir die volgende twee weke.

Die lewe loop draaie met elkeen van ons, soms die kant toe en daai kant toe maar iewers kry jy dit reg om nuwe dinge te doen. Ek het nie ‘n baie groot liefde vir lughawens nie. My eerlike opinie is dat die goed so ontwerp is dat travelers wat dik moeg en vet ge-jetlag is eers moet sukkel en verdwaal voor hulle iewers kom.  En daai iewers kom druk gewoonlik my moer meter in die rooi.

Soms sit mens mos ure en wag vir ‘n konneksie vlug net om weer te verdwaal by die volgende plek. So bevind ons onself in Singapore se lughawe. Dis chaos. Die nag het ek nie geslaap nie, my oggies hang leep, en alles wat kan hang, hang suid. Dis ‘n moerse terminaal. Die tydverskil is 6 ure en ons het net 2 ure voor ons volgende vlug. My tyd wys dis twaalfuur die nag by die huis, maar die son is al op hier waar ek sit en rook. Die een vliegtuig styg op en die ander land. My gat is dik lam. Lanel het darem lekker geslaap so die jetlag vang haar nie so erg nie. So sit ek saam met my Mede rook vriende en ons kuier so in en om en sommer oor alles. Party verlang huis toe, ander hardloop weg van die huis af. Elkeen van ons het ‘n storie. So ontmoet ek die Australiër wat oppad is Phuket toe om te gaan Golf speel sonder sy vrou. Die Amerikaner wat saam ons van Suid Afrika af kom oppad L.A. toe, huis toe verduidelik hy ons. En ek kyk binne toe en vertel hulle van my weghol Phuket toe. Net om twee weke later die selfde plek selfde tyd weer daar te sit met die selfde storie. Die keer gaan ek huis toe. En hulle hol weg.

Duitsland. 05:30 am ons pilot het klaar sy clearance gekry om te land op Frankfurt. Ek kyk op my tyd aanwyser en besef dat ons ‘n skrale 1 uur en 15 min het om van Terminaal A Na Terminaal C te gaan. Die aanvanklike tyd was 3 ure, genoeg om eers so bietjie rond te dwaal en dan ook so ‘n koffietjie te geniet, maar die een of ander mampara het gedink Lufthansa sal hom 600 euro uitbetaal as hy laat is en dan kan hy nog verniet vlieg ook, sy grootste berekeningsfout was dat as jy eers ingeboek het daar nie weg kom kans is nie.  Ons land amper gelyktydig saam met ‘n ander vlug van China af en die totale chaos by die Doane is nie net iets om oor huis toe te skryf nie dis amper iets tussen tuis voel en so klein benoudheid. Ons word na ‘n ander Doane punt verwys wat ons nog verder wegneem van ons opklim punt. Die Doane beampte stempel Lanel se paspoort sonder om twee keer te kyk. Maar dis hier waar die sports begin met my. Eers bekyk en bevoel hy my paspoort dan na my visa, hy beloer my weer. Donner man ek is nie ‘n China man of Turk nie, my voorvaders se bloed is die selfde as joune, miskien bietjie vermeng iewers in die kaap. Ek maak so opmerking of twee in Afrikaans sodat die ou kan verstaan ek is nie ‘n Turk nie. My donker gebrande vel, swart hare en donker oë dra ook nie veel by tot die situasie nie, as ek maar net gebore was met blonde hare en blou oë, ai sou die Hitler hier voor my darem maar met gemak my laat ingaan het in sy land. Ek loer af na my tyd tikker en sien dat die tyd gaan min raak, ons sal moed hol. Uiteindelik besluit die Hitler dat ons sy liewe land mag binnegaan, nou ja die wat al op Frankfurt geland het sal weet dat daar ‘n treintjie is tussen die twee terminale. Ons mis die trein heeltemal, dis op met die hysbak, af met die roltrap, en ek met my Oros lyfie waggel nie ek rol amper almal uit die pad uit. Vyftien minute voor ons moet opklim bereik ons die hek waar ons ons vlug vang Hanover toe. Ek sak amper inmekaar van blydskap of skok, die rook area is naby, ek glip daar in en die eerste ou wat naby genoeg is wat engels verstaan trek ek nader en beklaag my situasie. Ons gesels te lekker. So ontmoet ek die soldaat van Florida wat oppad is Afghanistan toe om te gaan veg vir volk en vaderland.