Raft races and daydreams

About ten kilometers from Nkandla, where my mother was born, lies a deposit of iron pyrites or fools gold. Every so often people are convinced that it is real gold and dig for treasure. No, I never did. Dig for gold that is. My father spoke of ammonite fossils formed from the metal and looking for all the world like huge golden artifacts. A bridge was built north of our home town and the engineers unearthed these fossils on a regular basis. (Mantelliceratinae Hyatt or Desmonceratinae Zittel or something equally unpronounceable.) Which got the scientists excited and my father over the moon with joy. I remember dinners where we were taught that iron pyrites is formed from volcanic activity and a quick visit to Richards Bay to climb the dormant volcano was part of the lesson. What were the dinners in your family like as a child? Maybe not like ours? Volcanoes have featured in my life at times. Our father took us to the Great Rift valley and spoke of diamonds lying in the veld and Kilimanjaro as the lynchpin of the rift valley. I visited Mauritius with its volcano towering above gorgeous tourist spots. And then my husband and I immigrated to New Zealand and lived in a caldera. I seem to be drawn to the volatile and violently transformed landscapes of the world. But in all my years of life, I always thought that iron pyrites was magnetic. Well, iron definitely is magnetic, but not strong enough to react when mixed with the salts etc of pyrites. Now this gets strange because the volcanic rocks contain magnetite, which is obviously attracted to magnets. But hydrothermal fluids pass through the rocks and transform the magnetite into iron pyrites. At one end of Lake Rotorua the scientists were baffled to find that their mapping system had an anomaly of no magnetic pulse. Nothing. And yes, it was the fault of iron pyrites. Okay enough mumbo jumbo from me. I am a sad individual that loves mumbo jumbo about weird stuff. But when a volcano did erupt here in New Zealand, guess who was eager to view it up close. Yes, me. We played putt putt golf as we peered across the lake at the fireworks that nature had supplied. 

"Confidence is silent, insecurities are loud." or as my grandmother always said "Empty vessels make the most noise." I always thought my babbling was a character flaw and I should learn to control my motor mouth or as my mother told me "You have verbal diarrhea, so shut up and listen". Recently I looked at the markers for ADHD in females and hello, I tick a few boxes. Unmotivated. Oh yeah, that's me. Daydream, unorganised, seldom finish a project ..... feel like I don't fit into any social setting. An outsider even amongst my own family. Whew. And then as we age we become hyper focussed. I went to the same high school as my parents did as youngsters and sometimes my teachers would say things like "Your mother made the same mistake twenty years ago." Or "Why can't you be more like your sister, she is motivated." So, yes, I did struggle at school, and sport and girl guides but my day dreams were amazing. I was world building in my head before I knew what that meant. Was Tolkien like me, or am I like him? Although, truthfully, he created not only a whole world but a new language to go along with it and I seriously would have given up at the first hurdle. My daughter and I went for brunch with two friends last month and as we spoke the young girl said "That sounds like me. Could I have ADHD?" Would life be different if I had known this when I was a teenager and starting life? No. I doubt it. My father signed me up to work at a bank a week after I finished my year 12 exams. Sadly it was not a good fit. They wanted people who were focussed, could finish work assignments, be reliable and so much more. If I had someone I could confide in, I would have told them how suicidal the job made me. What did I do? I babbled and smiled and babbled some more until people thought I knew what I was doing. Luckily I have a very active brain and learnt quickly so I didn't make too many mistakes. That was back in the days where cheques did not have printed names on them and the squiggle of a signature was all that guided you as to which account the money came out of. Pattern recognition came easily to me and I soon aced all those weird signatures. I knew to keep the bank pens away from the lady who was a kleptomaniac and not to judge people by their clothes. The farmer with holes in his shoes had more money in the bank than the man with the fancy suit and tie. The Zulu lady that limped into the banking hall with tattered clothes drove a brand new Mercedes Benz, but don't tell her husband about it because he would demand he be given the keys. He worked in Johannesburg on the mines and when he was due home, she hid the car and hobbled along the dusty roads with a walking stick. I dated an A-hole for a while, was a model at a car show and smiled even when I didn't really want to. What changed? I met my husband and he saved me from myself.

Very soon after my second son was born, the Tugela raft race was held and we decided to go and watch it. The biggest raft race in South Africa with the added incentive of crocodiles on the river bank and diseases in the water. From Mandini to the sea the intrepid sailors rode (and continue to ride) their handmade and rickety craft to see who would win. Or alternatively, have the most fun. Alcohol was always involved and the inner tubes from tractors, empty drums and random bits of wood and even a chassis of a jeep, were cobbled together. This might have been the tenth anniversary or eleventh, who cares? My brother-in-law, Nigel was eager to join and so the fun began. No one wore life jackets or sunscreen and the day was boiling hot with temperatures at 40 degrees C or well over 100 degrees F. Usually held in March or early April when foreigners might expect the Summer weather to be cooler, they would be wrong. 17 Kilometers from start to river mouth. The Indian ocean is not a kind place to end up and sharks and barracuda lurk in the murky waters waiting for unsuspecting swimmers. Ski boat owners stand at the ready to save the unwary. People drown there. But nothing stops the adrenaline junkies and their hoard of groupies yelling from the sidelines. And I hated every moment. There I was with two small children who were hungry and hot and tired and craving some peace and quiet to calm the children down and no, nope, not my thing. We were waiting for Nigel to arrive but my nerves were shattered and I told my husband that I would walk home, yes with two little children, if we didn't leave immediately. Of course we couldn't because that would have left Nigel with no way to get home, but oh, how I was tempted to just drive off. I hiked to where our car was parked a kilometer away and managed to get my sons settled for a while. Perhaps I should have been more organised? A blow up paddling pool where the boys could have cooled off? A large umbrella and a truck full of toys might have helped. But Chad was only 2 months old and I was sleep deprived and .... well, you get the drift. So, when I look at those photos of the raft race, I feel all that frustration rush back and have to repeat the mantra "Not my piglets, not my mud." Oh sorry, wrong mantra ... it's water under the bridge and I survived. We all survived, thank goodness. My grandparents crossed the Tugela river in their Model T Ford thirty years earlier when the bridge didn't exist and traversing the shallow drift was an adventure. Grandpa would turn the Model T around at the water's edge and reverse across so that when he reached the opposite bank he could climb the dusty road. Model T Fords had a gravity fed fuel system and didn't like steep hills. Halfway up a hill the engine would become fuel starved, so henceforth the reversing tactic. My Gran would talk about the crocodile's eyes shining in the dark as they braved the drift on their way home from Durban. It was a two day journey in those days and now it's less than 2 hours. Oh how times have changed. I cannot imagine my grandmother was thrilled with camping out in the bush overnight and am sure she would have insisted on staying at the Stanger hotel when necessary. I would have too. Camping is only fun if it's done in a five star hotel.

So, with my confidence quietly ticking over and my insecurities kept under control, I wish you all a fabulous trip down my own personal memory lane. If you find this boring, sorry, think of it as my babbling and if you prefer, you can scroll along and ignore me. I still build worlds of wonder in my head at times and the thoughts spill over onto the page. May your raft through life avoid the crocodiles and sharks, may your fools gold turn out to be the genuine article and may volcanoes behave themselves. And if they don't, grab some golf clubs and hit a few balls on my behalf.