I Sort Of Blew Up My Girlfriend Last Night.

And it was her birthday, so I feel kinda bad about it…

You find out all sorts of things when you get a girlfriend. What their favourite type of Cinnabon is, what noises their bum makes when they’re fast asleep, and that they share birthdays with some of their other friends.

For Sam’s birthday, she and her mate decided to have a joint dinnery-drinks vibe at Casa de Galinha, a lovely little Portuguese spot on Rivonia Road. The usual Porto-Mozambican fare – prawns, grilled chicken, catembas, sangria, armpit sweat – you know the type.

Yummy.

Now I know my darling Beloved is pretty pernickety when it comes to food, so I didn’t think much of it when she ordered a plain, yet lovely little fillé and potatoes au gratin for her evening meal. I’m just a greedy little punk, so I had a shitload of prawns. Shrimp. Whatever. They had lots of legs, garlic, lemon butter and tasted like fresh oceany goodness.

Dinner gets munched, drinks get drinked, guests get fershnickered, and a banging great time is had by all.

Then we went home.

Being the good boyfriend that I pretend I am, home-time was obviously followed by a nice spot of Birthday Kafoofling, the type where the girl gets to lie there like a clubbed seal and the boy puts in all the work for a change. At least that was the plan.

It started off okay, I think I had kissed, caressed, tickled and lubed all the right parts, when Sam’s breathing started to get a little erratic. Normally this is a good thing (At least I read so in Cosmo) but her shortness of breath was accompanied by some gurgling noises and one or two convulsions.

‘I’m good, but I’m not that good.’ I say to myself.

‘I.. can’t... fucking... breath...’ gurgles she.

So I nip the bedside table on, have a look at my new found love, and promptly shit my pants.

Sam has turned a really deep shade of puce, her lips have swollen up bigger than an Oomba-Woomba tribal stereotype, her eyes are bulging out of her head like great big bulgy things, and breathing was something that happened to other people.

A bit like Hitch, I suppose, but more swelling, hysteria and white girl.

After a night at Sunninghill Emergency, I now know a couple of new things about my girlfriend:
- She’s on Discovery Medical aid, happily accepted by hospitals nationwide.
- Her car might need a tune up, some of the late-night corners were a little tricksy.
- When she says she doesn’t want the prawns, it’s not her being fussy. It’s her not wanting to die.
- If I ever eat seafood around her again, she would greatly appreciate me showering, exfoliating and gargling with turpentine before I even think about touching her again.

Ah, the things we learn in relationships...

A Touching Story of Love and Marriage

An elderly man lay dying in his bed. In death's agony, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite chocolate chip cookies wafting up the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort inched himself down the stairs,
gripping the railing with both hands.

With labored breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven. There, spread out upon newspapers on the kitchen table, were literally hundreds of his favorite chocolate chip cookies.

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted wife, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?

Mustering one great final effort, he moved himself toward the table. His parched lips parted; the wondrous taste of the cookie was almost already in his mouth; seemingly bringing him back to life. The aged, withered hand shakily made its way to a cookie at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife.

"Stay out of those," she said, "they're for the funeral."

Kissing The Sky: Some Thoughts On Seeing The World.

I am a lucky, lucky bastard. Really, truly blessed.

A lot of people don't get the chance to see much of the world, and I have been fortunate enough in my life to have been to loads of amazing places, both internationally and within my own country.
It's a privilege, I recognise that, and as such I feel the need to give back as much as possible to anyone that also wants to experience the world around them. That's the reason for this post. It's also advice based on my own personal experience and opinion.
Remember - It's your life, your adventure.

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Just some thoughts about what I've learnt about travelling and backpacking -

Something I feel quite strongly about is exploring your own country. Yes, going away to some exotic foreign destination is fantastic, but never underestimate the wealth of knowledge you can gain simply by checking out your own back yard. Every country has something to be seen, and what's the point of going to a million different countries if you've never left your own province? You get to learn about where you come from, and at the end of the day helps you appreciate YOUR country, appreciate other countries, and actually be a better ambassador for the place you come from. Know your home.

First things first, you need to choose a place to go.
Durr?
Trust me, it's trickier than it looks. You've got to have a type of trip in mind. Want wild and woolly? Africa. Dark and exotic? Let's go to South America. Surf and ladyboys for ten cents? Asia man, Asia. Just blowing cash on booze and cheap cigarettes? That's a whole different journey than climbing the Cordillera Blanca.
Decide what kind of holiday you're after, pick a general continent type area, and go from there.

Once you've decided the general corner of the planet you want to check out, you can narrow your search down. Get a rough idea of how much ground you want to cover , or where a good start and end point is. Try not do a circle, it's far more interesting starting somewhere and ending on the other side of somewhere else.

Then book it. Do it. Seriously.
Don't keep waiting until you've bought a new rucksack or new hiking shoes or for that special offer from lastminute.com to come through.
Just look at a map, get a rough idea of where you want to go, and then spend a week or two finding the flights. That's all. For example, you want to go to South America? Work out roughly when you want to go, when you want to come back, and then just book a your flight there and back.
Decide 'Peru, through Bolivia, a bit of Brazil and then a finish in Argentina.'
That's all.
Then buy a ticket that gets you to Peru on X date, and out of Buenos Aires on X date. Nothing more. It's the kick in the butt that seals the deal, and gears you up for getting ready.
REMEMBER - You will never have enough money right now. It will never be a perfect time right now. Never.
That's why you look around for a good or great deal, and snap it up. Just book the tickets. DO IT.

Then research, research, research.
Seriously, give yourself about two months-ish between booking flights and actually leaving, then take the time to find out where you're going to be travelling through and what goes on there. Speak to people, trawl the internet and learn as much as possible about the countries you're going to. You'll have a much better time and get a lot more from a trip if you have a basic understanding of how the place functions; and it makes it much easier to explore if you have a simple idea of what to expect.

Trust me on this - Go independently.
Do not take tours; they're for fatass Disney-land suburbanites you want to see the world through plate-glass windows. If you go to another country, area, town even - go TO it, not just through it.
Travelling independently means you have more flexible time to do what makes you happy, instead of being shunted around like cattle. You get to interact with locals, get more hands on within communities, and actually experience, rather than just see, wherever the hell you are right then. (There's few things more frustrating than trying to get powdered milk from a market stall in badly mangled Spanish, but I'd do it over and over again just to see the smile on that streetkid's face as they watched El Gringo Me-o buy old bread from their grandma.)

Once you know what country you're flying to, and what day you're flying there, you're set. You've done your research, checked out the Lonely Planet and learned one or two useful phrases in the main language of the country - you are sorted. That is the hardest part.

It is pretty important to try learn at last one or two words in that country's language, because even if you cock it up completely, people are more inclined to help you out with whatever you need if make the effort to ask them in their language.

Getting ready - Apart from researching where you're going to be travelling through on your trip, you'll also want to get a bunch of stuff. I know I do - no matter how much I bought for the trip before. There's clothes, shoes, backpacks, daypacks, stoves, travel towels, you can make a list fifty foot long and still want more stuff.
Just remember that it's nice to have lots of things, but it's not nice to be carrying those nice things around on your back for 6 weeks if you ain't gonna use 'em.

I have learnt that every country in the world has a place where you can wash your underpants.
You can buy a new tube of toothpaste everywhere.
Your hometown is NOT the only place that stocks Vaseline. I know this for a fact.
There are obviously a few essentials that are better bought before you leave though, and no traveller should be without. Just use your common sense, it's the most useful thing you'll ever take on holiday.
Some things I always pack first, and never, leave at home:
- Leatherman. With pliers, a small screwdriver and a sharpish blade. All you need.

- A sarong/kokoi. Not a fancy silk Beckhamesque dress sarong. A simple, rectangular cotton or linen sarong that will be your best friend, ever. It's a towel, a sunscreen, a dustmask, a blanket, and a lifesaver.

- Head torch. Get a decent LED one, small with a decent battery. You'll thank me.

- Dental floss, with one or two medium size needles tucked inside the plastic floss casing.

- Plastic mug. Not a thin crappy one, a sturdy pint-sized plastic mug. I'm serious.

- Deck of cards. These will save your life, and possibly even earn you money while you wait for that non-existant colectivo bus that was promised two hours ago. I have a deck of cards that have travelled literally everywhere with me, and being able to kill some time playing Shithead or Solitaire instead of staring at the wall is something I'm eternally grateful for.

- Patience. Lots of it. It's a foreign country, mistakes and miscommunications happen. If you missed the bus to Windhoek, there'll be another one. If the guy at the border is talking to his cuzzie about something, and not rushing to stamp your passport, just chill. You aren't on the Amazing Race. You're travelling. Stop stressing, take a deep breath and just sommer chill. Play cards or something. Talk to the hot Kiwi girl that just arrived in the line. Play catch with your sleeping bag. Anything.

Most of all, just enjoy being there.

Travelling, backpacking in particular, doesn't have to be particularly expensive. You don't have to have buckets of cash to enjoy it. I earn a very, very average salary. I'm no Shlongy. But instead of eating out three or four times a week, or blowing a couplel hundred a week on drinks on a random Thursday, I made a conscious decision to live a little simpler, wait a week or two for that DVD to come off the Just Released shelf. It's a choice I make, and one that has rewarded me millions of times more than buying twenty people a shot of Jager ever could.

I could go on and on about what to do, where to do it or how to go about doing it, but I won't Travelling is a deeply personal experience, while at the same time something that should be approached with an open mind, open heart, and lots of social interaction. Respect the people you meet and the places you meet them in. Dive headfirst into the cultural differences. Be alert, be observant, and make the most of every trip. You never know who or what you'll find, and most of all, you'll learn more about yourself than any life skills course could ever teach you.

It's a huge world out there, and it's there to be discovered. At the end of the day though, there's still nothing like going home.

I'm a lucky, lucky bastard.

My Ass Kinda Hurts, And I Look Little Like Jesus.

I am happy to say, however, that these two facts are unconnected.

Sort of.

Last week was a whole ‘flu mutating into pharyngitis/ gladuar fever’ extravaganza, which is always fun. Thing is, being a boy means that we don’t need doctors or medicine. That’s for girls. And boys who wear lilac. Not real men. Real men pop an aspirin and get on with it, dammit.

Until they wake up on a Friday with glands the size of golf balls, a throat full of broken glass, and that general sort ‘Oh shit, I think I’m about to peg’ sort of vibe.

So I tootled off to the Randburg Medi-Clinic (Medical Aid can pay for my consultation, I’m sure as shit not gonna.) and see Doctor Goldfarb. Goldberg. Iceberg. Whatever.

You know you’re in the shtoep however, when they take that little shiny-torchy light doofy, have a look-see down your throat and go ‘Whoa. That’s pretty bad.’ The good doctor prescribes me three days in bed, a whole whack of antibiotics and says ‘Pop into the infirmary, give the Sister this.”

‘Okay.’

Off to the infirmary popped I, and met Sister Agatha. Six foot fifty nine inches wide, 2 foot tall, and about 300 kilos of pure, um, mass. A curtain gets pulled shut; I get flipped hands down onto that butcher paper they line the beds with, and the theme from Deliverance starts playing in the background. This may or may not be true.

What is true is that she whipped down my drawers, and shoved a knitting kneedle in my bupkis. I’ll be honest – I’m not a fan of being harpooned in the keister. I can think of better ways to spend my mornings.

So now I’m sitting with a bruise the size of a grapefruit in my left cheek, and a fairly large hole in my right hand. (I bet you were wondering where the Jesus bit came in.) It turns out that my hands aren’t as tough as I thought they were, and three hours on a quad rumbling through the undergrowth tends to wear away your palms. Turns out that I’m less ‘Incredibly good looking and tough as nails’, more ‘Soft-skinned nancy boy with a penchant for moisturizer.’

But it’s okay. I’m off to the doctor, I’m sure they’ll prescribe me something to fix that...

I Can Do Anything I Want, Forever.

And never, ever feel bad about it.

Why? Because no matter what I do, for the rest of my life, I'll always fell better than this guy...

(Taken from bash.org's random quotes.)

One night home from the bars, which aside from the occasional pizza place the only other thing open was this porno store. I'm not sure why - I think one of my friends wanted to buy a magazine - but we went in, and annoyed the shop's patrons by picking up every ridiculous sex toy and laughing about it loudly. The most absurd thing we found was a large plastic beer can - meant to look like "Coors Light," or something, but much larger - and when you unscrewed the cap at the top, there was a latex vagina inside, that you were meant to stick your dick in and fuck the can. Well, not really "fuck" the can, exactly, but masturbate with it.
So of course we have to buy the beer can vagina, because we're drunk and it's funny, and we figure we'll find some entertaining unintended use for it. So we paid for it and continued on our merry way back to the hotel. Once there we said our goodbyes and retired to our rooms, and I realized that somehow I'd gotten stuck carrying the bag from the sex store. I set it down on the desk and didn't think much about it. That is, for a few minutes, until I found myself sitting on the bed in my hotel room, drunk and lonely and sexually frustrated, and I kept staring over at that stupid beer can vagina.
"Maybe I should just try it. Just see what it feels like..." I mean, why not, right? You know. Just for kicks, right? So you know what? I fucked it. Yeah. I fucked a plastic beer can. I fucked the shit out of that can. And you know what? It felt alright. It did the trick. That is, until it was all over. Until the moment after, when I was hit by a sobering freight train of humility, looking down at my dick stuck inside a latex vagina housed in a plastic beer can. Moments like that you start to question everything - "How the hell did it come to this? Who am I? What am I doing with my life?" I probably sat there for an hour, silently with my plastic lover, pondering my existence.
The next morning, when the subject of the previous night came up and someone said, "oh, where's that funny beer can thing we got? Rob, you had it, right?" And everyone looks at me, and I just stare at them for a moment, and then say, "...I fucked it. I fucked it and I hated myself, and now it's gone." There was a slight pause, followed by uproarious laughter. The ridicule took months to subside.

See?

You're always better than someone else.

Have an awesome weekend...