Plot Life - Me and My Bike Again

    It was just the other day, where I was out there again on my own. I was bundu-bashing for a reason this time. I was also having trouble walking or I would have gone on foot, because I'd recently fallen over and sprained my ankle so badly, it took over six months to heal and still niggles me. 

    Bear had come home head held high, the previous day, with a butchered kudu leg in his mouth. I was horrified. These assholes were poaching on my plot again, and I was in a royal rage. I'd found snares on the plot before, for kudu and warthog. I hated it. 

    So, with this in mind, and a wonky ankle, I had taken the bike and gone looking for snares or a butchered kudu. I was proper bundu-bashing, off the road, wherever I could go. Right on front of the house, just over the road we were industriously building, there is yet again a steep downhill into a valley. Bear had come from that general area, but it was really rough, so I was struggling on the bike. 

    I'd gone off our little bike road to the right, and had investigated as much as I could. I'd walked a few steps, as far as possible, to see if I could smell or spot anything. I then had to make my way back to the very steep, slippery road, to head further down. 

    Of course, I got to a very rough spot, and decided that instead of tackling it on the bike, what I would do is walk next to it, and just clutch in so it would roll forward.  I would be out of the way if it flipped, and not break myself again. 

    I got over the first part. I then got semi-stuck under a tree, as usual, but managed to get out of it successfully. We were almost at the road, and I thought right, I just need a few more steps and I would be able to get back on and take it down. 

    Well, I clutched in and it rolled down the incline. I let the clutch go, thinking it would stop, but by this time it was already on the mess of small rocks and on the bad incline. The wheels locked and it slid. With eyes nearly falling out of my head, I just stood there and watched it. I had learnt my lesson, and wasn't about to go try grab it, as I probably would have done previously. 

    It stopped about two meters down, but now it was off the road on the opposite side. With my nerves on edge, I tried again to clutch it and turn the wheels back to the road. Well - bad move. This time, I sat down and watched it as it slid down the rest of the mountain, gaining speed, and hit a tree. Always a damn tree. 

    I sat there for a while longer, eyeing this situation out. I had no signal on my phone, my ankle was sore already from walking, and I was no closer to finding the bloody kudu.

    Eventually, I slid down the hill myself, and looked at the situation up close. We have very small trees on the plot, due to lack of water and rocky conditions. The bike had slid straight into one of the bigger ones, that had found less rocky soil, and was close to the "riverbed" at the bottom in the valley. It was deeply immersed in the evergreen branches, while all the other trees around it were dead and had no leaves. 

    Fighting off branches and tickling leaves, I got on, and tried to reverse it out - no luck, it just spun. I tried slow and steady, and then just planted it, kicking up loads of dust and stones. No luck. I sighed. Seriously. Always a tree. I tried picking up the back and shifting it, but it was so deep in the tree, I expected that more turning would have it rolling down the mountain again. I gave up. 

    I made my way back up the mountain on foot, losing my footing once and landing hard on my knee. I brushed off and kept going, looking for signal. I got hold of Pio, and then sat waiting, trying to find my dogs and bring them back together. Bless them, they'd watched all of this with cocked heads and a laugh in their eyes, before buggering off to sniff things.

    It took Pio ages to come rescue me. I wandered around, trying again to spot the poor kudu. I fell over again, not fully twisting the bloody ankle but twinging it. I eventually gave up, sat under a tree nursing my wounds, and waited. Kita sat with me, bless her. 

    When he eventually got to us, it took some tugging and wangling, trimming the tree back slightly, and then he got it out. Typical. I hated needing a mans help, as I always got laughed at. 

    He took it back up the mountain, and I had to walk, on wonky foot and knee. More bruises and scratches to add to my collection. 

Plot Life - Me and My Bike

    So, when we moved out here, we brought the bikes with us. Prior to that, I had only really ridden my quad on the beach in Swakop, and not ever in Windhoek. The beach is very different to the mountains that we have here on the plot. 

    Nevertheless, it was great. We often went bundu-bashing with them, up and down the mountains, creating little roads for ourselves so we could check fences and walk the dogs. I frequently got myself into kak on the bike, as I explored alone often. There's no signal at the back of the mountain, so when I got stuck there, I had no choice but to get myself out, in whatever way I could. 

    With the first run-in with the warthogs, they charged me. At that point, I knew better than to get off my  bike, and had ben trying to fend the dogs off of them with the bike itself. When they turned on me, I had to pick my legs up, whilst still trying to control the damn bike, and planted it into a tree. Thereafter the episode happened, resulting in me being bitten by the piggy, and I had to climb the mountain on foot to find signal and get Pio to come help me. 

     There was the other time, bundu-bashing in my own, where I got stuck in a ditch. I couldn't reverse as wheels just spun and as usual, the front of the bike was stuck in a tree - my signature move. I couldn't call Pio, as I think he was away - or I was just determined to do it myself. I tried picking the thing up. Bear in mind, this is a big Yamaha 350. I can barely get it off the ground, and can only shift it a couple of centimetres at a time. 

    I shift, packed rocks under the tyres, and got myself out, with great pride. 

    The worst that I ever did, happened the day before I flew to England to see my family. We normally did a roundabout circut, up to the top of the hill past the old ruins, swung to the left and went down to the bottom. We then would head along the fence line to the dar right corner of the plot, pause on that little hill so the dogs could run and sniff. We would then head down through the river and up a very steep mountain to the top, back long the top of the mountain and down past the ruins home again. 

    For some strange reason, on this very steep hill at the back of the mountain, Pio's bike failed and wouldn't start. Navigating up this mountain is hectic and not for the faint-hearted. There are big rocks, as well as millions of small ones, and over time, we'd worn a road. On this road, you had to really gun it because all the grip had been worn away and the bikes slipped and slid out on the small rocks. The nose often picked up as well on the incline, and you had to lean forward, dodging trees and heaven only knows what else at the same time. 

    I was sitting at the top of the mountain, waiting for him. Eventually, when he didn't come, I headed back down to see what was going on. 

    I was over-confident. I thought I knew my bike. 

    Reality check, incoming. 

    As I got to him, he was sitting in the middle of the road on a particularly steep bit. I had to turn, so took the first opportunity I could and swung the bike left to point the back of it at him. I was figuring I could just reverse, then head straight back up, starting on the grass that gave me grip, so I could get up enough speed to clear the mountain. 

    It all happened in slow motion. The bike began to tip to the right, and Pio screamed at me to get off. 

     I jumped, but as the bike was already tipping, I couldn't get off the high side and had to go into its path. How I managed it, I don't know. I was off and out of its way, as it slowly tipped over and rolled down the mountain, side over side. 

    I sprained my ankle in the process, slipping on a rock, and was almost in tears with pain, watching my poor bike do some bundu-bashing of its own. Pio, between laughing, told me, "You NEVER turn on a mountain!" Apparently this was logic - I didn't know that. everyone had always said, "You can't roll a quad." I took that quite literally apparently. 

    We then had to slide down the mountain ourselves and get the bike back on all fours, wonky ankle and all. We limped home, my nerves in tatters. From riding in Swakop in the dunes, we'd seen and heard many horror stories of people going up the dunes and falling backwards due to the incline. The bike would then fall on them, and with that weight, do serious damage. Guys had broken backs and necks in the dunes. 

    It was my first reality check with the bike. It also took months for me to be able to navigate any sort of incline on the bike again, and I still have a niggle in the back of my head when the going gets steep or I'm sideways on an incline. 

Plot Life - The Road

    "Well," they said, "you'll never be able to afford living on a plot."

    "I'll make a plan," was my response.

    And boy, did we. 

    At first, we enjoyed the dirt road, in all its glory, that most people were afraid to tackle without 4x4. I drove Beasty at that time, a beat up old Toyota 2.7 petrol manual double cab. And wow, did she have a suspension that could carry the world. However, there came a point when I said to Pio, "If I have to carry on driving this thing, you're going to have to cough up for a boob job."

    He laughed at me. I ad to say it a couple of times, eventually saying, "If this road isn't fixed, I'm getting a boob job!" 

    So we started working on the road. We're a good six or eight kilometres from the main tar road, and the grader, although its a public access road, doesn't grade past our gate. Buggers. I still need to take up that fight with them, actually. 

    But never mind, onwards and upwards, I would do it myself. By this time I had acquired a new double cab 4x4, with much softer suspension, and as it was automatic, I could drive with one hand and clutch my poor boobs with the other. But then, I began to feel for the poor thing, as I floored it up and over the mountains, with scant regard for it, but just wanting to get past the worst of the road. 

    James, our darling builder, and Wilbard, my lovely fix-it-all guy that had been with me for years, started tackling the road. At first, we dug out sand from our mountain top, and drive it down the road, filling holes and levelling.  

    One day, in old Beasty, I had a good ton of sand on the back, and four guys in the car with me, that had been recruited from the plots around us to help with the road. As we were coming off the top of the mountain, around a sharp corner that led to an even steeper downhill, with practically a cliff on the right, the bakkie slid out. 

    I hit the brakes, that were pretty much non-existent at best, but hey, what could you do. Beasty carried on going, straight off the road and down this very steel hill, that to this day gives people the heebies as a driver or passenger. 

    The four black guys, in the back of the double cab and in the passenger seat, literally turned a pasty shade of grey. They began to shriek in panic, throwing open the doors and preparing to jump. I jsut sat on the brakes and prayed.

    We slid about two meters down this hill. The guys bailed - and only poor Wilbard has gotten in a car with me since.

    Eventually, Beasty stopped. I kept my foot on the brake, and tightened the handbrake, which also never really worked. At that point, with kak brakes and an even kakker handbrake, and the guys shrieking and awwing, I managed to get Beasty into 4x4, then low range, then into reverse, and to start backing up - all without stalling. 

    Thank goodness the old thing is as strong as an Ironman. I got her out. Slowly, but I did. 

    We all stood around and shook for a bit, then headed down the road. The guys walked. 

    Anyway. After our decision to start fixing this lethal road, we did a lot of research. I wanted to do solid concrete blocks of about two meters square, straight down the road. Pio moaned at me. Too expensive. Takes too long. We have to buy concrete hardener as well, as because with the terrain, there was no way to drive around the road we had thrown, while waiting for it to dry. Plotted and planned, and eventually started. 

    We decided to do two strips of road, one for each tyre. We measured out chassis's on the cars, from a small car to a truck, and went for something in the middle. But sod that, anyway, I thought to myself, and gave the instruction to pave in between the two tracks as well. This later did me good, as I kept falling off the two tracks before the paving, and cringed at the cost of the tyres I was damaging. 

    James, my darling James, went ahead like a steam train. We made moulds for the straight sections, and used bendy steel (don't ask me what its called) to create the placing for the corners. This way we would have a beautiful road, nicely laid out, and perfect. My OCD does not like imperfections. 

    Well. We came to the first straight, and it was particularly busy at work. Now, James is brilliant, but he needs guidance, and I just didn't get there. By the time they'd thrown a good fifty meters of road and I could drive on it, I realised it was about five centimetres higher than it should be. Therefore, one strip would me higher than the other. 

    My fragile temper cracked. I threw my toys out of the cot. James drives, so at one point I remember asking him at what point has he driven on a road like this? Poor guy. It was too expensive, however, to rip up and do again. 

    Now, whenever I drive it, my poor car hanging to the right, I have to laugh. I also then contemplate how long its going to be before I do get them to rip it out and do it again. 

Write Write Write

    So, in 2013, Frankie introduced me to All About Writing, and I did the Creative Writing Course. It took a few months if I remember correctly, and was great fun - after the panic of criticism had subsided. The mentors were lovely; gently critical and full of advice and explanations, and giving credit where credit was due. They built our confidence as we went. 

    Then, I decided to join the mentoring. I'd written a lot from a young age, but never tried to publish - apart from submitting a disaster to Pan Macmillan in 2011. I can clearly see now why they never read it :). With the mentoring, we submitted a word count each month, and our delightful mentors critted and advised. 

    The first book I worked through with them was the story of Aiden, a young druggie whose girlfriend dumped two kinds on him and disappeared. The story of his youth suddenly taken away, his reform, and growing to love these two little girls as his own, grew massively as we worked through it. It changed multiple times. Then, the girlfriend re-appears and takes his girls from him, and how his life falls apart again. 

    It took me almost three years to work through this one, as we navigated legalities, opinions, characters, and disasters. It was wonderful - although by almost the end of the second draft, I was so gatvol of it, I wanted to throw it in the bin. I persevered, and finished it. I still feel I want to throw it in the bin - but I think that this comes from TOO MUCH of it. Too much reading, writing, and editing of the same thing and characters. I got bored of the, basically.

    But to explain the trials and tribulations of writing and being criticised ... not easy. Frankie and I would read the feedback and rant. How dare they say I must remove that - it's an integral part of the book (how Aiden went out, got smashed, and crashed his truck). Devastation, and then the slow realisation that it really didn't take the story forward. 

    How DARE they not like that beautiful sentence ... so much time was taken with it. So much feeling. And then again, the realisation that it was pretty pointless, and I'd phrased the same thing slightly differently in another paragraph earlier or later on.

    Then, with time, we learned to see what they saw. And we loved it. We couldn't wait for our feedback, or for comments from the other mentees on the group. It was fabulous - my fix, after a coffee and a cigarette. 

    I shelved it after the end of the second draft. 

    Then, out of the blue, one of my mentors emailed me and said she had referred me and a couple of others to Jacana, who were looking for new, South African writers with potential. Panic stations. Totally. 

    I waited and waited, and eventually they contacted me. After having my nerves calm slightly with the wait, panic rose again. I still struggle to talk about my work, and generally avoid it. If someone asks me about it, I say, "Read it." Only in the last two weeks did I actually tell someone what it was about, in a single sentence ... and then redirected the conversation sharply lol. So what would I do with a publisher that needed to know the deeper aspects of the book? 

    Well, in short, we set up a Skype, and then they had a work emergency and couldn't do it that day :(. What a let down .... 

    But, if its meant to be it will be. I'll wait. If I find somewhere else that I fancy submitting to, I will. If not, then I won't. I'm not in a hurry. Aiden can sit on the shelf for a time, until I'm ready to do a third draft. Life happens when its meant to. 

    And for the moment, I have yet another book written while I was a teenager (for many reasons, I stopped writing. Creativity dried up.) and will continue with that one. I have submitted the first three chapters already, and have gotten positive feedback from my mentors and fellow writers, so it has hope.

    And for the moment, I'll just WRITE. With no pressure and no expectations, but just for the joy of it.