Off the Beaten Track

Over the Hills and Far Away (Live version) – Led Zeppelin

I had the weekend off, no call. And having just finished my CaRMS application for residency, I certainly was not going to prolong this past week’s self-enforced incarceration in JoBurg. Before even getting to South Africa I had set my sights on the Drakensberg Mountains which physically mark the border between Lesotho and Kwazulu-Natal province. With two days to spare, I decided to fulfill my pre-trip ambitions and set my course due south.

Ill fortune would have it that Saturday morning’s weather featured the best Southern Hemisphere imitation of a London drizzle: not wet and cold enough to oblige a change of plans but enough to extract a dissatisfied grunt out of the shriveled mess that was my face at these small wee hours. But from the previous weekend’s storm riding return to Johannesburg, I figured that my equipment would dry fairly quickly once out of the rainy conditions and I therefore stayed the planned course.    

The weather-induced grayish tone applied to the world’s color palette that day improved only slightly coming out of urbania and into the plains of the Highveld. Sadly, no visual candy to sink my eyes into. After a few hours’ ride, Shoshy and I made respective pit stops in Warden; her for fuel and I for food. I had barely sat down to scarf down (relatively speaking of course) my sandwich and hot chocolate that a local started a conversation with me. As always with these random exchanges, the introductory “Where are you going? Where are you from?” questions were asked initially eventually making way a more natural and individualized dialogue afterwards. When the local had his fill, he left leaving an empty space for another to follow in his stead. One after another, a succession of young, old, male, female, black, or white relayed themselves talking to me until I was ready to leave. The wonders of motorcycle travelling.

For someone looking for genuine human interaction and trying to escape the tourist label, motorcycle travelling is like a magic wand that attracts people and engages them in conversation. There is apparently nothing better than a dirty motorcycle and a beard to shed off anyone’s psychological barriers preventing them from genuinely connecting with you. You stand out and draw attention like a tourist, but the locals’ primary reflex is not so much to identify you as such but rather to ignite their curiosity: “Who the hell is that?!” There are no attempts in trying to squeeze a few bucks out of you from a disguised conversation. There is only an authentic interest in getting to know you, and the favor is automatically returned. A motorcycle obviously does not fool anyone into believing you are not foreign, but it is perhaps a symbol of vulnerability and openness: that you desire a connection with your surroundings; that you reject being in a bubble. This amazing phenomenon will keep me on the saddle, tracing my two-wheeled path in the world’s countries for as long as my body will allow.

Making my way further south still, I veered off the highway at Harrismith to follow the eastern shore of the Sterkfontein Dam reservoir. The road construction, or deconstruction rather, offered a tantalizing taste of unexpected off-roading. While there remained a sliver of asphalt where cars negotiated dreadful potholes with difficulty, I remained on the more entertaining loose gravel embryo of a road besides it. The mixed landscape of table top mountains and green fields on my left and of the reservoir on my right made it more challenging to concentrate but I nevertheless made it all the way to Kwazulu-Natal province through the Oliviershoek pass.

A quite appropriately sounding name as the first sight once in this new province was nothing short of a shock. At the Free State – Kwazulu-Natal border, the Highveld suddenly drops several hundred meters thus offering a wide panorama of the plains below and the Drakensberg chain in the back ground. Enjoying the vistas at a reasonable speed (and I will deny any other recounting) I stopped at a lookout point to let this surreal landscape sink in. And that is when I saw it. The Amphitheater: a five kilometer wide mountain formation rising three thousand meters in altitude; its concave eastern face forming a vertical cliff over a thousand meters high giving it its name. This is where I was going. After having a few people speak to me, I climbed back on Shoshy and headed towards the Royal Natal National Park.    

In the parking lot of the National Park, the ranger began a conversation in the same familiar format: “Where are you going? Where are you from?” followed by improvisation: “How many children to do you have?”  He watched in smiling inquiry as I clumsily transformed my attire from motorcycle rider to heavily clad hiker. I had secured my riding pants and helmet to Shoshy with a cable lock but still had to carry boots, upper body protections, and backpack containing the weekend’s essentials. And thus began the hike.

The Gorge hike generally followed the rocky Tugela River formed by the waters of the falls – second tallest in the world – bearing the same name. On the return trip, having so much fun boulder hopping in the proximal parts of the river I lost track of the hiking trail. Instead of backtracking and trying to find the trail, the idea of hiking down the river à la Bear Grylls became the new plan to follow. I do not know if this is an influence from motorcycling, but I basically went off-road hiking. A couple of minor tumbles and a pair of wet running shoes were the price to pay for an otherwise wonderfully enjoyable experience.

I returned to Shoshy at dusk, slipped back my rider’s attire on and drove out of the Amphitheater’s massive shadow. Night came rapidly after, as is customary in mountainous areas, and the dim lights of the sparsely populated valley contrasted with the dark silhouette of the Drakensberg towering above. Now that the day was coming to an end, my only remaining objective was to reach my pre-selected place to sleep: Inkosana lodge. In the meantime, I had to negotiate non-illuminated South African secondary roads at night… which turned out to be quite pleasant. Very peaceful feeling: the feeling of being at the right place, at the right time thanks to an unknown and quite incomprehensible “logic of the universe”.

I stopped in Bergville where I had a very fun conversation with a group of twenty-something year olds who were particularly preoccupied with making sure I had a pleasant stay in their country. I finally reached the lodge and surrendered to the accumulated fatigue of a full day’s activities by sleeping like a rock.

O Virgo Virginum – Josquin Deprez

Having arrived at Inkosana Lodge at night and lacking the energy to stay awake more than necessary, I woke up the following day in an unfamiliar, yet lovely setting. Out in the flower-bordered lawn were children playing under the watchful eyes of three lazy white German Sheppards. The mountains in the distance offered a beautiful backdrop to an already beautiful pastoral setting. There was a large herb garden available for the lodge’s guests, a small pool, and a communal kitchen; all of these quite useful for the hiking clientele often seen here. And everywhere I went: flowers of all colors, sizes, and scents. I had my breakfast consisting of porridge, yogurt, fruits, and homemade bread on the lodge’s patio in view of the mountains and in the company of the lodge’s owner Ed. The lodge was his life’s work and I was perhaps selfishly glad he had indeed chosen such a life.   

Our conversation eventually turned to music and how I had hoped to go to a concert of the Drakensberg Boys Choir, a world-class singing ensemble not far away from the lodge. But unfortunately for me, their concerts are held on Wednesday afternoons making it quite difficult to reconcile with my work schedule. “Then why don’t you go to their Christmas concert on December 8?” asked Ed. My heart skipped a beat at the sound of this incredibly well timed opportunity. December 8 will be my 27^th birthday and a concert with the Drakies would mark a much better way to celebrate than getting drunk in a nameless bar in JoBurg. Although the latter option can be quite fun too, it pales in comparison to a concert of this caliber.

Ed gave me a few off-road itineraries to sample before heading out. I thanked him and left with the knowledge that I would see him again two weeks later.  With these plans in mind, I chose to listen to choir music for the morning ride. It was windy that day making the ambient noise cover some of the softer sung pieces; however, this allowed for an amusing effect when a particularly beautiful landscape coincided with a louder sung Major chord.

At the top of a hill overlooking a valley, I stopped to put extra layers on and simply to appreciate what nature was offering me this day. While enjoying the very same musical selection that you are (possibly) presently listening to I do not know what came over me, but I just could not stop it. I started crying like a baby. Most likely overwhelmed by what I was seeing and hearing, this sensory overload was almost painfully blissful. I love travelling.  

I stopped for a quick bite at the Mouse Trap deli in Rosetta. One of the customers noticed my gear and started talking to me as he was also an off-road motorcyclist. He suggested a few trails and wished me good luck on my upcoming challenge: the Sani Pass. This road is the only land connection between Kwazulu-Natal and neighboring Lesotho as they are separated by the Barrier of Spears that are the Drakensberg Mountains. The Sani Pass is like a test in off-road technique and is officially limited to 4x4 vehicles only. To access it from Rosetta, one must travel through seventy kilometers of unpaved roads. This was an easy decision to make.

The road leading to the Sani Pass is dotted by villages that seldom see strangers. I felt privileged to catch a glimpse of these remote locations while getting waved on by children playing in the “street”. The stretches between the villages marked unbelievable mountain landscapes coming in and out of the low lying cloud canopy overhead. Wild and domesticated animals infrequently bothered by inexistent traffic roamed the trail adding to the unique character of this experience. The hard packed surface allowed decent cruising speeds and the large width of the road exhilarating power slides when visibility permitted.

I finally reached the foot of the Sani Pass; a sign confirming the legal obligation to use 4x4 vehicles in plain sight. With a large smile, I began the ascent. This smile grew wider and wider as I gained in altitude and as I passed slow moving jeeps. The trail is quite rocky but wide enough to allow the careful selection of an optimal driving line. Four-wheeled vehicles do not have this luxury and therefore have to deal with all of the road’s imperfections. The slick metzeler tires performed well enough but certainly lacked grip during certain climbs. There was only one small water crossing. I stopped at the Lesotho – South Africa border quite tired: I had done off-road climbs before, but not ten kilometer ones. Apparently, more challenging sections laid ahead but not having been given the proper ownership documents by the motorcycle rental company, I did not want to risk getting stuck in Lesotho. I snapped a few pictures and began the long return trip to Johannesburg.

On the six hour trip back home, as night descended upon me, I began once more using my cold fighting motorcycling techniques. In essence, it is a surrender. Long rides in cold weather are much more comfortable accepting the cold instead of fighting it. One must try to resist the instinctive muscle contractions and concentrate on limiting shivers as six hours with muscle aches and shaking would feel like an eternity. One must also avoid frequent stops. It is difficult to achieve and maintain this passive cold acceptance and each pit stop resets this zen-like condition causing new fits of shivers and muscle aches as you return to riding after a break.

I finally reached Johannesburg which welcomed me with a panoramic sea of light. The first man made beautiful sight of the weekend. After eight days riding a motorcycle in South Africa, I had covered two thousand four hundred kilometers. I love travelling. 

Welcome to Bara

Nés Sous la Même Étoile - IAM

I have so far spoken about my excitement and angst revolving around my South African project but after four updates, I have yet to speak about what I am here for: trauma at the Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital.

After a week working at one of the busiest trauma units in the world, it would be easy to write pages and pages about a multitude of specific individual cases but that would be like unveiling a painting one color at a time. If you are to understanding me, to share what I am experiencing, I would rather take a more global approach. Apologies to the seeker of uncanny stories of blood and gore, you will find your fill when I come back.

Bara is a giant within the giant that Soweto is. At close to one and a half million inhabitants, this South Western Township of Johannesburg is quite enormous for a suburb. Townships, in the time of Apartheid, were the ghettos of delocalized blacks and Soweto was and still is the biggest in the country. It played quite an important role in the struggle to end Apartheid with many important leaders and political groups emerging from it and thus holds somewhat of an aura about it. At the southeastern end of it lies Bara, a three thousand plus bed hospital which dwarves major North American hospitals in comparison (boasting a meagre five hundred bed capacity on average). To the three thousand inpatients add themselves an army of orderlies, nurses, medical students, staffs, janitors, administrative workers, security guards, etc… It is a small city.

     (Mind you, the scale is slightly bigger on the bottom picture)

Canada is not plagued with trauma as South Africa is, and the concept of a trauma unit is almost foreign to me. A trauma service: yes. An entire unit devoted to trauma: not quite. While Soweto’s socioeconomic status has improved over the past two decades, crime and violence still conduct the soundtrack to many Sowetans’ life. Many of our patients are victims of unfortunate accidents but the majority of them have earned their hospital admission from the gratuitous aggression of another person. As I have heard many people say over the past week, there seems to be no respect for the value of a human being’s life and it is this sad truth that requires the existence of the unit that I work in. Stab wounds and gunshot wounds – relatively rare occurrences in Montreal – are the daily bread and butter of the trauma unit at Bara.  Burns, beatings, rape, and motor vehicle accidents are also common sights. I have spent the past two years in hospitals. I have seen suffering, I have seen death, but these have usually been the tragic consequences of an organic disease. At Bara, when confronted with the very real results of such a labour of hate, of a conscious decision to do harm, disbelief and sorrow seep through me and humanity weeps red with shame.

On duty, there is little time to stop and ponder about the philosophical signification of such human misery, just time to see the next patient and hopefully avoid the worst. The law of supply and demand makes it quite difficult to offer the human warmth that we as physicians, healers, would like to provide and that these people require after such terrible experiences. I was taught and adopted the practice that one who calls himself doctor should heal both mind and body for they are one of the same. A smile, a hand on the shoulder, or a compassionate look are our feeble attempts at comforting the shaken and traumatized spirits of these death-defying survivors.

Despite numbering more than four hundred different buildings, Bara mainly sees its trauma service in two separate areas: the resuscitation area and the ward. The resuscitation area is split between the “pit” where relatively stable patients are assessed and the eight bed trauma bay where the worst off receive emergency care. The ward houses roughly fifty patients and is where patients continue to receive treatment and hopefully recover from their injuries. Because the Intensive Care Unit at Bara is perennially full, our ward also acts as an ICU for some of our sickest patients requiring mechanical ventilation and constant monitoring.     

The helipad in front of the resuscitation area

The trauma ward on the right

Blood is omnipresent though not flying through the air and drying on the walls as some of you may wrongly think. Blood is on our hands, on our clothes, on the bed sheets, on the patients, and well... hopefully in them too. We do not have the luxury of phlebotomists or highly trained nurses: we do our own blood tests, we place our own intravenous lines. There are no needle drivers on the ward: hand stitching with three inch long suture needles is the norm. There are only two containers in which to dispose of our soiled sharps such as needles or scalpel blades (no actual scalpel handles are available). With an HIV prevalence exceeding 50% in our patient population, mistakes are strongly recommended against, but as Dawn Francis, the Witswatersrand University’s foreign student coordinator, put: “you won’t get better HIV management than here.”  I remember answering her with an uncomfortable smile. X-rays and CT scans are done on films – no playing with brightness and contrast at the click of a mouse – and read at ambient light. Increasing brightness means going outside... when it is daytime of course. Sterile gauze, sterile glove, and topical anesthetics are expensive and spared when possible. The sterile technique and the “no touch” technique are unofficially interchangeable.

Welcome to Bara.

But despite the lack of what our North American selves might call as standard, this trauma unit gets the job done. Granted, there might be a lack of elegance, but the job gets done. I wonder if in Canada we should consider ourselves wasteful or should we be pleased with being able to provide our patients with a higher general quality of care. I suspect the answer is a combination of both but the unfortunate reality is that we are too often unaware of either and even more unaware of the precious help other health care workers provide so that physicians may focus on medical matters.

I am thankfully surrounded by a multitude of staff (called consultants), junior residents (interns), and medical students both local and foreign. The international students, of which I have made many friends already, presently represent USA, Sweden, Germany, Switzerland, New Zealand, Australia, and Canada.

The medical lingo is slightly different but my two favorites so far are:

•           Calling nurses “sisters” or rather “seestas”. I am guessing this is a tradition which started at a time when nurses where religious nuns, or sisters. It is stupid I know, but I feel much closer calling someone sister than nurse which coming from certain staffs back home is almost spoken with a pejorative connotation. The only disadvantage I could think of would be in the context of a male nurse which I am told would still be referred to as a sister.

•           One of the surgeons on the team is referred to as “mister” and not doctor. In countries like Australia or South Africa, surgeons drop their title of “Doctor” because traditionally, surgeons were barbers being told where to cut by physicians. I thought this was rather demeaning but apparently surgeons have kept this tradition because when someone is referred to as “mister” in a medical setting, everyone then identifies them as surgeons and not medical doctors. “Another bit of surgical wankering is what that is” as beautifully put by an Australian student.

Cheers folks,

TF 

Live to ride. Ride to live.

The Blessed Hellride – Black Label Society

Despite a late evening with Lorna, Stuart, and Tracy the night prior, I made decent attempts for an early start on Sunday morning for my first motorcycle ride in South Africa. Last night’s discussion with Lorna had convinced me that I would pop my South African bike cherry with an exploration of Mpumalanga province to the East of Johannesburg.

I packed part of my bag last night, pre-ride. Zero hour: eight AM. Camera, Riley’s GoPro, first aid kit, extra food, water, lonely planet guide book, multi-tool, and most importantly: a bag of zip ties, an amateur mechanic’s best friend. I did not really know where I was going actually. I just had a few names in mind and a general direction to follow: East. These last minute unprepared rides run the risk of not living up to expectations but provide the flexibility to adapt the itinerary if need be.

Many people describe motorcycling as some form of freedom; an acquired appreciation for the present and desensitizing to the bitterness, both past and future, that life can sometimes bring. I do not see motorcycles as a primary method of transportation. The point of transport is to go from A to B. The point of motorcycling as far as I am concerned is not so much a disinterest in the final destination but rather the focus of what may lay between A and B. The here and the now. And for that moment in time, everything else is irrelevant. Like a sleep-resistant newborn baby brought to slumber by a midnight car ride, the rumble of the engine, the beautiful landscapes about, the sounds, the smells all combine to calmly sooth my “little baby soul” as Neil Peart describes. Everything else is irrelevant. It is a reconnection with the outside world too often forgotten in the subconscious egoism brought on by the survival instinct of our daily lives. We become self-absorbed. Even people who devote themselves to others become self-absorbed in what they do. The ability to disconnect from everything, even from oneself, is something I only experience when riding motorcycles. A biker’s singularity. And everything else is irrelevant.

Out of the sprawling metropolis that is Johannesburg, one eventually emerges on the surrounding townships – sometimes slums – where the black population had been re-localized to keep them close to the work place but physically away from the whites. Soweto where I work is such a township, or rather, was. Many blacks, who have now climbed the socio-economic ladder erected at the fall of Apartheid have stayed because of their community attachment making Soweto less of the shanty town it used to be.

But such townships still exist including one bordering the highway I used on my way out of Jo’Burg. It was a shock. I have not lived my life head-buried in the sand but I do come from a rich neighbourhood in a rich country. Travels have opened my eyes and mind to the different realities of the world but slums was a new one. To see the dusty rickety houses with rusty corrugated roofs sardined one to another was a new sight and the uneasiness in my heart, a new feeling. The images on TV and the articles in newspapers are but pixels on a screen and letters on paper. The also disconnected motorcycle fly-by I did was enough to darken my mood in a sigh of pity… I could not imagine what these people have to go through.

Out of urbania, on to the high plains of the Highveld: a vast expanse of green farmlands that extends to a circumferential flat horizon. My mind started questioning itself in disbelief when I came to the realization that I was actually riding a motorcycle in South Africa. On a funny note, the South African government was in the middle of a road safety awareness campaign and while I applaud their efforts, one of their sign had my juvenile self laughing hysterically: “Wet? Slow down!”

The plains of the province of Mpumalanga made way for rolling hills marking the transition to the lowveld, equally as green and peaceful as its taller counterpart. And then I entered the northern end of the Drakensberg Mountains, their imposing mass forcing the road to turn, rise, fall, and turn again: a motorcyclist’s absolute delight. In Nelspruit, I made as quick of a pit stop as my laughably slow eating habits permitted and climbed back on the saddle to further explore this “Barrier of Spears” as the Zulu call them (uKhahlamba).

As soon as I was far enough from the town and gained enough altitude, I began searching for off-road trails.  There had been few trails in the velds and rectilinear gravel roads were not on my shopping list anyways while the constantly changing topography of mountainous terrain had my full attention. It did not take long before dozens of trails offered themselves graciously to Shoshy and me. I was imagining the voice of many people in my head saying that what I was doing was completely irresponsible and dangerous. What is so great about self-esteem is that its criteria are subjectively determined and thus one person’s disapproval may turn out to be another’s bragging right. Riding a motorcycle off-road in the mountains of South Africa had made me pretty damn cool to my eyes. I am sure my eight year-old self would have been proud.

No falls. A few jumps. Only a slow bike drop as I was making a U-turn in a dead end trail. I eventually passed by the town of Sabie and its waterfall and the old mining town of Graskop with some more off-roading stints in between. One of the highlights came at the top of a hill near Pilgrim’s Rest, surrounded by mountains on all sides and an airy quasi-silence. I stopped to soak-in the atmosphere and left afterwards to find myself immersed in a thick low lying cloud. I had experienced “cloud riding” before in Mexico and an old habit came back as if by instinct: I started singing The Doors’ Riders on the Storm. Again, I thought I was pretty damn cool.

Riders on the Storm – The Doors

  

The way down on the other side of the mountains I had just climbed was particularly rich in curves with the mountain on my left and a breathtaking valley on my right. The so far overcast weather was now sieving the sun’s light, illuminating the valley below and more mountains in the distance in a beautiful and playful game of cat and mouse between light and shadows.

As the hour grew later still and the evening introduced the night to Mpumalanga, so it did the colder temperatures. I was wearing three light layers: a quick dry undershirt, Yoan’s Dainese protections, and a McGill Medicine hockey jersey. The chill I felt was not too disconcerting as many years of riding in various conditions tend to relegate the discomforts of motorcycling into mere inconveniences, but my hands, protected by very light off-road gloves, were getting numb. I had driven close to five hundred kilometers thus far and now only noticed that Shoshy was equipped with grip warmers. Just in time!

Back in the Lowveld and then the Highveld, I was only two hours away from Johannesburg when it started raining. The summer in South Africa is often punctuated by late day thunderstorms that come as fast as they go. The thought of such a thunderstorm crossed my mind but the rain was so light that I felt confident enough about my immediate future. And that is when a flash of lightning crashed overhead and the light rain turned to waterfall. Visibility dropped significantly and my speed and that of the other cars on the highway was reduced to a walking pace. Within the safe confines of an automobile, one could hear the hail bouncing off the car’s exterior while I, on the other hand, could feel the hail bouncing off my neck, the only unprotected part of my body. A perfectly placed “Wet? Slow down!” sign ironically laughed at my misfortune. These conditions and the inch or two of water on the road made it impossible to continue so I stopped under a bridge and started pondering how long I would have to wait this way. Not far away, I could see the light of a gas station. Braveness regained, I traveled the distance separating my cold open-air prison to warm salvation.

Once inside, I got a few looks. I went straight for the bathroom, wringed my wet clothes, and planted myself in front of a hand dryer to begin a long and tedious task. A few people gave me encouraging taps on the back and one of the bathroom attendants actually helped me by monopolizing another hand dryer for clothes drying. Luckily for me, the only items that were wet were the aforementioned three quick dry layers and my gloves. My pants and boots were lined with Gore Tex and had remained bone dry despite the biblical flood. As weather failed to improve and there remained about two hundred kilometers before Johannesburg, I decided to settle momentarily with the occasional feelings of guilt watching Shoshy under the cold rain while I enjoyed a warm meal and a hot chocolate.

When the rain stopped, I gathered the motivation to get back out again. The road was surprisingly dry and the air warmer than I expected. My damp clothes quickly finished drying with the wind and the rest of the ride was actually quite enjoyable. Above me, the stars and the moon illuminating my path; to my left, a dark rumbling sky, revealing the invisible outlines of menacing storm clouds with every lightning strike; to the front, the red, white, and green reflections of road markers delineating all the way to the horizon’s point de fuite an imaginary Christmas tree.           

I thought I was pretty damn lucky.  

Settling in

The Jacaranda trees are in full blossom at this time of year

Musical suggestion:

End of Line – Daft Punk

Last time, I signed off saying I was going to collect the motorcycle I was going to rent for the time I would spend in South Africa. Sriya, one of my roommates also working at Bara, had graciously offered to give me a lift after she would be done trying to iron out some issues with her car rental contract. We left at mid-afternoon thinking we would be back home back early evening at the latest.

In retrospect, we underestimated three things: how long rental car contract negotiations can take, how vastly spread Johannesburg is, and how insane traffic gets here. We managed to get out of the Budget rental car office in Sandton on the northern edge of Jo’Burg after an hour-long stand-off with the attendant.  When came time to pick up my bike in Boksburg, just south of O.R. Tambo airport, some thirty kilometers away, traffic had started to invade the surrounding streets.  Sriya still not used to driving standard, especially on cars made for left-side driving, abdicated in my favor after a series of stalls.

I learned to drive on stick-shift cars when I was a ten year-old kid on the backroads of France. When I finally obtained my license, all the cars I drove were standard; I think I have driven an automatic car not more than five times in my life. Driving on the left however was a challenge. Everyone knows that with left sided driving, the passenger sits on the left and the driver on the right: the car is a mirror image of “normal” cars. Therefore, I sat down on the right seat, driving on the left, shifting on the left, activating my windshield wipers when I wanted to signal, and signaling when I wanted to wipe my windshield. At least the pedals are arranged the same way. In the end, I did alright, but it left me downright wondering why British leftovers feel outright that left is the right way when clearly it should be the right, right?

Anyways, after turtle-ing our way through six kilometers in one hour despite the five lane highway, we abandoned our goal and stopped at a mall to grab a bite to eat and wait for the traffic to die down. We finally returned home around 8:30 PM. At this point, the combination of jet lag, travel fatigue, and traffic fatigue had the best of me and I crashed after meeting Pascal and Tam, two other Bara students, that were going to grab a beer with Sriya.

The next morning, I waited for the early passing of rush-hour and hired a taxi to drive me to the BMW dealership. In Canada, BMW motorcycle dealerships are just like any other bike dealerships: very approachable vendors and laid back atmosphere. In Jo’Burg, perhaps because the motorcycle dealership was coupled with its automobile counterpart, I was greeted like a foreign dignitary. I was appointed my own personal aid who followed me around, served me an excellent cappuccino, and answered all my questions while my bike was being prepared. Cute. But as far as I’m concerned, I would rather talk motorcycle with someone who knows me on a more personal level than a really nice company logo.     

New musical selection:

Shosholoza – Traditional folk song as performed by the Drakensberg Boys Choir

or

For Robin

or

As a testament to how insane the singing tradition is in South Africa: You have a spontaneous three to four voice chant in a stadium… You can barely get people to clap on time in concerts in Canada.

or

MAATT DAAMON

Someone gave me a set of keys. I stepped out and there she was. My very own BMW 650GS Sertao. High ground clearance, long travel suspension, 21” front wheel to roll over obstacles, torque-y single cylinder engine… she was made for off-roading. I baptized her Shosholoza, or Shoshy for short, after an African song of the same name which translates roughly to “Keep on going” or “Go forward” a perfectly suited moniker for an enduro motorcycle. It was originally sung by miners to encourage each other and try to lift their spirits while slaving away at the back-breaking chores they were asked to accomplish. The workers were often brought to the mines by train, explaining the lyrics below. Now, you will hear the song most often in rugby or soccer stadiums as the crowd cheers for their favorites in one of the most beautiful and elaborate sports chant.

The easily learned lyrics and its very rough translation go thusly:

Shosholoza                                                   Go forward
Kulezo ntaba                                                on those distant mountains,
Stimela siphume South Africa                        Train from South Africa
Wen' uyabaleka                                            Because you are running away
Kulezo ntaba                                                on those distant mountains,
Stimela siphume South Africa                        Train from South Africa

And just like that, three days after tucking the girls to sleep in my parents’ garage, I was back on the saddle. Luckily for me, bikes are bikes whether you drive on the right or on the left thus allowing me to fully enjoy my South African riding debut without an adjustment period. The nimble little thumper eagerly danced with agility and reconciliated me with South African roads that I was loathing only the day prior. I spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, reading under the shade of our lemon tree, and watching the Scotland Vs South Africa rugby game on TV (Boks won if you're curious).

When the sun started dipping down, I put on a pair of running shoes and headed south to the Klipriviersberg Nature Reserve for a jog. After a couple hundred meters, I spotted large birds pecking at the ground and running away from me rather than flying away. I thought nothing of them except that they were similar to chickens though easier on the eyes. About a kilometer later, I spotted the same kind of birds doing the very same: pecking, running away, and looking prettier than chickens. I do not know exactly why but I stopped my run and started looking at them. I noticed they were on what seemed like an elevated muddy ridge, so I approached them guided mostly by curiosity rather than purpose. That is when I realized that this muddy ridge was the border of a watering hole. The embankment was riddled with animal tracks that had recently quenched their thirst and the most prevalent one was that of a two-toed animal. Right as I made this observation, the corner of my eye caught a slight movement roughly thirty meters away: poking its head out of a few tree branches and starring at me intensely was a zebra!! Frozen by surprise and excitement, I dared not move but the ten to fifteen other zebras I had not identified continued grazing the high herbs with the least of worries in the world. This was such a surreal moment. My jogging animal encounters had mainly consisted in squirrels and pigeons in Montreal while in South Africa, zebras and pretty chickens replaced them in style.

Being a tourist and frankly not knowing any better, I slowly attempted to approach the four-legged referees but their excellent eyesight had none of it. They stepped back to all my advances which indicated to me that they were probably all females. Apparently, my winter camouflaged skin would best be avoided on future animal watching endeavours. I snapped a few photos and carried on with my jog. When the sunlight became scarce and the earth’s celestial neighbour provided just has much luminosity I decided to turn around. As I did so, a flash of white jumped across the trail and into the tall grass. Then two more. On further inspection, these flashes were springboks. They were even more reticent than the zebras for us to share the same general area indicating to me they were probably females I was interested in.

When I came back home, Stewart, my other medical student roommate was about to go out. So I grabbed a quick shower and joined him, Lorna (an ex-roommate), and her friend Tracy. Very fun evening talking about all things South Africa. Lorna being from Mpumalanga province just east of Jo’Burg provided me with all the right reasons why I should have a nice road trip the next day…

Which I did, but which I will describe next time… these things keep getting longer and longer.

Cheers guys!

TF

Arrival at last

A big warm Hello all the way from South Africa!!

After a long day of traveling and an even longer time preparing for this elective, I am finally in Johannesburg! I have not yet had time to explore the town but I already have plenty to share about the past thirty six hours so sit back and enjoy, this might be a long one.

Listening suggestion:

Hope  – Rush

  

I spent my last day in Montreal trying to complete the to-do’s I had mentioned in my previous entry. Nothing very exiting at first really: laundry, dishes, garbage, currency exchange, getting a new digital camera, a headlight, etc… A lot of boring tasks mindnumbingly following one another sharply contrasted by what would certainly follow in the upcoming weeks. But this was a necessary evil of course.

The day picked up when I rode Charlotte to visit my friend Riley in the West Island. He is a fellow adventure motorcyclist that I originally met through his work with the Awesome Players Off-Road Motorcycle Club posting videos on internet of his friends and him riding dirt. When Charlotte was born, being a green sprout in my new world of off-road riding, I sent him an email inquiring about possible trails I could sample. We exchanged a few back and forths and eventually went for a ride together towards the end of the summer along with my good buddy Arnaud. When I knew I was going to rent a motorcycle in Jo’Burg, I thought a few videos would make a nice memento and asked Riley if he could lend me his GoPro, the camera version of a tank, though much more portable. Even if he did not know me all that well, Riley generously obliged with no collaterals or special conditions. This might seem strange but the unwritten rules of motorcycle etiquette indicate otherwise.

I had first realized this when I rode Lucy, my other bike, down to Mexico and back. This uncanny bond bikers share that unites perfect strangers as if they were long time friends. An almost unique innocent naiveté that I have come to cherish. There is something very pure and very liberating about being able make an instant connection, as a child would on his first day at school, with another human being. And what are motorcyclists but children with better means?

I ended up staying an hour with Riley taking about bikes until he had to leave to pick up his kids at school. I thanked him and drove back home. I finished packing my bags, prepped the house for the Christmas party I am planning on having the day I come back, and made a few calls to get a bunch of friends over for a last beer. I might not say it as often as I should, but my close friends are a second family to me. Some of them have been around for over twenty years. We have shared laughs, successes, defeats, and even fights with one another but just like in a family, an invisible attachment to one another has kept us together for longer than people stay married nowadays. I was very glad to have Julien, Arnaud, Yoan, Evan, Phil, and Garen with me that evening.

When it was ultimately time to go, as I was going to spend the night at my parents’, we shared one last laugh at my expense (which certainly had nothing to do with me carrying a huge backpack on a motorcycle) and I drove off into the night with Yoan as my escorting motorcade.

I parked Charlotte in my parents’ garage next to Lucy – who had been there for a few weeks – and prepared them for hibernation by disconnecting their batteries and adding stabilizer fluid to their fuel. I had one last look at my two girls, silently thanked them for yet another amazing summer, and closed the garage door. They had been particularly good to me this year.

My parents received me with champagne and cake despite the late hour following which I hugged my father goodnight and goodmonth for we both knew very well the impossibility he would face both trying to wake up early and being conscious enough for a proper early morning send off. My mom, being the valiant ball of energy she has always been, would take care of that. Family, second family, motorcycles, medicine, South Africa… I went to bed thanking whatever fortune saw that I be so blessed.

New listening suggestion:

Symphony #6, 1st movement– Ludwig Van Beethoven

4:30: the gentle tune from my phone announces the start of the day. From the bosoms of my bed; a groan, a moan, but no more.

4:34: my always dependable ball of energy swoops down to the basement to find her son as awake as his father a story above him. She wakes me and as fast as she came in, disappears upstairs. I am slow to stir up but I manage to harvest whatever energy may be to put a foot in front of the other and make my way to the kitchen. The invariable hot chocolate prepared and some peanut butter toasts at my mercy, I sit down at the dinning room table and begin to silently read the previous day’s newspaper. Flashback some fifteen odd years ago, one would have observed the exact same scene. Although I still could not mumble a single word, it was a sweet reminder of the daily routine I shared with my mom when I was younger.

On my way to the airport, I had a quick and pleasant conversation with my sister with promises to follow up on skype now that we would be on more agreeable time zones. Before passing the US border (while still in Canada, someone still has to explain that one to me) I kissed my mother goodbye, turned around only to face nothing but novelty for the next month. Novelty especially in the American Border Officer who let me pass after a short questionnaire and a completely unexpected “Have a great trip Big Guy!”

My first of two flights sent me to New York JFK. Flying over parts of Long Island and seeing capsized boats remaining from the onslaught of Sandy sent me back momentarily to post-Katrina New Orleans on the Mexican road trip I just previously mentioned. Not that I am trying to compare one to the other, but I remember the emotional scars deeply seeded in the people I had met in Louisiana and could not help but feel a slight heart pinch at the recent misfortune that had befallen the people in New England and everywhere else Sandy had hit.

Before embarking on my fourteen hour flight, I suddenly noticed a lot of tall, blond haired, blue eyed, and not to mention gorgeous, people around me. It was Holland all over again!

I used to dread airplane travel when I was a kid. The small leg space, the bad movie selection, or the engine noise and the resulting lack of sleep all contributed to make my past experiences uncomfortable and rather annoying. But this time, I was treated to increased leg room, quiet engines, a personal touch screen for movie-viewing pleasure… and I even slept!

There was a television channel that kept our progress up to date and I had a bitter sweet moment as we crossed the equator. Part of me was exhilarated to enter the southern hemisphere, but another part was perhaps ashamed that I had done so so very easily. During the Mexico trip, crossing the Tropic of Cancer felt like a great achievement, something that was well deserved, whereas the feeling I will keep of my crossing of the equator will be that of a formality.

Two movies and a lot of reading later, I touched down in Johannesburg. I had arranged for a private pick up through the accommodation I would be staying at. The white driver welcomed me with a big smile and enjoyably chatted at lengths about South Africa and Jo’burg in general crossing topics such as sports, politics, history, and even botanics. There was a slight discomfort on my part when he mentioned “the good old days” but I think he may have been talking more about the moral values of a hard and difficult farming lifestyle than the segregationist political system that enabled it.

He dropped me off at my house which I will share with other students. There is a garden partly under the shade of a lemon tree with a patio area and a braii (BBQ). It spells out relaxation.

Time to go pick up a motorcycle!

Cheers folks,

TF 

PS: Good luck Herniated Sticks for the game tonight
PPS: Enjoy the evening MIM

And so, it begins...

Tonight's listening suggestion:
Hell's Kitchen - Dream Theater

A little over twenty four hours before departing for the other hemisphere, I find myself taken aback by the frightening list of things which remain to be done. Pick up a camera, buy a head lamp, store Charlotte (one of my two motorcycles) for the winter, pack my luggage, say goodbye to friends, and tie up some loose ends with the CaRMS application process which will determine how I will live the next five years of my life and what shape my career in Emergency Medicine will take. In response to such ominous tasks, I naturally decided to start a blog.

I am leaving for the crime capital of Johannesburg for a month-long internship in Traumatology at the Chris Hani Baragwanath hospital which - at three thousand beds - is one of the largest health care centres in the world. Roughly one year ago, I had found myself two thousand kilometres north of Montreal in the isolated Inuit communities of Salluit and Puvirnituq overlooking the frozen waters of the Arctic. How things have changed since...

Over a time where career ambitions became clear as day and romantic life a strange puzzle, I exchanged a diamond ring for a rugged motorcycle, a fancy condo for a student apartment, free time at home for free time on muddy trails, and trotted along my merry medical student way. I listened to the insane laments of the mentally ill and sung lullabies for minuscule early-birds. From soon-to-be mothers to dishevelled daughters. From seizing infants to grieving husbands. The past year as been nothing short of a rollercoaster: exhilarating and exhausting, joyful and sad, fascinating and dreadful.

With the upcoming CaRMS process, I am hoping South Africa will be an appropriate cherry on the sundae that was my nine year university stint. A busy trauma service in a crime-riddled city on  a backdrop of motorcycling in the South African savannah is quite a flamboyant way to go out with a bang. Perhaps also an attempt at disconnection and rediscovery. Seriously. Who the fuck am I? I am pretty sure I had it figured out back in the Arctic. But I digress... Lets talk about the trip.

I will be living in Johannesburg and working at "Bara" in the South Western Township of Soweto. For my commuting, exploring, and amusement, I have rented a BMW 650GS Sertao motorcycle which will be a trusty steed on the South African trails. Joining me will be two friends from Ottawa: Kevin and Jeff, both medical students also doing internships at Bara. There will of course be a lot of work to be done at the hospital and knowingly so, I have prepared accordingly with professional workshops or ATLS training. I have tested my stoicism in acute emergency cases in adult hospitals so far but my kryptonite lies in children. With trauma being particularly infectious in the young, I am somehow afraid that I might leave this country more broken hearted than I will enter it. Only time will tell.

On a touristic point of view, I am dying to learn more about the cultures that make up the Rainbow Nation. Eleven official languages. A baby democracy that saw its birth not through bloody revolution, but through peaceful passing away of one of the most reprehensible political systems in modern history. There is a human wealth to be sampled in the coming month and I am so very exited. Nature will also certainly grab my distractable attention: the Drakensberg mountains, the safaris trying to spot the Big Five (elephant, lion, rhinoceros, buffalo, leopard), and the Indian ocean to name a few. I am not even gone and I already wish I had more time!

Whatever happens, I hope to have the proper writing skills to adequately portray my adventure in South Africa.
Cheers folks,
TF