Monsters of music

Freedom of Speech - Liquid Tension Experiment

Friday morning last week saw the end of yet another twenty six hour call. Nowhere near as hectic as December first but enough to keep me busy all night. I was reminded how much I love ketamine with hyperactive children and how trauma medicine can be a bit like plumbing as I inserted plastic tubes in the same patient's subclavian vein, pleural space, trachea, stomach, and bladder. I came back home and went to bed only to wake up in mid-afternoon to make last minute preparations and ride out to Kwazulu Natal one last time.

I had made arrangements with Ed, the owner of the idyllic Inkosana lodge to stay one night at his lovely establishement and go to a Christmas concert the next day given by the Drakensberg Boys choir just one kilometer away. The weather was a bit more forgiving than last time I had ridden south out of JoBurg. I noticed at some point just before Harrismith, however, a large thunderstorm to the east. I could see the bright electrical explosions lighting up the clouds' entrails as if a formidable mythological battle was taking place. Everything in this conflict's path would suffer the fight's collateral damages and I was strongly hoping that I would not add to the victims' toll. Every time the road veered left I held my breath as the cloud grew bigger and darker from my perspective and I drew a sigh of relief when my trajectory turned right again.

As opposed to the last time I crossed into Kwazulu natal, instead of taking the smaller roads to get to the Royal Natal park, I stayed on the highway with the objective of arriving at Inkosana lodge before dark. But I lost my wager against time. Having woken up in late afternoon due to post-call recuperation and being in a mountainous region, night arrived faster than I had hoped for. I would not see the highway version of the breathtaking views I had first seen after crossing the Oliviershoek pass two weeks past. What I did see though, was just as appealing. The moonless night's dark veil was drawn over the mountain landscapes of Kwazulu Natal yes, but it also served as a canvas for the snaking procession of car lights, red and white, making their way along the valley under the glittering spotlights of stars undimmed  by the absented glare of street lights. Thankfully still on my left, the ongoing meteorological battle raged on despite the peaceful spectacle around it. It was beautiful.

I finally got off the highway at the Winterton exit and began conquering the few remaining kilometers of secondary roads separating me from a warm bed. Some stretch of tarmac made boring, thought I,  by the extra precautions of driving at night and by the frustratingly invisible sights that might border it and I would thus miss. While I did operate in these conditions, it was nevertheless a stretch which I will remember fondly. Shortly after coming off the highway as I was saying, the secondary road quickly turned to dirt. Hard-packed with a little gravel and a few rocky obstacles and potholes, the road had just enough technicality to keep me entertained in a relative comfort zone of safety.

Not much of an earthly spectacle to behold, hidden away by the late hour's aforementioned cloak, but the heavens danced away in celestial beauty, each star teasingly winking at my concentrated off-roading self. Their visual siren's song eventually became unbearable to ignore any longer and I was forced to stop on the side of the road, look up, and do nothing else. The now distant storm, no longer menacing my journey, had not lost any of its vigor. But instead of seeing a colossal conflict, all I saw now were flashes of light from an imaginary photographer, shooting away at the splendors hanging above both of us. I recognized the southern cross, adorning many flags of nations in the Southern Hemisphere, and was even lucky enough to witness a few shooting stars. I stayed there, motionless, laid back with my feet up on Shoshy's handlebars, looking up at the show, waiting for my riding thirst to manifest itself. It took twenty minutes.

I was welcomed to Inkosana by Ed's three white German shepherds and his familiar grin. I quickly fixed myself some dinner to quiet the growing rumblings of an empty stomach and savored the fruits of my labor while enjoying the literary sustenance of my present read: Le Comte de Monte Cristo. After a quick chat with the other guests benefiting from Inkosana's simple delights of nature and tranquillity, I fell asleep with the feeling of being at home. "A belonging" would be an overstatement, but the welcoming atmosphere and the breathtaking landscapes of the area resonate more with me than the high fences and the malls of Johannesburg.

I woke up to an immaculate sky with no clouds in sight - no evidence of the previous night's show - and to the west, the Drakensberg's outline encroaching on nature's blue ceiling. While I ate my breakfast in view of this setting, I made a simple plan of today's activities: ride, concert, ride.

With a little less than four hours to spare,  I set off south with Giant's castle national park as my approximate objective. The morning's beautiful weather had stretched the limits of visibility and all around me, the South African expanse offered itself in a dizzying array of wonders. I had initially come to the rainbow nation with the hopes of raking up the off road miles, but I was also beginning to appreciate discovering the little villages lost in the middle of nowhere. Placing particular care in avoiding the common, more easily travelled roads, the towns I crossed had seldom seen strangers and I felt privileged to witness a simple glimpse of their dwellers' life. My strange one-man convoy was often met with puzzled looks at first which then turned to pretty smiles soon after. Nowhere else was this succession of contrasted expressions more striking than in children. Smiling, waving, running after me sometimes. One particular child thought one hand waving not to be adequate, and he greeted my visit with flailing of all limbs and a smile to make any mother jealous. To all these acts of kindness, the best I could return the favor with was to wave back and smile a hidden grin under my helmet, my benefactors unknowing of the warmth they kept providing my heart with.

Approaching Giants Castle, I entered a valley leading me straightwards to the national park. it was covered in a thick green coat of grass, the hills thankfully deforming the road into a soft slalom while a small stream meandered along the valley's floor. I imagined that Scotland perhaps looked similar and lost my mind to a daydreamed tour of Scottish distilleries before finally coming to and arriving at the park's gate.

The park ranger welcomed me and complimented me on Shoshy. we enjoyed a quick chat during which we shared our different views of winter: his dislike and my adoration. just next to the gate was a lonely gas pump simply protected by a thatched roof; a very strong contender for the title of favorite gas station from the long list I have accumulated over the years. The first place had thus far been held by a gas station in North Carolina at the eastern end of the tail of the dragon (an 11 miles stretch of road nicknamed thusly for its 318 turns and famous amongst motorcyclists) which offered 110 octane gas.

The scenery had been gorgeous, Mother Earth adorning her best dress that day, but I had a concert to catch and there was no way I was going to miss that concert. Upon my return to the lodge, a light lunch was all I needed before taking off again with Ed this time who had decided to buy himself a ticket when I first manifested interest two weeks ago.

The concert hall had been decorated with Christmas ornaments and the young chorists-turned ushers showed us to our seats in their incredibly kitsch outfits. But music was not originally intended for the visually minded and I accepted this unfortunate fashion decision provided their performance would make me later ignore it. The lights dimmed, the audience hushed, and the boys, holding lit candles, made their entry not from backstage but from the entrances we ourselves had just used, installing themselves along the aisles leading to the stage. The conductor flicked his wrists and it started.

From these tiny little creatures emanated a sound so soft, so smooth, so pure  but powerful and full of purpose that it caught me completely off guard, annihilating whatever apprehensions I may have had and swiftly placing me under their charming spell. My father often refers to choirs like these, such as King's college in England, as little monsters both because they are formed by young boys and because their musicianship is so extraordinary that they will perform a piece in a way more perfect than the composer had imagined it. Monsters of music. It was so beautiful that my senses did not know what to make of it, like a child being given all the toys in the world. It is an overload, one which we are sadly unaccustomed to. I have difficultly describing the indescribable. Years of concert going, composing, playing, music classes in university, and perhaps good genes as well have given me a decent set of ears roughly capable of distinguishing the good from the better. And this was phenomenal.

Like slowly sipping through a glass of a rare single malt, or being taken aback by one of nature's landscaping masterpieces, moments like these stand out on their own in the movie of one's life. And the beauty of it is in their subjectivity. What I describe as bearings of bliss in my path through life could easily be detours avoided at all costs by another. And that is fine. It only makes these moments personal as partially defining of your identity. The difficulty lies in surrounding yourself with people you can share these moments with because while such displays of beauty are fantastic, deep human connection trumps them all.

Like all proper Christmas concerts, it was full of good cheer. It featured a mix and matched collection of classical Christmas chants, their modern counterparts as well as Afrikaans and tribal African songs many of which featured the boys on drums, xylophones, and other instruments. Some more traditional songs had the crowd join in and I was very glad to offer my vocal contribution. One particular rendition of a Russian piece describing the fascination of children on the first snow of winter had the boys take part in a make believe snow fight while the conductor hid under his score... Until he was ultimately hit by a stray snowball and viciously retaliated by stuffing snow down his pupils' imaginary coats.

Coming back down to Earth with the concert's inevitable ending, Ed quickly drove back to the lodge as he had many things to prepare before welcoming people to an exhibit of his paintings he had organized that night. I hung around for a short bit and later began the quick hike back to the lodge. Not ten meters after passing the front gate that a small car pulled over in front of me. In it, two girls, one German, the other Swedish, both attractive university students that had noticed me at the lodge and the concert and were offering me a lift: I could not say no... Out of politeness of course. After enjoying their company a short while, I reluctantly decided it was time for me to go back to Johannesburg.

Another great weekend in South Africa,
TF

PS: Im already home!!