A pilot's ear (2001)

Disclaimer: Let me just say that the last blog was a bit of a heavy one to get off my chest. It took a bit out of me. And it was even more difficult to write the next one. People responded to how it made them feel. And I appreciate that. But I hope it didn't create too much of an expectation. How do I follow that one up? Well, I can't. Don't expect every blog to be as heavy as that one. This blog is about my life. The good and the bad. Some heavy and some fun. Some life lessons and sometimes just stories. Sometimes relevant and sometimes just things that stuck with me. Just stories of things that happened to me and how I got here. So, let's get back to some more story telling.

A pilot's ear

'Good morning Mr C! Got your ticket ready for you'. I can still hear those words. Always the same words. It was the British Airways air hostess at Cape Town International. Always with a smiling face and a quick chat before I head off to the lounge and some coffee.

You see, I used to fly often. No really, I used to flew a lot. Two to four times a week from Cape Town to Joburg and back. For 5 odd years.

I lived in Stellenbosch, the most beautiful town in South Africa and just outside Cape Town. But I had to go up to Joburg to negotiate trade deals and trade and industry policies at NEDLAC (National Economic Development and Labour Council - ) - and that meant having to be at all the chamber, committee and ministerial meetings. As the lead negotiator at the Trade and Industry Chamber, I sat on 12 odd committees and had to be at the Ministerial meetings. All in all about 30 meetings a month. I get tired just thinking of it.

It could have been easier if they managed to arrange the meetings a bit better. It was the same bunch of people attending most of the meetings. Me, Mark Bennett and Herbert Mkhize from the trade unions, Raymond Parsons, Michael MacDonald, Roger Baxter and Andre Lambrechts from business, and Alistair Ruiters and Bahle Sibisi from government. Always the bunch of us stuck in a room together. Nine men writing history. The other 8 all lived within an hour from Joburg. I stayed 2 hours away - a 2 hour flight.

But I had my own way of getting them back. I refused to stay over in Joburg. Which meant that they had to fly me in from Cape Town for each meeting. And I refused to drive in Joburg. Have you driven in Joburg? It is crazy. And that doesn't include the hijacking either. It's like Nascar for dummies. So they had to send a car to pick me up. Okay, so I was just lazy. Didn't want to drive. Never liked it, so why go through all the stress of doing it in Joburg if I could get away with not doing it at all?

Living in Stellenbosch also made it more difficult to stay over in Joburg. Stellenbosch is the most beautiful town in South Africa, and Joburg the ugliest city. Stellenbosch is Stratford-Upon-Avon and Joburg is Birmingham. Stellenbosch is Carmel-by-the-Sea and Joburg is Philly. And I had a family in Stellenbosch. My wife and daughter meant everything to me - especially because of my relationship with the rest of my family. And I couldn't wait to be with my wife and daughter 24/7. But my decision also meant that I had to fly in for each meeting and they always wanted to start early to make sure they get both breakfast and lunch. Yes, food is at the heart of negotiations anywhere in Africa.

There was only one way to get there in time for the breakfast meeting - take the first flight out of Cape Town. Oh brother that was early - 6 am. That meant I had to get up at 4 to make it in time for my flight. And due to scheduling and traffic, I had to take the last flight out of Joburg - 9 pm. Landing at 11 pm. Home by 12. And up again at 4. See why I needed the breakfast? I never had dinner. Crazy schedule - but I loved every minute of it.

I always flew British Airways just to annoy everyone a bit more than needed. I didn't actually mind flying South African Airways, but I knew people got pissed off if I flew British Airways - I was a traitor for using the foreign airline. It always helped to get your opponent a bit hot under the collar before a round of negotiations. And it paid off - I mean air miles. Thanks to all the air miles, my wife, daughter and myself enjoyed a few free trips overseas. I had more air miles than anyone I knew - just over 700,000 air miles at one stage.

And I got to know the airline personnel pretty well. I did this same schedule for almost 5 years. Same flights every Tuesday and Thursday - and sometimes on a Monday and Wednesday. Always the same flights in the morning and evening. And I learned that being friendly meant that I never got hassled. Quite the opposite. They treated me like family. My ticket was ready by the time I got to the airport. I always got the same smile and call when I walked into the airport, 'Good morning Mr C. Got your ticket ready for you'. Never waited in a queue. It pissed everyone else off. Those waiting in the queue. Here I walked in and had my ticket ready and handed over with a smile and a wink. I just walked past those plebs in the queue, smiled at the air hostess, and thanked her. And, sometimes when there were no queues and I had enough time, I would hang out with them and talk a bit. About family, life and sport - whatever took our fancy.

From there it was straight to the lounge to have a coffee and chat to the guy working there. Nice guy. He always helped me get an upgrade. I flew business class each and every time - even though I booked in on economy. Man I was spoilt rotten by them.

And it continued once I got on the plane. They knew me and knew that all I wanted to do was get in my seat and sleep. I was like Pavlov's dog. I fell asleep the minute I feel the engines vibrate into action. And only woke up when we stopped on the other side. I didn't even wake up when we hit the tarmac. And the air hostesses always left me alone. Just a friendly smile and maybe a quick orange juice before they start the engines.

But I knew I was flying way too often when the air hostess woke me up on one of my many flights with an odd 'request'. I was bit bewildered. My internal clock told me I haven;t slept my usual 2 hours. she looked at me and said, 'sorry Mr C, we know that you like sleeping on the plane, but we know that it is your daughters birthday tomorrow. And we know you won't be flying tomorrow - you never do on family days. Could you maybe give this present to your daughter from all of us at British Airways, Cape Town International? and please wish her a happy birthday'. I was still half asleep and now flabbergasted. I gave her my best embarrassed smile and mumbled a thank you. They have never met my daughter - how did they know? Because I told some of them during our many chats. See, my daughter was born on a public holiday in South Africa - 1 May. Labour Day. And everyone thought it was odd as I also worked for the trade unions. So that was how they remembered. But still. Have you heard of an air hostess giving anyone a birthday present for their daughter. And they never met her before.

There was one last sign that I was flying to often. I started developing ear problems. I thought it was ear infection. And eventually it became too much. I just had to go to the doctor. And he made an appointment at an ear specialist. He didn't know who I am or what I do. I was just a guy with an ear problem. He looked at my ear. Stopped. Looked at my ear again - this time a little bit longer. He stopped, cleaned the tools and looked at me. 'Sir, are you a pilot?' he asked. 'Why?', I asked. His reply, 'because the only people with ears as stuffed up of yours are pilot ears. It's the continuous changing in air pressure and different conditions - dry air etc. And you only get these ears if you fly regularly, at least a few times a week. We call it pilot's ear.'

So that was it. Start staying over in Joburg or... I went home, went to the forest to pick up pine cones for the fireplace with my daughter, had dinner with my wife and daughter, tucked in my daughter, read her a story, got up and went to write my resignation letter.

My dad was an ass

My dad inspired me. Inspired me to not be like him. I am sure other people had worse dads. Hey, my old man never beat me up or anything like that. But he was a tough old bastard who wasn't always there for my family - even when he was present.

I remember as a little kid doing Greco-Roman wrestling. Don't laugh even if you can imagine me in that little 1930s bathing suit and weighing 44.1 pounds - the lightest weight division was 44-49 pounds! My grandad loved the idea that I wrestled. He loved wrestling - he was into professional wrestling. And don't dare say it wasn't real. He had ways to convince you even at the age of 80. He didn't need much to convince people of his views - at nearly 7 foot and 270 pounds. But he was my mom's dad and I was close to him. He came to every wrestling match he could attend. Or rather when my dad was willing to take him. He was poor and old and couldn't do it by himself and had to rely on my dad to bring him.

I made it through to the regional championships in my first year - I was six years old. I was too light by less than a pound, but they felt sorry for me (being the youngest there) and allowed me to go through and wrestle. And surprise, surprise, surprise - I won. And there was no one there to watch me. My dad had a game of cards he said he had to go to. So no one came. When the bus dropped me off I ran over to the house where he was playing cards - ready to show him the trophy I won. I ran in beaming and shouted, 'look dad!' He just looked at me and said, 'well done'. And then returned to play his hand.

I can remember the number of times he attended my events - sport or whatever. It was less than a handful of times. He always had something to do at the office or out in the field. See, he was high up in the prison service in Apartheid South Africa. In fact, he was head of political prisoners for many years at Pollsmoor where many of the political prisoners were held. And he was a bastard at work as well. People used to get paid to hand out lashings and other corporal punishment to prisoners. And he made more money doing this than from his weekly wages when he was young. And he was always right at work. No one dared to question him. It was his way or the highway.

And this was where our differences really came to light. His political views and mine. His approach and mine. He supported Apartheid South Africa and I supported the struggle against Apartheid. I was open to change and he fought change everyday. And it all exploded in the late 80s and early 90s when it became clear that Apartheid was going down faster than the Titanic. He couldn't stand the fact that his world was falling apart. And he couldn't stand it that he was wrong. And he couldn't stand it that I was on the side that was fighting his believes.

I hoped that it would all become a bit better - at least once Apartheidi fell. His world view was proven wrong and it was time to look ahead now. He was retired and well off. He had everything in place to just enjoy the rest of his life. But no. He had to continue to make it his job to wind me up whenever we saw each other. To always say something racist about the new government, my job, and especially my hero Nelson Mandela.

But I could handle that. I just switched off and concentrated on giving my mother all my attention. She suffered on her own when I moved out so it was only fair that I gave her all the attention when I visited - she didn't get it from him when at home. But then we had our first baby - a little girl called Emma. And things changed completely. I did not want her to be exposed to any racism and expecially not to my dad's racist comments. So I made a rule - no one was allowed to make any racist remarks when visiting my house. Respect my space and family and I will respect you. But he couldn't. He continued to make his remarks. And so we just stopped seeing him and banned him from our house.

I saw my mother once in a while, but I went to see him and my mother together as little as possible. I would rather meet her on her own at the movies or a restaurant. I just couldn't face him anymore. He was everything I didn't want to be. And just seeing him made me become more like him. Full of hatred and distaste. And I didn't want to be like that.

Then I got a call in the middle of the night. It was my sister crying her heart out. My mother just died. My sister was visiting my folks and she woke up from a loud bang. My mother just shot herself. Fucking guns. I hate them. Even when they are locked up in a safe - just like my dad did. I raced through to my parents house and from then on had to sort out everything. The funeral, identifying her body, police investigation, picking up her stuff at the shops, keeping everyone from cracking, speaking at her funeral. I hated it. I felt it was wrong - I was the youngest of four kids so why did I have to do it? I didn't want to do it, but I did. Because someone had to do it. My dad wasn't going to do much. He was to distraught. And thinking of himself and how he feels.

But now I had only one parent left. I tried to talk to him. Say that we only had each other left now. That we should be the family my mother would like us to be. That we should leave all our shit behind and look ahead. That we should just focus on each other and the good things we saw in our family. Be what we would like to be for each other. Stop the shit and look at the good. And he agreed. We cried a little and looked ahead.

But it didn't last. He went back to the woman he was with when he cheated on my mom. Not thinking for a minute that it was going to drive my sisters crazy. They believed that my mom shot herself because my dad cheated on her. Me? I just don't know. She never left a note and I want to remember the good years we had - not a few crazy minutes. But my sisters took it hard. Blamed themselves for not taking her away from him. And when he went back to this woman. Well, I had to choose and I chose my sisters.

I went to talk to him. I told him that this wasn't going to work if he brings her into the family. That he should do what he feels is right, but he should never bring her into contact with me, and especially not my sisters. And he ignored me. It exploded the day before we left South Africa.

He phoned my older sister to say that he was going to marry this woman. And my sister cracked. Again. And I had to take it up with him. No one else was going to do it. So I phoned him and told him to stop the crap. To please just think for a minute about my sisters. And think about his responsibility as a dad. I can't even remember what he said. I really can't. I have been trying to figure it out for years now. But I just can't remember. But whatever he said made me explode. I have never been that pissed off with anyone. I shouted at him and told him to leave me and my sisters alone. That we are done. No more chances. And that I will personally come to beat him to a pulp if he doesn't leave my sisters alone. If he can't look after them then I will. And I will come back to South Africa at a drop of a hat if he ever, ever messed with them. And then I threw down the phone.

That was 2002. I saw him once in 2004 for about 30 minutes at a family gathering. And made sure that he wasn't at the next one. And I spoke to him once in 2005. But it was civil. As if I was talking to an aunt many times removed. he meant nothing to me and I was just being polite to him. Trying to not actually engage with him. Not calling him dad or anything for that matter.

And then I spoke to him in 2007. Less than 24 hours before he died. They phoned me to say that he had only a few days left - if that. They were keeping him alive. He has been suffering from his terminal case of leukemia for a few years. And it has now caught up. There is nothing more to do. Everything was failing. And so was he. And they told me he was waiting for my call. He just wanted that before he died.

So I phoned him. He answered, but I could hardly hear his voice. He was going and so was his voice. I kept quiet for a little while. Thinking what to say. I knew he was waiting for this call. But what was I going to say? What do you say to someone that never inspired you? To someone who was never there? But I also knew that I was like him - stubborn like hell. And I knew I owed him everything. I am who I am because of who he wasn't. He inspired me to become who I am. The anti him.

I took a deep breath and whispered slowly, 'It's okay dad. It's okay. Just take it easy. Don't worry. It's okay. Just let it go. We're okay'. I could hear the barely audible whisper back, 'thank you'. I said good bye and told him I will phone him again the next day. But there was no next day. He took himself off the machines and medicine - just after I phoned. And he died a few hours later on the same day.

It's okay though. It's okay.