I’ve done my time in Plettenberg Bay (my fondest memory would be hitch-hiking and later jumping out of a moving car because the driver was about to rape me) and Knysna but, until this last weekend, I haven’t had the pleasure of partaking in the annual Knysna Marathon and the off-shoot of the event which can only be described as a beer fest of biblical proportions.
Before I get into it I just want to say that I thank God that we took the helicopter to Plettenberg Bay. Flying over Sir Lowry’s Pass allowed us a first hand glimpse of what long distance road travellers had to deal with on Sunday. Thousands of cars, not moving an inch. It really makes so much sense to take the chopper – we don’t use it enough.
I doubt I’ll ever get to the story as there are so many things I want to mention. They flash at me in my brain like cue cards. And I’ve just had a flash in my brain that said ‘DOLPHIN’. That has reminded me to chat to you about the dolphin statue in Plettenberg Bay. I haven’t been up there for a while so I don’t know how long it has been there for, but it is something to behold. I can’t quite put my finger on what amuses me so much about it. It’s just in the middle of nowhere, on a concrete pillar, on a traffic circle. Or do you say traffic island? I tried saying ‘traffic island’ once but I kept getting visions of a traffic circle complete with palm trees, hammocks and Richard Branson. The traffic circle I am referring to is probably the width of my perenium. When looking at the statue, you are presented with two bronze dolphins smiling, LEAPING into the air. I think another thing that amuses me is imagining the meetings and decisions and objections and fuss that must have gone on within Plett’s municipal council during the inception, design and installation of the statue. I have an idea, Plett Council – Maybe you should melt down the excited bronze dolphins and use it to make coins (Glenwood). You could use the coins to pay for re-paving the Plett Main Road which is not too dissimilair to the state of some of the rural roads found in the greater Iraq regions.
Moving swiftly on, we have been blessed with a new RIDICULOUS nightclub name. The venue for our first night in Plett is a nightclub called ‘VIP’. Please do not be confused and think this stands for Very Important People. No, no, that is incorrect. I saw the sign, and I read it. It stands for……
[brace yourself]
Vegas In Plett
I know.
When these guys and girls get together to invent club names, it is almost certainly [insert your own particular God/Creator here]’s way of humouring the normal people (or ‘non-normal’ if you look at the ratio of simples vs semi-intelligents). For me, Vegas in Plett (VIP) is a treat. The little angels dancing so nicely brought a smile to my face that totally erased the natural horror one experiences when walking into no-frills nightclubs of this sort. The bouncer at the door obviously had no idea of how important our entourage was. I tried to explain to him that in Cape Town he wouldn’t be allowed to talk to me and he should maybe remember this very moment so that he can tell his grandkids one day. My sentence was way too long for him and his attention had drifted to a potential fight that was about to ensue near the entrance. We paid and went in.
I opted to watch the rugby from my jacuzzi instead of running 21 kilometers. I lied to several people that I had, in fact, run. When asked what my time was, I went for the cool angle of stating one’s time in minutes, rather than hours. So instead of saying “One hour, thirty three minutes”, I would say “Ninety three minutes”. It gives the impression that you run many marathons during the course of the year.
Before this article turns into a short story I’ll jump straight to Crab’s Creek, which was, and is, the venue for the binge drinking exercise which follows the marathon. I pulled in at around sunset (many arrived at 11am) and was presented with a plethora of drunkards stumbling around like a scene out of ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest ‘ (I think it is particularly unfair that cuckoos had no say WHATSOEVER in being called something which contains the word ‘cuck’ in it). Something happened in the first two minutes which rendered me alone. All on my own in a place that I had never been before. With drunkards flying around at high speed, panic set in. As an only child I should be able to handle being alone. But when you’re not surrounded by lego and radio controlled cars, it can snowball into disaster. I was a scared little boy for the first five minutes. My mild panic attack subsided by the third beer.
To mention the bouncer at Crab’s creek in the middle of another paragraph would be rude. No no, this individual needs his own paragraph. With a neck the size of an eight year old, healthy male gorilla, he sauntered calmly around the fest, seemingly deep in thought. His eyes scanned the area for any unrest. I stopped everything I was doing and had a good look at this fellow. I was (and still am) worried about him. He obviously had a height complex as a child, because this could only be the result of something buried deep inside his psycho profile (”psycho profile”? I don’t know where I get this shit). Anyway, I just feel sorry for him and want to hold him – Hold him and rock him to sleep. I want to tickle him and shower him with gifts. I want him to know that we love him for who he is. I want to tell him that the original size of his penis is more important than his shoulders expanding up above his head.
Stamp-like sheets of coupons had to be bought in order to buy any form of drink at Crab’s Creek.. The coupons had values on them which were to be given to the bar staff in exchange for alcohol. I still am very confused about all of it. Crab’s Creek is either a theme park in the daytime and they have introduced something fun called the Crab Dollar, or (and this is what I believe) the coupons we used was ACTUAL CRAB MONEY that crabs use when they buy stuff. Like when the crabs go to the Crab Spar and buy plankton and tadpoles and shit like that. So I assume the crabs that run the creek insisted that the humans can use their creek ON CONDITION that the humans used Crab Dollars. For some reason we were calling them Zim Dollars towards the end.
So that was fun. Pretending to be crabs. Pissed crabs with crab money.
“Hello! I’m a crab! Can I have a beer please?!”
[hold you arms out straight and point your hands at each other, snapping them like crab pincers]
“Sure little crab! That’ll be twelve Crab Dollars!”
“Thank you barcrab!”
Ok, I think that’s enough now. By the way, where do Crab’s Creek get their barman from? The one guy has almost definitely killed someone before. Now he lives amongst crabs.
He is a crab whisperer.
I have to go to bed now. This could go on forever.
