A quiet little voice whispered, “namaste” and woke me up. This is a good start to any day, besides the cinnamon tea. I usually like the tea very much, but Mushami was getting it wrong somewhere. She had washed and rinsed out my crusty clothes, but I didn’t really give a shit. They will be drenched in my man sweat in 3 minutes anyway…

We sat for our morning oats and yak milk coffee, packed my bag and off we went back on the path to nowhere.

At this point I couldn’t work out which was hurting more, the unbearable aches and pains from muscles in my legs I never knew existed or the thought of the 6 hour step climb that Mika kept threatening me with. And kept mentioning some bullshit army story about some guy who did it in like 40 minutes. Idiot.

According to Mika these steps, we were now slowly conquering are one of the toughest parts on this trek and in this region. At one point I was so dehydrated and exhausted, my body started to shake heavily and almost rolled back down. I was having visions of weed plantations amongst corn(millie) trees on the side of the greenest mountain range you could ever imagine. Wait. This is real. My head is fine. My body. Completely BROKEN. We had no choice but to rest and drink some sugar water. Mika also snuck out his secret chocolate supply incase of emergencies… Sneaky little Nepali. Where the hell did he keep it the entire time?

I got a little scared at this point. What the fuck am I doing here?

The sight of our lunch stop was a true blessing. I almost started to cry.
I ordered the vegetable pasta, which definitely gave me a good hour to recoup and get the boots off to dry the damp socks and granny white feet.

After MANY encouraging words from Mika and 7 hours of walking through some of the most captivating scenery I could ever have imagined, we strolled slowly into a town called Ghorepani. This town seemed a little busier and bigger than the towns I had been passing through lately. It even had internet, which allowed me to send some emails out and let my family know I was alive, but not sure for how much longer. My poor mother… Everyone back home thought I was on the tv series, Survivor. Idiots.

I went for some food at a local “restaurant” and sat down to some of the best Nepali tea I had had so far. The lady “didi” did not speak a word of English, but did understand my pointing finger at the vegetable pasta and for everyone else, dhal bat.

There was another trekker who spoke English at this guesthouse, which was great as I was starting to become a mute. His name was Anthony and was from Singapore, he kept me quite entertained for hours telling me stories from Singapore.

He was saying that the punishment for drug smuggling in Singapore is to be hung.  For a crime like stealing a professional caner disciplines you. They have actually created careers for men who are taught in the art of discipline and various methods to inflict pain, the most commonly used being the cane. He says the severity of the punishments prevents crime, as criminals are too scared to even try anything, which is fucking awesome if you ask me.

Imagine bending over a perp in SA and try cane him… ha. “Awe! Dis Kinky”

Another interesting thing he said was that in Singapore the people there eat 4 meals a day rather than the usual 3. They eat breakfast, lunch, light dinner and dinner every single day, PIGS! (thats a big lean towards greedy if you ask me) I also met a man named Xavier, from Madrid and seemed a very well traveled and interesting person, but once again his english was limited and he just smiled allot. As most Spanish do when confronted with English.

There was so much food and as I finished more was added to the plate until I couldn’t have fitted one more bite. I needed it badly. I had/ have no body fat I can afford to lose.

The rain seemed to be getting allot worse and more frequent as we climbed higher, not to mention the temperature drop and the gusty winds. But it made good sounds for my mind to drift away into a very comfortable and much deserved sleep that night.

Did I mention I am still rolling on the hash…

Woke up to one of the most captivating and humbling sights I have seen in my entire life. The Annupurna range reaches heights of over 8000 meters, with luscious green forests and snow tipped summits all painting one of the most beautiful pictures I have ever stood in awe of, it literally can take your breath away.

The sun was now rising from behind this 8167m giant of a mountain and Mika managed to capture the perfect picture with me attempting the climb.

We then made our way to a nearby village where Mika had spoken of these special pancakes and boy was the man right! Fair enough I was so fucking hungry I could have chewed on his toe wart and felt comfortably satisfied. After eating a large quantity of pancakes and drinking as much cinnamon tea as possible we made our way onwards to reach the destination for the day, Tada Pani.

I am feeling far fitter and stronger today, I think my body is starting to adjust to the altitude and the trekking seems far easier. We managed to complete
the supposedly 6hour trek in 4 today even though I had to stop and pull the odd leech out from my leg. Leeches have suckers on both ends of their bodies and catapult there way up your boots and onto your legs. They first spray an anesthetic onto your flesh so you don’t feel their presence and as they launch their heads through your skin, in a similar fashion to ticks they release an anti-coagulant, which encourages blood flow and is then feasted on. Fucking leaches man.

As we arrived the rain bucketed down and continued to do so all day, giving me the perfect excuse to relax indoors and catch up on some rest. We sat by the fire and I mostly listened to Mika and the few who lived in the house speak Nepali and every now and again they laughed, which made me smile. They did teach me a card game similar to a game we play back home so learning it was quick and easy and before no time we were betting matchsticks.

I was annihilated very quickly and decided to take a shower after the days’ trekking. The shower was completely overrun with over 50 leeches all ready to pounce at the first mistake you make. Massive decision to make here… do I sleep disgusting or do I risk death with these sick evil fucks. I showered in my boots and checked the floors every second to ensure no leech had the audacity to try and drink my blood, DEVIL CREATURES!

Up there on the list for most traumatic event ever.

A few minutes reading and the odd page written in my diary provided the perfect ingredient to close my eyes. I think that either the altitude or the fact my body is being pushed to its outer limits during the day, that by night my dreams are filled with some serious levels of imagination. I was having some of the most abstract and strange dreams.  Who needs psychedelics when all you need to do is walk for 7 hours a day with 25 kgs on your back, not much food and very little sleep. Worth it.

Chapter 8: Chumrong

No need for an alarm and I am up and ready to go before 6 and had my first opportunity to wake Mika. The luxury of pancakes does not exist in Tada Pani so I settled for my usual jungle oats and yak milk, whilst Mika settled for his morning curry. Highly weird if you ask me, but it definitely works for him.

The mountains were completely covered in cloud this morning and gave no allowance for the perfect “tourist” picture. Summit views at this time of year are VERY small. The belief is that if  your karma is clear and you are pure of thought then the mountains will bless you. This is not good news if you are Richard Mellon.

The distance traveled today was the shortest we have had to combat so far on the trek, but the combination of leech checks and the amount of flies that swarmed your sweaty body all lead to the usual 6 hour walk I had now become accustomed to.

My shoulders were the source of most pain today and they had really began to burn. I am not even wearing half these fucking clothes I am carrying cross one of the largest mountain ranges in the shitting world! I dream of a massage, or even better I dream that one of the Nepali that we pass along the way offered to carry my load to the next stop. He never came.

After the final ascent, jumping from rock to rock we made our way through one of the largest and longest valleys in the world, the summit being Chumrong and another completed day.

This town was the smallest of all the towns we had stayed in so far. There were only 2 people, man and wife that kept this little “guest house” alive and did a fair job of it considering the altitude.

Chumrong is a no mineral water zone. Most idiot tourists were littering water bottles and so the call was to only allow boiled water. After walking the six hour day and wrestling the madness that is complete dehydration, the thought of recently boiled water was not super high on my list. But trust me, when you need. you settle.

I showered in my boots that evening as the thought of one more leach crawling up my legs and feasting on my flesh just didn’t sit well, all I desired was a relaxing wash.

The clouds crawled in as if they were creeping upwind to disguise their scent, and all of a sudden they were upon you. The rain beat down to a metallica soundtrack and I was in the midst of my first Himalayan rain storm.

For dinner, we feasted on one LARGE Mediterranean pizza that seemed to have more slices than toppings and with apple jam for flavor and one Everest beer for accompaniment I was one happy trekker. But absolutely crippled with pain.

I sat on the edge of that valley for the sunset and took in a strangely cold Everest quartz. It’s funny, you pray for the feeling of simplicity when all you have is complication and when simplicity takes control all you have then, is time.

That evening was definitely one of the coldest so far and is obviously only going to get colder and colder the higher you climb.

Bed time…

Chapter 9: Tolka

The day started fairly badly with the rain beating down hard, the flies against everything that sweats and my legs shaking at every half step. The walking did become easier eventually when your legs warm to it. The rain subsided a little, but the flies that escaped from hell are always there eager to get up all in my face!

Along this stretch of the journey Mika and I started to talk a bit more, but not much. He told me that the Nepali calendar differs to the western calendars and that on this day June 9^th 2006 it was the 6^th (Zest) February 2063. I am 8 hundred years old…

Another noted conversation was the confirmation that when I am in Thailand, there will be a full moon party. Shit. I am going to kill myself…

The steps we were climbing became more and more agonizing and my bag began to burn holes into my shoulders. I had no choice but to take a break and drink some water for a little while. The weakest time of the trip for me was right now. I seriously couldn’t climb another step. And just when you feeling the most frail, a challenge drop kicks your balls.

Out from the forest came this old frail maybe 70 year old man. He seriously had strings for muscles and hardly any strain in his breathe. He came charging past us. I only came to terms with his achievement once I caught a glimpse of his back and the 5 cases of beer strapped to his forehead. I couldn’t believe it and I was not letting gramps beat me!! I swung my bag over my shoulder and bolted up this 45 minute climb with Mika strolling behind giggling to himself. By the way. The old fucking man won.

What Mika forgot to mention while I was taking my hero run up the valley was the 2 hour walk down! The ascents are a strain, but I had no idea how the descents can kill your knees and calves. I learnt a new pain that day and I was scared. I had one of the most enjoyable showers of my life that evening in Tolka, followed by a large pasta and some great Nepali tea. Job done. Coma time.

Chapter 10: Dhampus

I ended up staying in Tolka for a couple of days. You have to acclimatize as you get higher and the air becomes thinner. You start to take shorter breathes and your body exhausts allot quicker. Its noticeable and quite an awesome feeling to realize where you are and how magical these mountains are. I know, that was a bit hippy. Cut me some slack on this one.

I spent most of the day watching this bird dive bomb this quaint little waterhole/lake on the side of the village. This bird has to be completely blind and is starting to let me down. Each attempt is interfered with complete lack of depth perception and “stevie wonder eyes” pulls up just short of the water on every dive. “Come on little guy, you can do it”

The little 5 year old girl of the house then showed captain retard, that the bird wasn’t fishing, but cleaning the lake. Yes. cleaning the lake. The bird would swan dive to the surface collecting as many leaves as beakly possible and drop it away from the dam. Magic. That was my day. Right there. Watching a bird clean a lake.

Anyway, back again.

That evening I was treated to yet another form of Dhal Bat (curry and rice) and sat with the men of the town. About 8 of us sat around a fire at over 3500m up. They were passing around a “red indian style” pipe and of course I needed to taste what the fuss was about. Why not? What could happen in the middle of nowhere where no mommy can save you.

It came my turn and up stepped captain green fingers. One hit. Seriously, only one hit. Man down. This special hash I was hoping for turned out to be freshly ground poppy seed from the town. Yes. OPIUM. I dropped my arms to my side and held onto my chair for dear life. My face was now pouring with sweat and when I say pouring… Buckets. I went neon white. Vomit, scared, hot, what was that, ooooolahlah thats nice, hang on…
These thoughts kept popping up and I meant to say popping. It was hectic. At one point I was closing my eyes tightly then freaking out and opening them wide. I was confused with what was scaring me more, reality or my imagination. I saw a purple reindeer. I dare you to believe me. Anyway, I didn’t last much longer and was dragged to bed to the sounds of the old guys chuckling to themselves and the never say die bird splashing the leaves from the lake. I heard it. Don’t be scared to believe me…

First major lesson of this trip. Don’t trust the SHERPAS! They lie. “Oh, its only 10 minutes over this 4000m high hill”; “Smoke this, it will make you feel nice”; “Curry in the morning makes you last the day”
Fuck off!

In the morning, we had to carry on and couldn’t afford an extra day off for my pain. I was not feeling okay. After 8 hours of serious mental exhaustion and some hatred, I walked slowly into Dhampus. I don’t want to talk about the things I was thinking or saying that day. I was cussing everything. I even let a leach suck me dry in the hope that he would suck on some OPIUM remains and die. Die in his leach gremlin body. See what I mean. Hate.

Chopper me outta here!

Back to Pokhara:

The banging started at about 5am and did not stop until the selfish man claimed the satisfaction of waking up the entire village! Fair enough, there were only 4 of us staying in the village, but I reckon we could have taken him! As accustomed to these early mornings as my body clock was, it did not like 5am with drenching rain outside!

On a quick trip note. There are so many marijuana trees everywhere. Its absolute stoner heaven. Each little village has its own little plantation of over 20 or 30 plants. I figure they obviously smoke allot and sell most of it to the traveling trekkers on this popular route through the Himalaya. On another note I have been having the craziest dreams I have had in my entire life. Last night was a mental dream about my dog back home being stolen and used for some underground street fighting syndicate. She won every fight obviously. Its my story. My dog is a killer.

We started our trek this morning with a 3 hour climb up our last peak and last push to the pick-up point. Not sure if it was me finally feeling fit or the thought of actually sleeping in a bed and a shower without leaches that pushed me comfortably through the last day. It all happened so quickly. Thick jungle climbing mountains. Rain, leaches, humidity and flies. A road. A bus. Trekking over.

The bus ride home was a good 4 hours of pure terror. I was crammed at the back, eyes closed and suffocated in people. But I did have some time to reflect on what had just happened to me and how my life needs to change immediately. They found peace in family and respect it every day of their lives.

I checked into my room in Pokhara and woke early to rent a kayak to tour the Phewa Tal Lake. I motored along and came across this little island in the middle of the lake. The locals had built this pulley rope bridge which chartered people to and from the island to pray. And trust me when I say it was not the safest of bridges and I am not so sure all these people can swim. I am going to move on I reckon. I can see a Wolraad Woltemade all over this lake!

I pulled over at a sign leading up to a look out point, Stupa. It was a bout a 45 minute climb to 1570m at the top. This climbing mountain goat didnt even feel it and was up no problem. A huge golden Buddah had been erected on the top that looked over the magical city of Pokhara. It was quite the sight and I spent a good few hours smoking a little and chatting to the odd tourist that came once every 2 hours. I stayed a while… It was time for an Everest Lager so I made my way down at sunset and off to the hotel. What a  chilled day. Needed that.

I keep thinking that I am waking up late, only to check the phone screaming 7am! this is not sitting well. I decided to rent an old Yamaha low rider and go for a cruise around the city. I took a route up to another look out point, Sarangkot. I met a very chilled guy playing guitar on a 6 string acoustic with only 4 strings. We shared a little Bob Marley ciggie and decided to take a mission into town and get his guitar some new strings and sort his shit out. It was definitely not the easiest mission in the world but we got it done and managed to spend the night chilling on the river playing some tracks and drinking beer. What a good way to end my time in the mountains before heading off to Chitwan National Reserve. I am keen to ride some elephants!

Thank you Himilaya. What an adventure!

After 10 years of existence and the strongest media foundation within the sport, the KPWT went from hero to zero in no less than a kiting season. A combination of politics within sport, desperate decisions and miffed riders collectively nailed the coffin closed for the promoter. Its a reality amongst sport that politics can quickly cloud the potential and positive influence it should demand.

I joined the tour at the first event of the 2009 season in Germany.

This is how I saw it…

I was invited on the tour by Frederic to help with his media and to assist the event manager, who was doing an apprenticeship. I think right from the very beginning it would have made sense to invest in someone qualified and stern to hold such an important role at such a very important time. A combination of silly errors and unqualified decisions were made and I was disgraced by it all.

There was a clear direction I wanted to go, but didn’t quite feel like I had the support, the trust or the understanding to hit the mark I intended. The riders, the lifestyle, the traveling, the parties, the new tricks, the madness of it all was interest enough to create a new attraction within kite. It was a huge opportunity to get stuck in and use this media structure that had been built over 12 years. I had access to over 130 000 contacts on every press release.

The KPWT saw Gisela Pulido at 12 years old, blowing spectators minds with potential. There were heats with Jesse Richman and Evandro Da Silva on Cauipe Lagoon that killed it. Leander Vyvey, “jesus walking” in tarifa, only to be dealt in the final by a solid Mike Blomvall. I remember 20knot double overhead wave conditions in Portugal and watching Kirsty Jones charging. What a pleasure! I had the best job in the world and the opportunity of a lifetime.

So back to Germany…

I started to see a few things surface and people seemed to trust me enough to begin to talk. For a professional world tour, I felt the core structure was not near the standard it should have been. I think the promoter had been so distracted with the “fight” for survival that less and less attention was directed towards progress.

It was made to work however and the event seemed to be run quite smoothly due to the experience of a few senior staff members. A German rider, Mario Rodwald won the event so all was good and with over 75 riders, it was a positive start.

During this event was the first time I heard the whisper of the IKA. At this point the IKA and the KPWT had an agreement. All events would be sanctioned by the IKA and an IKA sanctioned tour, meant a World Champion for the KPWT at the end of the season. This is NOT how the season ended.

A tax was demanded from the IKA for such a sanction. This is where I got very confused. I understand why the IKA wanted to govern the sport and move it in the direction of the Olympics and professionalism within the racing discipline, but why absorb the tours that represent the riders and the extreme side of its marketing potential. I understand they wanted a rulebook for all kiting events and to govern it as a whole for progressive reasons and of course safety for competitors.

They wanted an official world champion.

On the other hand, this is an extreme sport and the extreme elements are what attracts you to the sport and brings you exposure. When riders competed at these international events they had the opportunity to kite for their brands, for themselves and for the spectators. Lets not forget the prize money on offer. To be a professional, you need to be paid.

The KPWT promoter took a new exciting sport from nothing and built a World Tour for kite. Encouraging sponsorship for riders, exposure for all the international kiting locations and a new exciting marketing tool for brands. It was truly sad to see the potential and watch how it ended.

Back to Germany…

I thought things were a bit strange when I was offered the tour midway through the first event. It felt like danger was on its way and it was very evident. Not to me. I was still very much in awe of all that I was involved in and where I could help.

I do know that by the end of the first event in Sylt, the KPWT were in the process of being banned from the IKA and under serious threat to have all the events unsanctioned for unpaid taxes.

I also know that the KPWT introduced a new 5% prize money tax for the first time. A minimal charge really. But a decision that definitely encouraged bitterness rather than the support it hoped for.

At this point it truly felt, that no matter how much effort was put in and how hard we pushed, there was no room for error.

Spain started badly for the KPWT. The event scheduled for the Dominican Republic was cancelled on day 1. There were endless attempts to try and understand the circumstances with the local organizer. I understood it that it was not safe for her and there was not enough money to support the tour requirements. But still the stirs of the IKA were around and if the KPWT were still sanctioned…

The event for me showcased some top riding with, Mike Blomvall, Petr Tyushkevic and Alex Pastor all firing on good conditions.

However questions were now also coming up about the judging…

All that needed to change with the judging is to have consistent permanent staff on the judging team. There were some top judges, but they were never evenly balanced.

It was evident the cracks were now starting to show and by Portugal the KPWT was not sanctioned by the IKA. The argument was that the IKA had sanctioned events for other existing tours and the KPWT were under the impression that they would be the only tour to announce a World Champion under their scheduled season. This was not so. And the KPWT refused to pay the sanctioning fees. The IKA stopped sending a representative.

Threats were now issued to the riders by the IKA that if they competed in any further KPWT events they would be banned from the IKA and wont be ranked.

I understand the intentions of the IKA and their feelings towards the KPWT, but lets be fair. The riders want to compete. They want fairness. They need sponsors. They want to win prize money. They want to show off their talent. Give them the opportunity… Surely.

This was a confusing time for everyone.

Portugal had one of those days sent to earth by the wave-riding gods. Fully powered kites in double overhead waves with 3m faces to play with. Santa Cruz beach was cooking for a full day of heats.

France and Canada saw the diminishing of the registration list for the KPWT. A new discipline of sliders was introduced in Canada, which created a new excitement amongst the riders, but I think it was just a little too late. I think the KPWT needed to uphold its rebellious stand towards what was happening. Why the hell not. It is a rebellious sport.

In Dakhla Morocco, an unnamed rider wore the competition vest of another to disguise himself and won a heat he was not entered in. The promoter caught him as he left the water and disqualified both riders from competing. At a very delicate time and to evade embarrassment it was kept quiet. I felt this exemplified the feeling amongst the riders and the KPWT. They had just lost all respect and hope for a future within the tour.

Brazil started badly. Very badly.

Let me first say that Duro Beach is a sublime kiting location and if you looking for wind, warm water and flat lagoons, go to Cumbuco. A rider had registered for the Junior and senior competition. He won the juniors on day one and on day 2 when the senior heats were called out, he was not included. There was confusion between the then manager of the KPWT and the mother/translator of the rider at registration, and a mistake was made. Unfortunately for all concerned it was a mistake that cost the rider the opportunity to compete. This incident introduced the team to a highly volatile Brazil and we had a permanent bodyguard.

I felt completely safe, and was maybe not aware of what was really said behind the scenes, but I was told to be careful. All seemed a bit ridiculous and funny actually.

The IKF was founded at this time. From what it looked like it was merely an attempt to prove a point. Any event can be sanctioned by any “federation” and run, but could it really hold a stand under the sailing banner. The promoter invited us all to a dinner during the Brazil event and introduced us all to the new Director of the IKF. She did not speak English. From that point I was offered a salary to be the voice of the IKF.

The 2009 KPWT season ended in Essaouira Morocco, with a week of dismal wind and riders that had the look of no return. So the Champions were announced and the KPWT year completed for the 12^th time.

The next few months were spent in battle. Underhanded attempts were made to sabotage the tour, but the promoter did not surrender. Some said arrogance. Some said blind passion. But what a rollercoaster Jamaica turned out to be in 2010.

My flight from London to Kingston was a nervous one. I knew riders had promised to attend, but will they and will there be enough. Has everyone decided to compete under the IKA or are there those that just want to compete. All the IKA wanted was that KPWT drop the World Tour title.

What is a world tour? I would say a seasonal competition involving a sport, taking place across the world at various destinations. I support the IKA and what they are achieving for kiteboarding. It felt personal though. Should Fred have just dropped the title or was it worth too much? Would sponsors have pulled out? Would riders have competed?

I know some senior riders turned against the KPWT for good reason that could have been dealt with better, but lets also not forget the positive influence the KPWT had on their careers. It seemed as if the core of the KPWT needed to be dealt with first before any other improvements could be ensured.

On arrival into Kingston all seemed fine and my name was announced at the airport for an easy transfer to the event site. This is the point where it all just went very wrong. I found it strange the Promoter of the local events company was not to be found and the event site was not even half completed. This was a day before the event.

Deposits were made by riders for accommodation, vendors invested at the event site and deposits by the KPWT had been confirmed. The argument from the local, Eugene was that the KPWT had not delivered on its rider quota. They aborted the event immediately and were impossible to find. Even from the local authorities. The promoter and myself had to pay a truck driver to take us to the event site and transfer all the rider’s gear to the hotel. It was not a safe environment and I had to do my best to soften the angry vendors and explain the situation.

Jamaica tourism then got heavily involved in attempts to protect its newly established reputation amongst the kiting community. To date. Jamaica has not hosted a world tour event again.

They took the riders and the team on excursions around the island while solutions for the event were researched to no avail.

That evening the KPWT team was called to a dinner. The promoter was in a very emotional place and as disappointed in him as I was. It was not a nice thing to see. He made a desperate mistake at the risk of all concerned. He should have taken a stronger deposit that protected the team and the riders. I am still to this day owed a few thousand euros.

We were all hurt. Was it a set up?

I did not feel safe on that island and the tourism office applied allot of pressure on my media releases and what I was allowed to reveal. I literally, jumped into a cab and fled to the UK. I probably should have stayed and looked after the riders. I was completely frustrated and felt that I had no other option.

It was all there. 10 years of successful events, a huge media structure, world-class competitors, perfect locations, good prize money and no sanctioning…

Why were the sanctioning fees not paid? Why not secure a core judging panel? Kite locations at windy times of year? Less events? Community amongst riders and staff? Unpaid event bills? Solid respected contracts? Invest in a secure rulebook? Or just ask for help…

Was it just sadly, that personal… Was it just that “he” needed to be taught a lesson. What had “he” done so wrong in the end, but produce a tour that took the riders to the ends of the earth…

Since that day there has almost been a KPWT silence.

Where has Frederic gone?

A brief drive down the national road, a left drift onto the R300 and 5 minutes down AZ Berman drive.
Welcome to apartheids dumping ground.

The Cape Flats is recognized now only with violence, fear and pain. Where is the support? Why are these communities ignored?

As I drove into Mitchell’s Plain town centre, a lady struggled across the road in her wheel chair. My heart sank at the thought of what she must endure every day. It was then explained that she was the most successful thief in the town centre. My opinion did not change.

Fair enough, we are the makers of our own fate. But did she really have a chance…

The walls are riddled in graffiti, from one gang tag to the next. “I kill for love”, “Death iz eazy when you got nothing” “Gangsta hell”

Just try to imagine walking down those streets as a 5 year old. The eyes I saw that day were not filled with ambition, happiness and love. They were vacant. The flats are built on depression, large scale unemployment, homelessness and gangsterism.

I had a bodyguard with me today. It just makes more sense to take a local representative to handle the “exchanges” for the pictures I took. It can be a little tense when your eye is to the camera and you are frantically shooting in the 3 minutes you have with a 26 pointing a knife at you. The bodyguard moved me from location to location quite often to avoid a crowd that built behind me.

The characters I did meet were all members of the numbers gang. The numbers form a national brotherhood amongst all the prisons within South Africa and control every one of them.

They explained to me the ranking system and the role each rank must uphold. I tried to ignore the reality of what they had become, but concentrated more on what they have had to endure.

I wanted to know more than they were willing to reveal. What do these “tattoos” represent? I asked question after question… Education? Family? Sport? Work?

Surely these are all warranted when talking to a 27yeard old human being? All of which encouraged the same silent painful response. “I cannot say”

As you are ranked within the numbers gang they mark your shoulders with stars. The more stars, the higher the ranking. It’s that simple. The top members of the 28’s usually only “wear” their stars. You don’t often find other markings or tattoos on them. They are the generals and are not to be touched.

The men I took pictures of were riddled in cartoon characters, female and male genitalia, numbers, dollar signs, blades, badly spelt text, symbols of death and various animals. To me, it felt that these tattoos were not condoned and forced on the victim. It seems to be a demonstration of whose “bitch” is whose and what role they are now scarred to fulfill, within the number.

It does not seem like a pleasant experience. Using a blade to cut horrifying designs into your skin and rubbed over with ink creating your destiny.

I hope to spend more time within the flats, learning, helping and doing whatever I can to show you the reality that seems to be avoided. Is it really the case where South Africa has literally placed these people there with nothing but a painful destiny to dream of.

“Do the world a favor and give it horns”

My original plan was to go full throttle and head over to Vegas for 4 days. Unfortunately for Vegas, we were not quite ready. Instead I got booked on a job for Fat Face to camera assist in Italy. My flight was on Sunday the 8th May, initially being the 6th, two days before D-Day.

Did someone say Rafikis showdown? Sorry family. I know you had plans of a quiet weekend chilling at Arabella, but Windhoek is calling.

At about 7, just before the rugby, things kicked off with Ash and Stormie…
From about 9, those who had been sent to put me down arrived. I have been told.  At this point brief flashes of glory are the only memories I have. I remember stroh rum on fire, I remember “do you have any shrooms?”, I remember “NO Steve, I wont let you eat my balls in the toilet!”, “One more of you fuckers flirt with my little sister and shit is kicking off”, I remember cheese joints, I remember looking for keys I didn’t ever have, I remember calling a drink time out and I remember not going home alone…
When did buying your mate a shooter stand in good stead as a present?!

Into mothers day I went. Brunch was at my sisters spot in town for mom. It started at 11 I think and my flight was at 2. I was fucked. My eyes were orange red. I had the rehab shakes. My skin was now a completely new pantone somewhere between lime green and pink. Vomiting allot at this point. I took a shower and digested some “mypies” before driving very slowly and wide to my sisters. On arrival I think I puked. I found a warm couch and lay there while everyone convinced little Ashton that his uncle cant play with him because he is ill. More like on his last few beats before hell! My mom looked worried.

They ate. I took abuse for a bit and said goodbye. Greatest achievement so far as an almost 30 year old was making it there that morning.

Kirsty picked me up and took me to my grave.
I had to fly via joburg to Frankfurt. I am not kidding when I tell you that for about 14 hours of flying, I was sick for maybe 10 of those hours.
The lady next to me on the aisle seat, bless her, complained that I looked like I was going to die. But she also wanted to be moved or for me to be escorted off the plane. It was hilarious amongst all the fear and now serious claustrophobia I was feeling. They moved me into business class, which I thought was very sweet considering they were “european”  and there I lay for the last few hours.

I landed into Frankfurt at about 6am and called a friend to come collect me so I can shower and try feel normal again. My lay-over was 7 hours before flying to Verona so I had some time to chill. I still couldnt eat a thing! But my body was fighting through. As long as I moved slowly…

Finally I landed in Verona, where I realized I didn’t know where to go, who to talk to or how I would contact anyone. Shit man.
I saw a flight that arrived 45 minutes after my flight from London so I figured some of the crew would be on that and we would head out together. This was not how it played out… Besides some of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, no Fat Face crew.
I had no cash now, was starving and didnt quite know what I was going to do. The next flight was in 4 hours from UK.
I sat it out… The airport is about 50m wide with one coffee shop and a tourist office. I changed in those 4 hours…

The crew did eventually arrive and we were all picked up and taken to our accommodation on the shore of Lake Garda. Rock n Roll…

Italy:

The drive from Verona is about an hour and we jumped in with Simon. He’s English and had driven the 15 hours in a van down from Portsmouth. The man is my hero. He could kill a gorilla with those tennis racket hands and I am pretty sure I saw him pick up a boat!
Simon works in sea rescue and trust me when I tell you he can solve any disaster. Seriously, give him world peace, one week and some cable ties. Problem solved.

There were 4 models brought over from the UK, 2 of which were South African. They were up for anything and we had some good laughs throughout the trip. I thought it was very well casted. And I am a professional on models… Trust me. I am international.

We stayed in a caravan park called Fornella Village on the waters edge of Garda Lake. I met the Fat Face team and was shown where I would be staying for the trip. They all looked very concerned at the state I was in. Good impression Rich…

I opened the door to #6 caravan and there sat the photographer, Nigel and the digital assistant Ryan, who everyone calls Dave, in their boxers. They thought it would be hilarious to turn the air-conditioning to the lowest temperature and pretend like all was fine. It was polar in there. I am not kidding. That night I shivered myself in and out of hypothermia for about 6 hours until the sun eventually came up. I had slept maybe an hour, was frozen and still had the kind of headache that needs 24 hours on a pillow.

Happy 30th…

We started shooting at the pier early morning. Believe it or not, Nigel needed some reflection from the water onto the models faces. My job. Fuck man. This is glacier water and very early. Nigel is smiling far to much! Revenge is rushing through my veins!
And in my boxers I stood waist deep holding a small reflector smiling at two very cute models. Give and take huh.

The evening was spent drinking champagne and Grappa, eating pizza and enjoying the 13th century sights on display through the San Felice Valley.
I was bumped, which was new to me and involves a person at each limb and thrown into the air for each year lived. Unfortunately for my body, I was 30.
I had a great night and sat up with Nigel and “Dave” sharing war stories. Someone had spent their first day in Italy trying to hunt down the most disgusting prostitute he could find as a birthday laugh on me. “Unfortunately” all the “models” were very hot and expensive so the mission was unsuccessful… or was it.

Thank you Fat Face!