Rugby has always been more than a game in my family; it's a thread woven through generations, binding us with tales of triumph, heartbreak, & the sheer grit of the scrum. Hanging on the wall of my house is a sepia-toned photograph of Riebeeck Elliot, the rugby legend of our clan. Known as “Windhond” for his blistering speed on the wing, he toured Argentina as a Junior Springbok in the thirties. In that faded image, he's captured mid-stride, lean and fierce, his eyes locked on some distant try line. As a boy, I'd stare up at it, imagining the roar of foreign crowds & the dust of South American pitches. Riebeeck wasn't just a player; he was a symbol of what rugby could mean freedom, adventure, & a dash of immortality. Little did I know then that my own story with the oval ball would be far less glamorous, marked by mud, mates, & one catastrophic collapse.

My earliest rugby memories take me back to the green fields of Wartburg Primary School in the mid-1970s. I was a lanky kid, more enthusiasm than skill, but I found my place at the back of the scrum as an eighth man. There's something primal about those schoolboy games, the smell of fresh-cut grass, the sting of tackles, the camaraderie of a team of misfits charging forward. We'd play barefoot half the time, on makeshift pitches, dreaming of one day donning the green & gold. Rugby wasn't just sport; it was our rite of passage, a way to prove we were tough enough for the world.

My father, ever the enabler of these dreams, introduced me to the Boks early on. In the mid-seventies, he bundled us into the Mercedes for a trip to King's Park in Durban to watch the Springboks take on the French. I was barely old enough to grasp the rules, let alone the international rivalry, but the atmosphere was electric, a sea of flags, the thunder of boots on turf, and the collective heartbeat of thousands. The game itself is a blur now; what I remember is the chaos afterward. In the throng of exiting fans, I wandered off, lost in the maze of concrete stands and vendor stalls. Panic set in as the crowds thinned, & hours ticked by before I was found, not by my frantic parents, but by my dad's cousin, who scooped me up like a wayward rugby ball. That day taught me rugby's first hard lesson: the game doesn't end on the field; it spills into life, full of unexpected twists.

By the time I reached high school at Grey College in Bloemfontein, rugby had become my obsession. Grey was a rugby powerhouse, where the sport was religion and the first team were our gods. Every Saturday, we'd pack the stands to watch them battle it out, the air thick with chants and the crack of collisions. Our matric year had its share of glory and gut-punches. We lost badly to Queens College, where Daryll Cullinan, yes, the future cricket star, and Gary Loest carved us up like a Sunday roast chicken in Hamilton Hall. Another game etched in my mind was against Grey High, where our player Spiertjies who played flyhalf got carded for some overzealous play, leaving the team short-handed and seething. At Grey I played in the front row, alternating between prop and hooker, where the real war was waged, grunting, heaving, & holding the line against opponents who seemed twice my size.

But rugby giveth & rugby taketh away. My playing career came to a shattering end on those very Grey fields during a loose scrum that collapsed like a house of cards. I remember the pop, the white-hot pain, and then being carted in an ambulance after being injected with morphine to Universitas Hospital. My leg was broken in 27 places, a mosaic of fractures that required months of rehab. The doctors said I was lucky to walk again, let alone run. That injury closed the door on my dreams of higher honors, but it opened my eyes to rugby's brutal beauty. From then on, I was a spectator, a fan whose passion burned brighter from the sidelines, with the occasional appearance for the Crocs.

The 1980 British Lions tour remains the pinnacle of my rugby-watching life, a series that captured the nation's soul. I was in Standard 6 at Grey, wide-eyed & wild-hearted, when I went to Bloemfontein Stadium for the second test against the Springboks. We snagged seats right on the try line with Ian Delport, sitting on the fietsbaan, so close we could feel the spray of sweat from the players. The Lions were formidable, but the Boks were on fire that day. Gysie Pienaar, our local hero, ran them ragged, culminating in a spectacular try right in front of us. He dove over the line, ball clutched tight, then leaped up, punching it skyward like a conquered trophy. The crowd erupted; I screamed until my throat was raw. There's a historic photo of that moment, Gysie in triumph, the Lions deflated, & if you look closely in the background, there's a scrawny kid losing his mind. That was me. I talked about it non-stop to my dad, badgering him until he caved & took us to the final test at Loftus Versfeld in Pretoria. The Boks clinched the series, and I felt like I'd been part of history.

Fast-forward to 1995, and rugby was evolving – more professional, more global. South Africa was hosting the World Cup, a symbol of our post-apartheid rebirth. I watched the quarterfinal against Samoa with my brother Andre and my mate Jose, at the famous Ellis Park. The Samoans were demons on the field, tackling with a ferocity that bordered on mythical. Brian Lima, the “Chiropractor,” crunched into the Boks like a human wrecking ball, leaving bodies in his wake. Andre Joubert, our fullback maestro, broke his hand early but soldiered on. Chester Williams stole the show with a hat trick, his speed and guile turning the tide. That game was raw, visceral, a reminder that rugby could be as beautiful as it was brutal. We celebrated late into the night, toasting to a team that embodied our nation's resilience.

The late nineties brought me abroad, chasing rugby adventures across Europe. In Lyon, France, I witnessed Andre Joubert, the “Rolls Royce of Fullbacks”, single-handedly dismantle the French side. It was a masterclass: his sidesteps, his vision, his unflappable calm under pressure. I was there in the stands, decked out in Bok gear, when the camera panned to the crowd. Back home, my mom spotted me on TV and called immediately, not to cheer my fame, but to ask, “What happened to your hair?” The story behind that buzz cut is pure serendipity. Earlier that day, we'd bumped into a busload of US Marines from Germany at a McDonald's. Two were South Africans, homesick and hyped for the game. They invited us aboard for lunch, beers from their cooler boxes, stories swapped over burgers. In a moment of inspired idiocy, they suggested I get a Marine haircut. Why not? A few hours later, shorn like a recruit, I was beaming on national television.

The celebrations continued post-game in a cozy kerb site establishment, where a group of Frenchmen next to us bought rounds of apple cider. Amid the laughter & clinking glasses, I fell head over heels for the waitress, her smile, her accent, the way she navigated the chaos with grace. It was a fleeting crush, but in that moment, rugby had gifted me more than a win; it had opened doors to the world.

Not all trips ended in victory. The test at Twickenham against England was a heartbreaker. We were in it until the dying minutes when Stefan Terblanche, our winger, dropped a straightforward ball in-goal, gifting Jeremy Guscott an easy try. The loss stung, but the pub afterward was legendary. Emboldened by pints, we belted out “Shove that chariot up your ass”, a cheeky twist on their anthem, narrowly escaping the ire of the English fans. For that game, I'd borrowed a massive South African ceremonial flag from the High Commission & tied it to a long pole I'd “liberated” from our hotel. Waving it like a madman, I made national TV again, a blurry green-and-gold blur in the highlights.

My TV streak culminated in Dublin at Lansdowne Road, where the Boks trounced Ireland. The Guinness flowed like the Liffey, warming us against the Irish chill. After the final whistle, still buzzing from the win, I gave an incoherent interview to an Irish broadcaster outside the stadium gates. Slurring praises for the team and the pint in my hand, I must have sounded like a true rugby philosopher, or a complete fool. Either way, it was broadcast back home, adding to my accidental fame.

Looking back, rugby has been my life's try line, a pursuit of glory amid the tackles and tumbles. From Riebeeck's legendary tours to my own shattered leg, from lost-child escapades to international escapades, it's shaped who I am. It's taught me resilience, the joy of brotherhood, and the thrill of the chase. Even now, as I glance at that sepia photo on the wall, I feel the pull of the pitch. Rugby isn't just a game; it's the story we live, one scrum at a time.

Rugby at Grey College

At Grey College, rugby isn’t just a sport—it’s a way of life, woven into the very fabric of the school’s identity. Some might call it religious fervor, but I see it as a means to an end, much like American football in U.S. schools. The passion for rugby fuels school spirit, builds camaraderie, and ensures Grey’s legacy endures. It’s not about worshipping the game; it’s about what it does for the boys who pass through those hallowed halls. Braam Fischer, a Grey scholar & rugby player, embodied this. He played, he contributed, and he moved on, just as I did.

I went to Grey, and like many, I played rugby. In the lower standards, I found myself on the B team, eventually scrumming down in the front row for the Crocs. The Crocs weren’t the first team, nor were they the Cherries, but they were ours. The Head of Rugby’s job is clear: manage the Crocs and Cherries, mold them, and push the first team to be the best in South Africa. It’s a system, a machine, not unlike the Head of Mathematics drilling algebra into our heads. One’s not better than the other, just different. At Grey, we don’t say, “I played rugby at Grey.” We say, “I went to Grey.” That’s the badge we wear, rugby or not.

Nihil Stabile Quod Infidum. Nothing is certain that is untested. That motto hung over us, on and off the field. Playing for the Crocs, I learned lessons no classroom could teach. In the front row, you’re not just pushing against the opposition, you’re pushing against yourself. Grit, resilience, trust in the bloke next to you: these were the real trophies. I’m on the Grey Honours board, not for rugby, but for my own contributions. No rugby player ever claimed their name shone brighter than mine, nor mine than theirs. At Grey, it’s not about why your name is etched up there, it’s that you’re part of something bigger.

The scrum taught me that. You lock in, head down, & drive forward, knowing the team’s behind you. Maths class gave me logic; the Crocs gave me heart. Both shaped me, driving me to feel alive.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

My dear old friend Francois,

As you begin this celestial journey across the vastness of eternity, I reflect not with a soul of sorrow but with happiness.

I’m a cold blooded mathematician. A person who knows that life is finite and the rest irrational. The problem is that in such a perception there is no joy to the soul and our life’s essence is to be there with not only equations but our mind pacified by poetry. But truth be told, that bard Shakespeare is a bit of an extremist.

In our youth at school we had our distance, nothing but passing acquaintances and ships in the night. However, our last meeting and engagement turned that on its head and we then became old friends. You made an effort to reach out and engage with me to ask me about my life. I learnt that you had your own problems, of the heart, the spirit as well as the physical, of what Dr Barnard called a pomp. It did eventually seize, like an old Lister diesel.

Hearts are the essence of our being. It symbolises love. We treat it like a biological function but that restricts it and it also then restricts our thinking as hearts are both tangible as well as intangible. In the tangible form hearts pump blood and in the intangible form they orchestrate our feelings.

Ons laaste handskud was by die Grey reunie met ons maters van 84. Ek het met jou gepraat oor daardie Grey High game toe jy afgestuur is. Jy het gesê die los voorspeler het jou altyd laat gevat, die ref het dit laat gaan en jy het jou moer gestrip. Ek het gesê ek sou sommer my moer gestrip het met die eerste laat tackle. Ons het lekker gelag en ons is toe geroep vir die klas foto. Op daardie foto sien ek jy het nog 'n groot grin op jou gesig.

I have no idea what made you happy, old friend, as you have departed our world to others. Maybe I should have asked in our final conversation but I’ll tell you about a small thing that makes me happy. I love watching sunbirds feed on Leonurus as I always find it uplifting. You see the orange flowers are mathematical perfection in symmetry and shape. A pure equational representation. Then a sunbird arrives, sun glancing off its plumage, its wings power an aerial dance of extravagance before it feeds on the nectar of the Leonorus. Like a Marilyn Monroe sipping on fancy pants French Champagne in a classic movie.

Next time on my walks when I seek the above happiness, I hope I’ll find a feather. The feathers are where the physical and spiritual world are briefly bridged. Where angels indicate to us their existing presence. I reflect on them which includes my wife, my brother, my son as well as my parents. And now I know, old friend, that you are also there, present with a grin and reaching out with a handshake in the form of our alma mater’s traditional greeting.

Viva la Grey Ronald

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

A dark night

The roads in the Natal Midlands after the First World War were dark & dusty at night. There were very few tarred roads and not many cars. The Union of South Africa had been established a decade before with Louis Botha as the first Prime Minister and the country was busy expanding its rail network. In the Midlands, the trains were required for the wattle and sugar cane fields. Jan Smuts was the current prime minister and ESKOM, the power utility had just been established & the country was planning widespread deployment of coal fired power stations. Currently with rolling blackouts hitting the country we are going back to those dark and dusty times.

My paternal grandmother and her sister's family were in a car which on one dark night collided with a train. The result was the death of her sister's husband and their two children. My grandmother and her sister survived although they each had numerous broken bones. In those years, cars were rare and mass production had only started a decade before in the United States of America. The owner of that car was Herman Gielink who was relatively well off and a successful farmer.

I can imagine the pain of Hulda, my grandmother's sister at the loss of her husband, Herman Gielink. I have experienced something similar with the loss of my own wife. The feelings associated with the loss of her children would have been amplified as I have also lost a child. When my dad was born, nearly a dozen years after the accident, Hulda was his godmother and they formed a tight bond.

Hulda went to stay with my grandmother and Gielink’s farm was one on which my grandparents lived and farmed. My grandfather as a result was secretary of the local farmer’s association that owned a butchery. Hulda received a substantial inheritance from her husband but would squander a significant portion in funding the cult movement established by Engelbrecht after the Second World War known as Bible House. She was easy prey given her circumstances.

The pocket watch

My father was given Hulda's husband's pocket watch. Herman had it in his pocket that fateful day and it was one of his prized possessions that he inherited from his own father. The first wristwatches had only been worn a few years before in the First World War and were not yet widely popular. Wristwatches were invented by Cartier for a pilot friend. They became popular amongst pilots and soon after that amongst the general population as they were more practical, but in South Africa at the time of the accident, they were still scarce.

The pocket watch is an American Watch Company one with serial number #1238480. It was manufactured at the time of the First Boer War by Waltham in Massachusetts and would have been in use for more than forty years before that accident. Since then it has been in a drawer during my father's lifetime and in a display cabinet currently in my house.

The pocket watch does not tell a story. It is a reflection. It does not know the horror of the accident or the pain of a mother & wife. I do not collect watches but here it is, the last memory and association of a family that ended tragically on a train track.

Explosion

My dad also nearly did not make it further than his twenty second birthday. After he completed High School, he went to work on the family farm as his dad was too ill to continue by himself. He was involved in a petrol tank explosion soon afterwards. He welded a leaking tank, not realizing that even though it was empty the fumes would explode. His life was saved by a doctor who had served during the Second World War in North Africa & was familiar with treating the burn wounds that often-inflicted soldiers that had been under attack with artillery incendiaries. The healed burns were visible on his body, especially his legs and balding head. My dad would not have survived if the skills of an experienced burn doctor were not available in the improbable backwater of Greytown, KwaZulu-Natal. The doctor suggested altitude treatment and as a result my dad became a pilot. The flights were subsidized and thus cheaper with a minimum of fifty flights required to qualify.

During this time in the early fifties Engelbrecht started his cult. My father’s brother Heinz was forced to leave school at the age of fifteen to take over my dad’s responsibilities on the farm while he was recovering in hospital from his burn wounds.

The bastard

When my dad finally recovered from his injuries the farm on which my grandparents lived was not a pleasant & welcoming place. His sister had been raped and the Engelbrecht cult had forced him to distance himself from his own family. So, my dad leased a farm named Seafield in Richmond from a wealthy landowner in that area of the province. The terms of the lease were so written that a missing payment would result in a forfeit, but after several years, my dad would become the owner. My dad was struggling to make the payments, so he went to visit the landowner. When he arrived at the house of the landowner, he encountered the wife walking down the driveway. He said he had come to talk to her husband, and she responded by saying her husband was a bastard and continued down the driveway and left. The talks with the bastard were not fruitful and my dad was coming to terms with the realization that he would lose the farm. He also heard that the landowner had written up these types of contracts before with other leasees and had seized the farms on default. He was helped in making payments by some of his school mates, most notably Rolf Wohlberg who would later be the best man at his wedding.

My dad would buy the Natal Witness religiously every day. He says that one day, on the front page, the headline story was about his nemesis. An attempted reconciliation between him & his wife had ended in disaster. She had shot & killed him. He went to see the lawyer of the estate, who handed the farm’s lease papers over to him. It seems the lawyer wanted one less problem to solve. My dad said he immediately went to the pub to celebrate with his friends & school mates. It was an amazing bit of fortuitous tragedy.

He was still in social contact with his family & one Christmas Eve in a conversation with his brother Heinz, he boasted that he could run the Comrades Marathon. His brother said he would easily beat my dad and his time as he weighed less. This inspired my dad to show up his brother! The Comrades Marathon is a yearly ultra-marathon between the two Kwazulu-Natal cities of Durban & Pietermaritzburg. My dad completed the race finishing in 69th place while running in tennis shoes. His brother never ran the race. My father would proudly wear his Comrades jacket and his stories of the race influenced my brother to attempt it as well. My brother would eventually complete ten Comrades Marathons, including several silver medals. Both my father and brother have plaques on the Comrades memorial wall.

At the start of the sixties South Africa had a referendum to become a republic. My dad was in the middle of Natal which widely voted against becoming a republic. My dad however, decided to be part of the ones who wanted a republic and assisted at the voting tables for becoming a republic. One of the teachers at the school in Richmond decided to teach my dad a lesson for being so cheeky in his opinion and attempted to burn down my dad's property, the Seafield farm. He was caught out, apprehended, and lost his job.

Shortly afterwards he met my mother at the wedding of his neighbour Pierre du Toit. My mother was the only daughter of JT and Joey Elliott. Joey was in fact Johanna Maria Magdelena nee Bruyns. Joey was a bit perturbed that her daughter was interested in a wattle tree farmer from the sticks in Richmond, but JT said he trusted his daughter to make her own decisions.

My dad sold the farm in Richmond and used that as a deposit together with inheritance from Hulda and a Land Bank loan to buy three farms in the district of uMshwathi. This is the farm named Oakvilla that would be my home for the first fourteen years of my life. He farmed vegetables which included potatoes. I clearly remember the variants as BP1, Up to date and Pimpernel. We also had cabbages on the farm and the occasional crop of Madumbis.

My dad would regularly wake up before 3 am in the morning. He would say it was because he had been a farmer, but I later found out the reason was far more disturbing. He was unable to sleep due to having witnessed traumatic events. My dad was a police reservist when I was still in primary school. He was a Sergeant and one day he just stopped his duties. Later I would find out from him that he had been transporting a prisoner to the police station. At the New Hanover police station, the Captain walked out, removed his pistol, and executed the prisoner. That Captain would eventually end up in prison and appeared before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission following the years after the first democratic elections in South Africa.

Stelek Stumper

My dad famously invented a tractor powered tree stump remover that was damn good. He never profited out of it but I was impressed enough to draw a picture of it as a youngster.

My dad would eventually come & live with me in the last years of his life. He was diagnosed with Parkinson's and told me he did not want to die in pain like his own dad of the same disease. His last month was like that as he had lost the ability to speak. One day he was struggling to breath and an ambulance was called. They immediately rushed him to Fourways Life Emergency. When I arrived there, I was dressed in my work suit and tie. There was no-one at his bed, so I picked up the file at the end of the bed and started reading it. The emergency doctor came in and started relaying medical terms to me, most of it being gibberish to my ears. I nodded waiting for an opportunity to interrupt him. After about a few minutes, I realized he had mistaken me for the referring neurologist, who he had just requested be called. When he finally stopped speaking, I said to him this was my dad. Instead of drawing the conclusion that I was not the referring doctor but the son, he assumed I was both! He told me bluntly that we both knew it was terminal. I told him that my dad had told me he did not want to die in pain like this. The emergency doctor nodded, said he understood and said he would admit him to ICU, and have morphine administered. I said yes and immediately my dad was on a drip in ICU. I never corrected the misunderstanding with the emergency doctor.

I had morphine administered as well when I had broken my leg on the rugby field. It does wipe out the feeling of pain. My dad died within a few hours and that event was a relief. In the last moments of his life a set of co-incidents had occurred in a similar manner that had happened previously in his life, that made things better and he went without pain. If they day comes, I hope someone is around to do the same for me. as my morality is not to live life as a vegetable.

We buried my dad out of the Lutheran church in New Hanover. There were many people from the district who attended. My son Callum sat in the back of the church with his other grandpa Owen Hendry. The pastor started the service reciting in German the Our Father, which translates to Unser Vater. Callum turned in shock to his grandfather and said that the man had just said the word farter. The congregation packed out laughing. I am sure my dad appreciated the service.

Collapsed scrum

When I was sixteen, I lay on a rugby field in Bloemfontein and experienced the worst pain ever in my life. I was involved in a rugby injury at Grey College in which my leg was shattered into pieces over a rugby ball. Broken in twenty-seven pieces, the doctor later told me. A loose scrum had collapsed on me. Initially I tried to stand, only to see my leg at a right angle. I lay on the field in pain, clawing out tufts of grass with my fingers. They started bleeding. The coach came over to look and then phoned for an ambulance. My leg was in spasms. A kind-hearted teacher, whom we called Os, came over to inquire about how I felt. To Os’s shock, I swore. I was taken to Universitas Hospital by ambulance and administered morphine. Since I had just eaten breakfast, I lay in the emergency room for eight hours before having the operation to reset the bones in my leg. I would wear a plaster of Paris cast from my toe to my hip for sixteen weeks.

My medical expenses were paid for by the newly established Chris Burger fund. In the hospital, I have vague memories of several different visitors, but I was too drugged up to recognise or remember them. The Chris Burger fund was created to assist players injured while playing rugby. I always thought Chris Burger died on the field at the Free State stadium in the year that I started at Grey College, but in fact he died the next day in same hospital that I lay in two years later.

I was in same emergency room in which Chris Burger died and most probably had the same doctors. A loose scrum collapsed on him, just as with me. He died, I lived.

Oakvilla hunt

Along life’s path I have experienced pain and even witnessed traumatic deaths. Some are equally as bad and others even worse than my experience on the rugby fields of Grey College. These included very early encounters with people dying. I was there when we found the neighbour’s son drowned and at the bottom of a swimming pool. I also witnessed a worker on the farm breaking his neck and dying after being run over by a Reedbuck. On the farms in the Natal Midlands the sugar cane would be burned before harvesting. During these burns, workers would control the fires using large wet sacks attached to poles or mobile water tanks and pressure hoses. The cane fields contained large number of cane rats called ivondo and the burning cane would result in them beating a hasty retreat. As the Zulu workers considered them a delicacy, they would stand off at the edge and bludgeon them using knobkerries. I was standing off behind these workers when a Reedbuck emerged at full tilt into a worker. The Reedbuck was knocked off his feet but then regained its footing and ran off. The worker lay motionless in the grass.

None of these, however, equate to existing in a debilitating environment. Physical pain, although, extremely difficult to process is less of a problem to desensitize than psychopathic intimidation and manipulation. A person can make a conscious choice to remain in a less than optimal environment for personal gain. Is it worth it? When the loose scrum collapses in that environment, it is not a question of your life being lost, but your soul. Many people have lost their souls to cults and political parties or groupings such as my dad’s siblings and their entrapment in cults.

My dad would do the twelve hours round trip in a Mercedes 300D or Nissan 1400 bakkie so that I could attend Grey College and provided and paid for me to be educated at the University of Stellenbosch. He encouraged and wanted his children to attend University and my brother and I graduated at his insistence and encouragement.

Amundsen

My dad’s hero was Albert Schweitzer but mine is Roald Amundsen, the first human to reach the South Pole and the North Pole. I recall watching a documentary of Scott and his race to the South Pole where Scott succumbed, and Amundsen survived. It was in black and white, and we watched it on the Telefunken in the farmhouse. The documentary left a lasting impression.

Amundsen's expeditions benefited from good equipment, appropriate clothing, concentrating on the primary goal, an understanding of dogs and their handling, and the effective use of skis. He pioneered an entirely new route to the Pole and successfully returned.

In Amundsen's own words:

“I may say that this is the greatest factor, the way in which the expedition is equipped, the way in which every difficulty is foreseen, and precautions taken for meeting or avoiding it. Victory awaits him who has everything in order, luck, people call it. Defeat is certain for him who has neglected to take the necessary precautions in time; this is called bad luck.”

He was one of the most meticulous planners in the era of explorers. He was extremely detailed in the way he made certain he had the right equipment and it worked. Amundsen was meticulous about his inventory and tested and made sure all his equipment was workable. He also made sure that all his team members were familiar with using the equipment.

Amundsen's integrity was also without question. He correctly recorded his journey's and unlike others, namely Cook and Peary, he did not make false claims about reaching the North Pole. He is a role model about keeping to the facts and not making subjective assessments.

The person who competed with Amundsen as mentioned to reach the South Pole was Scott. Scott's expedition was tragic. Scott was ill prepared and a romantic. Although I have empathy for Scott's bravery and idealism, Amundsen is the man to be most admired.

The lesson here is that there is no time to learn the trade or tools required while working or delivering on a task. You should have practised or simulated the tasks to be performed well in advance. Your luck depends on being well prepared and organized upfront, just like Amundsen.

I would not be a polar explorer but have a career involving computers. In dealing with technology, the human component is often underestimated, and I have modelled my interactions against those of Amundsen.

Fruit fight

My brother’s favourite story about our childhood was when our parents decided on taking a holiday to see the Namaqualand flowers. It was during school term, so they dropped us off at the cousins who went to the same school, Wartburg-Kirchdorf. On a weekend we became involved in the mother of all fruit fights which we all thought was awesome fun. That night at the supper table, our uncle Hogart Joosten said grace and then encouraged everyone to repent for their sins. This was a ritual they did as being part of the Kwasizabantu cult. My brother and me sat at the end of the table and stared in disbelief as each of our cousins ratted us out about the fruit fight. Somehow that was a sin. When it was my brother’s turn, he said he had nothing to say. Feeling I had to support my brother I stood up and declared while showing my biceps, “We are Amastelek!”. Mastelek was my dad’s given Zulu name, which means the strong one. I grew up believing this was his real name. It was a shock when I discovered it was not. It was a greater shock when I discovered my own name was not BB. This happened at my first day of school when I ignored the teacher, Miss Hopkins, who called me Ronald.

Hogart Joosten would be the treasurer at Bible House and an ardent support of Stegen at Kwasizabantu. Many of his children would integrate themselves into being lifetime adherents of the cult.

My dad’s expertise in growing the best cabbages and potatoes in the district was largely recognized by all and sundry. He had a knack for it. My dad was one of the best farmers or a Boer as they would say in Afrikaans. I am not a Boer. But I am now Mastelek.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

In the sacred mountains of the Dragons, where springs murmur secrets to the age stained rocks, life unfurls like a flowing stream's whisper crests rising in jubilation, troughs torturing by pain. Journeys of undulations, bodies etched with the tattoos of victory's kotinos and defeat's harsh branding iron, moaning under the burden of shackles unseen, rejoicing in the fleeting flame of an awakening dawn.

Pause by the babbling vein of the earth, its waters born in mist-shrouded heights, meandering through valleys scarred by time’s sand, where ancient Wild Fig trees stand sentinel, roots delving deep into the granite soil's memory. It twists and turns, a Leguaan of silver, soaking into the thirsty ground, vanishing like forgotten dreams, only to rise again.

Ah, but water knows no limit, part of an endless cycle, gathering in clouds where angels hover, veiled in vapor, bridging the chasm between flesh and fantasy, the seen world and the soul's wild imaginings. The heavens weep their bounty onto parched lands, pooling in hollows like tears in a lost lover's eyes. Then comes the sun, lazy at first, a leopard stalking then hunting, a martial eagle launching from shining copper lines, drawing the steam upward in spirals, back to the celestial loom where threads are rewoven.

So too our hearts: swells of joy that crest and break, valleys of sorrow that erode canyons in the spirit. Pain blooms like Leonurus in the drought, fierce and fleeting; happiness dances like Reedbuck on the hill slope grass. Win and loss entwine in this relentless rhythm, a cycle unbroken, from mountain to mist and back, reminding us: in the ebb and flow, we endure, Our breathing souls, resilient as the eternal stream.

~Roald Bartholomew

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

The seasonal summer sun was already making its presence known early. eddy & I were accelerating down Stampede Hill. A few years earlier, when I started riding again more regularly, I’d be on the brakes down hills. Now I don’t touch them. I crank as hard as I can in the top gears, addicted to the speed, no fear.

It’s like life. The more you experience something, the more comfortable you become taking risks. Push the limits. I actually look forward to the rush. The scream. The joy. The speed. The Need for Speed. Never touch the brakes.

And on eddy, in the Cradle of Humankind, that’s the perfect thing. It’s clean. It’s joy. And if that means leaning into a corner on the apex & nearly ending up in the bushes on the exit, then so be it.

As I approached the P-Ness circle I needed a pitstop. I propped eddy up against a road sign & went into the nearest clump of trees. There in the shade was a paintbrush, a beautiful indigenous flower. I had a pee while admiring my botanical companion.

After nature’s call I mounted eddy, but not before snacking on a few mulberries. They were still in season.

Going past Nirox I saw a beautiful Pamela Anderson look-alike runner. She was a blonde banger, & images of her running down the beach to rescue me filled my head. I rode straight into a pothole. eddy’s titanium wheels didn’t flinch. The seat thumped into my crotch.

I groaned. Instantly all images were removed.

Up ahead was a peloton. I cranked to join. The last guy had a shirt that said HTFU.

I levelled next to him and said hello.

“BTW,” I asked, “what does HTFU mean? Is it a company?”

“It means Harden The Fuck Up,” he replied nonchalantly.

I grinned.

I stayed with the peloton all the way to Mike’s van. In a peloton there is no time to let the mind wander. No meditation. You need to look at the road, the wheels, the cadence, the signs from the guys up front showing potholes or runners. I concentrated & cycled.

At Mike’s van I dismounted. Then came the second vision of the day, a young lass in a half-transparent white cycling top. My jaw dropped.

“Perky whites” I ordered from Mike.

“Sorry, no flat boobs.”

“Shit, just give me my normal order,” I told Mike. He pissed himself laughing.

Anyhow, we both forgot that I had to pay. But he quickly gained his composure & rapidly waved his Yoco in the air, saying, “Hey, come back!” Money talks.

The way back was less notable. There was no peloton. I dodged the boemelaars, and one notable guy who smelled as bad as the porcupines from Oakvilla. Heck, those things stank from close up. Sies! As bad as the unwashed dagga smokers. Nooit.

There was even some time for meditation. eddy I said, Megs sent me a podcast about a guy talking about the history & reasons behind financial bubbles as well as the upcoming AI one.

eddy, let loose one almighty raspberry. A long extended one to make known his feelings about some of our homo sapiens quirks.

Well, you rude old bliksem. I admonished. The thing I remember was the narrator mentioning about how an Auschwitz survivor wrote in his book how he could see another prisoner would die within seventy two hours as they visually lost the will to live.

You see eddy, we all need a purpose to survive. Something to cling to & make us live.

You are right, Mastelek. We all need to find & cling to things that provide us the nutrition for life.

I stopped at the wetland at the bottom of Stampede Hill to listen to the bird symphony. As I mounted, the peloton zoomed past. They hit Stampede Hill & I was behind them.

“eddy,” I said, “this is it. We’re going to drop them.”

I knuckled down. I levelled up to the last guy. It was that same guy with HTFU on his shirt.

“Harden the Fuck Up,” I said as I zoomed past. I could see him hit the wall right then. He was done. I dropped all of them, & as I cleared the peloton I saw two more victims 20 metres ahead.

“Time to dig deep, eddy. We need to haal uit en wys!” We cranked & worked the pedals.

Near the crest we went past them. But my lungs were burning & my body was seeking an energy boost.

As I rolled into Bidon I stopped at the kiosk counter & sank an iced Coke. I needed that spike for energy.

The speakers at the counter were blaring Elvis. Always on my mind.

“Good ride, eddy. Good ride.”

At the car a rooster was standing there crowing his head off at me.

“You know, eddy, the old cock has just reminded me that we totally forgot about doing the penis salute at the field opposite Nirox.”

“That was because you were distracted by Pamela Anderson,” said eddy.

Damn, that bicycle. I cannot pull the wool over his eyes.