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Andy
de Klerk
Natural Born Daredevil
(Unedited)
Sunday Times Lifestyle January
2008
Mountain climbing is ostensibly the preserve of only the brave
or crazy. Those inspired, for reasons unfathomable to the rest
of us, to take on frigid, oxygen-starved, crippling conditions
and risk harm and death to summit the world’s tallest spires.
Of course, for some, even that is not enough, and the truly fearless
will then leap off these, with nothing but a glorified bed sheet
to break their fall.
Capetonian Andy de Klerk is famous in mountaineering circles for
opening scores of routes at home and worldwide, often on a meagre
budget, in remote, backward countries. He has climbed to the summit
of some the planet’s most arduous peaks, many of them alone.
Plus, he is one of the few climbers who BASEjump, a fringe skydiving
practice involving parachuting from stationary objects, usually
the highest cliffs. Andy is also a man of letters, with a Bachelors
degree in Psychology, Anthropology and Philosophy, and he recently
completed an engrossing, emotive book of stories and essays about
his life and daredevil exploits.
Predictably, Sharper Edges - chosen as a finalist in the 2007
Banff Mountain Book Festival - is full of dangerous action, such
as rock falls and cliff-strikes (BASE jumping’s worst scenario)
and broken bodies, as well the crushed dreams of routes unconquered
and the plunging despair of death at altitude. Yet the book avoids
any kind of self-flattery. Through Andy’s stirring and accessible
vernacular, it is rather full of penetrating insights, humour
and rollicking good tales.
However, 40-year-old Andy – a.k.a. ‘AdK’ - initially
struggles to verbalise his motivations for climbing. “I’ve
tried to think of why,” he says, almost wondering aloud.
“But it was just clear that’s what I wanted to do,
even from an early age.” Andy takes a long drag on a Chesterfield
cigarette (he meets me at a Bree Street coffee bar next to his
new furniture store, Bamboo, clutching a half-empty ciggie box,
keys and a cellphone, which he jokingly calls is his “Gauteng-earring”).
“I’ve just always wanted to get on top of things...
to look down.”
Diminutive Andy has just come from working his day trade, fitting
cabinets. He is dressed in dusty, tight, pitch-black jeans, scuffed
running shoes and a grey t-shirt. His face is lined – deeply
in some places - as expected of someone who has lived a life outdoors,
much of it in cruel weather. With a shock of thinning, sun-bleached
hair, he looks like a fisherman, one maybe lost in the bowels
of the Mother City. Yet his hooded blue eyes are clear and intense
when he makes a point. Andy also moves with ease and - as you’d
deduce if you’d read his book – has the calm presence
of a man who has endured incredible challenges.
Falling into his past, ‘Maritzburg raised Andy tells how
his doctor dad was an alcoholic and he and his mother, a nurse,
divorced when he was twelve. He then goes on to describe how he
had been hiking in the Drakensberg with a friend’s dad since
he was eight, became devoted to climbing magazines and books by
the likes of Reinhold Messner and Walter Bonatti, and by his early
teens was scaling things regularly. “Something in me always
knew I would be climbing the Himalayas one day,” he reflects,
adding, “I liked that it was outside, in the wild places,
where it was just me.” When he and his mom moved to Cape
Town, Andy came across kindred spirits, practising under Newlands
Bridge, where he met and Greg Lacey and Ed February, two legendary
SA climbers. Both eventually became his mentors and friends; Ed
in particular filling a paternal void, admits Andy - to me and
in the book - when he needed it most.
Under their tutelage, he embraced climbing with total dedication
throughout his teens and into his early twenties. However, when
he finished his degree at UCT, Andy was offered an Oxford scholarship.
He laughs and tells me that many people are amazed he turned this
down to go climbing around the world, with a woman he’d
just met, American Julie Brugger, who soon afterwards became his
first wife in Peru. “Life is too short for regrets,”
he justifies bluntly. “I would like to have done both, but
I made that choice and I stick by it.” Brugger, of course,
appears in the book often. After nine years together, the couple
drifted apart though, but not without climbing together on a number
of routes, including the infamous ‘Dru’ in the Swiss
Alps, where they first crossed paths.
This region, rich in climbing lore, also features a lot in Sharper
Edges as it is where Andy has had many triumphant, and scary,
climbing moments. “It’s a quite unstable part of the
Alps,” he holds up his gnarled hands, setting the scene.
“All frozen rock; and I was rappelling down at three in
the morning, first light, and there’s a big rock fall...
and all the rocks missed me.” He holds a hand very near
his shoulder to demonstrate. On a roll, he then dredges up another
shocking tale, this time when climbing a difficult route in the
Canadian Rockies. “It was really sharp limestone, like a
knife... and the whole block I was on came off and slipped onto
my lap and cut through my two nine mm ropes,” he relates
matter-of-factly. “It cut clean through the one and halfway
through the other. You are 1000 meters off the ground, and your
rope gets cut and that’s you, dead.”
Apart from these climbing mishaps, Andy has also had and seen
his fair share mixed fortunes BASEjumping. The book’s first
chapter ‘Bird People’ is an account of how good friend
Karl Hayden barely survived a cliff-strike on Table Mountain,
as well as Andy’s own story of how he broke his knee jumping
at the infamous Milner Peak in the Hex River Mountains. “What
is it about our yearning to fly like birds that makes it worth
the trauma, heartache and pain?” he writes, before answering
his own question. “It’s because bird people simply
love to fly. It gives us glorious freedom to soar above our own
given element, and nothing makes us feel as intently alive."
It is precisely this affirmation of living, rather than confrontation
of mortality, says Andy (a self-confessed atheist) that is for
him the whole point. “It’s a celebration of life,
but in a rather odd way,” he motivates. “Some people
are not content to sit in the valley, they’ve got to go
up to the top of the mountain and then at the top of the mountain
they want to jump off. I mean, when you are standing on the edge
you don’t really want to... but at the same time have to
because if you don’t it will be worse. And it’s more
confronting with your fear and challenging goals within myself,
my own drive and ambition, rather than a fear of death, or fear
of anything.”
Now settled in Scarborough, Andy is married to Charlotte Noble,
herself an athlete of note, who once came fifth in the Comrades
Marathon, and they have four young children. His family, he says,
have made him really appreciate his making it this far. Thanks
to them, he has slowed down considerably, although he scratches
the BASE itch occasionally, and still skydives and climbs. “I’ve
started taking my five-year-old son climbing and it is awesome,”
he adds enthusiastically, “and he just loves it, so my passion
is turning to joy because I am sharing it with my children.”
To support his family, (having taken up cabinet making years ago
to fund his climbing), Andy now also runs Cabinetworks, a furniture
company with a multi-million rand turnover and 35 employees across
SA. A somewhat reluctant businessman, who has done his best to
avoid the world of commerce and material gain, he is amazed at
its quick growth. “I have surrounded myself with talented
people and given them a little direction and it has blossomed,”
he says humbly (a good measure of his lack of vanity comes from
a receptionist at his store, who told me, while I was waiting
to meet him, that she didn’t know anything about his climbing
achievements until she read Sharper Edges).
Winding down from his once relentless globetrotting schedule also
gave AdK the opportunity to finally write his book. Although it
has been well received by those – climber and non-climber
alike - who have read it, he is somewhat ambivalent about the
writing process and underplays the end result. “Deconstructing
the ‘extreme’ world is not an intellectual challenge,”
he explains. “But at least I was able to share some of the
lessons that I've learned along the way - about success and failure
and about what it means to have spent time in some wild places
far from home.”
Ultimately, Andy and Sharper Edges are perhaps summed up best
in an excerpt from one of the book’s most poignant chapters.
‘An Instant of Joy’, which is about a solo climb on
the north face of the infamous Eiger in the Alps, a story Andy
himself says goes right to the heart of what he was trying to
achieve. “I had risked everything to get there,” he
writes. “Only to discover that there had been nothing there
for me in the first place. It was like I had been trying to catch
a cloud with my hands. I suppose I had been looking for something
more, but there really is nothing to find on the summit of a mountain
other than yourself.”
Copyright Miles Masterson Media 2008 click
here for menu
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Earthwave
2007
Sunday Times Lifestyle
Magazine October 2007 (Unedited)
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I flop into my car seat and check the clock. 15 minutes to get
to Muizenberg. Damn, I’m late. I wanted to hear what author
Stephen Law, of the Environmental Monitoring Group, had to say
about global warming. Dawdling on a Sunday morning, I’d
dozed off, and now I would be missing his talk.
Following five days of cold rain, Cape Town rewards us with a
diamond of a day, the kind that makes living here worth every
deluge (so nice in fact, that every able body is out chasing vitamin
D in the acerbic early September sun). I edge through the burgeoning
southern suburbs traffic and I arrive at the “‘Berg”
more than 40 minutes after the scheduled morning discussion.
Oh well, I muse, as I make my way through the surfboard-carrying
throngs into the large event tent before me, I will still be able
to witness history being made at the associated Guinness world
record surfing attempt. “Earthwave 2007” is a global
warming awareness and charity type affair spanning six nations
(including Argentina, Brazil, UK, Australia, Tahiti and Reunion),
at which environmental expert and academic Law is to speak. It’s
not often you get to see scores of surfers all riding the same
wave willingly, either.
I see veteran surf promoter Paul Botha, the white bearded mastermind
of Earthwave who is, microphone in hand, surveying those gathered.
Screaming toddlers dig in the sand for sponsored treasure; perplexed
mums and confused geriatrics wander about; dreadlocked okes of
many hues walk the promenade; tattooed heavies in wife-beaters
carry their ice-cream faced daughters on their shoulders. And
surfers of every weight and age division accumulate, wrapped in
lurid t-shirts or black and brightly coloured wetsuits. They are
all babbling excitedly about surpassing the official Irish record
of 44 and beating the other participating nations on the day.
Paul and I greet. I then express my disappointment at missing
the talk. “Oh, don’t worry,” he says, his smile
disappearing. “No one came, so we haven’t had it yet.”
Right then I had one of those weird moments you have when you
realise your brain is wired differently to others. I’ve
been surfing for 25 years, since I was living in single digits.
My interest in the environment stems directly from spending so
much time immersed in nature, and from having seen things deteriorate
on the coastal fringes in the past few decades: sewage, litter,
development etc. At the risk of sounding sanctimonious, I’ve
joined international surfing environmental organisations, such
as Surfers Against Sewage in the UK and the Surfrider Foundation
in Australia, and done volunteer work at them whilst travelling
(tellingly perhaps, there are no such organisations in SA). I
recycle, I drive a small car on purpose instead of a 4x4, and
pocket cigarette butts when I leave the beach. I turn off appliances
at the plug; take an interest, do my bit (although my wife is
always berating me for leaving lights on). I thought all surfers
were like me, but under the yellowy-white hue of the tent awning,
the white chairs in the makeshift Earthwave lecture hall stand
disappointingly empty in the sand.
Shortly after I arrive Botha announces that there will now be
free goodies for those who want to attend the impending environmental
talk and two-dozen or so of the chairs quickly get bums parked
in their plastic concaves. Law appears as suddenly, with a box
of his books, ready to chat. I survey the gathered folk. There
are a few twenty-something hippie-looking, barefoot surfers and
one very old man with a crooked nose and films of white across
his eyes. In the otherwise empty front row, a 10-year-old boy
in bright red hoodie clutches his free magazines and stickers
and looks slightly bewildered. One or two middle-aged, schoolteacher-type
men and a few young girls complete the small and eclectic retinue.
Law begins his discourse. A craggy-faced fellow surfer with an
easy smile and soft voice, he begins to explain what global warming
and greenhouse gasses are all about, and includes little known
stats from his book, such as creating a ton of cement emits a
ton of C02, or the fact that it is almost impossible to obtain
flood damage insurance in Europe thanks to their now often crazy
weather. He also puts forward practical ideas for those wanting
to contribute to the solution, such as not driving when you could
walk, or using public transport (not an option in Cape Town though,
he jokes) or installing solar panels.
At least, I think that’s what he said. Outside blaring pop
music and announcements inviting people to sign up for the record
attempt and the prizes hidden in the sand for the kids to excavate,
drown his voice. As I struggle to listen, I’m struck be
the irony of the situation, a bunch of so-called eco-conscious
surfers completely ignoring what to me is the whole point of this
gathering: environmental awareness. Maybe most people enjoying
the day outside are aware of this well-publicised and depressing
global problem, and like me do their bit and don’t need
or want to hear anymore about it. Or maybe not.
Either way, as I look at the dozen or so to-be-auctioned surfboards
hanging around the tent (emblazoned by celeb surf artists with
slogans such as “global warming sucks”), I realise
surfing is as green as a souped-up Ford wheelspinning in the night.
The manufacturing processes of our equipment, neoprene wetsuits
and polyethylene and polystyrene surfboards in particular (including
my own), devour petrochemicals and create tons of non-recyclable
plastics, and these processes also belch noxious emissions into
the atmosphere. Some of the first modern recreational travellers,
since the days of Bruce Brown’s seminal ‘60s flick
“Endless Summer”, surfers have been roaming the earth
in great numbers; flying in planes and driving in SUVs around
the globe, hunting “that perfect wave” like lunatics.
The eco-footprint of our subculture is actually, ironically, huge.
Hippie tree huggers we ain’t.
“It’s kind of sad that people don’t realise
how bad it is,” says one listener, Sarah, a 19-year-old
student, of the poorly attended talk and the situation in general.
Her friend, Heidi, also 19, agrees. “We told our friends
about this but they were more interested in the surfing and felt
they can’t do anything about global warming. But if we are
ignorant, we are never going to learn that we can all make a small
difference.”
Sarah nods enthusiastically: “We love having stuff, but
are so materialistic and have lost focus on the environment, especially
in our age group.”
I’m buoyed a bit by these two enlightened teens, but I still
approach Law as he makes his way out of the tent clutching his
box of books for sale (which is no lighter then when he arrived),
and broach the subject of the apathy here today. “Well,
there is a lot of competition with other things,” he responds
in understatement. “There’s not really a groundswell
of concern as environmental issues are not simple, and it’s
kind of intangible.”
And what about the fact that surfing is really about as eco-friendly
as a Russian powerplant? I ask him. “That is something that
needs to be addressed,” Law replies gravely, “and
it’s not going to change unless surfers demand change as
consumers.”
A while later, more than 300 hundred of them, including the likes
of model Roxy Louw and radio personality Deon Bing, line up with
their surfboards before all running excitedly down to the tepid
waters of False Bay to attempt to break the record. They eventually
post an impressive 71 surfers on one wave (although overall they
place second to Brazil, who manage 84).
I observe the proceedings as event officials on jetskis scoot
about among the boardriders, and the cynic in me wonders how this
is all really benefiting the environment. Most of the surfers
are total novices and it all seems kind of pointless, although
from their ecstatic whelps and triumphant raised arms, it also
looks like fun (and a small part of me wants to be out there with
them, instead of standing on the beach with a camera). In the
end, I suppose, some good comes of it, as some money is raised
for environmental causes around the world, and a lot of people
(including you now), are made just a little bit more conscious
about a problem that, really, affects us all.
Add to that list myself more than ever, as in my haste to get
there on that lovely spring day, I forget to slap on my SPF 50
and my pale Anglo-Saxon skin gets badly, and regrettably, sunburned.
“Global Warming” by Jessica Wilson and Stephen Law
is published by Magpie (2007).
Copyright Miles Masterson Media 2008 click
here for menu
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Accidental
Tourist: Washed Up In Sibolga
Sunday Times Food &
Travel Jan 2008 (Unedited)
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Obtaining passage in Sumatra during Ramadan is almost
as rare as glimpsing the local species of tiger. Thanks to the
of the Muslim festival drawing to a close, instead of just simply
hopping on a bus or boat, as I thought would be able to easily,
I now found myself searching the dirty streets of Sibolga, vainly
looking for any kind a way out.
To add to insult to my ignorance, like most Indonesian settlements,
the town (despite being surrounded by awesome jungle landscape
and beautiful beaches), resembled a stinking cross between Baghdad
and a rubbish tip. As bad as I’d seen elsewhere during my
extended travels in the archipelago, if there was ever a place
in contention for Arse End of the World, I mused as I stood among
the Fez- and Burka-wearing throngs, this unwelcoming place could
be it. I already had the dubious honour of passing through here
a month before, when on my way to the surf of nearby Nias Island
(and exhausted following a few days on busses, trains and boats)
a grifter with bad teeth had fleeced me. I’d paid him fat
wad of rupiah, for what I assumed was a private cabin for my travel
partner and I, only to end up spending 12 hours on the oily ferry
deck, directly above the engine room.
On a meagre budget, we’d passed on the option of flying
directly from Bali to Nias, a decision made easier by recent news
reports of deadly crashes of the region’s domestic carrier
SMAC (as well just as the airline’s name). But now, trudging
through the crowded humidity, from one bus ticket vendor’s
shabby window to the next, we began to regret our return transit
here, as we heard the same sprit-flagging refrain, often followed
up by unsympathetic laughter: “Tidak Mao, Mister. Sorry,
no transport. Ramadan.”
We then spent a few, angst-ridden, butt-numbing hours on a grotty
bench in the street, before an oily-haired local I’d noticed
hovering around us earlier, sidled up. He announced with a proud
smile that he could sell us bus tickets, but at a hefty price
(of which he no doubt was to take a sizeable cut). Conned once
already, I initially said no, but he was persistent and I finally
relented, if only out of desperation.
Immediately bankrot, we spent the a hungry night on the dusty
floor of the bus company’s office, where we got stung by
a million mosquitoes and sniggered at by more leering Sibolgans.
These included my original conman, the one who needed a dentist.
He seemed to know the oily guy, who also appeared from time to
time, grinning at our pathetic forms and throwing thumbs-ups.
Every time he did, I questioned the authenticity of the tickets
I held. Wracked with this doubt, chronically uncomfortable, and
with one eye on my boards and our luggage, I barely slept, placating
my lady as she quietly sobbed next to me. Thankfully, as the sun
filtered into our private hell, we got hassled into a mini bus
by an impatient driver (and thus began a gruelling 54-hour road
trip to Jakarta, followed by a week of trains and boats to Kuta).
In hindsight, if I ever pass through Sumatra again during Eid,
poor crash record or not, I think I’ll fork out the extra
cash and risk the flight instead.
Copyright Miles Masterson Media 2008 click
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