I will be back in NYC in less than a week, while Marie straggles in the Cape a little longer. Processing these shots will take eons, patience needed. I expect five to ten posts in the newly renamed up-coming Kruger series “Slingshot to the Kruger”. Here is a sneak peak (the thing on the sand bar is a crocodile, I’ll have better images of it):

As always, Marie is well ahead of me and already has great pictures up on her blog. Well worth a visit!

I ran up the green belt into the Cecilia plantation, and up onto the Jeep track that would normally lead me to McClear’s Beacon. But it was late afternoon, the run was straight uphill, my first real trail run in over two years, so I turned around at sunset.

We’re leaving for the Kruger tomorrow at dawn, back in two weeks. Mugashagasha, the Landcruiser, is fully loaded and itching to hit the road. Hope to have lots of cool pictures to work on by then. Ciao.

The chameleons are paid regular visits and owls have been heard at night. Loud flocks of hadedas tear the clouds open and dozen of guinea fowls are feeding in the fields across the road. Giant rain spiders and praying mantis are fleeing the rain, seeking shelter where they are not wanted. Indoors.

Everyday, we shop for a few more supplies towards the road trip, fine-tune an itinerary leg, lengthen the packing list and discuss practicalities such as malaria pills and the poaching plague. We’ve tested the Landcruiser on a drive to Cape Point and are ready to hit the road. Over 1900 kilometers each way, crossing the country from bottom left to top right, plus driving in the Kruger. Two legs out, three back. Our last stop on the way home will be the familiar Karoo National Park. See you all on the other side.

Our ocean crossing so far had been smooth.  A light chop was now greeting us closer to the continent.  The gigantic mass of Africa, not content with stirring trouble into the hearts of men, also likes firing up the skies and reminding a traveler of its troubled upbringing. But the forecast had improved and, a sure sign of the approaching southern hemisphere winter, the flight finished as gently as it had begun. With a two hour layover in Johannesburg, we then spent a couple more hours en route to Cape Town, our ATC clearance at first delayed by coastal fog but arriving home in due time for afternoon Champagne in the garden.

It has now been two days since we got home. Bubbly flowed again yesterday at lunch under the now bronze-like plane tree and we marveled at the subdued but unmistakable appearance of Autumn, a season I had never before experienced in the Western Cape. We went for chilly walks on the green belt and found eight chameleons already. Then we slept like babies, in a silence like only the Old World still manages to yield them.

With the change of seasons has come cold air, and the tall poplars have thinned. Nights are fresh and even though it hasn’t rained much in the last few weeks, it is predicted that rain will now play a leading role in our days and nights. Long, slow, soft and patient, the downpours remind me of Vancouver’s winter months. A fire has been lit in the fireplace at night and sweaters are welcome. People are wearing tuques on the street. Selina came home with an actual coat. How I wish South Africans could experience a combination of this weather and Christmas. I think it would somehow all make much more sense.

Tonight Marie and I went for  late drive along the coast. It was foggy and wet, but I was longing for ocean spray. In a week, we will be cranking up my GPS, packing up the Landcruiser and heading north to the Kruger. In the meantime, I intend to eat as much boerewors as possible. One must have priorities.

For now, seemingly random images, anarchic pixels. I recently spent some time in the Flatiron district after work, going to a happy hour-slash-billiard, of which I might or might not post shots later, as some of the players were quite focused and made for great models.

I walked around the neighborhood before and after the event, catching some golden hour light and pondering strange rope sculptures in Madison Square Park and later playing with reflections of the Evil State Building in cycle rear view mirrors.

However, what would I have done for a few pixels more?

Le grand Pagnol once said he found it easer to write a book than to write for theater, both of which he did masterfully. When writing for stage, he explained, an author tears his guts out and and gives all he has, and then peeks from backstage while the actors serve his dish to an audience in real time, wishing for a catharsis but readying for the worse. Writing a book or article, on the other hand, requires the same initial commitment but then, when the book is printed or the blog published, the author can retreat to the safety of not being there, of not knowing. He can choose to discard the bad reviews and focus on the praise. He needs not stay when tomatoes fly. Like a tree sending its pollen adrift, he can just hope that his writing will grow a forest rather than end up in someone’s eye and make them swear. (This is a loose adaptation of his original comment in French, the tree being mine.)

I can’t write plays, and I consider Marcel Pagnol a god when it comes to prose. But I still like to tell stories, even if I am only talking to myself. And I often do.

Trying to sum up my life up to this point in preparation for a big celebration next year, kinda putting Part One behind and stepping into Part Two, equal parts as I intend to make them, I have been looking for cues, for highlights and for rhythms. It turns out rhythms are always there and each season of a lifelong cycle is forever marked with the melodies of our moods and emotions.

Whether we admit it or not, we are musical creatures. Every step of the way, every inch of our crawl, for each little victory won and all major defeats, there was a soundtrack. Think about it, what were you listening to when [fill in the blanks]?

So as a distraction, I came up with a music timeline, a hit-parade of selfish introspective analysis, summarized into a few unavoidable headlines. Here they are, in case you like music too:

Late 1960′s, South of France - The first sounds I remember came from an AM/FM radio the size of two cigarette packs, dressed in a old leather carrying case with wholes for the speaker and dial. Its antenna extended about a foot, I’m pretty sure that we, as a family, listened to the broadcast of the Apollo moon landing huddled around that radio. I would have been five.

1970′s, Côte d’Azur - The family record player typically played a lot of classical music. There were loud cannons in Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture and a soft canon by Pachelbel. Before dinner, brilliant trumpets sounded in De Lalande’s Symphonie pour les soupers du Roi, and later the Spanish guitars of Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez closed the evening.  There was a wonderful Little Night Music written for us by no other than Mozart at bed time. Then many Seasons passed but Vivaldi remained.

Then many seasons passed but Vivaldi remainedThe record player also spun French the classics of Brassens and Brel, oddities like national anthems, the Russian Army Choir, Tahitian and Jewish music as well as oldies like Pat Boones’ Speedy Gonzalez, Herman’s Hermits’ Silhouettes or the Shadows’ Apache. There were memorable soundtracks I still whistle such as Never on Sunday, Cría Cuervos and Le Rapace, and above them all, the eternal musical scores of the great Ennio Morricone.

In elementary school, I remember a kid my age mentioning Pink Floyd and Genesis, stating that listening to these bands was like being on clouds, a phrase he had no doubt picked up from adults around him as we were only in 6th or 7th grade. He was the luckiest kid around as his parents had just bought him a moped, a red Ciao which he drove in an infernal pétarade with his feet up on the center bar, silly pedals being for cyclists as any moped driver would have told you.

Once we had moved from Antibes to Aix, my own small portable FM radio carried the sounds of the first pop I ever paid attention to, Plastic Bertrand, Trinita, Boney M. Then I took the radio apart to rig a better external speaker scavenged from some broken thing, and was fascinated by the electronics inside. So when I realized people were using electronics to actually make music, I was hooked.

Circa 1976 - I purchased my first LP records with pocket money: Jean Michel Jarre’s Oxygen and Equinoxe, and Kraftwerk’s Radioactivity after a friend of my parents’, Jean Guillermet, made us listen to it. He had just bought a 125 CC motorcycle and I lusted for it secretly.  Little did I know that I would one day own a 900 CC Kawasaki.

I discovered Tangerine Dream, the Alan Parson’s project, adopted U2, signed up for Meat Loaf, got rid of Tomita1978 – Across an ocean: Michel Fugain et le Big Bazar, a French musical showman and his band, accompanied the move from France to Canada. It is with great embarrassment that I admit settling in Beloeil, QC and into the songs of ABBA, simultaneously. But having at last purchased a decent stereo, I also started listening to CHOM-FM’s rock and to my sister’s music. She was much ahead of me in terms of musical tastes and knowledge. She brought Supertramp, Simon and Garfunkel, Murray Head and the mighty Pink Floyd into the house during those high-school years.

1981 to 1984, College and flight school - I discovered Tangerine Dream, the Alan Parson’s project, adopted U2, signed up for Meat Loaf, got rid of Tomita. Metal tape cassettes were the hottest thing around. My friend Jean-Luc, a few rooms away, would blast disco and pop music with much more treble than base, and I owe him Spandau Ballet, The The and the Human League. He now flies for Air Transat as Captain. Alain, two doors down the other way, is now based in Dubai, an A380 Captain for Emirates after flying CF-18′s in the Canadian Air Force. Funny how life tosses us around like dust in the wind.

Late 1980′s, Montréal - Going though a pitch black period, I started hanging out on the lower level of a nightclub called Thunderdome, and later at Mars where the defunct Garage had been. Alternative music took over my heartbeat. I wore black clothes, a short pony tail and lived at night. I discovered the Sisters of Mercy. I love them to this very day. The band members have actually changed quite a bit throughout the years, the only steady figures being lead singer Andrew Eldritch and Doktor Avalanche, the drum machine. Back when I lived in beautiful Vancouver a few years ago, I once went to see the modern version of the band. Other than that, I quote them rather, well, often. Temple of Love remains my all time favorite running song and literally gets my feet itching. The Cure, Depeche Mode, Soft Cell, Bronski Beat were mainstream sounds. The Sisters, Bauhaus, the Joy Division were a little further off the beaten path.

1990′s, Under the tropics - My diving years were surprisingly empty of new music. I still enjoyed all the alternative repertoire, as well as REM’s new albums, Midnight Oil and Crowded House, especially after landing briefly on aussie soil. Club Med resorts played a lot of silly music but I vividly remember the grandiose crescendo of Jarre’s Rendez-Vous on the upper decks of CM1 and CM2 when sailing out of Old San Juan, or into Halong Bay.

Rastas danced slowly to the languorous beat of reggae, machetes hanging from their belt and eyes half-closed, talking to JahI took a great liking to Bob Marley, but reggae can only truly be enjoyed in the Caribbean, on location, immersed. There was a small nightclub to which we would go late at night from the St Lucia Club Med compound, jumping the fence to avoid reporting at the gate. The joint was filled with smoke, the crowd mostly male, exclusively local, systematically high. Rastas danced slowly to the languorous beat of reggae, machetes hanging from their belt and eyes half-closed, talking to Jah.

1998 to 2005, Little Cayman - My alternative inclination drifted mysteriously into a more goth-industrial style and the music CD I recorded for my Utah photo and paragliding solo road-trip featured Rammstein, Nigthwish, Within Temptation and Lacrimosa. I didn’t understand Rammstein’s lyrics, and didn’t really want to. Their music was rough, loud and aggressive, but very catchy, and sounded great while driving through the Four Corners’ heat, all windows down and nobody around. Muse was appearing to balance things out. Frenchies were also making a come back in my ears, Bernard Lavilliers, Mylène farmer, Zazie, Indochine, and I was enjoying, many years after the lights had gone out, the sounds of Brel, Aznavour and Peyrac.

Present - And here is the strange thing: my new music consumption has died off. Nothing I hear tickles me. Yeah Cold Play is cool, but my playlists are on random, and repeat. Muse plays a lot, as well as a handful of others, and the many classics. But I think I would now rather listen to the sounds of nature – a rainfall’s echo on a tin roof, the wind in tall poplars, birds chirping their hearts out at dawn – than to the beat of a drum and the wittiest of lyrics.

And photography, it seems, has become my introspection tool. I used to recall places, people and feelings when hearing a particular song. It still happens, sometimes. But more and more, it is the magical assembly of tones and textures, its formulas as complex as those of the Ride of the Valkyries, that triggers memories and carries me through time and space, instantly, to where I once stood and left a little bit of me, in exchange for a fistful of pixels.

“If people in America buy the album, we’ll play in America.
If not… well, we’ll fly over America on our way somewhere else.”

Attributed to Andrew Eldritch – The Sisters of Mercy

The Harlem River, separating the Manhattan Island from the Bronx on the mainland, constitutes for us Brooklynites a boundary that is seldom crossed. Unwilling to simmer in the subway for the entire ride, we opted for a hybrid route: underground to Grand Central, then a Metro North train to the Bronx. We were on location in under an hour.

Marie had met a nice lady on the train who gave us pointers and warned that we would never want to go back to the BBG after seeing the NYBG. We waited in line at the smaller west entrance across from the station, paid our fees and stepped in. After a technical stop at the café – where we ran into our friend Debbie, New York being such a small village sometimes – we headed for the cherry blossoms.

I must say I was impressed. The garden is hilly and vast enough to feel isolated. The Bronx river runs through it and while probably quite polluted, it flows through the woods in a fashion that reminded me of our recent excursion to the Catskills. The central section has a small dam with rapids downstream, and signs warn canoers to go ashore and follow the portage path. Yes, one can canoe down the Bronx River.

After wandering around for a while, we found a part of the garden that was ablaze with crabapples in full bloom, and which was less frequented than other areas. Very old beautiful trees made me think of Tolkien’s Lothlorien. We lingered and I experimented with long exposures to remove people from my shots, a project of mine that will eventually address New York’s overpopulation issue.

In the meantime, here are the pictures. This is the Bronx. Would you believe it?

The Kruger is part of the Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park, a peace park which straddles the northeastern border of South Africa into Zimbabwe and Mozambique. The Kruger section covers 19,633 square kilometers (7,580 sq mi). Its subtropical climate and several decent size rivers make it a malarial area – consume at one’s own risk. It is home to the Big Five, as well as over 140 species of mammals and 500 species of birds.

It will have been two and half years since I took more than 7 days off. The clock to total sedentarism is ticking. I am so ready to shake the roots lose. Marie is even readier after a long book struggle. The cat, well, the cat will stay behind and glow in the dark for a while.

So in time, there should be a few good stories, lots of photos and hopefully a bit of foreign, exotic magic infused back into this blog. Stay tuned!

“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.”

J.R.R. Tolkien

I’m now entering Battery Park and go past the World Financial Center, along North Cove Marina. Runners had been casually showing up around me since Brooklyn, now they congregate; I have merged into a high traffic, trendy lane and late afternoon on a beautiful weekend is exercise rush hour. The sun is shining low on the Hudson River, a warm afternoon glow that is pleasing and welcomed as I am finally wearing shorts after a long winter.

The Statue of statues waves at the world but it feels personal: “You can get on a cruise with hundreds of others and come see me up close. Special price for you my friend.” She is her own scalper.

Further down, I ignore the hordes of tourists boarding said cruises, bounce off the Staten Island Ferry terminal, last free public transport in New York, and glance at a little church, squeezed and gasping for air between skyscrapers. I start up the East River, following the FDR highway. Some heavy pumping machinery sits there, probable vestige of hurricane Sandy’s flooding fury.

Helicopters are buzzing around the heliport, most of them hushing more tourists towards the statue on a short aeronautical leash, low altitude, pilots hidden behind aviator sunglasses, one hand on the cyclic, the other in turn holding the collective and hiding a yawn, back and forth, all day.

I smile again remembering a scene where famous comic character Tanguy, played in the French Movie Les chevaliers du ciel by Benoît Maginel, fighter pilot confined to civilian flying jobs, puts his Pilatus into a steep dive as he follows the free-falling skydiver he just dropped, and yawns in boredom…

I run in the shadow of the FDR for a while, old ships to my right, Wall Street to my left, tall Manhattan stretching far ahead and calling me softly. Not this time, I would not make it. I have seen better running days.

A sharp left just before the Brooklyn Bridge and I creep up an obscure stairwell, to the bridge’s pedestrian lane. Very often when I head towards the stairs, I pass a few tourists looking for the shortcut. They watch me in disbelief as I disappear into the dark, smelly, disgusting, soiled passage, and finding the courage, they follow my lead since the crazy local dude must know what he is doing. Recently, I saw a couple of frenchies looking down into the darkness as I came up, and he said to her: “Ça doit être les chiottes”. I’ll let you google that. He wasn’t so far off.

The Bridge is true to itself, busy, crowded even. An overwhelming majority of walkers competes for space with rare bicycles. Cyclists whistle and yell furiously at the clueless cameras that stand in their way, flashes firing pointlessly. On the Brooklyn side, at right shoulder height, a massive group of buildings, atop which a sign reads Watchtower. Worldwide headquarters.  144,000 very puzzling examples of irrational faith. But do I know any better?

I leave the bridge on the Brooklyn side through another stairwell, run up the Plaza, work my way to Henry Street, down a few blocks, the trees are white with flowers, and I am done. I clock out and the GPS drops a handful of satellites.

Truth be told, where else could one have seen so much on a single run?