Give it back

They stole its soul. VW, that is. The Golf GTi of 1976 and the GTI of 2004 are two quite different beasts. The original 1976 heir to the Leyland Mini Cooper S was a nimble little cracker that was a tonic to drive. It had the body integrity of a shoebox and a rather mean streak for throttle-off oversteer. But it made one smile. As things got more sophisticated and the manners moved upmarket, so the act became cumbersome and rather souless. It put on flab and it lost focus. Everyone who cared wanted them to give it back its soul.

This weekend, I put it back. It was mostly in the suspension that the recipy went south for the GTi. The thing just could not be driven with enthusiam anywhere off smooth freeways. The US version was worse than the European one. At least in Europe they kept to a sensible ride height and damping setup. Here, for reasons only lawyers and ill-informed officials will understand, the car was perched on top of an underdamped, oversprung suspension halfway between a sensible ride height and an SUV monstrosity. It didn't handle curves and it didn't handle bad roads. It was not a GTi.

But all of that has changed this weekend. With a little help from the Internet - mostly VWVortex.com, The Tirerack and a chap in Natick, I got it all back on track. Well, almost - I am still finalising the damping setup. Most grateful to Msrs Koni for their adjustable Sport dampers, I must say. And my compliments to the Eibach team for their excellent set of ProKit springs.

The car is back to a decent GTi ride height; it doesn't haunch menacingly like something out of Madmax either. Better so, because I have neither the wrong-way-round baseball cap to match, nor the come-suck-me-look. The damping is decidedly agressive at maximum stiffness - not recommended around Boston. After many test miles and a few stops to adjust the front damping on the car - very nifty, thanks Koni - it is now close to a proper engineering compromise. The rear I had to preset and there things turned out rather stiffer than I expected, but not too jarring.

The GTi now corners more like a go-kart and less like a Buick- not quite a Mini Cooper S, but at least with its honour restored. Who knows, I might just keep it at the end of the lease.

Here is the car before the conversion. Notice the ugly big gaps between wheel and wheel arch...



Here is car after the conversion. Gone are those ugly gaps between wheel and wheel arch.

An impossible dream

This past Tuesday evening gave a terrible blow to an impossible dream: To be a really good pianist.

It is a love and hate affair, my relationship with piano. It started at the tender age of five. I taught myself to follow melodies on the piano with my right hand. Those days I still had to reach up to the keyboard, standing in front of the tall, heavy, wooden instrument. My mother always reminded me not to pull down the keyboard lid onto my hands. In retrospect, that would have hurt a bit. But I suppose my one-finger plonking hurt too.

The next year, we moved to another town - a frequent family pastime for which I still blame my father. Here I started pre-primary school and duly requested my mother to teach me to play with both hands. Bummer! That was difficult to manage the co-ordination as well as the separation between hands. But then I could pick up those songs I liked and play them by ear - with both hands. Smackers! Looking back, it was a rather rough affair and I am indebted to my family for not summarily putting me away in boarding school. Got some oohs and aaahs from the one grand father, but he was the nicest of the lot.

Five years later followed official classical piano lessons. Now here was something that required dedication - not much fun involved. One could not just merrily plonk away. To be certain, at the age of 10 there was not much academic dedication of the natural sort. Where before playing was just rambling on, now it was about the right fingering, slurring, tonal quality, and timing. The list is endless. Boring. Boring. Boring. And then there was music theory. Bollocks, I said!

But, given the miniscule time I did put into practicing, there was progress. Looking back, it was such a waste of opportunity. If only my mother kicked my little bottom a few times. Four years later the thing abruptly ended when I changed from Piano as subject to Biology, courtesy of the wicked witch that took me for piano that year in Std 8 (grade 10).

Arriving in the US opened up new opportunities. What was more, I could not stand listening to my casual playing anymore - it was just too messy. Here was Boston, with a zillion academic institutions to pick and choose. I picked and got chosen for piano by the NEC. One had to play an audition and then got placed once accepted.

The next three years brought about a dramatic improvement along many fronts. I fought my perpetual stage fright, learned new and proper technique; improved my interpretation skills. But still there seemed not quite that dedication to put all available time into this one dream.

Every month, the part-time students gather voluntarily for a recital at the NEC. Once a semester, my teacher organises a concert for her students. This year was the second time I played in this concert. I entered with some trepidation, given my weak performance last year.

My piece was the Impromptu in C-flat minor by Schubert. It is a lovely piece that I often listen to on CD and quickly memorised. Yet, it is deceptively difficult to play well. It required exceptional dedication to master. Came Wednesday, it was still not quite within my grasp.

I went into the performance with the past two-year's experience at the hand of a magnificent teacher. Yet, in my view, the piece just didn't come across. I could not express what I intended. My disappointment was clearly visible, even though I got loud applause from the audience.

To me the impossible dream has all but ended. Still, Heng-Jin felt that I played well, apparently unperturbed by the difficulties confronting me, making "my own music" as she put it afterwards. Two co-students complimented my performance but in my head, the performance was way off the mark.

Whereto now, is the question? How does one live with a passion that is almost impossible to hold, yet with so little time to indulge in realising that passion. It has been the impossible dream from the day I have had chosen engineering over music as a career.

Will this dream forever haunt me? When I do not play, I crave for it. When I do play, I hate it because it falls short of my dream. With or without it, I can't live with or without it.

80

One could ask how relevant is the Queen of the United Kingdom to a Stellenbosser in Boston, or why should the 80th birthday of Queen Elizabeth be noteworthy beyond the realm of Great Britain. I'll answer, not in giving a history lesson, for you can read that elsewhere, but in telling what Her Majesty means to me.

Queen Elizabeth is a powerful symbol and someone whom I greatly admire and respect. She's a graceful woman of great stature and Head of the British Commonwealth, of which South Africa is a member. Therefore, on a political level, even though South Africa is an independent republic, Queen Elizabeth is indirectly also my leader, for all members of the Commonwealth are sworn in allegance to one another as well as the Head of the Commonwealth.

On a historic level, South Africa has always had a special, if at times somewhat strained, relationship with Britain. In 1947, Princess Elizabeth visited South Africa with her parents. My mother had the honour as a young girl to watch the royal entourage pass through the streets of Cape Town. My mother, who was born in South Africa, then a dominion of the British Crown, still has fond memories of that day. My one ancestor, on my mother's side, came from Scotland to resettle in South Africa.

In 1995, Queen Elizabeth again visited South Africa after the release of Nelson Mandela and he, as President of South Africa, visited the Queen in Britain shortly after. Even through the years of political turmoil and strain, there had remained a strong tie between South Africa and Breat Britain. When the big change had come in my country, South Africa was welcomed back into the Commonwealth and all relations normalised.

On a personal level I can only speak of my admiration for Queen Elizabeth. She represents an ancient institution and does so most gracefully. She embodies for a significant majority the spirit of Britain, the values of Britain, the heritage of Britain. Across that country, even non-royalists admire her for what she is. I have high regards for the contributions of Britain to the rest of the world and especially to my country, South Africa, and for the statemanship of the Queen. Her Majesty is said to have a fine sense of humour, superb presence of mind and to keep herself informed on just about everything of any importance, including the lives of ordinary people.

The youngest of the Queen's sons, Prince Eduard, the Earl of Wessex, was born in the same year as I. From a young age, I have been aware of the Royal Family since my mother often spoke with fondness of the Queen and the Royal Family. As my mother ages with the years, I also take note of the aging of the Queen. Last weekend my mother had her 69th birthday. This Friday, at the start of this weekend, the Queen had her 80th birthday. An era is entering its twilight for both families.

On this past Wednesday, the Queen met with a number of people who were born in the same year as she. It was a wonderful gesture and enthrilled the lives of these old people. She called them her identical twins and wished them all a very happy birthday. How charming. That is what I call real class.

A very happy birthday, Your Majesty, and many memorable returns.

A gaggle of geese

This afternoon, the geese came over for a chat. Actually, I went over to the Charles was more like it. And the geese were there. They seem always to be there - at least nowadays what with Global Warming and the likes. No need to stretch those wings to fly away to distant shores. Why, this shore stays nice and warm. Yes? -10C is not nice and warm, thank you. And ok, yes, you guys were not on the Charles when the mercury plummeted to indecent depths. True. Fine, I was wrong: These geese are not always there. But they were there this afternoon when I went for a walk and ended up having the geese over for a chat.

They clearly were up for it. Mr and Mrs Smartfeather came up for a closer look at this fellow who had wandered down to their shore. They thought it fine manners to start posing, trimming feathers and patching the makeup. This little charade went on for quite five minutes before they decided to say tata and nonchalantly glided off. But not before the whole geese party assembled for a grand farewell parade in front of my Canon, which was having yet another feast within 24 hours. The thing would get totally spoiled at this rate and I might just start to believe that I was a good photographer after all.


Not to be left out of it, Mr and Mrs Greenhead, the little green duck and his less conspicuous mate, came in at a rather steep rate of descend, utterly devastated for being left out and completely head over heels as a result. Well, that was the way I expected them to land, given the final approach for landing. But they pulled it off with miraculous fumble and screeched to a splashing halt with water brakes and air brakes on all at the same time. I couldn't help a smile. If those two were Boeing 757's we would have had all the kings men and all the king's horses out here by now. Needless to say, these two did catch some attention for the day. My Canon got them too.

Thus ended my Easter weekend.

On the Esplanade

Yesterday, I had a merry afternoon along the Boston Esplanade. The green stretch of wonderland where one can strangely fell in love with living in the city has always posed a strong appeal to me. There are fond memories of a sweet time spent on the Esplanade - a brief moment of undiluted friendship and affection.

Yes, yesterday was indeed a mild day along the Esplanade. Somewhat windy, the late afternoon wandered off into a mellow dusk leaving the wind behind. I took my Canon with for a few shots of the city. What sheer joy it was to put superb equipment to good use. I hope it was good use, for I am not the world's most gifted photographer. But sometimes equipment are blessed with the knack of making one look quite the part.


Even the ducks agreed - rather domesticated ducks, I may add. They seemed not to have a worry in the world. But then, for ducks living in beautiful Boston, why should they? Lazing on a Saturday afternoon, that' s what every self-respecting duck should do, now don't they?


A little sail boat fell foul of the mischievous wind. I happened upon its brief encounter with the quay, which encounter mildly alarmed some casual past-timers who were baking in the late afternoon sun.

The poor little boat got more lost, the wind relentlessly driving it ashore into a little side bay between the quay and the land proper. The captain seemed rather incapable of controlling the sails. Instead of lowering them, he refused to admit defeat. It was quite unclear whether anyone on board had much savvy with sailing in strong winds. There was no apparent attempt to tack the boat out of the compromising spot. The level of wind was certainly no playing mate for learning to tack any sort of sail boat.







Lo and behold, the Charles River Coast Guard, coutesy of the local Sailing Club, came to the rescue. Quickly the sail boat's captain lowered the sails - something that could have been done quite safely earlier but I suppose this was as safe a spot for that maneouver as any.


And off they went - sail boat on tow.



I wandered on. My sail boat was donning small sails. It was Easter weekend and no rush anywhere. My thoughts went to my mother having her birthday. It's on weekends such as this one that I'd rather be back home than here in a foreign country. Yet, the mellowness of the afternoon and the beauty of the surroundings pampered my mood and put a smile on my face.

The Hancock was as always taunting and teasing me from every angle. It's just always there, in all its mysterious simplicity. I cannot refuse, I have to take photographs of it. The building pulls me like a magnet.

My stroll took my on a path across the Longfellow bridge. Every time, when I take the tube into Boston, the train stops on this bridge at the Charles Station. For a short time one can see the most beautiful view of Boston from the bridge. And I always tell myself to take a walk across this bridge at least once in my life. Well, I did that yesterday.


Dusk had always been to me the most beautiful time of day. Boston from the Long fellow bridge is no exception. The City glowed in a soft glimmer of the dying sun. The Canon had a feast. There were moments when I could almost imagine being in Europe, along the northern shore of the Mediterranean.


The aeroplanes went by relentlessly, leaving their vapour trails in a hopeful reminder that home is a 17h flight away. How I love to watch the vapour trails. Maybe one day, my dice will roll and my plane end up in bits and pieces on BBC World News, but until then, those vapour trails are my magic carpets home.