simphiwe

mini skatebook

Jeffrey's Bay Skate Park

cheer

www.ubafrica.org

south blocks

sou

Shark Sunrise

3 km away from Rocky Bay coastline, a chum bucket is lowered in the waters.... We wait patiently. Yellow fins, blue snorkel, pink and black wetsuit, I’m a seal's colorful little sister. I head into the ocean towards other bobbing divers, humans flock together, especially around sharks.

15 feet below I see my first Black Tip ocean shark gracefully swim past my mask view. My breath is heavy and stressed, but my mind is relaxed and my body awkwardly tight. Hands held close to my chest, my lower back tenses together and my calves cramp, this is how I'm suppose to swim and observe. Relax.

From the frames of my mask, the sharks resemble diamond-shaped ribbons of mass, cutting through the water in a confident and ancient manner.

I lower my face under and see another shark with 3 remora clung near the dorsal fin like a wedge of orange under a peel. Fascinating...this is all really happening! No barriers, no threats, fear hypnotically on pause while positive excitement rushes through to my fins.

Dead sardines are being thrown off the boat like seeds for pigeons to come to near a park bench. Black Tip sharks come flying past. There are 3, 4, 5 just a hand stretch away, eating and feasting in the chum-flavoured waters.

The sardine meal placed me next to the guests of honor. Was I too close as an invited guest?

The movement of the Black Tip sharks was sexy and graceful, and around food; fast, rapid and unpredictable.

They came to eat what was offered and just wove through the marine traffic of divers in order to get to their food.

The increase of shark bait was crowding the waters...I felt in their way and in their element as they moved in rapid speed. The space between us made my heart beat faster in response to the reality of what was really happening: Swimming with sharks. Laugh or Cry?

I was ready to come in, the sardine buffet was over-indulgent and I wanted another view. The surfacing dorsals jumped back and forth across the top of the choppy waters. The image of the fin and shadow of their profile no longer held a great fear, but an excitement of witnessing the actual experience.

My perspective of sharks has undoubtedly begun to change. Respecting the sharks place in the marine eco-system is one of the major steps to realizing the importance of co-existence with these smooth and beautifully diverse species of our Earth. There is no reason to be their predator and they aren't interested in being ours.

Crashing back to sand, leaves my mind racing with more and more questions about sharks.

Myths from the surface of land and water can breed fear and misunderstanding, but observing realities underneath can cultivate roots of awareness and a quest to understand more of our intricate world.

So as we identify our journey to educate ourselves and others, the need to conserve and preserve our world becomes magnified.

http://www.sharksavers.org http://seashepherd.org/ http://www.aoca.org.za/index.php

Pastels of Bo-Kaap

Bo-Kaap Afternoon

I cruised through the colorful neighborhood of Bo-Kaap.Cherry red painted barber shops and kids playing cricket in the patchy grass urban patches.

Yiayias hanging laundry in the Friday afternoon sun and four school-age girls skipping around their neighborhood, me, and their new friend: my Canon Rebel X.

Find excuses to catch the train later, skip the crowded cars and spend more time on creative documenting. Bo-Kaap is a vibrant and glittering area elevated with pockets of ocean peek-a-boos. A pastel canvas of history and reality. Where Afrikaans, Arabic and English bounce off the green and pink houses and through the palms and hills of gold tower mosques.

"That's how we pray," explains Shakira a.k.a Shakes. She's eleven years old and makes sure I know what the words from the gold onion bulb-shaped tower means, the call of prayer from her neighborhood mosque.

She's the oldest of the bunch, and enjoys teaching me Afrikaans, showing off her counting skills in Portuguese and her gibberish Japanese.

"I'm going to write down our names and addresses so you know where to come when you come back. I pull out my red and black stripe pencil for her to write on the back of 'scratch paper' in my brown pack; an Iziko Museum pamphlet on the history of South African women's struggles exhibit.

"I'm going to write our age and nicknames too. How old are you?"

Kauther = 7 = Koutie = 64 Dorp Straat

Alliyah = 10 = Smily =64 Dorp Straat

Zuhaa = 2 = Puthy =14 Dorp Straat

Zuhayrah = 8 = Pretty face =14 Dorp Straat

Shakira = 11 = SHaKes =66 Dorp Straat

Athena = 24 = Tina

Terra Unidad

"Remember the horror from which we came from. Never forget the greatness of a nation that has overcome its division. Let us never descend intro destructive divisiveness." Nelson Mandela

The world belongs to all who live in it . . .

Lets spread this idea nomadically, radically, and across all mind fields.

Geo-Pacificism "How geography could be used against the dangerous fabrications of politics"

Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels

From the Pacificism wave to Atlantean power . . .

Granadalogy

Granada, Spain

April 30th, 2008 The city smells of orange blossoms. The streets are narrow and crooked, crumbling and cobbled with rough gray stones. I get off the bus and walk out of my way, get lost, or am I just exploring?

I weave through the city neighborhoods and corners in the late afternoon known as the siesta slumber.

Granada means pomegranate in Spanish and the city is already revealing its wonderful red rubies to me. I finally make it to the hostel hidden in a small little placeta courtyard with windowsills decorated with hanging vines and purple and white begonias. I take off my pack and lock up my valuables quickly to rush back into streets in search for the perfect falafel pita. I find it for 3 euros at Kebab King, extra tzatiki sauce and hot peppers.

I walked toward a narrow street that is sandwiched between old apartment homes and Rio del Darro. The weather is cool in the shade but sparkling warm in the sun and a seat by the river seems just as appetizing as my juicy falafel pita.

I cross the precious arched foot bridge to the other side of the river to find a path down to hear the water passing by.

White cotton blooms are falling the sky and spring turns my eyes into blurry Picasso painted puffy circles. There are 6 white, gray and black speckled cats cruising along the sides of the river, a young girl reading a textbook, another long-haired young man smoking puro and mediating in lotus position. Someone is playing guitar on the upper ledge of the river.

The sun has gone over the Alhambra, and dusk is settling into the sky. The Spanish guitar chords are bleeding into the streets. Rooftops are dim and the sun casts a warm glow upon the Alhambra walls.

The sundown brings more people into the streets, more guitars melodies in the distance, with the birds singing an introduction piece as they fly sharing their song to every rooftop.

Who built these streets that thousands continue to get lost through each day? Each stone of the streets are laid out in a pattern and picture, sometimes even into a figure of a pomegranate, Granada. Tiny terraces and flowering plants frame each delicate window like a cherished family picture.

Granada. a fruit of many seeds

many histories

many more stories to share

to the melody of guitar plucks

through stories of flamenco.