My wife and I have enjoyed taking in the Robertson Wine Valley since the early 1990's when many of the farms began breaking away from the co-ops and "going it alone". Neighbours who a year before were merely fellow grape growers now were direct competitors. The concept of attracting customers to the farms was completely new, as was marketing, tasting and sales. It was a fresh start for wine tasters, the wines were good, the prices ridiculously low. Exciting times, a new experience for all. For a disabled wine enthusiast it was also a challenge, with so little thought having been given to how to attract able-bodied clients there was consequently no disabled access. But that was more than 15 years ago, and much has changed.
The Robertson Wine Valley, an organisation managing the marketing and public relations for all the regions wine farms has been actively encouraging owners to provide disabled access. The manager of RWV, Elizma Spangenberg, has made the increase of access levels a priority.
Last year I was asked to do a personal evaluation of every one of the 48 wine farms open to the public in the Robertson and McGregor Valleys. In doing so I must have established something of a record, 48 wine farm visits without drinking a drop! Can't mix business with pleasure, at least not if one wants to get any work done!
My access report to the RWV culminated in a one-page spreadsheet of farms cross-linked with facilities, and an indicator of which were accessable, or not. It allows visitors to determine where they can go and what they can expect, at a glance, without any surprises.
We took in the "full wine valley experience", from the rows of enormous 230 000 litre tanks at Van Loveren to the "garagiste" operation of John Hargreaves and his garden vineyard yielding just 300 bottles a year. The farms vary a great deal in size and appearance. Many have restaurants, function rooms, shops and cellar tours.
We were impressed with the overall levels of access throughout the valley, but when I analysed my feedback more closely I was even happier. At least a third of all the farms are what I would refer to as "fully accessable", i.e. a wheelchair bound visitor, travelling alone, could access the parking area, paths, tasting area, and toilets. That's more than can be said of many brand spanking new office developments being erected in Cape Town in 2008! (but that's another story).
A further third of the farms are accessable with assistance from a friend, husband, wife, etc, or might have a toilet which is too small for a wheelchair. Less than a quarter of the farms are technically in-accessable, although, having said that, I visited each and every one of them in my wheelchair, albeit with help. For those who can stand, or take a couple of steps, the access levels are very good indeed.
Special mention must be made of Graham Beck, Cloverfield, Arabella, Bon Courage, Robertson Cellars, and Rooiberg who all offer excellent accessable facilities that are both welcoming and scenic, and their wine's are not bad either! It was also a pleasant surprise to see Bon Cap offering wine with Braille embossing on the label. I reinforced my belief that where there the will there is a way.
It should also be noted that visitors wishing to extend their stay in Robertson have a couple of choices of wheelchair accessable accommodation. Goedemoed Guest House is superbly setup for wheelchairs, Little France is ramped with a spacious bathroom, Bon Cap offers a simple but fully accessable room, and Wederom offers an accessable cottage. All in all a good excuse to linger longer in the valley.
Those interested in finding out more can logon to www.robertsonwinevalley.co.za or call 023 6263167.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Le Tour De Invalides
Two, or more, cyclists will always cycle faster than one. That is the golden rule of road cycling, and goes a long way to explaining the tactics adopted by riders and teams. No cyclist, no matter how good they are, can win a road race without the co-operation and support of his team. They call them "domestiques", and like domestic servants, they literally work around their man, making his life in the saddle easier by riding in front so that he can slipstream and conserve energy, keeping him supplied with food and drink, and disrupting attacks from other teams.
I have never ridden a bicycle in my life, but for some reason I enjoy watching cycling. Each year we take my powerchair up the base of "Chappies" and watch the annual Cape Argus Tour. It's the largest timed cycle race in the world with over 35000 starters. We pack a picnic basket, and in between munching on sarmies and coffee, shout and scream encouragement to thousands of sweating humanoids in funny helmets and skin suits who puff and pant their way past us. Those coming through in the morning have the energy to shout back and exchange banter, those coming through in the afternoon have lost their sense of humour altogether!
The pre-race Expo at a local exhibition centre is a showcase of cycling technology and hardware, albeit a frustrating one for us technophiles. Even the most expensive racing bicycle is half the price of an average powerchair, yet the wheelchair is a dinosaur by comparison. The bicycles make use of the very latest design, combined with the highest tech materials. My powerchair has the design sense of a brick, and is made entirely from the crudest and cheapest of old world materials. It's enough to make one weep.
But back to the topic at hand. We also enjoy tuning in to the Tour de France in July, for three weeks and 3500+km of French countryside, sore bums and legs. Watching the world's finest cyclists saddle up for daily races which on their own are huge, but strung together for 21 days are monumental, it is little wonder that doping has been an issue in the race. Despite what many people believe, doping is not a modern phenomenon, and as long ago as 1928 the Tour organisers announced that they would no longer be provide drugs as the competitors were expected to do so themselves. The race places such huge demands on the human body that no mere mortal can finish it un-aided. We've watched it for years, and have come to appreciate the subtleties of the sport, and the enormity of the challenge.
Despite all the organisation, and planning, and skill, and knowledge and experience people get caught out, accidents happen, conditions change, favourites drop out, and unknowns become winners. It really is a condensed view of our lives, the literal ups and downs, trials and tribulations, successes and failures that make up a lifetime. Thirty or sixty years squeezed down into three weeks.
This all sounds somewhat corny, but there are real lessons to be learned from the comparison of the cycle race to our lives, particularly for those of us suffering from muscular dystrophy. Our physical well being varies, and sometimes we feel as if we are cycling uphill and we need to throttle back to regain our strength. Other days the road is more level and we can surge ahead. We're never sure what it round the next bend in the road, or over the crest of the hill. Our race also places huge demands on our bodies, often calling for some "chemical assistance", but most importantly, we cannot meet the challenge without the help of our fellow cyclists, be they family, friends, or domestiques!
I have never ridden a bicycle in my life, but for some reason I enjoy watching cycling. Each year we take my powerchair up the base of "Chappies" and watch the annual Cape Argus Tour. It's the largest timed cycle race in the world with over 35000 starters. We pack a picnic basket, and in between munching on sarmies and coffee, shout and scream encouragement to thousands of sweating humanoids in funny helmets and skin suits who puff and pant their way past us. Those coming through in the morning have the energy to shout back and exchange banter, those coming through in the afternoon have lost their sense of humour altogether!
The pre-race Expo at a local exhibition centre is a showcase of cycling technology and hardware, albeit a frustrating one for us technophiles. Even the most expensive racing bicycle is half the price of an average powerchair, yet the wheelchair is a dinosaur by comparison. The bicycles make use of the very latest design, combined with the highest tech materials. My powerchair has the design sense of a brick, and is made entirely from the crudest and cheapest of old world materials. It's enough to make one weep.
But back to the topic at hand. We also enjoy tuning in to the Tour de France in July, for three weeks and 3500+km of French countryside, sore bums and legs. Watching the world's finest cyclists saddle up for daily races which on their own are huge, but strung together for 21 days are monumental, it is little wonder that doping has been an issue in the race. Despite what many people believe, doping is not a modern phenomenon, and as long ago as 1928 the Tour organisers announced that they would no longer be provide drugs as the competitors were expected to do so themselves. The race places such huge demands on the human body that no mere mortal can finish it un-aided. We've watched it for years, and have come to appreciate the subtleties of the sport, and the enormity of the challenge.
Despite all the organisation, and planning, and skill, and knowledge and experience people get caught out, accidents happen, conditions change, favourites drop out, and unknowns become winners. It really is a condensed view of our lives, the literal ups and downs, trials and tribulations, successes and failures that make up a lifetime. Thirty or sixty years squeezed down into three weeks.
This all sounds somewhat corny, but there are real lessons to be learned from the comparison of the cycle race to our lives, particularly for those of us suffering from muscular dystrophy. Our physical well being varies, and sometimes we feel as if we are cycling uphill and we need to throttle back to regain our strength. Other days the road is more level and we can surge ahead. We're never sure what it round the next bend in the road, or over the crest of the hill. Our race also places huge demands on our bodies, often calling for some "chemical assistance", but most importantly, we cannot meet the challenge without the help of our fellow cyclists, be they family, friends, or domestiques!
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
DOING THE FAN WALK ROLL
For the benefit of those who have been hibernating for the last month, or who have been off visiting other planets in our galaxy, we here in Cape Town have been exposed to, and infected by, the phenomenon known as the “fan walk”.
I am not sure how the concept of a fan walk came into being, although my research indicates that it pre-dates our 2010 Soccer World Cup. I cannot help feel that even though it might have been created elsewhere, it was used as a cunning ploy by our city fathers to get around the serious transport problem of getting 65 000 people to a stadium which has no rail link and bans all motor vehicles within two kilometres of the ground on match days. They got the fans to walk the 3km from the city centre to the stadium, made a fuss about it, thereby turning it into an event. It reminded me of the story of telling someone where to go in such a way that they look forward to the journey. Regardless, it became an public relations success, and in terms of people numbers, superseded the actual soccer matches. Word spread like wildfire that, whether you had tickets to the game or not, you simply had to do the fan walk.
I would not consider myself to be a soccer fan, in the true sense of the words. I tire quickly of seeing grown men feign injury at the slightest brush with their opponents, although I would be partial to the miraculous recoveries they make once free kicks are awarded! I am more a cricket follower, with a sprinkling of rugby when I feel the need for some bone crushing confrontations. I use the term “follower” carefully, because in the case of those sports being a “fan” can be a heavy burden and something of a rollercoaster ride of success and failure. But soccer brought the world’s largest World Cup competition to our shores, and along with it more fans and media attention than we have ever seen before.
So that is how I came to find myself, bundled up against the Cape evening mid-winter cold, on a dark street in the centre of town along with what seemed to be about a million people dressed in bright orange! They were of course Dutch supporters, preparing to do battle with Cameroon, in what looked like a fancy dress competition. Men in tailored three piece orange or Delft pattern suits, women in three pointed white bonnets and clogs, all adorned with vuvuzela’s, oversized glasses and wigs, makarapas, scarves and a wash of flags. A ribbon of festivity pouring through the city streets!
I must have caught the fan walk fever, because ten days later on a considerably warmer Saturday afternoon there I was again, this time surrounded by most of Germany and much of Argentina! The newspapers claimed that up to 300 000 people participated in the fan walk that day, it felt like there were a lot more. For over five hours a sea of humanity washed first up, then down, the route, for most of the time completely spanning the four lane wide Somerset Road portion. Roadside bands, street entertainers, curio sellers and food stall owners all competed for the attention of the fans while they in turn provided entertainment to the thousands who lined the route.
What was not lost on all those who participated was the spirit, or “gees”, of the day, the friendliness of all who walked, the helpfulness of the organisers, and the safety of the police presence. The ability to walk freely in the downtown city centre during the day or night was almost liberating. Everyone I know has asked “why can it not always be so?”.
What was probably lost to all but the wheelchair walkers, and their assistants, was the fact that one could walk from the Grand Parade to Green Point Stadium without encountering a single step or curb. That is quite an achievement in a city where new, but completely inaccessible, public buildings continue to be built every month. Whilst I have serious concerns about the future financial implications of the Soccer World Cup it has generated a “can do” attitude amongst many of our city planners. The challenge is to see whether, after the last vuvuzela has fallen silent, we can maintain the momentum of developing and building an accessible environment, and a spirit to match!
I am not sure how the concept of a fan walk came into being, although my research indicates that it pre-dates our 2010 Soccer World Cup. I cannot help feel that even though it might have been created elsewhere, it was used as a cunning ploy by our city fathers to get around the serious transport problem of getting 65 000 people to a stadium which has no rail link and bans all motor vehicles within two kilometres of the ground on match days. They got the fans to walk the 3km from the city centre to the stadium, made a fuss about it, thereby turning it into an event. It reminded me of the story of telling someone where to go in such a way that they look forward to the journey. Regardless, it became an public relations success, and in terms of people numbers, superseded the actual soccer matches. Word spread like wildfire that, whether you had tickets to the game or not, you simply had to do the fan walk.
I would not consider myself to be a soccer fan, in the true sense of the words. I tire quickly of seeing grown men feign injury at the slightest brush with their opponents, although I would be partial to the miraculous recoveries they make once free kicks are awarded! I am more a cricket follower, with a sprinkling of rugby when I feel the need for some bone crushing confrontations. I use the term “follower” carefully, because in the case of those sports being a “fan” can be a heavy burden and something of a rollercoaster ride of success and failure. But soccer brought the world’s largest World Cup competition to our shores, and along with it more fans and media attention than we have ever seen before.
So that is how I came to find myself, bundled up against the Cape evening mid-winter cold, on a dark street in the centre of town along with what seemed to be about a million people dressed in bright orange! They were of course Dutch supporters, preparing to do battle with Cameroon, in what looked like a fancy dress competition. Men in tailored three piece orange or Delft pattern suits, women in three pointed white bonnets and clogs, all adorned with vuvuzela’s, oversized glasses and wigs, makarapas, scarves and a wash of flags. A ribbon of festivity pouring through the city streets!
I must have caught the fan walk fever, because ten days later on a considerably warmer Saturday afternoon there I was again, this time surrounded by most of Germany and much of Argentina! The newspapers claimed that up to 300 000 people participated in the fan walk that day, it felt like there were a lot more. For over five hours a sea of humanity washed first up, then down, the route, for most of the time completely spanning the four lane wide Somerset Road portion. Roadside bands, street entertainers, curio sellers and food stall owners all competed for the attention of the fans while they in turn provided entertainment to the thousands who lined the route.
What was not lost on all those who participated was the spirit, or “gees”, of the day, the friendliness of all who walked, the helpfulness of the organisers, and the safety of the police presence. The ability to walk freely in the downtown city centre during the day or night was almost liberating. Everyone I know has asked “why can it not always be so?”.
What was probably lost to all but the wheelchair walkers, and their assistants, was the fact that one could walk from the Grand Parade to Green Point Stadium without encountering a single step or curb. That is quite an achievement in a city where new, but completely inaccessible, public buildings continue to be built every month. Whilst I have serious concerns about the future financial implications of the Soccer World Cup it has generated a “can do” attitude amongst many of our city planners. The challenge is to see whether, after the last vuvuzela has fallen silent, we can maintain the momentum of developing and building an accessible environment, and a spirit to match!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The DURACELL GENERATION
Duracell used to run an advertising campaign showing a couple of humanoid toys climbing a rocky cliff to demonstrate how their batteries ran longer than other brands. It was hugely popular, and led to people using the phrase “Duracell Man” to describe someone who appeared to have more energy, stamina and endurance than anyone else. It got me thinking about batteries, how important they are in our daily lives, and how different our lives would be without them. Batteries are unobtrusive little things. These days they’re all pretty small, and hide behind neat plastic covers, out of sight, and hence often out of mind. It is therefore something of a wakeup call to look around the house and count the appliances, tools, gadgets and toys which run on battery power.
At the risk of being incredibly boring, let’s run through a list found in most modern homes. The television remote, the DSTv remote, the VCR/DVD remote, the hi-fi remote, the cordless phone, the cellphone, the radio, the bedside alarm clock, the wristwatch, the torch, the digital camera, and the car key immobiliser.
I have discovered a couple of other battery dependent devices lurking around my home . . . my cordless computer keyboard, and it’s cordless mouse, the computer’s uninterrupted power supply, the fax machine, the front door bell, my toothbrush, my security alarm system and its remote, and the garage door remote.
All in all quite an impressive and to some extent intimidating list, many of which are everyday items rather than gadgets. No doubt I have forgotten one or two others, which will spring to mind again when they stop working. I am equally aware that there are other devices out there which I have no experience of, such as electric shavers, hair curlers, Bluetooth devices, and probably a host of kids toys of which I have little knowledge or experience. I do have a good friend who is also a grandfather, and he assures me that they buy batteries for the grandkids toys almost as often as they do bread and milk!
Of course there is one battery in our household which eclipses all others, namely my powerchair battery. Without it I am literally dead in the proverbial water, and my powerchair becomes a lump of useless metal. It is the king of our household's batteries, and receives suitably royal treatment!
There are a number of theories about the charging of powerchair batteries, and everyone seems to have their own view. I believe that there is no hard and fast rule since we all use our powerchairs in different ways, on a variety of surfaces, for alternative times, carrying our individual weights and loads. I follow one very strict rule with regards to the charging of my powerchair battery. Never, ever, disconnect before the battery is fully charged. I watch the charge indicator daily, and when it shows approximately one third of a charge left it gets connected in the evening before I go to bed and is left to charge overnight. No top-ups. No quick half hour charges to "see me through". If the charger gets plugged in, it stays there until the charging process is complete.
I would like to think that this is the reason why, twelve years after purchasing the motorised wheelchair, I am still using the original battery. I follow the same regimen with regards to the charging of my cordless phone, and cellphone, with similar success.
My system of battery management and charging certainly works for me, and has ensured that, like the "Duracell Man", I am always ahead of the pack!
At the risk of being incredibly boring, let’s run through a list found in most modern homes. The television remote, the DSTv remote, the VCR/DVD remote, the hi-fi remote, the cordless phone, the cellphone, the radio, the bedside alarm clock, the wristwatch, the torch, the digital camera, and the car key immobiliser.
I have discovered a couple of other battery dependent devices lurking around my home . . . my cordless computer keyboard, and it’s cordless mouse, the computer’s uninterrupted power supply, the fax machine, the front door bell, my toothbrush, my security alarm system and its remote, and the garage door remote.
All in all quite an impressive and to some extent intimidating list, many of which are everyday items rather than gadgets. No doubt I have forgotten one or two others, which will spring to mind again when they stop working. I am equally aware that there are other devices out there which I have no experience of, such as electric shavers, hair curlers, Bluetooth devices, and probably a host of kids toys of which I have little knowledge or experience. I do have a good friend who is also a grandfather, and he assures me that they buy batteries for the grandkids toys almost as often as they do bread and milk!
Of course there is one battery in our household which eclipses all others, namely my powerchair battery. Without it I am literally dead in the proverbial water, and my powerchair becomes a lump of useless metal. It is the king of our household's batteries, and receives suitably royal treatment!
There are a number of theories about the charging of powerchair batteries, and everyone seems to have their own view. I believe that there is no hard and fast rule since we all use our powerchairs in different ways, on a variety of surfaces, for alternative times, carrying our individual weights and loads. I follow one very strict rule with regards to the charging of my powerchair battery. Never, ever, disconnect before the battery is fully charged. I watch the charge indicator daily, and when it shows approximately one third of a charge left it gets connected in the evening before I go to bed and is left to charge overnight. No top-ups. No quick half hour charges to "see me through". If the charger gets plugged in, it stays there until the charging process is complete.
I would like to think that this is the reason why, twelve years after purchasing the motorised wheelchair, I am still using the original battery. I follow the same regimen with regards to the charging of my cordless phone, and cellphone, with similar success.
My system of battery management and charging certainly works for me, and has ensured that, like the "Duracell Man", I am always ahead of the pack!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The E-Words
No, it has nothing to do with BEE, or BBBEE, or any of the fashionable EE's for that matter. The E's are for Education, Employment, and Environment, and their role in the development of our sense of self-esteem, although, in some form they can be viewed as empowering.
In recent discussions the topic was raised on the sense of self worth, or self-esteem, in disabled people. How is it generated? How is it maintained and encouraged? We were careful not to confuse self confidence with self-esteem. Self confidence was seen as the more "outward" projection of our personality, whereas self-esteem was viewed as an "inner" belief. What you think of yourself when looking in the mirror.
The position of the "Environment" E-word was up for debate. It became a "chicken or egg" (which comes first?) word as it was argued whether a favourable environment needed to come ahead of education and employment, or whether a favourable environment was created from the foundation of education and employment. Be that as it may, its role as one of the three E's was never in doubt.
Whether we like it or not self-esteem is a measuring device. It is our personal "State of the Nation" gauge as to how we feel about ourselves relative to our peers. If our inner report card tells us we're better than others, we feel good about ourselves, and our world looks brighter. Given the importance of a positive mental attitude, and its impact on our physical health, the role of self-esteem in shaping our lives should not be underestimated.
Regardless of ability, or disability, the building blocks for our personal self-esteem lie in our education, which can be carried through to our employment and work, or spread across our family, friends and acquaintances. Remove education and the potential for development of self esteem will be stalled, or at best severely limited. Remove employment and our ability to fulfil our educational prospects becomes blunted, and dependency, the enemy of self-esteem looms on the horizon. Create a negative physical or emotional environment and the prospects for both education and employment become bleak.
Alternatively, when any one or more of the E's is encouraged and developed it can trigger an upliftment in a most positive way. A solid education is the ideal springboard to successful employment. I use the term education broadly, because I see it as being more than simply book learning and the passing of exams. It includes an education of communication, interacting with others, socialising, sport and recreation. It is an education of all the senses, seeing, hearing, and speech.
Employment is a logical progression from the initial Education stage. It might well lead to further education as one seeks to fine tune skills, but this is not a pre-requisite. More importantly, with employment comes the means to gain independence, or put more basically, money. Yes, to some folk it is a dirty word, representative of so many evils of our world, but without it we can do very little in the modern world. It buys us food, and clothes, and homes, and for many of us wheelchairs, and bath hoists. It is also the oil which runs our social life, at restaurants, theatres, and sports events.
And last, but by no means least, we have our chicken or egg E-word, the Environment. I have always believed that disabled people are more instinctively environmentally conscious because we are impacted directly by it. Simply put, it means more to us. Our environment might be created for us by our parents or friends, or a disabled friendly town. It might be created by us through building a wheelchair friendly house or encouraging an employer to make their offices more accessible. Since our environment is a constantly changing thing it also feeds back to us, forcing us to adapt, change, alter and improve our ways of doing things. Consider the impact on our lives of cell phones, accessible buildings, computers, and the Internet in only the last ten years. Our education is never complete. In some cases the creation of a positive environment might have less to do with physical barriers but be more emotional. How we interact with others, and they with us? How much are we encouraged? How much are we trusted? Who believes in us?
Here we reach right to the core of our self esteem, the ability to believe in ourselves, in all our skills and abilities drawn from all the E's. Regardless of which E-word comes first, all three E's need to be in place for self-esteem to flourish.
In recent discussions the topic was raised on the sense of self worth, or self-esteem, in disabled people. How is it generated? How is it maintained and encouraged? We were careful not to confuse self confidence with self-esteem. Self confidence was seen as the more "outward" projection of our personality, whereas self-esteem was viewed as an "inner" belief. What you think of yourself when looking in the mirror.
The position of the "Environment" E-word was up for debate. It became a "chicken or egg" (which comes first?) word as it was argued whether a favourable environment needed to come ahead of education and employment, or whether a favourable environment was created from the foundation of education and employment. Be that as it may, its role as one of the three E's was never in doubt.
Whether we like it or not self-esteem is a measuring device. It is our personal "State of the Nation" gauge as to how we feel about ourselves relative to our peers. If our inner report card tells us we're better than others, we feel good about ourselves, and our world looks brighter. Given the importance of a positive mental attitude, and its impact on our physical health, the role of self-esteem in shaping our lives should not be underestimated.
Regardless of ability, or disability, the building blocks for our personal self-esteem lie in our education, which can be carried through to our employment and work, or spread across our family, friends and acquaintances. Remove education and the potential for development of self esteem will be stalled, or at best severely limited. Remove employment and our ability to fulfil our educational prospects becomes blunted, and dependency, the enemy of self-esteem looms on the horizon. Create a negative physical or emotional environment and the prospects for both education and employment become bleak.
Alternatively, when any one or more of the E's is encouraged and developed it can trigger an upliftment in a most positive way. A solid education is the ideal springboard to successful employment. I use the term education broadly, because I see it as being more than simply book learning and the passing of exams. It includes an education of communication, interacting with others, socialising, sport and recreation. It is an education of all the senses, seeing, hearing, and speech.
Employment is a logical progression from the initial Education stage. It might well lead to further education as one seeks to fine tune skills, but this is not a pre-requisite. More importantly, with employment comes the means to gain independence, or put more basically, money. Yes, to some folk it is a dirty word, representative of so many evils of our world, but without it we can do very little in the modern world. It buys us food, and clothes, and homes, and for many of us wheelchairs, and bath hoists. It is also the oil which runs our social life, at restaurants, theatres, and sports events.
And last, but by no means least, we have our chicken or egg E-word, the Environment. I have always believed that disabled people are more instinctively environmentally conscious because we are impacted directly by it. Simply put, it means more to us. Our environment might be created for us by our parents or friends, or a disabled friendly town. It might be created by us through building a wheelchair friendly house or encouraging an employer to make their offices more accessible. Since our environment is a constantly changing thing it also feeds back to us, forcing us to adapt, change, alter and improve our ways of doing things. Consider the impact on our lives of cell phones, accessible buildings, computers, and the Internet in only the last ten years. Our education is never complete. In some cases the creation of a positive environment might have less to do with physical barriers but be more emotional. How we interact with others, and they with us? How much are we encouraged? How much are we trusted? Who believes in us?
Here we reach right to the core of our self esteem, the ability to believe in ourselves, in all our skills and abilities drawn from all the E's. Regardless of which E-word comes first, all three E's need to be in place for self-esteem to flourish.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Wind In My Face
From the age of two or three an able-bodied person can expect to experience the feeling of air rushing on their faces. In the beginning it must be a strangely exciting sensation and one often sees children getting the same satisfied look on their faces as one sees on dogs with their heads out of car windows. Heads slightly back, eyes wide, and jowels flapping in the breeze. At speed of course it can quickly become bugs in the teeth and some years ago on the back of a bakkie in the Lowveld a friend named Piet swallowed a flying beetle. I'm not sure who was most surprised, Piet at having an early bug breakfast, or “Jonah” the bug.
For a disabled child, or adult for that matter, speed is not a sensation we easily experience, unless it is motorised. No running and no bicycling for us, we have to get our rush of air by artificial means. With speed comes a strange element of independence. It's easy to trundle along in a group, but its fun to accelerate away on one's own, free of assistance.
Some time ago I corresponded with a teacher in the UK who was launching a programme of driving lessons for wheelchair kids. Now there's a job for you! Don't think boring old Alan Johnston on DriveTime . . . "And the chair delivers 55 Newton-metres of torque, and the boot looks like this, and the steering wheel looks like that". Does anybody even know what a Newton-metre is? Think more Jeremy Clarkson and TopGear! . . . Think of four wheel power slides, and limited slip diffs, and smoking rear tyres. Think "fastest chair from a standing start down the studio corridor", or "fastest powerchair lap around the TopGear parking lot".
Anyway, to return to our intrepid wheelchair driving school teacher . . . He (she? can you tell the difference via eMail?) was developing a course to teach newly disabled kids how to handle chairs, both manual and power. Rather than saying "don't wheel fast" they were saying "let's teach you how to handle this thing". We all know that there is nothing more dangerous than a new rollerblader, drifting slowly down a slope with their arms flailing in every direction, ready to latch on to any upright object (which might be you) and cling on. Far better a fast, agile rollerblader who blasts past you in perfect control and balance. So the driving instuctor was going to build a slalom course of big cushions, drums, driving cones, etc and they were going to invite the local traffic police to add some fun with their uniforms and white gloves. I think that is smart, it is innovative, and if done correctly will result in wheelchair users who can not only wheel with safety and sureity, but will also feel confident about themselves and their mode of transport.
The Mother Grundy's out there can chill for a moment. This is not a piece in praise of dodgem cars. Any fool can drive a powerchair into a wall. It's not how many people you hit, but how many you miss. I'll keep the slow speed and fixed stare on the patch of ground immediately in front of me for my later years when I need to strap a walking cane to my joystick.
I drive my powerchair heads up. I like the feeling of the wind on my face. My jowels don't flap just yet, but no doubt that will come in time. I want to see the slight look of panic in other pedestrians eyes as the 10m distance between us closes rapidly and they have to decide whether to step right or left . . . or will he step right or left? . . . now 7m . . . no, powerchairs can't step right or left! . . . now it's 5m . . . must I stop or will he stop? . . . 3m . . . I better do the stepping and do it now! . . . WHOOOOSH !!
For a disabled child, or adult for that matter, speed is not a sensation we easily experience, unless it is motorised. No running and no bicycling for us, we have to get our rush of air by artificial means. With speed comes a strange element of independence. It's easy to trundle along in a group, but its fun to accelerate away on one's own, free of assistance.
Some time ago I corresponded with a teacher in the UK who was launching a programme of driving lessons for wheelchair kids. Now there's a job for you! Don't think boring old Alan Johnston on DriveTime . . . "And the chair delivers 55 Newton-metres of torque, and the boot looks like this, and the steering wheel looks like that". Does anybody even know what a Newton-metre is? Think more Jeremy Clarkson and TopGear! . . . Think of four wheel power slides, and limited slip diffs, and smoking rear tyres. Think "fastest chair from a standing start down the studio corridor", or "fastest powerchair lap around the TopGear parking lot".
Anyway, to return to our intrepid wheelchair driving school teacher . . . He (she? can you tell the difference via eMail?) was developing a course to teach newly disabled kids how to handle chairs, both manual and power. Rather than saying "don't wheel fast" they were saying "let's teach you how to handle this thing". We all know that there is nothing more dangerous than a new rollerblader, drifting slowly down a slope with their arms flailing in every direction, ready to latch on to any upright object (which might be you) and cling on. Far better a fast, agile rollerblader who blasts past you in perfect control and balance. So the driving instuctor was going to build a slalom course of big cushions, drums, driving cones, etc and they were going to invite the local traffic police to add some fun with their uniforms and white gloves. I think that is smart, it is innovative, and if done correctly will result in wheelchair users who can not only wheel with safety and sureity, but will also feel confident about themselves and their mode of transport.
The Mother Grundy's out there can chill for a moment. This is not a piece in praise of dodgem cars. Any fool can drive a powerchair into a wall. It's not how many people you hit, but how many you miss. I'll keep the slow speed and fixed stare on the patch of ground immediately in front of me for my later years when I need to strap a walking cane to my joystick.
I drive my powerchair heads up. I like the feeling of the wind on my face. My jowels don't flap just yet, but no doubt that will come in time. I want to see the slight look of panic in other pedestrians eyes as the 10m distance between us closes rapidly and they have to decide whether to step right or left . . . or will he step right or left? . . . now 7m . . . no, powerchairs can't step right or left! . . . now it's 5m . . . must I stop or will he stop? . . . 3m . . . I better do the stepping and do it now! . . . WHOOOOSH !!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Feel The Heat !
I have a saying, “it’s never too hot”. I mean it. No climate can ever be too hot for me. I watch the international weather report on television and keep an eye out for “Muscat” where the average daytime temperature hovers at around 40 degrees Celcius, and I think to myself “if only”! My disability has left me really thin, literally skin and bones, or as one person so aptly put it, a “stickman”. The result is that I lose heat rapidly, and when I do, I struggle to regain it.
The added problem is that my limited muscle strength turns me off wearing layers of warm clothing, gloves, boots, etc. I feel like the proverbial Michelin Man, only less mobile! I’m at my most comfortable in a t-shirt and tracksuit pants, that’s all, and ninety percent of the time I’m also without shoes. My home is my castle, and I like to “walk” around inside it dressed for comfort, not in defiance of the elements. I know people who wear jackets and jerseys inside their own homes. Some even walk around draped in a blanket! It makes no sense to me, unless of course one cannot afford heating.
My hands and fingers feel the cold first, and when they freeze up they stop working, so my priority is always to keep my hands warm. I use a variety of methods, from hugging-a-mug, to immersing my hands into a hand basin of hot water, to holding a nifty gel hand warmer a mate bought me in London. All work, but only for a limited time. The key is my inner body warmth, and for that I need my home to be warm.
It has to be said that our houses in South Africa are not properly insulted, for winter or summer. We live in solid brick and mortar homes but they leak heat like sieves. I recall my first trip to New York in winter, sitting at a window looking out at the snow in the garden, looking down and noticing that the windowsill, and corresponding house wall where I was positioned, was wafer thin, yet I was as warm as toast, while it was snowing outside. For the first time the importance of proper insulation dawned on me. Northern hemisphere prefabricated buildings are better insulated than the most expensive of our southern hemisphere mansions. Somewhere along the way we became lazy in South Africa and missed some important lessons.
Fortunately my wife shares my liking for warmth, which is a good thing. She has more meat on her bones, but will readily admit that she would make a lousy adventure racer, or explorer. Being cold, and possibly wet, is not for her. My mother is the complete opposite. She’s always wanted to travel to the Antarctic, but I warn all interested parties that she will want to sleep with the tent flap open! A good friend of mine has the problem that he likes the cold, and his wife likes the warmth. One of the stranger results of their union is their duvet, which is stitched down the middle, with his side devoid of stuffing, and his wife’s side filled with extra fluff! He sleeps kaalgat, she comes to bed with socks on. Fortunately they love each other!
Only once have we come close to uttering that magical phrase, “I’m too hot”. It was in Las Vegas where the already hot and dry desert air was reflected back at us off the endless concrete pavements, concrete buildings, tarred road surfaces, metal signage, etc. Every hard surface acted as a magnifier and multiplier of the heat. Little wonder they are draining the Colorado River dry to irrigate their fountains and water features. Anything to soften the surroundings. The effect was heightened by the near Arctic setting on all the interior air-conditioning. It made the movement into, or out of, buildings something of a body shocking experience!
By the time you read this we will be moving into winter and I will be eyeing Muscat on the television with envy, and my panel heater with new found affection, whilst the electricity box grins knowingly across at me in the kitchen! We will be entering the season where getting warm, and staying warm, becomes my major priority. Fortunately there are a couple of alternative internal heating methods, such as a good risotto, jambalaya, or Loretta’s famous putanesca, and of course red wine! Sampled often, and in quantity, they help keep the big chill at bay, until we can once again feel the heat.
The added problem is that my limited muscle strength turns me off wearing layers of warm clothing, gloves, boots, etc. I feel like the proverbial Michelin Man, only less mobile! I’m at my most comfortable in a t-shirt and tracksuit pants, that’s all, and ninety percent of the time I’m also without shoes. My home is my castle, and I like to “walk” around inside it dressed for comfort, not in defiance of the elements. I know people who wear jackets and jerseys inside their own homes. Some even walk around draped in a blanket! It makes no sense to me, unless of course one cannot afford heating.
My hands and fingers feel the cold first, and when they freeze up they stop working, so my priority is always to keep my hands warm. I use a variety of methods, from hugging-a-mug, to immersing my hands into a hand basin of hot water, to holding a nifty gel hand warmer a mate bought me in London. All work, but only for a limited time. The key is my inner body warmth, and for that I need my home to be warm.
It has to be said that our houses in South Africa are not properly insulted, for winter or summer. We live in solid brick and mortar homes but they leak heat like sieves. I recall my first trip to New York in winter, sitting at a window looking out at the snow in the garden, looking down and noticing that the windowsill, and corresponding house wall where I was positioned, was wafer thin, yet I was as warm as toast, while it was snowing outside. For the first time the importance of proper insulation dawned on me. Northern hemisphere prefabricated buildings are better insulated than the most expensive of our southern hemisphere mansions. Somewhere along the way we became lazy in South Africa and missed some important lessons.
Fortunately my wife shares my liking for warmth, which is a good thing. She has more meat on her bones, but will readily admit that she would make a lousy adventure racer, or explorer. Being cold, and possibly wet, is not for her. My mother is the complete opposite. She’s always wanted to travel to the Antarctic, but I warn all interested parties that she will want to sleep with the tent flap open! A good friend of mine has the problem that he likes the cold, and his wife likes the warmth. One of the stranger results of their union is their duvet, which is stitched down the middle, with his side devoid of stuffing, and his wife’s side filled with extra fluff! He sleeps kaalgat, she comes to bed with socks on. Fortunately they love each other!
Only once have we come close to uttering that magical phrase, “I’m too hot”. It was in Las Vegas where the already hot and dry desert air was reflected back at us off the endless concrete pavements, concrete buildings, tarred road surfaces, metal signage, etc. Every hard surface acted as a magnifier and multiplier of the heat. Little wonder they are draining the Colorado River dry to irrigate their fountains and water features. Anything to soften the surroundings. The effect was heightened by the near Arctic setting on all the interior air-conditioning. It made the movement into, or out of, buildings something of a body shocking experience!
By the time you read this we will be moving into winter and I will be eyeing Muscat on the television with envy, and my panel heater with new found affection, whilst the electricity box grins knowingly across at me in the kitchen! We will be entering the season where getting warm, and staying warm, becomes my major priority. Fortunately there are a couple of alternative internal heating methods, such as a good risotto, jambalaya, or Loretta’s famous putanesca, and of course red wine! Sampled often, and in quantity, they help keep the big chill at bay, until we can once again feel the heat.
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