A Freezing Mythtery
By Pinelands Writers Circle
The chemical compound H2O, on which all life as we know it depends, exists in three physical states in nature. Both components and the combination of them are gases, but that it is not its natural state. Even the wispy clouds we observe on high are evidence of its normal state as a liquid composed of tiny droplets of water. Water boils off as a gas when the temperature exceeds 212 degrees Fahrenheit. Water solidifies when the temperature falls below 32 degrees Fahrenheit. The super-cooled water is called ice.
A German physicist, Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit proposed the thermometer with these boiling and freezing points of water in 1724. Historically the introduction was complicated, too complicated to tell you how it all developed. Suffice it to say that it was finally amended to a 180-degree separation between the boiling point and the freezing points of water.
“I can recall those very words uttered by my physics teacher, Pain Stein. so, was called that because of a habit of klapping those that didn’t learn too good, so it was said. I still don’t quite understand since he usually called me his star pupil and then klapped me good.”
“That ridiculous heat scale was drummed into my skull as a pikkie at school. As soon as I could recall the details parrot-fashion, some idiots in parliament decreed that we forget all about Fahrenheit and accept the Celsius System. Obviously that thermometer is based on these properties of what is generally known as water. Why the hell did I have to endure Fahrenheit? Why didn’t they introduce the Celsius Scale initially? That was easier since we kids all had ten fingers and ten toes for doing sums behind our backs. Even so Pain Stein was more concerned with spotting that to reward us with extra klaps.”
“Then we were confronted with formulas to switch from Fahrenheit to Celsius and vice versa. Never got the hang of that. I was gatvol of klaps and got into trouble for threatening to donner him. Bloody politicians and teachers – they never learned good themselves. And the Yanks are still deploying the Fahrenheit scale, just to be different. All along I thought the French had the franchise to being otherwise.” Thus, he mused, the lesson from his past playing over and over again in his mind.
Aptly named Amanzi Agua mumbled as he stumbled on, struggling to justify his reasons for dropping out of school at an early age. Strange that water seemed to have wrung the changes in his life. Now several years after school he was regurgitating this particular lesson in physics. As he plodded on his way, he repeated the phrase ice-water-steam over and over again. For every step he took he slotted in 32 and 212 between the words. The recollection of a klap after every phrase he had to repeat was still painful, but suppressed the physical ache he was currently experiencing.
His academic career was curtailed by insufficient grey matter and a lack of incentive to study. About genetic inheritance there was little he could do. He had been derailed by the three physical states of H2O. Amanzi was destined to rely on his physique, strength, and agility for survival. He ‘learned good’ from the klaps and would donner, bliksem and moer to earn a living.
Metaphorical gas he would need to sustain himself in the long haul. The liquid state of the compound H2O was not an essential component in his chosen career. He was normally engaged for but a few minutes in combat on each occasion. Water was only necessary afterwards to rinse off the sweat, the pungent liquid he produced during a bout. In the solid state, and with added liquid ingredients of fermented fruit juice, it was a priority later to celebrate and relax. There was nothing as comforting afterwards as the tinkling sound of ice in a tumbler of whisky or brandy.
A small and skinny pipsqueak at school, Amanzi was bullied to a large extent by burly colleagues, and to a greater extent verbally abused as a domkop by the nerds. His vocation as an adult was a foregone conclusion after a growth spurt during puberty, putting on muscle, and a new temper to compensate for years of maltreatment. He found his pugilistic skills helpful in settling scores with those who persisted with earlier tactics on his person. He took to boxing like a duck to the liquid state of the chemical compound H2O.
Achieving local fame on the school grounds and in the streets, he had discovered that a well-aimed kick yielded instant dividends. Although not accepted by the classical boxing fraternity it found a welcome niche for the street fighter in the sport of kickboxing. This style suited him admirably. Already proficient upon leaving school, he excelled at the sport in later life. Notwithstanding his natural skill and augmented powers, Amanzi was renowned for his ability to absorb punishment, a skill learnt in his youth. He was a superb athlete, his endurance and masochism unmatched.
“Jean-Claude van Damme is everyone’s hero,” he thought aloud. “He did not have to go back nearly three centuries and swot up all the historical experiments that lead to the development of a stupid thermometer. The history of kickboxing is a now thing; the burly Belgian practising a sport only developed in 1960 from a hybrid of martial arts, all of which appeal to me.”
“Thank you, Van Damme! Now he learned me how to donner and moer good!”
Finally, the third module of his life to date was added. He had been enamoured with the newly promoted, energy-sapping hike along the famed Fish River canyon. The initial run would be northwards from the base camp at Ais-ais in Southern Namibia. This was a challenge for him and some colleagues in the business of professionally beating each other up for a livelihood. It was then equated with the Comrades Marathon and appealed to their common masochism.
The initial Fish River canyon race was fostered as an endurance trial for the super fit before ironman events were considered, and not a race for skinny weeds on tarmac all the way. This gruelling hike had no rules or restrictions then. Demands were set by the individual. The rewards? Nothing more than virtual gratification for those who found joy in suffering and indulging in sampling Windhoek’s finest brew around the campfire that night.
He had set off at a blistering pace determined to outstrip his fellow competitors by a considerable distance. This he soon achieved despite the searing heat and rugged terrain. Unconstrained by a large backpack, he was only weighed down by his thermos packed with ice. He did not consider lugging it along for an emergency. He would complete the run in less than seven hours without carbo-loading and filling his bladder. He had been let down before and was not going to rely on the organisers to bring along a supply for the celebrations.
Well past the last few puddles of briny water, he had yet to quench a developing thirst. Gritting his teeth, he entered the final stretch of the run. A record was on the cards and no competitor remotely in sight. Amanzi was going to make it without bothering to refuel en route.
Hours later mental exhaustion set in. Physical fatigue was never a problem for him but this was a longer and different experience. As he laboured on along the uneven, rocky floor of the canyon, now devoid of palatable water with only rare damp areas of brine, his mind was once again focussed on H2O in any form whatsoever. Parched and now pickled in personal brine his mental strength was being emotionally drained by the lessons of yore.
”Ice-32-water-212-gas, ice-32-water-212-gas, ice-32-water-212-gas” became the rhythmic repetition with every stride. “Fahrenheit and my resilience will see me home.”
Still, he forged ahead as the tempo dropped, the rhythm dithered, and the cadence of the phrase faded. The scorching heat reflecting off the barren, vertical walls off the canyon began to take its toll. Lips too parched to sing he commenced to murmur the words of a song that he dredged up from his subconscious.
“All day I face the barren waste
Without a drink of water…
Cool, clear water. . .”
This lifted his spirits for a while.
Eventually he could distinctly hear the rattle of ice cubes in a tumbler. The offered tumbler would shortly be filled with whisky signifying victory at the end of the race and bring an end to mental anguish and agony. The body persevered, but his mind was floating ahead, an ice cube in a tumbler. The expected celebration was imminent.
With the last rays of sunlight, his energy and mind sapped, the record stuck on the verse:
“The shadows sway and seem to say
Tonight we pray for water”
Cool, clear water
And way up there He’ll hear our prayer
And show us where there’s water
Cool, clear water.”
A lake of immense proportions materialized ahead; a shimmering enticement to cool down, slake his thirst and swim to victory.
Amanzi succumbed to the seductive lure of a mirage and dived in headlong.
A search party combed the canyon for days after he was posted as missing. The trackers followed his footprints well beyond the agreed northern end of the hiking trail. They met up with local police, investigating a possible homicide on the road near Seeheim. Amanzi Agua’s shrivelled and sun-baked corpse lay spread-eagled on the tarmac road between Luderitz and Keetmanshoop. Except for a broken nose and a linked and leaked crimson stain, he was relatively intact. Not a potential hit-an-run accident. The police had to tick many boxes in gathering evidence. Even transport by aliens in a UFO was considered after alibis excluded other hikers from a crime.
A superb and dedicated athlete, Amanzi had surpassed all expectations of endurance. In ignorance he had passed the finishing post before the referees got there to pick up the contestants. He had exceeded the mandatory course by a considerable margin, nearly doubling the distance.
However, his entry into the book of remarkable stories and achievements in the Fish River canyon was not one of stamina. The medical diagnosis was not that of a person dying from overexertion, sunstroke, thirst, tick fever, poison, or an argument with a vehicle.
The result of the initial post-mortem examination caused a stir in the media. The autopsy revealed that he had drowned, despite the lack of water within miles of the discovery site. “Although flash floods are not uncommon, a river flows from its source, never in the opposite direction,” thus reasoned the investigating officer. The medical doctor would not be swayed from his diagnosis of the probable cause of death. Second and third opinions were called for, but all concurred with the initial judgement.
Amanzi Agua’s name is inscribed at the top of the list of those who had perished in the Fish River canyon, his time for the trip unrecorded. Today it has become a hike for ninnies because of restriction to a milder time of the year, a start from the lookout site in the north and a finish in the hot spring pool at Ai-ais. All hikes are subject to control and monitored by those in authority. Race times have been reduced to a matter of hours.
The myths of Amanzi Agua’s demise in the searing heat and aridity of the Fish River canyon still persist. Did he drown in a mirage?
For those less inclined to believe in fairy tales and trying to explain the volume of water in his lungs, the jury is still out on whether he could have choked on ice cubes. Water was his alpha and his omega in life.
In the stillness of the night, some say, you can still hear the repeated refrain of ice-32-water-212-gas in tune with rhythmic klap-klap-klapping of footfalls and a subtle tinkling of ice cubes in a thermos repeatedly echoing from the canyon walls.