Our Tripod looses a leg.

Weddings are cute. All this soppy emotion, joy and festivity rolled into a neat little bundle, with a copious amount of alcohol to amplify the atmosphere and provide the possibility of a superbly good time.
Moogs and I have been through allot in our time as friends, and Cape Town and Simmos wedding were the ingredients needed to stir up and re-conger some long not thought about mad times.

I met Simmo, all 7 foot of him, as he shuffle stamped his way out of a snowy blizzard of the outback, buck-toothed, hick Ski resort town of Crested Butte and into my hostel. His greeting was as enthusiastic as any you could hope to receive on a quiet, routine desk watching shift, and when coupled with a unintended head butt to our entrance hall chandelier, the accumulated snow in his hair which poofed and then sparkled in the window filtered rays of sunlight as it fell to the floor, and his seldom heard in America South African accent, the stage was all his as he made his big entrance into my life and spluttered a hello.

Anton’s balance was terrible, and his cornering worse. He has however a good capacity for courage, which relative to his natural inability could almost certainly not lead this enthusiastic wannabee snowboarder to a good place. He was as friendly and as bizarrely interested in setting himself up for character testing and adventurous situations as Moog’s and myself and since we had to teach him how to snowboard and give him at least a thimble full’s chance at impressing one of the local hick females, he unanimously became our third musketeer with prospects of post ski season travels through central America starting with Mexico.

Last night, at the wedding, I met a close time-old friend of Simmos by the name of Chris. Our trip , according to Chris, changed Simmo somewhat and set him up for this very situation, his marriage, to which we had just bore witness. Chris claimed that in just 5 short months of nomadic dick directed wandering around Central America, Anton had in fact been transformed from a nice shy guy, to the super confident chick slayer that had landed him his wife, and the smashing love of his life. What a laugh. Body shots and drunken booty grind dancing at coco-labombo in Cancun, arterial foot wounds, 2km off shore kayak barracuda fishing, Moog’s 2.5m near death head first superman dive from a rain soaked American bought and 10000 mile driven 85 Jeep roof rack, sleeping in hummocks in Mexican roadside coconut grove jungles, being taken hostage but 100 panga wheelding Guatemalans…. 5 months of post varsity, naivety and lust driven madness.

We formed the perfect tripod. My ridiculous ambition to prove my right to my over inflated naïve ego Moog’s ability to believe in and support my absurd reasoning, and then spice things up by taking the Mickey out everything just as shit started to hit the fan, and Simmos ability to panic just enough and at the right times to let us realize that what we were in fact doing was really stupid and could permanently maim or result in us living in a Mexican prison for a really long time. It was the perfect balance for some unbelievable time and experience …

The bride was a goddess, and with the memories of good times in my mind I look on as the tripod strength is reduced again to two, and with no lack of emotion either. Anton courageously takes his leave from our adventurous little crew into real manhood with a big croaking frog in this throat a touch of contagious viral and moisture creating red eye in this eyes. The woman by his side is unbelievably beautiful and endearing. Good luck to you my firend.