The ski slopes of the Tyrol in Austria are slowly succumbing to the most frightening species on the planet: the greater Joburg braying diva.
The one in our group had waist-length blonde extensions, a bright pink ski-jacket, even brighter pink skin-tight ski-pants, and outsize Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses instead of ski goggles.
It would have been easier to tolerate this wodge of dayglo loudness if she’d shown even a smattering of ability, but after five days on the beginner’s slope, we had all but given up hope.
Hope, however, had not given up on us. With a logic uncharacteristic of her species, she deduced that her skiing ability – or lack thereof – was due to vertigo. Even looking down the gentle gradient of the beginner’s slope left her giddy with distress.
Desperate not to be the outcast of our group, she suddenly remembered a previous ‘expedition’ in the Magaliesberg, in which her vertigo had been cured by copious amounts of alcohol.
A rack of Jägermeister shooters later, and the transformation was almost immediate. Her shnowplows were sufficiently convincing that our group was finally cleared to head off to the ski-lift and take on the pistes of Westdendorf!
The diva arrived at the ski-lift, pockets jingling to the sound of dozens of Jäger shot-bottles.
The broad, long Blue slopes finally crunched under our skis as we snaked down kilometre after kilometre of pristine runs, flanked by fir forests laden thick with snow.
By the time our group arrived at the first Red slope, our diva was not only ready for it, but was advising everyone in earshot that Not only am I ginna go Red, I’m also ginna do the Black slope! Jis washme!
But, as she glanced down the steep Red slope, the gradient penetrated the Jäger-induced stupor just long enough to create a sudden, unstoppable urge: she had to go to the little girl's room. Now!
Since the closest loo was about 5km straight down, and since any semblance of modesty had long ago been smothered by the liquor, the diva promptly shnowplows off-piste to piss. Behind a hopelessly inadequate pine tree, she shuffles down her bright pink pants, heaves out her ample bottom, squats between her skis - and promptly passes out.
Whether it was the warm wee that did loosened the ski's grip, or the inert body tipping forward, we'll never know, but the kiddies ski-group halfway down the Red slope suddenly found themselves targeted by a low-flying pink and blonde projectile.
Like skittles in a bowling alley, kids in Skischule Westendorf vests explode out of the flight-path. Undeterred, the missile continues resolutely downward to where the Red slope converges with the near-vertical Black one, overtakes a posse of racing ski instructors and would in all likelihood have completed the run in record time, had she not woken up at approximately 85km per hour.
What happened next was not pretty, and gave new meaning to the term "rag-dolling". Views of her cartwheeling, wailing body were periodically interrupted as the wave a mini-avalanche swallowed and then spat her out like flotsam on a spring tide.
By the time the instructors caught up with her, she was in a tree. The snow-laden branch had stopped a trajectory that would have had a rather messy end in the ski-lift parking lot. Instead, group after group of passing skiers lifted their ski-poles to point out the loud fraulein from Sud-Afrika with her dropped skipants and big white bum, 8m high in a fir tree.
