The more grizzled Dan?s World readers amongst you may recall my misadventures on the slopes of Les Gets last year, as I took to the piste for the very first time, under the homicidal guidance of two lunatic Argentineans, who spent a fortnight dragging me up and down mountains, laughing uproariously at my fumbling attempts at mastering skiing, and generally doing their best to kill me. It was by turn terrifying, exhilarating, and completely unforgettable — and gave me what might just turn out to be the finest two weeks of my life.

Central to the orchestration of my alpine assault (which was partly designed to enable me to master the art of slalom, and thus captain the Zimbabwean team to next year?s Winter Olympics), was the senior Argentinean. Formerly a Western Province beach volleyball player, Pablo Solsona had found his way to Cape Town, and the university therein, from his small skiing village in the south of Argentina; and from Cape Town to Madrid, essentially a base for his multiple travels about the globe in search of adventure, which had brought him to the French Alps, and an unlikely assignment teaching a snow virgin to ski.

?You look like a really, really drunk giraffe,? was Pablo?s first assessment of my rudimentary technique (thus dispelling my initial conviction that I?d naturally adopted the poise and grace of Alberto Tomba). Later, when I thought I?d picked up a turn of speed and was becoming a rather menacing skier, he announced to the slope in general that he was worried the adjoining glacier might overtake me &#&8212; before bursting out laughing, patting ?Senor Dan? on the shoulder, and dragging me off for some apres ski.

It was the apres ski that inspired just as many vivid memories as actual time in the snow; now and again you meet people you spark with instantly, and despite his continued attempts to get me into intensive care while hurtling down murderous precipices, we spent two weeks acquainting ourselves with the bars of Les Gets, discovering a shared love of single malt, and planning my Winter Olympic assault. (I think Pablo saw himself as the suave, Latin answer to John Candy?s bobsled coach in ?Cool Runnings?.)

Since then, my misadventures with Senor Pablo have continued. Steeled by three bottles of rioja over lunch, and half a bottle of lurid red paint thinners that Pablo insisted was a traditional Spanish aperitif, the two of us talked our way through the main gate, past security, and into the VIP lounge at the Madrid Masters, having explained that we were SAA pilots, and that SAA had invited us as the airline sponsor of the ATP Tour. (We met several players, and made it as far as centre court for a Nadal game, before being escorted out by five large security guards.)

We managed a private tour of the Santiago Bernabeu, home to Real Madrid, thanks to Pablo?s endless string of contacts (he also got us into the Masters, officially this time, to watch Federer); and a couple of months later, I returned the favour at Coca Cola Park, taking Pablo and his fiancee to the final of the Confederations Cup, an experience scarred by Pablo?s insistence on spending the entire match attempting to teach himself to play the vuvuzela.

And in between assorted meetings, we kept in touch, usually from disparate parts of the planet: me sedately wandering fairways around the world, and Pablo living a somewhat more extreme existence. Heli-skiing in Russia was one recent adventure, flying into darkest Siberia to take on some of the purest powder on the planet; that was one adventure in the context of the larger one, warm smile and intrepid spirit constantly in search of new destinations and fresh challenges.

So why the reflection on my wonderfully loco friend? I find myself back in Madrid today, warm sunshine offset by cold cerveza, one of the city?s endless street cafes offering me refuge; in a few hours time, I?ll bid farewell to a man with an extraordinary zest for life, and a capacity to charm, entertain and befriend that never flagged. Late last week, in gathering gloom, Pablo attempted to land his microlight on a road after getting lost on a flight outside of the Spanish capital; the tip of his wing clipped a power line, and in an instant, a rich, vibrant life came to a cruel, abrupt end.

There have been many tears this week, but memories of Pablo invariably invoke smiles and laughter, testament to the nature of the man; there will be plenty of emotion of both sorts when the time comes to say that final goodbye. He?s left far too soon, certainly, but managed to fill 37 remarkable years with more than most of us will squeeze into double that. There?s a poignancy to someone departing this world doing something they loved, I suppose; that won?t erase the sense of loss, but as my skiing coach settles down on the piste of slopes more ethereal, the smile, warmth and infectious bonhomie remain as enduring memories. Descanse en paz, Senor Pablo.

Previous columns: Dan and Pablo discuss Dan?s skiing; and Dan and Pablo take on Madrid.

Pablo Solsona: 22/3/1972-6/8/2009

  • Contact Dan at dan@metropolis.co.za