07/04/12 – old skool afternoons

We mentor two young boys who have spent most of their short lives in the SOS Children’s Village in Thornton. We first met them in September last year and since then have tried to visit them every week.

The oldest boy, A, turned 16 earlier this month. The younger boy, S, was going to receive his reward for doing well at school last year (a deal we made with them before their year-end exams). So we thought Easter Saturday would be a good chance to get them out of the village. What followed was a fab, fun, old skool afternoon.

First stop was the store where S picked out his reward.

Next was lunch at the Spur (a South African institution and family steakhouse chain, if you’re not familiar with the territory). I haven’t been to a Spur for donkey’s years; I guess there are many other places that top my list of places to go for impromptu lunches. For a no-kids couple, it just doesn’t come onto our radar. But when you’re hanging out with a couple of hungry teenagers, well, it’s just gotta be done. And when I do, I admit that I do like a bit of a Spur outing.

You always know what you’re going to get, every time, even after all these years. It’s like taking a walk down the hall of fame of childhood tastes and textures: onion rings soggy and sweet, wrapped in a batter of sorts; skinny fries doused with their signature savoury sprinkle, and lashed by my hand with what used to be known as Thousand Island dressing, but which is called something much more healthy – like Salad and Fries dressing, or something; and steaks cooked to order soaked in their distinctive marinade.

Take all that, and mix it with Spur’s own brand of faux Native American faux stained glass decor; and their latest approach to entertainment, which goes something like this:

There’s us, a captive audience – or the converted, if you like. There’s the waitrons – or the serving staff, if you like. There’s the Spur anthem, blared over the PA system at double volume, reminding us that “Spur people are people with a taste for life“. And then there’s the dance that the waitrons do when the Spur anthem plays. They do their jig, while they’re holding your bill aloft, or clearing tables, or taking your order. The jig involves conga lines, putting your left hand, then right hand into the air, and clapping.

Anyway, while all this was going on, much to the amusement of us (yes, yes, I know) and our other fellow diners, we snaffled our mixed grills/steaks/nachos meals and caught up with the latest developments in A and S’s lives.

After lunch we headed over to A’s main target: the amusement arcade.

Now, I should explain that I actually don’t like these places. I briefly experienced a few in the UK (long story, involving a boyfriend who loved them ) and would always come out of there feeling a bit grubby and much poorer.

Still, A wanted to go, so I checked my reservations at the door and in we went. Tokens in hand, A and P made a beeline for the pool table and S shot off to the driving games. I stood watching the pool for a while, trying to decide what to do.

I looked around me, taking it all in, and then thought “oh well, if you can’t beat ‘em, you may as well join ‘em.”

The arcade is designed to meet any family-rated fantasy you like. You can shoot any number of enemies with any number of weapons of cyber destruction. You can compete in car and bike grand prix events. You can play tennis and soccer. You can test your strength with a giant foam hammer, and you can check your dance moves against a machine and sensor-driven foot pads. You can shoot hoops and shoot pool. Your kids can go on flights of fantasy on brightly coloured rocking cars and toddler-sized ferris wheels for one. You can feed the claw machine in the hope of winning a fluffy heart-shaped prize.You can play table puck-hockey and foozeball.

You brain filters the sounds of a thousands pings and clangs and beeps and sirens and strobe lights and flashing jackpot signs while grown men get beaten on stationery motorbikes a third of their size by kids a third of their age. Their wives feed the hungry token machines, sending the kids off to the next thrill-ride. I watched a young girl, probably no older than five, tear up the tarmac at Silverstone, sliding off the seat as she tried to punch the break pedal while skilfully flicking through the gears and sliding past her cyber race rivals.

I rediscovered my love for pinball and was taken back to those heady days in Benoni when Pacman was a boys-only pursuit. I surprised P when I was repeatedly drawn to that shooty-uppy game played with pink and blue pistols that you have to reload away from the screen (“but you’re pacifist…” he cried!).

We exhausted our tokens and took the boys back to the village.

What a fun afternoon. Old school days indeed!

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06/03/12 – inspiration

Two things I want to share with you today:

1. This TED talk by Peter Diamandis, described as this:

Onstage at TED2012, Peter Diamandis makes a case for optimism — that we’ll invent, innovate and create ways to solve the challenges that loom over us. “I’m not saying we don’t have our set of problems; we surely do. But ultimately, we knock them down.”

As an optimist, I love the way he celebrates technology not as the source of evil and destruction, but as a source of wonderful, endless possibilities.

2. I love bridges, so I love this post on www.complex.com. I think I must have been an engineer in a past life.

(image courtesy of Complex.com, and just one example of why I think bridge engineers are heroes.)

05/03/12 – visions for africa

I have a client (who shall remain nameless) who I’ve been working with since around the middle of last year. We’ve done a huge amount for them, delivering complex instructions to multiple destinations.

We resolved at the end of last year to meet up again early in this year to get an overview of their strategy and what their plans are for the future. We met yesterday and we talked over their plans for the year.

I was blown away by the extent of their vision and energised by the strength of their conviction. They have seen phenomenal growth even since I’ve known them (I like to think that the work I’ve done has contributed to that growth) and that’s a trend that looks set to continue.

This particular business provides a crucial financial service that has a great and important impact on the lives of people across South Africa who sometimes live at the edge of society, caught on the wrong side of economic activity and social mobility. I have two other clients (albeit that one of them has a target market that straddles across economic and geographical boundaries) who are also providing services that can and do genuinely change the world for their customers.

Although their business models are completely different, these clients all have one thing in common: their unshakeable belief in Africa, and their vision for growth and expansion across the continent. And all of them are making it happen.

I get inspired when I work with people like this. I love the work they do, and I love working with people who love the work they do.

04/03/12 – braaivleis and (partly) sunny skies

I’m too young to remember it, but once upon a time there was a radio advert for Chevrolet that was said to be the epitome of life in South Africa in 1976. It goes like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1wvQ7ERXhY.

The premise is that life in South Africa is all about braaivleis, rugby, sunny skies and Chevrolet, all laid out in a cute little jingle that threatens to stay in your brain forever.

[cue a whole other conversation about the realities of life for most of the people in South Africa in 1976...but I digress.]

Anyway, 36 years and a few dramatic social transformations later, the advert came to mind when we met up with good friends who we hadn’t seen for a long time. Except there was no rugby on. And the skies were mostly partly cloudy. And none of us drive a Chevrolet. But we did have a braaivleis and it was delicious.

03/03/12 – blue storm, black sharks, pink sky

Despite growing up in Benoni, east of Joburg, I’ve been a life-long supporter of Cape Town’s rugby team. I call them that because it’s all a bit confusing, really. They started out as Western Province. Now they’re called the Stormers. But only sometimes, because there are occasions (like this one) when we must root for one and other days when we are shouting for the other. I don’t really know why, though I guess it’s probably got to do with sponsorship and different tournaments. See, although I know some stuff about rugby, there is other stuff – like when my team carries one name and when it carries the other – that I don’t know.

Anyway, this is all leading up to me telling you about yesterday.

Sharks (Durban’s team) v Stormers (see above) at Newlands.

I’m not what you would call a buff, but I do enjoy watching sport. And live sport in particular. Sure, there are moments when I have to lean over and whisper into P’s ear “what happened there?” (more a cry for an explanation of the off-side rule than a sweet nothing), and yes, I do yearn for the luxury of my own loo and loo paper, but despite all that, I still love being in a stadium for a big game.

We bought tickets late in the week, which in itself was an achievement. “Sold out!”, they cried. But we managed to snaffle a couple of tickets in the cheap seats anyway.

I love the anticipation of the crowd filing into the stadium and the loud hum as they settle into their seats, bantering with the other supporters and waving flags high in the air.

Vendors roam the stands, selling doughnuts, coffee, hot chocolate and crisps. Music blares over the PA system, energising the fans and distracting them from their waiting time. Outside, streams of people move as one to the gates. Through the turnstiles, the streams break up as supporters search first for post-pre-game-beers pit stops and then their cold hard seats in the stands.

On the field, the teams warm up, balls fly between players who practise their scrums and line outs until a burst of loud music signals the start of the formalities. The crowd politely applauds the departing teams and wildly welcomes the scantily clad dancers, who gyre and gymble across the field in their short (whip-offable) skirts and tank tops.

The game starts at the ref’s whistle and I settle into it, and generally follow, oohing when we lose a ball, aahing with every great tackle.

Every now and then, though, I get distracted…by the group of guys over there who chose today to dress up the bachelor in unitard and bunny ears; or the kids below me who look a lot like some of the kids at the SOS Village where we volunteer; or checking my Twitter account for responses to the question I posed earlier; or…

the twilight sky, a dramatic pink and grey over the stadium…

But I digress. The Stormers put on an okay show, missing far too many kicks which should have gone over the posts. They won, by the skin of their teeth, and by just three points.

And then we all went home.

End of story.

03/03/12 – as i was saying…

So, where was I?

Oh yes…Dar es Salaam.

Blue sky, blue sea, white beach, hot sun, cold beer, warm friendships, bright smiles, star-laden nights, lazy days. Day trip into the city (frenetic, but fascinating); a day on a dhow (walk round an island*, snorkelling in crystal clear waters); a day on Zanzibar (humid, beautiful, gorgeous architecture, persistent guides). Etc.

It seems almost pointless to rehash everything that has distracted me from seventhirtytwo since my last post. It was November by the time we got home, we hit a wall of work, got busy.

November flowed into December, most of which we spent in Joburg. Christmas came and went – with my mum and stepdad who visited from the UK (hence our Jozi sojourn).

January started and I spent two weeks on the east coast looking after my grandmother and her cracked vertebrate.

February has been about travelling (Joburg twice (business), Barrydale, Ladismith and Oudtshoorn on Route 62 (business) and Riebeek-Kasteel (most definitely pleasure); and visiting (mother-in-law and sister-in-law in from the UK; aunt in from Zim) ). 

And so here we are, on 03/03/12. I’ve lost track of the seventhirtytwo countdown. We’re now on the other side of the numbers, given that there are six months to go. But hey, at least I’m back and blogging again. Watch this space for more.

*which was the epitome of the desert island of so many novels. But I’ve never understood why they call it a ‘desert’ island, surrounded as it is by water, the only sand you see is castor-sugar white beach sand and the lush vegetation is coloured a deep, deep emerald green. But I digress.

21/10/11 – Dar es Salaam day 2 – Muezzins in the house

Too few hours later, we were shocked awake by the thumping rhythms of a sound system entertaining the crowd at what sounded like a stadium but which was probably just a pub nearby. That, combined with the immovable heat and the occasional wave of traffic was enough to put the sleep demons out of their misery. I lay awake, listening to the crickets chirruping in time to the man-made sounds of mbiras and twanging electric guitars at maximum decibels.

As I drifted off the edge of sleep again and the electro-Afro beats silenced themselves, we were reminded of Tanzania’s Islamic heritage. From a mosque in the distance, we heard a chorus of three or four muezzins calling the faithful to early morning prayers at the mosques in the area. The ethereal cries filled the morning darkness, running through and around us. I thought I could hear a dove testing the air to see if its woody croocroocroo could compete. It didn’t.

We slept again until the sun was high in the sky and woke to a slightly overcast day soaked with a tropical, unremitting heat.

In any other place, at any other time, I would feel guilty — a little stressed even — at the thought of doing nothing. But here, on the edge of the Indian Ocean, in October, after a year full of relentless deadlines, I felt none of that. I set out in the morning to explore a world where nothing matters. Nothing was required. There were no demands and certainly no deadlines. In short, I was on holiday in the truest sense of the word. No laptop, no landline, no Facebook, Twitter or email. No phone calls or Skype messages popping up. Nothing. And strangely, no guilt over the nothingness of it all. This, my friends, is what beach holidays in paradise should be.

After dark, the tour groups come back from their excursions. They grab a beer and compare notes about the markets in Dar, or the fishing excursion, or the sights of Zanzibar. As the sea caresses the sand and music fills the bar, the overland drivers laugh with the cynical confidence of those who make a living by traversing this vast, hot, unpredictable, expansive continent.

Speaking of making a living, our host Lucho tells us that business is good. I think to myself, if you can make a life out of this beautiful setting on the edge of Africa, near a city whose reputation as a destination falls short of its more exotic island neighbour, then you can make a life anywhere.

 

20/10/11: Dar es Salaam day 1 – Meet me at Mikadi

I’m always a bit cautious about labelling a place ‘paradise’ but in this instance I have no hesitation to use the term.

Before paradise comes a long, two-flight journey from Cape Town, made longer by an inexplicable hour-long delay in Joburg. But when you’ve blagged yourself an upgrade to business class, the wait is worth it.

I’ve done a bit of travelling in southern Africa — Mozambique, Botswana, Malawi, Zimbabwe, South Africa — but this is my first trip to the east of the continent. In Tanzania, places with evocative names like Zanzibar, Dar es Salaam, Arusha, Ngorongoro, Kilimanjaro and Serengeti are heavy with the man-made and natural history of Africa’s beginnings and turbulent past. They bring thoughts of conquering forces and reclaimed independence.

I’ve always wanted to visit Dar, as it’s affectionately known, but still wasn’t sure what to expect. When people talk about the place, they almost invariably link Dar to ‘the Real Africa’. Cape Town is about as far away from the real Africa as you can get, so I was interested to discover more.

Once you’ve jumped through the bureaucratic hoops to get a visa (USD50 and fingerprint scan later), the first thing that hits you is the warm, syrupy early morning air. Coming in from a wet Cape Town spring, we quickly shed our layers as we waited for our permission to arrive in the country.

The route from the airport is busy with commuter buses, taxis, private cars and pedestrians pushing through the dawn darkness. The buildings lining the road shout out global brands like Scania and Toyota, among continental suppliers like Shoprite and local organisations like Azam. Wide islands, which you may or may not call pavements, dissect the main road into eight lanes, without any visible road markings.

Dar has a real charm — in that ‘real African’ way. It’s a slightly tatty, run down city that seems to work despite a lack of traffic lights, road markings or easily readable rules of the road. Brutal colonial architecture meets more ornate blue, pink and sandy-stone coloured traditional structures, standing in the shadow of modern high-rises clad with wooden scaffolding. There is a huge amount of development going on in the city — lots of building work, everywhere you look.

We wound our way through the early morning city, just stirring for another Thursday’s trading. We passed the Prime Minister’s office, white walls behind a beautifully simple fence, and cut through the market to the ferry terminal. A guard waved us through with a big, genuine smile and a thumbs up that I interpreted to mean ‘welcome to Dar es Salaam’.

We crowded on to the ferry just before it pushed away from the launching ramp, joined by a glut of pedestrians, cars, tuk-tuks and dalla-dallas (minibus taxis). We watched the sky move while we stayed still (a very surreal feeling) and the city receded behind us, the dark skyline contrasting against the blue-pink early morning.

As we disembarked, I was entranced by the Kigamboni market, and completely taken by our surroundings. I thought, clearly, in that moment, ‘I love this place’. It has a comfortable calmness even in the chaos of the early morning commute. I know that’s a contradiction, but it’s the only way I can think to describe it.

A short while later, we turned left off the main road and finally arrived at Mikadi Beach Lodge. A Masai guard in a traditional red kikoi let us through the gate. And there it was: Paradise.

Even with my relatively advanced vocabulary, I’m not sure that I could adequately express how beautiful the setting is.

This is what it looks like: in the distance, the quiet sea streaked with indigo, turquoise and cyan. The sun, shining through fluffy clouds on the horizon, colouring the sky with a palette of cream and pale orange. A white beach, sand as soft as caster sugar. A swimming pool encircled by a thatched boma with big couches. Reed bandas dotted around the camp, a clutch of tents interspersed among the more permanent structures. And a resounding dawn chorus coming from the canopy of tall green trees throughout the camp.

Now, I will admit to being that woman who doesn’t like camping. I’m my mother’s daughter in that respect. I’m not into tents and bed rolls and eating out of billy cans cooked over an open fire. I love the idea of it but when it comes to the practical application, I’m afraid you’ve lost me. It’s not that I can’t live without room service and a hair dryer, but I do quite like to have a private shower and loo at the very least.

So, in that context, we offloaded into banda 6, which – like the others – is about as basic as it gets: two mattresses on the floor under a mosquito net. That’s it.

Shower? Outside, in individual cubicles, open to the elements under giant trees.

Loos? Just up the pathway, with basins outside.

Though it’s not strictly camping, it’s still roughing it a bit. Here’s the thing, though — I instantly love it. See, that’s what Mikadi does to you: you check your urban sensibilities at the door so you can get busy living.

We dumped our kit in the bathroomless banda and took a walk to the empty beach, just a few metres away. The sun was pushing through a small cluster of clouds, golden light shimmering over the clear, blue, flat, bath-warm water. Further down the beach, fishermen were launching their traditional, hewn canoes, and a few dhows scudded across the horizon. Such beauty absolutely overwhelms any prissy requirements for a private WC.

We rested and showered and proceeded to the next point on the agenda: to do as little as possible, preferably from the comfort of a hammock suspended between two palms. I’m pleased to report we both achieved and exceeded that particular objective.

As the day drew on, the camp filled up. Mikadi is a popular stop on the Africa overland circuit. The trucks park at the top of the camp, disgorging their cargo of travellers, guys with five-week old beards and gals with golden tans. While we lounged around on the hammock, the newcomers got on with the business of being in one place for longer than a night. In that 21^st century way, the camp was suddenly awash with iPads, Macbooks and BlackBerries. Facebook statuses were updated, blogs were written and emails were checked. In the heat of the day, we adhered religiously to our ‘no computers, no phones’ holiday rule, lay back and watched, letting another sublime day in Africa wash over us.

Night fell and the camp lit up with soft lighting and laughter.

You know how doing nothing makes you really tired? Us too, and we hit the sack at 9.

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26/08/11-18/10/11 – i’m back

Yes, I’m back. Yes, I know there’s been a gap in my correspondence, but a refreshing week away has restored my brain so I can write again.

Headlines since we last talked:

Voorkamerfest in Darling – a weekend spent with friends in the name of soaking up some performances delivered by brilliant local musical and international dramatic talent, all set in the the front rooms of generous Darling residents.

Without going into detail, I was faced with one of those crossroads moments in life, in which you know that whichever decision you make will influence the direction of your career and with that the rest of your life. Decision made, and – bar a sometimes wistful curiosity – I know instinctively it was the right one.

Work flowing at a regular pace, filling my days and sometimes nights, and taking up any extra brain space to write. Hence the radio silence on the blog.

An impromptu weekend in Kenton on Sea, on the east coast, to celebrate a wonderful family reunion, in which we marked various milestone birthdays: a 20th, two 40th, two 70th and one 90th. It was a very, very special time that reminded me that no matter what the distance, family will always matter.

We found late tickets to the Coldplay concert, who rocked Cape Town stadium. The show was fantastic and a welcome release after a day and week of broken technology and work frustrations. There’s nothing like a bit of singing along to some of today’s most anthemic rock songs to shake the tension out of your shoulders.

So that was my September and half of October, delivered to you with the speed at which it felt like it was happening to me.

Next stop: Dar es Salaam.

390-355: 31/07/11-25/08/11 – hey, where’d that month go? part 2

15/08/11-19/08/11 – more of the same

Work. Work. Work. That is all.

20/08/11 – sluts are walking

Yes, you heard me. The sluts went a-walking, from Green Point to the Stadium and back. The background is this (extract from the Big Issue):

SlutWalk marches on Cape Town

Posted on August 23, 2011  /  2 Comments

Hundreds of Capetonians participated in the global SlutWalk campaign last Saturday amid fierce debate around the naming of the protest against sex crimes and discrimination against women.

The campaign was first initiated in Toronto, Canada after a police constable remarked that “woman should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimised”.

The debate raged for days afterwards. It’s old news now, but here’s a précis: Essentially those in favour argued that women should be able to dress, act, do, go, play, work, as they like, without fear of being affected or violated in any way. Which I agree with. Those against argued that calling the event a slut walk takes the issue away from what rape is all about – power, and instead sexualises the issue, thereby diminishing everything that anti-rape campaigns have been fighting for. Which I agree with.

For the record, here are my thoughts on the matter:

I have more than one friend who can report that she has been violated in some way, shape or form, from feeling threatened or intimidated, to having experienced the trauma of rape. Rape and any form of violence against women  shouldn’t happen. But it does. A lot.

But surely, walking around the streets with your tits out and your attitude at high volume, is the wrong way to show your support to the women who have been violated, degraded, humiliated, shamed, and devastated by actions based in power and not sex? I’m pretty sure that none of those women were doing that when they fell victim to the predatory instinct of the perpetrators.

Anyway. Moving on. As I say, it’s old news, but I felt I wanted to say my piece.

21/08/11-24/08/11 – more of the same

Work. Work. Work. Do you see a pattern emerging here?I do, and I like it!

25/08/11-27/08/11 – happy birthday to me…and to seventhirtytwo

I took the day off to enjoy some treat-filled hours being pampered, followed by a bit of retail therapy, and rounded off with meal at what is now my favourite restaurant in Cape Town. It’s a beautiful place, where you’ll find a very reasonably priced six-course taster menu of gastronomic gloriousness, served by gently solicitous staff in a sophisticated, dignified setting. If you ever find yourself in Cape Town and wondering what to do for an evening, I strongly recommend you give them a call. It really is a gem of a place in a city that is awash with restaurants that either try too hard or just don’t try hard enough.

From there, it was just one day of catching up at my desk before birthday celebrations part 2.

I gathered a bunch of friends for an afternoon outing to the Planetarium.

Have you been to the Planetarium lately? From memory, the last time I did was something like 18 years ago. Our little group was unanimous in our renewed love for the place. Living in the city we don’t get to see the stars very much, but I do occasionally spot the Southern Cross hovering over Table Mountain. Their Sky at Night presentation (the delivery which – it must be said – does need to be updated a bit) takes you from the early evening to the early morning, projecting the star formations, Milky Way and constellations across the full extent of the darkened dome. It leaves you feeling like you’ve learned a bit and that you want to go to Sutherland to see the real night sky to learn more.

From there, we adjourned to a nearby drinkery for a happy post-Planetarium-prandial.

All in all, it was a lovely, love-filled day. I left feeling very blessed and laden by the weight of so many gifts. Thank you to all who were there for the day.

I should mention also that my nth birthday was this blog’s first birthday. Which means that I’m exactly half way… or actually, as I write, I’m less than half way through this series of two years in sometimes daily bites. Happy birthday, seventhirtytwo. May your second year begin and continue so much more diligently than your first ended.