The Smoke that Thunders

I have lived in Africa all my life but somehow our travels have always taken us right off the continent (except for our trip to Egypt a while ago). A visit to Victoria Falls has always been on my personal bucket list. In fact I think that it is on Richard Horne's "101 Things to do Before you Die" list. Last year I was fortunate to see Niagara, half-iced over, so have been even more determined to make the trip north to see our own natural wonder.

We made a rather dramatic entrance - the pilot attempted to land at Livingstone Airport three times because of the very stormy weather, before we were able to land safely. I was very glad to not have to go back to Johannesburg. After that, we felt that we should go straight to the Falls and pay homage. Below is our first view.

I was completely blown away by the natural beauty of Africa. I could not help but think of David Livingstone arriving here and imagining what it must have been like for him. Everyone kept telling us that the Falls was "dry" as this was just the start of the rainy season, but I think we were able to grasp the wonder of it. It formed the background to our stay as it smoked and thundered (the locals call it "The smoke that thunders") while we discovered the richness of the area. We walked with lions, rode on elephants and took helicopter flips over the Falls.

This picture of my son doing the jump into the Devil's Pool signifies for me the sheer exuberance and joy of being part of nature. My husband and I did the jump too (it was 20 years, after all) but did not quite manage to do it quite as agilely as this!

This trip will go down as one of my most memorable and clearly we need to return at the end of the rainy season!

To see my full review on TripAdvisor please click HERE

Life is lived at Lavatory Level

People are crammed into the Business Class Lounge at Livingstone airport. “Air-conditioned Lounge” the sign says – the fans are working furiously. I hesitate, briefly considering staying outside in the general lounge – it seems more peaceful. But I hesitate too long and the seats I spotted have been taken. So it is into the Business Class lounge which resembles an obstacle course. Every time someone opens the door, the receptionist is in danger of being squashed behind it.

I am not surprised at the basicness of it – our boarding passes were manually ticked off by someone sitting at a little desk as we came through security. My husband has cut a path for us and has found a corner to squeeze into. We are so tightly packed that he feels compelled to start a conversation with the people who he is sitting almost knee-to-knee with.

The décor in the lounge is from another era – all chintzy, chunky and dark furniture with amateur paintings adorning the walls. Against the opposite wall is a table with an electric kettle and jars of tea, coffee and creamer. Next to that is a table with boxes of wine and plastic-wrapped bowls of curly yellow chips and popcorn.

There are two doors opposite us – one marked with a rose, the other a thorny branch. “No seats on the toilet” my husband announces as he comes out of the thorny door. I wonder if the rose signifies any better. I am suspicious of public toilets after 20 years of travelling around the world.  A suspicion that was nurtured by the squatting toilets of India! 

Super-clean toilets in Thailand. We had to remove our shoes
and wear the plastic ones on the shelf outside.

One of my travel maxims has been “Life is lived at lavatory level”. When I was a first year Occupational Therapy student, learning about independence training for people in wheelchairs, our lecturer chanted this mantra to us all the time. She believed that being able to use the toilet in a dignified manner, in spite of disability, was of paramount importance to assisting our patients to become functional. Years later it took on a slightly different significance for me!

We have more than an hour’s wait before boarding if all goes according to plan, so I am forced to heed the call of nature.So I gingerly enter the door with the rose.  I have to hold the door shut with my foot because it does not stay closed, never mind lock. The toilet seat is there but the lid of the cistern has gone missing. But I have seen worse. This is reasonably clean and I have learnt to use the reasonably clean toilet because you never know what you will find next. 

As I return to the lounge, my husband is looking at some of our pictures on his laptop. The picture of my son soaring into the air almost over the edge of Victoria Falls, reminds me that you have to traverse the rough parts to get to the high points.

The Spirit of Christmas

Last night, with carols playing to an African beat in the background, we sat down to Christmas Eve dinner. Our multi-cultural and multi-national group represented Sweden, Canada, Mauritius, South Africa, Belgium and the US, and a few religions too. It was hard to tell that half the people in the group had never met before. Around a table decorated with pine cones, candles and glitter, children and adults found common ground in spite of being separated by language and culture.

Every year our Canadian friend gathers together a motley group of people for Christmas Eve dinner. She takes care with the tree, the table and food and drink, recreating the traditions of her childhood on the other side of the world. For the last few years we have enjoyed being a part of her new traditions.

This year the gathering had a different spirit to it. It was the first time she was celebrating with her own daughter who is 20 months old and it opened up the gathering to children from 4 to 14. As children do, they brought an innocence and simplicity to the evening. They gave us permission to jump up and down and be enchanted by the lights and the presents, and the fun of being together. We stepped over little ones crawling after the cats, watched as the tweens connected and marvelled at out how small the world is, as we got to know each other.

The spirit of Christmas was there as we passed around a candle to light the ones which had been placed at our setting and paused to silently give thanks for the year that has been and to express hope for the year to come. At the end of the evening we parted with hugs, exchanging gifts and phone numbers, aglow with the connections that had been made with respect, tolerance and love. 

Lavender, Travel Stamps and a Potjie: Part 1

Lavender Biscuits

The smell of biscuits and freshly-cut lavender is floating all around. These are smells I associate with holidays. I have just been baking batches of lavender biscuits and have also preparing little bags of lavender to give to friends as "happy holiday" presents.  It's a little tradition I started the first year we moved into our house.

Lavender bushes have always lined the pathway leading up to our front door. They have survived drought and at one time were almost the only plants left in our garden because of water restrictions. I love that it looks so delicate and pretty yet can be so hardy and withstand such adverse conditions. I love how the scent fills the air when we trim the bushes or after the rains. I love walking in through the gate with my arms outstretched so that I brush up against it and release the aroma as I walk in. Ever since I did the aromatherapy course it has become my signature - the colour, the oil and the smell. You'll usually find bunches of it in jugs and vases all over the house.

Lavender is pretty much the aspirin of aromatherapy - used for pain and comfort. It is calming, soothing and balancing.  It has been used for thousands of years for healing and cleaning (in fact, "lavare" means to wash in Latin). Charles VI of France apparently used to sit on pillows stuffed with lavender, bunches of lavender were used to scrub floors and the oil was used to clean furniture (remember lavender floor polish?).

St Hildegarde of Bingen recommended lavender for "maintaining a pure character" and in North Africa, women planted lavender to guard against ill-treatment by their husbands. My favourite anecdote, though is about Rene Gattefosse, a famous French scholar and pharmacist. After a suffering a burn in his lab, he plunged his hand into a bottle of neat lavender, the nearest liquid he could find. He was amazed at how quickly his hand healed and this led him to greater research about essential oils  and their properties. He experimented with different oils on soldiers during WWI and became known as the father of modern aromatherapy.

On my bucket list is a visit to the lavender fields of Provence in late summer - I have a mental image of row upon row of lavender and can imagine the scent that must fill the air on  a hot summer's day! See here for more pics. So now you have some idea of what the lavender on my blog-header is all about. I'll explain the potjiekos and travel in subsequent blogs. 

Here is the recipe for my lavender biscuits:

100g castor sugar
200g butter
300g flour
a pinch of salt
1 teaspoon of lavender flowers

Cream the butter and sugar. Add the flowers. Sift the flour and salt and mix to make a dough.
Refrigerate the dough for one and a half hours then roll out and cut with cookie cutters.
Place on a baking sheet and sprinkle with castor sugar.
Bake at 150-160 deg C for 15-20 minutes.

Happy Holidays!

Older and Better

You know you are getting old when you are sitting at your desk and something just pulls in your back. Or like last year, I was just walking along the road, when I twisted my ankle. I don’t know about these people who keep telling you that aging is in your mind, that age is only a number. Tell that to my body! There is the added weight gain around the middle, the slower recovery from sudden bursts of exercise, and of course “the change” which happened last year.   

I have no idea what my children are talking about in Math, and have to suffer the rolling eyes when I need help with an apparently trivial technology-related problem. I nearly fried my brain at the 4-hour workshop I attended on how to use my camera. Other giveaways must be talking about the "old days", and preferring snail mail and chats on the phone to "texting".

I don’t have a problem with getting older; I just have a problem with everyone telling me that it is happening in my head. It’s a process, this getting older. I remember a visit to the doctor a while back, when she told me that now that I was over 40 we needed to do an annual battery of tests like mammograms, cholesterol, thyroid, etc. I left there feeling like I was about to spontaneously combust now that I had passed a certain milestone. 

But here I am years later, still going strong! I have been growing my hair for the last few months. I have had short hair since forever but was feeling like I needed a change. "The only way to have something different is if you grow it," said my hairdresser (while you can still carry it off, he added, half under his breath). But there is life in the old dog yet! Last year was also the year that I went shark cage diving, learnt to ride an elephant and took horse-riding lessons. I have my open water diving certificate and made my television debut on Morning Live, no less.  I have just finished a course on magazine journalism and set up my blog (by myself when they were all in Durban watching Portugal and Brazil during the World Cup!). 

So now I find myself with the odd pain, embracing my curves and the natural highlights in my hair. I am doing things I never dreamt I would be doing. I plan on going back for the longer version of the photography course in the new year and watch out for the new and improved version of my blog. Things are definitely getting better. 

Kahlil Gibran On Children

Kahlil Gibran On Children

I saw my daughter off on another big "expoitition and adventure" this morning. It is so wonderful that she is making use of the opportunities that have been presented to her. I was married and in my late 20s when I first went overseas. In those days (during the apartheid era) it came as a huge cultural shock to be out of the country and the experience of freedom was quite dizzying. Travel is the most wonderful educator - it breaks down barriers and opens your mind to so much. Anyway, the words of Khalil Gibran found their way into my head after saying goodbye and I just wanted to share them.

Love across the Line

Last night my son and I rented the movie Our Family Wedding - a story about a cross-cultural wedding and the difficulties the bridal couple endure. I didn’t expect it to be a good movie (it wasn't) but was curious to see Ugly Betty’s America Ferreira and maybe have a bit of a laugh.

It was interesting to see the levels of racism portrayed in the movie. It's the same issues which have been highlighted in many movies like My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and many others which portray love across the “line”. But this movie was quite explicit about the differences between the families, and even the workmen were making fun of the wedding between "Mexicanos" and "Negritos". It's one thing when the two families hold onto their traditions so fiercely that life becomes difficult for the bridal couple but quite another when a whole community is against the wedding. I know it's hardly the definitive word on the state of racism in the US but I believe that it's a close reflection of reality. It's certainly an issue here in South Africa.

I have written about racism in a previous blog but it is a topic I will probably keep coming back to as I battle to make sense of where we come from. I believe that we are not born racist. But we have this instinct to hold onto what is familiar and to protect our traditions to a level where we exclude others. It is such a limiting standpoint. We close ourselves off to new experiences and viewpoints that can only enrich our lives.

I had a very interesting chat to a woman at dinner the other night – she is Swiss-German, her husband Italian and they are living here temporarily. For a while French was their common language until they had children and then decided that they should speak Italian. The children went on to be educated in the UK. The daughter married a Brazilian who she met while working on a project in India. They now live in Australia. The son who was living in the US, not to be outdone by his sister, has a partner of Japanese and American origin and they live in Spain. I think I got that all right!

I find the lack of borders and artificial boundaries wonderful. The family is truly international. They have travelled and worked in different countries and been exposed to diverse people and cultures. They have rich experiences and I am sure that there has to be tolerance and respect for it to work. I am rubbing my hands in glee waiting to see how the grandchildren turn out!

Like Mark Twain said, travel is fatal to bigotry, prejudice and narrow-mindedness. But we don’t need to go far. We can travel to our neighbours and communities, read, watch movies and be open to different experiences. It comes down to respecting each other, embracing differences and understanding that our way is not the only way.

Dinner invite for one

I have been to three social functions on my own in the last ten days.  I am not sure how this has happened since I would normally choose to decline rather than go alone. My husband being away provides the perfect excuse. However, the Inyathelo Philanthropy Awards, held last week, is an annual function I enjoy going to, and, on Friday night, a close friend was hosting a charity table. So I did want to go, although that awkwardness of arriving and not seeing anyone that I knew, was evident on both occasions. 


This evening's function however, purely social, I sort of got talked into and before I knew it I received an email about how nice it would be to have me. As the week progressed I found myself making a hair appointment and thinking about what to wear, alternating with what am I letting myself in for? However, by yesterday I had decided to keep an open mind and go with the flow. If nothing else, I would have a story to tell. Last week I noted that "So, do you work?" has changed to "What industry are you in?" Although that conversation progressed pleasantly enough. It seems yoga has become rather popular recently.  


I love to people-watch, so actually going to a function is not all effort. Last night there was plenty to watch. Like the little Asian man who was wearing the brightest green jacket that I have ever seen -  as if he was trying his utmost to make up for his size and be noticed. There was also the unlikely blonde, surely surgically-enhanced, who when introduced to a tall Xhosa gentleman, let out a string of isi-Xhosa. It was delightful to see the connection it immediately made. He leaned in closer and a for a few moments spoke animatedly. The conversation continued in English but had been lit by the spark of that connection. It reminded me of a quote by Nelson Mandela, "If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart."  Also another reminder not to put people into boxes!


Our hosts were a lovely couple who have raised truly international children - speaking six or seven languages between them and mixing as many cultures with their choice of partners! Their two children are now on opposite ends of the planet while they will be here for the next while.  


I sat next to a very charming gentleman from Portugal, who told me that if you needed to find your daughter a husband the best place to do so would be to send her to hotel school in Switzerland! Apparently there are many unions between hotel students. Not unlike medical school, which has the same phenomenon for many of the same reasons. When you work so hard and such odd hours, you need a partner who will understand what you are going through. 


The restaurant was casually elegant and the food good - not "child portions arranged by an interior designer", as one guest at the table observed.  Although I could have foregone all just for the most sublime chocolate dessert! I had a pleasant evening and met some interesting people. Sometimes you just need to go with the flow. Or maybe it doesn't matter so much anymore what people think. 

Becoming humble: Lessons teaching yoga in a township hall

We are in a big dusty hall. African drums are beating outside and I am trying to get a group of 12 year olds to zip their mouths and eyes and be quiet. I put the music louder in an attempt to drown out the outside noise. Someone shouts through the slit in the door and they all jump up as I try to see what is going on. There is no way to do this quietly - I have to wriggle the chair out of the door handle and then push the door open. There is a little boy standing there pointing to the culprit, who has run away. 

Back to the class. The little boy they call Beyonce has completely lost focus. It has been difficult to begin with - I am not sure why he wants to do yoga - he bounces around all over the mat, and off the mat and I despair of getting him to focus. He talks to the girls on either side of him. They complain and I remind him that if he doesn't want to be there, he should leave.

They lie down again and expectantly wait for me to come around and adjust them. I have a little pot of lavender and peppermint cream which I rub onto their foreheads. I hope the effect is going to be worth the distraction of them wondering what it is I am doing.

For five whole minutes, they manage to sink into a quiet space. Even Beyonce has pulled it together and is still. Two of them have fallen fast asleep and I gently wake them before the others shake them less gently. As I pack up, the manager asks me how it went. "I am sure I have a few more grey hairs," I tell him. He leans closer as if to check this. "Hmm," he says. "I can see they are making you humble."

Once a week I have the privilege of introducing yoga to a group of children at Project Playground in the township of Langa. I feel that I am learning as much as they are. At every turn I am challenged to re-think my idea of a yoga class. Some sessions have had more than 18 children,with some crying outside to be given a chance to participate. During one session food was being served from the kitchen at the back of the hall - the staff in the kitchen was carrying on a conversation as loudly as they could. We have a bit of a language barrier, but it generally works well with me demonstrating, although they all jump up when I get up to come round and check their postures. So I have to make sure that they know that I am getting up but expect them to carry on.

But if yoga is about finding your focus and accessing that inner peace, then my challenge here is to help them to do just that in the spaces that they find themselves in. For many of them that space is even more chaotic than the solid structure that is the hall we are able to  use. For a short while they are able to access that quiet place and I hope that they have realised that each one of them possesses the ability to make themselves feel good.

My reward is seeing them relax so deeply at the end of the session that they fall asleep in spite of the drums, the shouting, the distractions.  I am humbled. 

Doing Good, Feeling Good

Anybody who knows me well, will know how I feel about going to business dinners or functions where I am expected to make small talk - see my blog on "So do you work?". But there is one annual function that I really enjoy - that is the Inyathelo dinner. 

Inyathelo is also known as the South African Institute for Advancement and their mission is "to build an enduring culture of 'giving' that results in a strong and stable society and democracy in SA". They do this by growing local philanthropy and supporting non-profit organisations. Every year they have a dinner to celebrate the people who have made a difference to the communities that they live or work in. 

Last week there were no fewer than 11 awardees. Gentlecare which provides a hospice for sick and homeless people, the Kay Mason Foundation which provides bursaries for exceptional children from disadvantaged backgrounds to high school, and 18Twenty8 which empowers young women through personal development, were just some of those honoured at the dinner last night. 

What I am always impressed by is how little it takes to change someone's life and how giving someone a hand up can make such an enormous difference. So many of us don't do anything because we think that the problems are so overwhelming that it is useless to even try, but if we all give what we can, whether it is money or time, we can help to change society. 

One of the young recipients of the Kay Mason bursary, who grew up "in a hell-hole, overwhelmed by drugs, alcohol, poverty, teenage parents and gangster-ism", notes in his testimony that he may look just like all the other students at his school but when compared with children from his neighbourhood, he is one of the most privileged. He has been given the opportunity to break the cycle through education at a good government school outside of this hellhole. And, suddenly a host of opportunities has opened up to him.

It was also very encouraging to hear about the trend that I hope will catch on here. Bill Gates and Warren Buffett have decided that they would give away their money while they were still alive. They certainly have enough to live on, and why not do it now when they can see what effect their philanthropy is having? That way you get to enjoy it twice!

Back to the dinner - it is a real feel-good occasion. To hear what people are doing, some people with very little, and the stories of what they have achieved is truly inspiring. It's good practice to sit back, every now and then, and celebrate what we are doing right.

Horse-riding and other mid-life challenges

On Friday night I sat next to a show-jumper at dinner. He told me how riding had kept him out of mischief as a teenager when all his friends were going off clubbing, and doing other things that teenagers do. Horse-riding did not rank high on any list I might have had growing up in South Africa, when I did. Fortunately, I could contribute to the conversation since my son has been riding for a few years now. He has always loved animals and one day declared that he would like to go riding. I think I might have dismissed it as a passing phase. Many holiday trips found him longing to go riding. 

One holiday we did a horse safari in Addo Elephant Park - I am not sure how I get talked into all these things. My husband assured me that he had told the guide that we were Absolute Beginners, so off we went. Things started off simply enough until we had to duck to go through a bridge under the highway. We had to wait our turn and the horses got a little restless, bumping into each other. It was my son's horse  which reared up and dumped him on his bottom. To our surprise, he stood up and got straight back on. This was not very confidence-inspiring in my daughter who was even less enchanted than I was at the prospect of being on a safari on an animal in an area where we knew lions roamed! However, there was no turning back and we spent the longest 2 hours of my life trying to enjoy the experience!

On our return home, my son reminded me again that I had not done anything about his earlier request for riding lessons. After a little research,  we were recommended to a riding school which had a waiting list of 9 months (which, I admit, I hoped would put him off). He waited patiently and, now, four years later, we are still taking weekly trips to the "mink-and-manure" side of the mountain. He loves riding and has changed his lesson to a Friday afternoon as it is "a good way to end the week."

Of course now that he can ride he is even more keen on tracking down places that offer riding when we are on holiday. I may add that he has dragged his similarly riding-challenged father off at dawn to ride Arabian horses in the desert of Sharm-el-Sheik! 


Last year we had quite the year of the animals - shark cage diving, whale watching, riding elephants and bottle-feeding tigers in Thailand. In between the adventures on the sea in Hermanus, my son dragged us off to do some horse riding – "gentle ponies that even you can ride mom!" After an hour in the saddle on Lukas, who had ideas of his own about whether he should in fact move, I needed to be prised off and was not sure whether I would ever be able to walk upright again. I spent the rest of the week sporting a John Wayne swagger from those Westerns we watched as children. 

After the Lukas experience, I decided that perhaps I should have a few lessons to get the hang of it since it seems like this riding thing was here to stay. At least I could learn to sit properly instead of being thrown around like a sack of potatoes. While the idea of riding (being outdoors, the graceful rhythm that seems almost meditative) is peculiarly appealing to me, I have to admit to a certain reservation about the whole business. 


I am so aware that this is an animal - bigger and stronger than I - with its own mind. And when the teacher says give him a whack - I mean what is that?  - an open invitation to fly over its head? Neither does riding a horse called Hercules conjure up visions of gentle canters through the forest. I bravely attended a term of lessons and would like to say that I am prepared for the next Lukas. Alas, the longer I went for lessons the more convinced I became that the odds of being thrown off were stacking up against me. Images of the late Christopher Reeve (aka Superman) started to appear in my dreams. I felt like I was playing Russian Roulette and decided to quit before I met my end. 


I have to admit I do feel just a little bit proud of stepping out of my comfort zone and adding riding to one of my mid-life challenges. But I can ride an elephant, and I did that bareback. 

The Tenth Sekunjalo EduJazz Concert

I don't think that there were many people with dry eyes as the concert hall at the Baxter Theatre in Rondebosch vibrated with the energy of jazz musicians, culminating in a poignant rendering of the national anthem. On Friday evening I was once again privileged to attend the Sekunjalo EduJazz Concert. The concert raises funds for learners from the poorest communities in the Western Cape and currently, 75 schools benefit from the initiative.

The money raised goes to bursaries and workshops, promoting and developing young musicians, encouraging the spread of music and culture and contributing to the alleviation of crime in our townships. The annual concert gives these young people the opportunity to perform on stage in front of an audience. The programme usually follows the format of the children playing during the first half, followed by a headline act in the second. 

One of the products of this initiative is the Delft Big Band from one of the poorest communities in the W. Cape with high unemployment and crime levels. Yet you would not know it to see and hear these young people, proudly making beautiful music with secondhand or borrowed instruments.

This year, we were treated to the sounds of Ifidyoli Strings (a Beau Soleil Project) and the EduJazz Collaboration featuring Alexander Sinton, and Heathfield High School and the EduJazz ensemble (made up of students from various schools). The headline act was provided by Jimmy Dludlu who is a South African Music Awards winner for Best Contemporary Jazz Album. He plays traditional and modern jazz, music from West and Central Africa and Latin America.

Jimmy Dludlu is a genius. With his pork pie hat and black-rimmed spectacles he cuts a stylish figure. He has an amazing stage presence and ability to engage the audience and had people dancing  in the aisles before long. At the end of his set he invited the young musicians up on to the stage to join him. Playing with Jimmy Dludlu on stage must be enough for these kids to build memories on, but when he actually gave his guitar to the kids to play a few bars, I had goosebumps. I have these new South Africa moments that I collect (things that would have been unthinkable pre-1994) and this definitely ranks high on the list. The emotion in the hall was palpable and it seemed like the most natural thing to lead into the anthem. 

Well done to Sekunjalo for walking the talk of empowerment. And we had fun doing it. 

The Purple Shall Govern

This morning I went to Caledon Square Police Station to report an accident I was involved in last night. It brought back some memories. The last time I was at that police station was in 1989, being arrested following a protest march at which I was assisting with first aid. In what famously became known as the Purple March, a peaceful protest was held in the area around Greenmarket Square, as part of the Defiance Campaign. When the crowd refused to disperse, but sat down in the road, the police attacked with teargas, batons and a surprise weapon -  a water cannon that was filled with purple dye, with which they proceeded to spray the marchers. In a further act of defiance, one of the marchers jumped onto the cannon and turned the hose onto the policemen, causing great jubilation amongst the rest of the marchers.

Our jubilation was short-lived. The police then went around arresting everyone who had been stained purple. Hundreds of us were arrested, piled into vans and taken to the nearest police station, which happened to be Caledon Square. Needless to say the police station was in chaos with more people than they could handle. It took them forever to process us - mugshots, fingerprints, the whole deal.

I well remember the camaraderie in the cell with about 40 of us, all women, bonding. We sang freedom songs, chatted and harassed the police by demanding to be taken to a toilet outside of the cell (not the less than private one in the corner of the cell) and asking for food. We knew that we had friends and supporters rallying around at St George's cathedral, and that kept us going through the night.

One of my "cell-mates" was my high school maths teacher (an Irish nun) - which came in handy as an introduction when telling my parents that I had been arrested - "Well, you know who I met yesterday...?".

I was accompanied by two friends, fellow-occupational therapists, both of them blonde, who l walked around with purple hair for weeks, comparing notes about the effectiveness of domestic bleach and other products for removing purple rinses. Which did not go down well with the powers that be at the school we worked at.

We were all released later, more resolved to carry on with the campaign. A few days later a friend presented me with a T-shirt emblazoned with the words "The Purple shall Govern" - an off-shoot of the line from the Freedom Charter - The People shall Govern. Such was the spirit of the anti-apartheid movement.

When I mentioned this to the policewoman taking down my statement, she said "Yhu, yhu!, I was in primary school then. What is the Purple March? Oh, illegal march..." She had no clue. In many ways it does feel like a lifetime ago.

Safety First: Cycling Helmets and Seat-belts

This morning after dropping my son at school I took a walk around the neighbourhood, a lovely walk, through the park and adjoining cricket grounds ... lots of trees and a view of the mountain. It is good to see so many children cycling and walking to school but I find it disconcerting that so many of them are cycling either without helmets, or with helmets perched on top of their heads, with the straps dangling down. If they were to fall off their bikes, the helmets would go flying.

It may not be cool (I am guessing that that is the reason they are not wearing them) but it will certainly offer some protection if necessary. A study by Schwellnus and Derman in the SA Family Practice Journal in 2005 cited that the use of cycling helmets can reduce head injury by 85% and that wearing a hard shell cycling helmet was the most important measure for preventing acute injury.

And to come to one of my favourite bug bears - people have much the same attitude to wearing seat-belts in this country. Wearing of seat-belts was a non-negotiable for me when it came to my children, even though there were no laws in place at the time. They were placed into their seats and belts done up. The car was "not able to ride" if for any reason there happened to be a protest about being belted up. Having worked at a school for children with cerebral palsy and head injuries, as well as a hospital for spinal cord injuries, I had seen firsthand what the effects of being involved in a car accident could be, especially if no-one was wearing a belt. 

Even though wearing a seat-belt has now become law, I shudder to see the number of children, without seat-belts, sitting in the backseat in a position where they could be catapulted through the front window if the car should brake. And even worse, are the adults who hold babies on their laps in the front passenger seat!

A visit to the Arrive Alive website will show that wearing a seat-belt reduces the probability of being killed by 50% for drivers and front seat passengers and 25% of passengers in the rear seat. The risk of death for infants is 70% and for children aged 1-4 years, 50%. And consider this - 75% of vehicle occupants who are ejected from the vehicle (not being restrained by a seat belt) during a crash die, while only 5% of restrained occupants do. 

It is not worth taking the risk, even for that short trip down the road. I know. I have a nephew in his mid-20s whose life was irreversibly changed when he lost his leg from the hip after being tossed out of a car on the way to get takeouts one night two years ago. The 19-year-old driver was killed. No-one was wearing a seat-belt.

Where are the Heroes?

As much as I am always moaning at my children to read the newspapers, there are definitely times that I am glad that they don't. Like the last few days where the front page has all the details of the latest sporting "hero" to bare all  and come clean, no doubt to promote his career and line his pockets. This morning, yet another sportsman is telling his story and letting out secrets. Why do we want to know this? Why should we even care? 

Our children need heroes. We need heroes. We need people to look up to. People who lead lives that inspire us to be better people. People who have overcome adversity, people who are compassionate, respectful and tolerant.  Real heroes who are accessible and whose achievements are examples of what we would like to be.

Sports people encourage us with their prowess on the field and they spur us on to work harder, to go further, to be the best we can on the field. While I can think of many sporting people who are inspirational off the field, we should not expect them to be heroic simply because they have a skill which they shine at.


I think we are partly to blame for putting people onto pedestals, bowing down to them in glorification and adoration and expecting them to be icons. More money than anyone needs is thrown at them and they start to believe that they are in a class of their own and above the laws of decency. They lose respect for women, marriage, family, ordinary values. And then they are plastered on the front pages with their tales of drug abuse, sex exploits and more. Have we fallen so in love with fame that we need to draw attention to ourselves no matter what?

I can't remember who said this, he reads about society's failures on the front page and then turns to the back page (the sports page) to read about it's successes. Makes one think...

Bonfires and Fireworks

Yesterday the streets in the neighbourhood were awash with orange and black with all kinds of ghosts, vampires, witches and other scary creatures going door to door begging for sweets. I somehow got suckered into taking my two young nieces, aged 7, around. It turned into a little entourage as friends and family joined in. The local neighbourhood improvement district was quite organised, and had sent out an email to residents advising them to tie a balloon to their gate to indicate that they wished to be bothered by the spirits let loose on the night. Some of the houses had gone all out with decorations, dressed in black with skeletons, pumpkins and cobwebs.

Halloween certainly was not a day that we celebrated as children, or had even heard of for that matter. I think we owe it to globalisation and the influence of American television and movies for influencing our children thus. It is for this reason that I have largely resisted it, but got caught up in the spirit of things this year. I suppose I also have friends who live down the road to blame - they have opened up their home as a base for their family and friends to go trick-or-treating from - so all in all,  it is quite a festive time. The best thing for me is that we are taking back the streets - it is certainly not usual for our children to be roaming around the neighbourhood at night. They have fun and eat too many sweets, but also get to meet some of the neighbours and feel part of a community.

Halloween has its roots in the Celtic tradition, and over time blended with the Christian All Saints Day (which is on 1 November). It was celebrated at the end of the summer and marks the end of the lighter part of the year and the beginning of the darker part.The ancient people believed that during this time of the year, spirits were able to  pass through the world and, in an attempt to ward off evil spirits, dressed up as evil spirits themselves. As it was also the end of the summer, people gathered provisions for the long winter ahead, partied and lit bonfires.

Bonfires remind me of another celebration that is coming up in a few days - that of Guy Fawkes. When I was little we certainly celebrated that and it was even a holiday, us being part of the Commonwealth. People lit bonfires and fireworks. In much the same way as children went trick-or-treating and asked for sweets, children would go round asking for "penny for the guy". Guy Fawkes was one of a group of Catholic conspirators who tried to blow up the British Houses of Parliament 400 years ago, as they felt that the monarchy was not doing enough to stop the persecution of Catholics. Unfortunately for him he was discovered and put to death. One of the traditions was to make an effigy of Guy Fawkes and burn it on the bonfire. 

Later this week there is yet another festival celebrated with light and firecrackers - the Hindu festival of Diwali which celebrates the triumph of light over darkness. It is a joyous occasion with children getting up very early to have a ritual bath and then celebrating with family and friends. People go house to house to visit relatives and friends, taking something sweet as gifts.

Quite a week then, of bonfires, fireworks, sweets - but also of connecting with family, friends and neighbours. So may you be protected from harm, bathed in light and enjoy the company of loved ones.

A taste of Italy

Last night I revisited the streets of Rome with Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love. It took me back a few years to what was my son's best holiday ever. Well, what's not to like when you are 7 years old - pizza, pasta, the best ice cream in the world and adults running after you to pinch your cheeks and call you trezorro.

Italy is such a sensual place - the smells, sights, sounds, tastes make an indelible print on your memory. As Julia Roberts' character, Liz wanders through the cobblestoned streets and ancient ruins, I found myself transported back. I could feel the July heat and recognised the street taps, which must surely have been there since the days of the Romans, where my son stopped to stick his head under the cold water flowing from the bowels of the earth. The old buildings with solid doors that look like they can withstand battering rams, the flower boxes spilling geraniums outside every window and the fountains with ornate statues inviting you to make a wish, all form part of the charm. 

We travelled the length of Italy by train – Venice, Rome, Naples, Milan and ended our journey in a villa just outside of Florence, the perfect place to take time to allow all we had experienced to settle down  deep. The rolling vineyards, the beautiful sunshine, plenty of space to run around and a pool to cool off in – these were all the right ingredients. And if we wanted to exert ourselves, the museums were a short trip away. One day we came back to a feast prepared by our kids who had joined the chef in the kitchen and helped produce lunch brimming with goodness. 

But back to the movie last night - one of my favourite scenes is the one in the barber shop where Luca Spaghetti explains the concept of "il bel far niente" - the beauty of doing nothing and the simple pleasure of being. They do seem to have it down to an art - the way they speak, eat, live and enjoy the fine things in life. It has always amazed me how the chaos of Italy (the strikes, the mafia, the politics, etc) seems to go right over the heads of the people while they enjoy the good life. And if you think about it, there are many good things that come out of Italy - cars, bags, shoes, clothes, food, music, art, ice cream... The whole concept of  deserving pleasure seems bred into the bones of Italians, whereas we need to go to therapy to feel that we are worthy! I read once that Freud's theories never took off with the Italians - they don't repress anything so they don't need psychoanalysis.

Like all movies, it veered off the story in the book, but it was a real "feel-good" experience. The "Pray" and "Love" part of the story is subject for another blog ... I am still revelling in la dolce vita.

Exam-phobia

This morning I did an "exam". Actually it was an open-book quiz that I received via email, had an hour to complete and then return. In my head it took on the proportions of an "exam". And that word strikes fear into my heart, in the same way that Pavlov's dogs salivated at the ringing of a bell!

The quiz was the final requirement for the Magazine Journalism course I have been doing The SA Writers' College. I have enjoyed each module with its accompanying assignments, and have produced a 1800 word article about the World Children's Prize, so was feeling a sense of accomplishment. The fact that it was an online course made me feel even better, more with it (do people still say that?), like I had further embraced technology! Nevertheless, I allowed myself the slightest sense of panic at the idea that I would be put to the test and have to prove myself.

No matter that I did this test in the comfort of my peaceful study which looks out on to the garden and played music in the background, my sympathetic nervous system went into overdrive, getting ready for who knows what. In my technophobic defense I have to say that I did not trust the fact that this had to be done online and that I would have to rely on email to submit, but it was definitely that word "exam" that did it. I could feel that old familiar sensation creeping up the back of my neck, the sense of doom and the heaviness hanging over my head.

I think it harks back to school days where we were trained to regurgitate what had been taught in class and, woe betide, if you did not give it back exactly as it was expected. Yes, much to my children's horror, I did have the odd teacher who thought they could put the ruler to better use on parts of our bodies. I remember working myself up into quite a state on the eve of exams and then, many times wanting to kick myself for not doing as well as I could have.

It was only much later, post-university even, that I managed to enjoy the learning process and take assessments more in my stride. I have enjoyed doing courses in everything from neuro-developmental therapy to yoga teacher training and aromatherapy. I have enjoyed the sense of achievement along with the stimulation and really, the assessments at the end have not been the bogey they used to be.

I feel hugely relieved that I have completed the quiz. I know that I have done well in the assignments. As always, it seems almost pathetic that I could waste all that energy. Seems there is still a bit of exam-phobia left that needs to be exorcised!

Driving Lessons

My daughter turned 17 earlier this year and getting her learner's licence is one of the highlights of her year. I find myself in one of those ambiguous parenting moments - where you realise with pride, that they are growing up but fear what the next stage brings. She is very excited at the prospect of soon being able to drive and as I drive around the neighbourhood I see more and more of her peers navigating the streets with the red capital letter L firmly stuck on the back window of their parents' cars. It is a big mark of independence and very exciting to be able to take yourself where you need to be.

Her boyfriend recently got his licence and he is raring to go. Which has posed new challenges in the parenting game - do I let her go off with an inexperienced driver, who is dying to show off his new skill? He has won many brownie points by saying that he did not think that he would let his daughter be driven by a newly-licensed driver. 

Wearing of seat belts has always been non-negotiable for me with my kids and they rarely protested at having to be put into a seat and be buckled up. As an occupational therapist I experienced the effects of head injuries as a result of motor vehicle accidents. In recent years we have had uncomfortably close experiences with serious, and fatal, car accidents involving young students. 

In South Africa, you can legally start to drink on the same day that you get your driver's licence!? I thought that this was peculiar to us, but after a quick research, discovered that except for the US, it is pretty much the standard. In the US you can get a driver's permit at age 16 but the legal drinking age is 21, which makes sense that they get to master the skill before they have licence to do anything stupid. Here, at the age of 18 when kids are in the last year of school and ready to prove their independence, they are given permission not only to get behind the wheel but also to go out on the town and party. This coupled with the fact that they think they are invincible, is a potent mix.We all know that it is not only up to how you drive and I think that SA drivers leave much to be desired. As for the taxi drivers...enough said.


When Sandra Bullock accepted her Oscar award earlier this year, she thanked her mom for "not letting her drive in cars with boys when she was 18" - you can call me Mrs. Bullock. 

The Right to Write

Many of us have a secret book, just waiting to be let out. Like my friend who started writing a journal while she was pregnant with her daughter and then it grew into her writing to her daughter. She dismisses it by saying that her daughter will probably be the only one to ever read it since she is "not a writer".

I love writing. I love books that invite me to write in them, and writing on the first page is the best part. I love the smell, the sights and the feel of books. And the right pen is essential! I am always starting journals and then run out of steam halfway through and start another, with a supposedly different theme. I have done the gratitude journal a la Oprah Winfrey, the travel journal and also kept journals where I have poured out my deepest and darkest secrets - I often worry about those, as I fear someone will find it and all may be revealed - but it gives me such a sense of release and clarity to let it all out. Actually, sometimes burning the pages can be wonderfully freeing!

Reviewing these journals is empowering, as it can show how far I have come, and how much I have learned. When we write things down, they become concrete and real. When we write out deep and dark thoughts, they lose some of their power. Sometimes it just helps to complain or work something out in private. 

I have recently completed Julia Cameron's, The Right to Write, in which she says that we should write, because it is human nature and likens writing to meditation or prayer. A few years ago, while convalescing from an operation, I worked my way through her other book, The Artist's Way. In this book she recommends "morning pages" as "the primary tool of creative recovery". Morning pages consist of three pages of longhand writing which literally act as a brain drain. It involves simply moving the hand across the page and writing whatever comes to mind, first thing in the morning. Nothing is too petty, silly, stupid or weird to be included. If you can't find anything to write - write that! According to her, morning pages teach the logical brain to stand aside and let the artist brain play. 

I have been doing that on and off over the last few years and I can definitely recommend it - it is almost meditative and gives me insight into what is going on in my life. It is also hard to complain about the same situation morning after morning, week after week, without being moved to do something about it! It also helps to get rid of the negative stuff that clogs up my brain and makes space for more constructive thoughts. 

Writing about our experiences make them count and we don't have to be published to be called writers. Even if it is only our sons and daughters or ourselves who read what we have written, we are all writers. 

Mamma Mia, Dragon tattoos, Hornets Nests and Fire!

Sweden seems perfect - ordered, free and fair, things work. Sweden must be one of the few countries that I have visited where people really know about SA and apartheid. Over the last few years we have established strong links with some of the people through conferences on environmental issues and children's rights. Recently, we have become involved with a children's project started by two Swedish women in one of our townships. 

Stockholm is beautiful - it is known as the Venice of the North - thousands of islands, trees, people fishing in the lake in the middle of the city, skyscrapers next to mediaeval buildings on cobble-stone streets. On a recent visit I found myself thinking that I might be able to live there for a while, that is, if I could convince my inner African violet  to survive the winter. I watched the Swedish film, As it is in Heaven, four times (OK, maybe the fourth time was a bit too much) and bopped along with Meryl Streep to the ABBA (famous Swedish export) songs in Mamma Mia.  

So what it is the point of this little ramble? I have just emerged from reading the Millennium trilogy books by Stieg Larsson, a Swedish journalist who wrote the three books and died of a heart attack at the age of 50, soon after delivering the manuscripts to his publisher. The books have become a phenomenon, already being made into Swedish movies, with Hollywood versions soon to follow. 

These are not the kind of books I would normally buy. However, I found myself being sucked into each consecutive 500+ page tome (the third one is more than 700 pages), after being proudly handed them by a friend from Sweden. I was feverishly reading whenever I could, although I confess to needing a break between each book to read something "normal". I was slightly shell-shocked after each book - I had been exposed to the dark underbelly of the society, detailing human trafficking, espionage and prostitution. In spite of being a little distracted by the very foreign-sounding Swedish street names and places, I found the writing easy and the pace exciting - I wanted to know what happened to the "most unlikely heroine" I have ever read about.

So now I find myself wondering how much of this is in fact truth or a creation by an author who had experienced some of the danger and intrigue as a journalist known for his outspokenness against neo-Nazism and the like. How much of this darkness is really being covered up by a facade of perfection? Certainly the grass is never completely greener on the other side, but the book has succeeded in rocking the boat and making me wonder.

Of Black alumni and other apartheid memories

The recent invitation to the launch of the University of Cape Town (UCT) Black Alumni Association, has me thinking about my time at UCT in the early 1980s. 

My fondest memory of my grandfather, who was  a delivery truck driver, was of him coming home, his pockets jingling with coins, which were to be deposited into the little money box in his cupboard for my "education". By the time I was ready for university, he had saved enough to pay for the first year of tuition. Being accepted at UCT engendered mixed emotions in me. I was the only person in my class at school to be accepted at UCT, (not many students from my year did in fact go to university) and I was proud to be the first person in my family to make it to university. But this was tempered by the humiliation of having to apply to the Department of Coloured Affairs for a permit to attend a "white" university. I was granted permission on the basis that the university for "coloured people" did not offer the course I wished to study. 

To say that attending UCT was a culture shock, is putting it mildly. In addition, I was based on medical campus which was known to be more conservative than the main campus.  Out of a class of 25, there were three of us who were "not white" and only two people who had blazed the way before us, as the first "non-white" occupational therapists to graduate from UCT. The only "white" people I knew were the Irish nuns at my school and one or two teachers who had passed through. So there we were, like flies in a jug of milk!

I think the general feeling among "black" students was that we should do what we came to do (be educated) but not engage in the "normal" life of university since our acceptance there was not normal. For example, we were discouraged from using the university cafeteria since we weren't generally able to eat in whatever restaurants we wanted to. We were also discouraged from participating in sport since how could we play normal sport in an abnormal society?

I cannot say that I experienced any overt racism in my class - we were a small department and generally got on well with each other. There were many parties at student's houses which, in itself, was almost schizophrenia-inducing since it was by no means normal for me to be socialising with "white" people. There was one girl who I became quite friendly with and I spent a lot of time at her house which, ironically, is about 5 minutes from where we now live, in a previously-"white" neighbourhood. However, I was shattered when she and her family  returned from their holiday in the US and reported that their American family was so impressed that their daughter had "a little coloured friend". Those words were like a slap in the face, like I was some kind of novelty. 

Going about the day to day life of becoming an occupational therapist was also fraught with the intricacies of apartheid SA. When it came to clinical practice in the hospitals, we were not allowed to treat "white" patients. In my third year I was posted to a very difficult placing in a psychiatric hospital which I struggled with - however, I could not be placed in the relatively easier ward that my fellow students were going to in the general hospital, since the patients there were "white". 

In spite of these obstacles, I graduated and was offered a job at the hospital that I dreamed of working at. I spent almost fifteen years loving what I was doing as an occupational therapist. I have two friends from university who have travelled the paths of studying, working, marriage, motherhood and more over the years with me. Both of them are still working as occupational therapists, one in the US and the other here in SA. From time to time I bump into other alumni and it is always good to catch up. 

I do believe, though, that my time at university could have been so much more, and I could have embraced much more of what such a prestigious university had to offer, if it were not for the times we were living in. I'm not sure that I want to be part of the Black Alumni Association. I'm not sure what it is hoping to address - a support for all of us who have bitter-sweet memories of our time at UCT? Perhaps there are some "white" alumni who would also like to be a part of that healing?

Look at us now!

A little while ago I read an article in the newspaper about an archaeological finding in SA that has been hushed up since the 1930's. The finding is thought to be about a 1000 years old and includes gold artifacts and glass beads from India, proving that the early inhabitants of the area must have been established traders. The finding was suppressed because it was contrary to the Apartheid policy that Africans were uncivilised.

Sometimes out of the blue, I realise just how oppressed we were - how controlled every aspect of our lives was and how successful Apartheid policy was in controlling us. We don't realise the miracle that democracy is, that we have overcome the brain-washing of more than 40 years to be where we are today. Certainly, the Apartheid curriculum for the "Department of Coloured, Bantu or Indian Affairs" did not allow for any independent thought.

I was thinking about this after helping my daughter edit her History essay a few days ago. She was to discuss "the impact of internal and external factors on the economic challenges of post-colonial Africa" - quite an interesting discussion ensued about the social and political factors following the independence of African countries from European colonial powers. I am constantly amazed at the subject matter they cover at school these days. I am not sure how many of us realise how much more progressive the school curriculum has become.

A year or two ago she had to design a protest T-shirt for an art project - not so long ago being in possession of such an item of clothing would almost guarantee arrest! And it is not only during Art and History that they are being enlightened. They read literature by African writers, study Human Rights in Life Orientation (we are one of the few countries who do) and the eugenics of race in Biology. My son at junior school is similarly being encouraged to hear both sides of the story and to think for himself. He is certainly not learning the same version of the colonisation of the Cape or of the Zulu war, that we were forced to learn. He learns Xhosa as easily as he learns Afrikaans - no baggage attached.

Imagine the possibilities if we had all been given the opportunity to stretch our minds, to know and to understand. When I was in Sweden for the children's rights awards, Magnus Bergmar, the founder of the WCPRC, told me that he thought that "an ongoing humanisation of every new generation is necessary for any sustainable development." We need strategies for a better world, he went on to say. I know that we still have much work to do, but I think that we are moving in the right direction and that our children are going to be better humans who will make a better world.

Spanish anyone?

I am blogging to avoid doing my Spanish homework. I have been listening to some audio exercises and wondering whether it is actually possible to learn a new language without immersion. I am slowly entertaining the thought that I should gracefully depart from the class. Perhaps my brain is too slow for Spanish - why do they have to talk so fast? Do we speak English at the same speed? I can make out some words and understand the gist of the conversation but then I get lost on the specifics. If I have to say so, I am not bad with reading and writing but conversation makes my palms sweat and my heart race. 

Why am I learning Spanish? I always wanted to learn a foreign language and presumed that it might be French since half of Africa speaks French. But I fell in love with the Latin energy on a visit to Cuba via Madrid a few years ago. It was April, spring time in Madrid. Everywhere you could smell the new beginnings in the air, everybody was waking up from a long winter. Couples of all ages were spilling onto the pavements to sit and chat and drink coffee. I liked the European-Moorish mix that was evident in the city, in the art, architecture and even in the food. We spent a few days exploring on foot, the many plazas, the markets and the museum, taking a break in quaint cafes and restaurants. 

Cuba was a total onslaught of the senses - the people, the music, the food spoke of passion. Women in sexy, brightly-coloured clothes, sashayed down the streets of Havana to the rhythm of the salsa, girls looking like brides, celebrated their 15th birthdays, boys played baseball wherever there was an open space.  The joy of having survived a hurricane was tangible. Young couples were courting along the Malecon, parts of it recently rebuilt after Katrina.  There was a "devil-may-care" attitude born of the knowledge that at anytime a storm could wash away your home, your life. 

On our return, I decided that Spanish was the language I needed to learn because I was definitely going back to Spain and Cuba someday. Before I knew it, I had found a teacher and opened a door to a new culture and history. I have become more aware of Spanish movies, food, soccer and, of course, Rafael Nadal. I love learning Spanish most of the time but I have been tempted to throw the book at the teacher, on occasion. I revelled in the Spanish victory in the World Cup as if I were Spanish myself, and renewed my determination to learn the language.

There are many benefits to learning a new language - meeting new people, eating different food, trying  a dance class (although I have discovered that I have two left feet in any language!), apparently keeping Alzheimer's at bay. It's a great ice-breaker when you meet a native-speaker and you just seem to be a little more interesting when you say you can speak another language. Oh well, back to the homework!

Trust the process

I have survived the rugby season. This may not seem like a big deal to all the lovers of that game that you play with an egg-shaped "ball" and take off people's heads if they get in your way. I breathed a sigh of relief when my son aged nine at the time, decided that in spite of being at a school that seems to give birth to Springbok rugby players, he would not be going to rugby camp. I cheered for this strength of character that allowed for going against the flow, for being different. I wondered if he would be able to stand up to the inevitable peer pressure.

And believe me, the pressure has been there over the last few years, however subtle it may have been made out to be. I just don't get the game. And I cannot watch it - I see spinal cord injuries happening (a throw-back to my previous life as an occupational therapist). I have tried - a few years ago I got caught up in some of the patriotism when we won something, but I could not sit through the match. (I have to admit, at the risk of being ostracised, that I have yet to see the "tear-jerker" Invictus).

Well, last year there were some rumblings about maybe playing. I pointed out that he would have to make a choice between rugby and his other commitments - horse-riding, hockey, tennis, music, etc. and he decided that perhaps he didn't want to play so badly that he would give up another activity. I did suspect that the desire was in part due to his admiration for a certain teacher. 

This year however, he came out quite strongly about playing and also was very certain that he would manage all his other activities. Now, a little background here, this is a young man who when he was four years old told me that he would not be doing more than three things during the week, and that included school. I was never able to arrange play dates with other mothers without consultation. "Why did you say he could come and play? I had someone yesterday. I can't be busy two days." I take some blame for this need for balance - he was two years old when I started doing aromatherapy, yoga and meditation. He sometimes would find me cross-legged on the mat and come and quietly join in. 

In hindsight, I think a surge of testosterone has been at the heart of this need to suddenly be macho. He turned 13 at the beginning of the year - seems to be all arms and legs and has achieved his goal of being taller than I am. As the season comes to an end I realise that he has managed to play hockey twice a week, rugby twice or thrice and go horse-riding on a Friday afternoon ("because it is a good way to end off my week"). And on a Sunday morning he starts phoning around to organise a soccer game on the field nearby, with maybe some tennis thrown in. What happened to not being busy for two days in a row? 

He chose not to go to Sweden last week because amongst other things, there was inter-house hockey to end the season. "Of course, you know hockey is my thing", he said. "Oh really?", I replied. "Yes", he casually threw over his shoulder, "you know I won't be playing rugby next year." Well, I didn't, but I gave a mental leap into the air. As always, he has known exactly what he needs. 

Snail Mail

Yesterday, I received a letter in the post. It was sitting in the mail box, just waiting to be received! I took it out, noticing the foreign postage stamps with expectation. The post mark was 16th August - not bad for the much-maligned postal service! I brought it inside and sat down to examine it. I turned it around to see the sender's address - old friends from Paris. It's not often that I get snail mail that does not have an envelope with a window, and I intended to savour this one. 

Slowly I slit the envelope and removed the A4 page - writing on both sides! Our friends in Paris have resisted all attempts to "globalise" and jump onto the technology highway. Sometimes this can be frustrating as we could be in much more regular contact if they were at least using the email address that they do have. But what a pleasure to enjoy the dying art of letter writing! I can imagine them sitting down to write the letter - and usually all four family members write a few lines - putting it into the envelope once they are satisfied that they have said all they want, and then going out to post it. All that time they are thinking about us and sending us positive thoughts!

They were replying to a letter I wrote a while ago (I had to remind myself about the contents - but even that was a pleasure as I had sent them a picture of my son with Madiba and could replay that event in my mind). They said were going to have the picture framed and displayed for all to see. Now if I had sent that via e-mail, they would probably not have printed it out!

Sometimes life is so fast and everything is so accessible that we forget to appreciate the small events and the small gestures that make life so meaningful. So, take a minute - write a letter to someone - it doesn't have to say much, except that you are thinking of them.

A Place to Play

I am getting involved with a project that aims to get kids off the street and give them a space to have fun, relax, be kids, be safe, exercise, channel energy, offer an alternative to the temptation of falling in with the wrong crowd, a place to hang out when there is nowhere else to go. It is really exciting and apart from the yoga class I will be teaching, there will be a dance teacher, and a hockey and soccer coach. It is going to be wonderful - there is such a need for a project like this in Langa. (Go see for yourself at Project Playground. 

We have the use of a large hall as well as another smaller room and a small outside area. There is a very nice soccer and hockey field around the corner from the project. It would be perfect if the field was made available to them in the afternoons. 

Sounds wonderful, doesn't it - a great project for all the right reasons and the facilities to make it happen. Here's the thing though -  the fields cannot be used because they need to be protected during the week to save the grass so that it can be used on the weekends for matches only.  So where are the kids who play matches practising? On the streets and anywhere else they can find space. Apparently people even try to break into the field to play! Langa could be harbouring the next generation of Bafana Bafana players and yet someone has come up with rules like these. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot!

Our project co-coordinator, Frida, had a meeting with the board (of the soccer section only - she has to have another meeting with another board re the hockey field) and pointed out the folly of this arrangement (her petite status belies a fierce determination to get this project off the ground). So we now await the decision of the council. In the meantime, I am thinking of practising my toyi-toyi!