Wedding Season Part 2

It seems that the 20-second wrap-pleat-tuck-and-drape sequence that looked so effortless in the shop must come with a lifetime of practice. They had offered to sew in the pleats for me, but that sounded like it would be taking away from the authenticity of the experience. The offer of sending someone to the hotel to dress me, also sounded a little too indulgent. Imagine braving the Delhi traffic for a 20-second duty.

Well, getting into the sari in my hotel room was a rather more complicated process than I thought. The person, who housekeeping sent up after my frantic call, was as flummoxed by the slippery, heavily-embroidered material, in spite of being dressed in a sari herself. Hers, part of the uniform, was a much simpler, lighter affair but she confessed that she arrived at work an hour earlier to dress. Half an hour, some compromise and many safety pins later, I reasonably resembled the real thing.  I decided to leave my camera behind at the hotel, unsure of how I would manage taking photographs while trying to negotiate my way around without stepping onto my sari and coming undone.

My daughter, who was dressed in a sort of Indo-Western fashion, didn't have the same navigation concerns and could wield her camera more easily. Our first function was the Sangeet, attended by about 2 000 guests. I alternated between gawking at all the beautiful people around me and at the decorations. Flowers adorned every surface, competing for attention with colourful chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. There was enough lights, music and dancers with bare midriffs for a Bollywood movie set. It took us at least an hour to distinguish the bride and groom amongst all the other leading stars gathered around.

In spite of all the glitz and glamour, the evening was relaxed and friendly and we made many new friends who had also been wandering around gawking, to keep us company over the following few days of celebration. At the end of the evening, heaving a sigh of relief that I had not unravelled, I leaned over sideways and flopped into the back of the car...not quite as Grace Kelly would have done it. 

Hamba Kahle, Madiba

Kruger Park July 2013

We sat quietly, each one with their own thoughts, watching the sun sink down into the land which stretched before us. The silence of the bush seemed appropriately reverent. Far from the city lights and noise, we said goodbye and thank you to Madiba.

It was the first week in July and Madiba had been very ill. Everyone thought that his death was imminent. We were in the Kruger for three days and were out of cell phone range. We asked our game ranger to please inform us if he heard any news. We had just stopped at this spot when he told us that he had a radio message that Nelson Mandela had died. This piece of land, which belonged to all of us, thanks to the sacrifice and forgiveness of Nelson Mandela and others who had strived for freedom alongside him, seemed the best place to say farewell. 

When we returned to camp, it was a very apologetic ranger who confessed that there had been confused messages heard on the radio. In light of the seriousness of his condition, though, we all felt at peace with the time we had spent saying goodbye. In the months that followed, when there were rumours about his condition, news of fighting over his legacy and speculations over whether he was still alive, I felt fortunate to have had that opportunity to meditate on what he had meant to us. 

Last night I was sad to hear the news of his death, but this afternoon when I stood on the Jammie steps at UCT, the sadness was mixed with pride and a deep gratitude that I was able to stand on those steps as a free South African. Hamba Kahle, Madiba. Thank you for your sacrifice, your ability to forgive, your inspiration and the wisdom with which you guided us to democracy. May we never forget. 

Wedding Season

It's wedding season in India - not too hot, not too cold, just right.  We are having the full experience, starting with shopping for the right clothes to wear to a wedding. This is a rather more complicated process than popping into a boutique and buying what catches your eye. 

Already overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and smells of Delhi I might have turned tail and run off when presented by four floors of shopping at Frontier Raas. Luckily, we had the able services of Sumeet, who knew exactly what we needed."Green is such a Mehndi colour." and "Black will be good for an evening wedding."  I was happy to be guided. 

Once we were settled in with tea and biscuits, the viewing began. Before long there was a pile of possibilities in front of us. How is it possible that there are so many choices and combinations? Not only was I distracted by what was in front of me, but people behind me and next to me seemed to be viewing the most sought after fabrics too. 

    

                                                 

All around us people were faced with a similar dilemma. Perhaps draping the sari would help? Quick as a flash an assistant had me standing on a little raised platform in front of the mirror, with a cord tied around my waist, while he deftly folded pleats and started winding fabric around my body. I stared at the reflection of a graceful, slimmer me. I should wear saris all the time! For those men who were buying saris, for their daughters or wives, I presumed, the assistants were only too willing to drape themselves. 

                                                          

Three hours later, having been offered Starbucks (we have one just down in the road!) and something to eat, we emerged happy with our purchases. Some bargaining had to be entered into in order to have our blouses and skirts sewn. "Tomorrow is not possible. How about two days time and delivered to your hotel!" And if we were not sure about how to drape the sari, someone could be sent to the hotel to help.

Oh, maybe  I should have gone with the fuschia and orange instead...

Wise Women (and Dr Spock)

I have had quite a woman's week. It started and ended with two of Cathy Eden’s Midlife Matters workshops, exploring the concerns, challenges and strategies of being an aging woman in our society. We all threw up our arms in protest at the idea that we could possibly be “wise women”. Perhaps we have images of old crones bent over bubbling pots and can't quite face that yet. 

On Monday evening I had the almost surreal experience of attending the first in a series of antenatal classes with a friend who has asked me to be her birth partner. There I sat in a circle with 12 sets of prospective parents – all first time and about half my age. One of the exercises that they had to do was to list all their birthing and parenting concerns.

Well, the session was indicative of one of the challenges that we face in this 21^st century – too much information and too little knowledge. People had lists that filled A4 pages - I couldn't believe how worried they were about everything - postnatal depression, choosing between natural birth and a Caesar, breastfeeding, routine, and balancing work and parenting in general. All valid I suppose, but I wanted to shout, “All your baby needs is you!” The internet has become their enemy because they suddenly are faced with the worst-case scenarios of every aspect of what is essentially one of the most natural stages of life.

I had to sit on my hands to keep myself from jumping up and responding to each one. It wasn't appropriate for me since I was there in a different role and didn't want to step onto the toes of the facilitator. But I realized that I could have dealt with each of those concerns through the experience that I have as mother, occupational therapist, yoga teacher and traveler. It was especially hard to keep quiet when one of the future dads said spontaneous weekends and travel were soon to be thing of the past. I wanted to wave my hands in the air and say, “Look at me, we've travelled the world with our children!” I’ll have to tell him that during the tea break next time.

It was an unexpected reminder of how much I've learned; without being aware of it, life has made us wiser and we still have a role to play in a society challenged by the technology revolution, climate change disasters, wars and conflict, and all the anxiety that this brings to giving birth and raising children. As Dr Benjamin Spock said way back in the 1940s, "You know more than you think you do." (The Common Sense Book of Baby and Childcare)

Yesterday I attended a talk with another wise woman Dr Azila Reisinberger, who officiated at the Mezcla of a Wedding I attended little while ago. She is Head of the Hebrew Department at UCT, a champion of women’s rights and gender equality, acting rabbi and member of MENSA. She spoke about women in the bible, which was fascinating and entertaining and appealed to the Christian, Muslim and Jewish woman in the audience. Her real gift is her ability to highlight the traditions and beliefs which are common to different people and cultures and bring them together in a celebration of humanity. Wise Women of the World, Unite!

World Prematurity Day and a New Nephew

This is my brand new nephew, born on Wednesday 13 November. He has arrived about six weeks too early and looks much bigger in this picture than he actually is. Actually you cannot grasp how little he is until you pick him up, all 1,8 kg of him. He's all skin and bone and wrinkly as anything. He seems far too fragile to be out here.

Perhaps with a nod to making the right entrance, he decided to put in an appearance during World Prematurity Week. Today, 17 November, is World Prematurity Day, celebrated around the world to improve awareness of premature birth and how it can be prevented. Millions of babies are born prematurely every year of which 1 million die, about one baby in ten. It has become the leading cause of newborn deaths. (Premature babies are babies born before 37 weeks.)  Simple care like warmth and feeding support are essential to improving the chances of survival of these babies.

Giving birth is such a common occurrence that we tend to forget what a miracle and blessing it is that everything proceeds without a hitch. In spite of his early arrival, he has all the reflexes for survival and here he is holding onto his father's thumb for dear life.

And here he is three days old, already looking a little more handsome.

May he and all the other preemies go from strength to strength and live long and productive lives. 

Halfway through the Masters

This morning when I got back from my walk, the dogs were under attack by an angry swarm of bees which had made their nest under the eaves of the garden shed. So just when I thought I had a quiet morning after the builders left, I was phoning around for a "bee-man". It's no simple problem. As I write this they are being smoked out and then the roof has to be sealed, including every single corrugation it has, so that the bees don't come back to the nest. 

The academic year ended three weeks ago and apart from builders I have also had to deal with the city council and pest control because apparently it's rat season in Cape Town. And then a small matter of root canal surgery. Seems this was all on hold while I was indulging in the student life. 

I can hardly believe that the first year of the MA programme has come and gone. Half the time I was ecstatic about the opportunity and couldn't believe my luck. I probably irritated a few people by being on an almost-constant high about all that I was learning and didn't need a second invitation to talk about the course. The rest of the time I felt slightly inadequate about my illusions of being writer. There was more than one occasion when I huddled with my fellow-students outside the Arts Block after a seminar where a hallowed-published author had just given us a talk on how difficult it was to be a writer. 

The course work is done and now the real work begins - writing a 65-70 000 word thesis - putting all that I have learned into practice. I have no intention of spending 3-5 years on this masters programme but am a little worried about being able to dish up a book in a year. On the other hand, I am a late bloomer and want to get the MA behind by my back. There are many more projects to get on with.

As I was recently reminded, everyone feels inadequate at one time or another, you have to use it to your advantage, to spur you on. So, I intend to stay focused and see this through as best I can. At the end of the day I believe that you write because you can't help yourself. You create a work of art and if other people love it, that's great. If I worried about whether or not everybody else was going to like it, I'd never do it. In any case, my supervisor says that I should be writing to one reader - him. 

In the words of one of my teachers, "Onwards and upwards!"

Walking through History - Celebrating our Heritage

I have no problem with Heritage Day turning into Braai Day. After all, cooking over a fire goes back to the days when man first discovered that fire might make his food taste better and cuts across many cultural boundaries - that's quite a heritage to celebrate. But I do believe that we still have a lot of work to do in order to get to know each other in this country.

In that spirit I was happy to see that Footsteps to Freedom City Walking Tours had joined IzikoMuseums and the Taj Hotel to offer free walks exploring the places of historical significance in the city centre during Heritage week. It seemed an appropriate way to spend Heritage Day and I invited an Australian visitor along. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the crowd of about 40 people who turned up consisted of mostly South Africans, eager to learn more of their own heritage. 

Traders on Greenmarket Square

Old Town House

We started off in Greenmarket Square, the second oldest public space after the Grand Parade, which served as a general meeting place and where water was collected from the public water pump which stood in the centre of the square. I didn’t know that the front door of the Old Town House, which stands on the edge of the square, is the place from which you measure distance in Cape Town. 

Pincushion Proteas or Waratahs

Next was the colourful flower market, Trafalgar Place, where there were beautiful pincushion Proteas on sale. My Australian friend pointed out that she knew them by a different name back home – Waratahs (yes, the name of one of their rugby teams). 

The City Hall

The Bell tower of the Groote Kerk

The Slave Memorial on Church Square

A slave memorial, consisting of slave names engraved on marble slate, has been erected on Church Square.  Slaves socialized here while their owners attended church services in the Groote Kerk. Opposite the memorial and church is The Slave Lodge which housed slaves, convicts and political prisoners between the 17^th and 19^th centuries. 

Government Avenue used to be the place to see and be seen.  

Our walk continued down Government Avenue past Tuynhuis where guests of the colony used to stay and which is now the president’s office. A blocked-up water channel which was originally dug by slaves runs in front of this house. We were reminded that the fresh water which runs down from Table Mountain was the main attraction of the Cape as a halfway stop on the way to the east. It seems a pity that we are not harnessing this water for use instead of letting it all flow into the sea. 

View of Table Mountain from the Company Gardens

Statue of Sir George Grey in front of National Library

The statue of Governor George Gray is the first statue of a person to be erected at the Cape. At the end of his term he donated his books to start the National Library. We ended our tour in front of St. George’s Cathedral which I remember as a safe place to gather during the apartheid years. Opposite the cathedral, in front of the Mandela-Rhodes building, is a piece of the Berlin Wall which was presented to Nelson Mandela on his first state visit to Germany in 1996.

Our guide was knowledgeable and fed us many interesting tidbits like the fact that the floor of the Groote Kerk was originally sand so that it could be dug up in order that members of the congregation could be buried there. 

I highly recommend this tour to locals and visitors alike. It was a worthwhile way to spend two hours. 

Shattering Perceptions

The woman sitting on the stage in the Fugard Theatre at the Open Book Festival yesterday could have been from anywhere in the world; perhaps the braiding on her blouse suggested an eastern influence. And then she was described as a Muslim woman from the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, shattering any perceptions about Muslim women and Pakistanis that I may have had.

She told a story of her mentor, a poet from the Indian-occupied part of Kashmir who always introduced himself as a Muslim in spite of being as secular as can be. When questioned about this he said that he felt a responsibility to challenge the stereotypes that people may hold of Muslims. It struck a chord with me living in SA where we are still grappling with making people fit neatly into a box - race, religion and sex, neatly ticked off.

Kamila Shamsie was born in Karachi and has published five novels which have received a number of awards, including awards from Pakistan’s Academy of Letters for three of her novels. Burnt Shadows, her latest, has been shortlisted for the Orange Prize and she is one of Granta’s Twenty Best Young British Novelists for 2013.

I sat up half the night reading Burnt Shadows. In it she explores themes of love and war from Nagasaki in 1945 to India on the brink of the partition in 1947, to Pakistan in 1982-3 and from New York to Afghanistan in 2001-2 in the wake of 9/11. New wars take the place of old and people learn about longing for something they didn't know they would long for until it was destroyed. 

The book is about being foreign, about wanting to belong, about crossing borders, about coming together. It’s about how war reduces us from being human to being a country, a race, to what we look like on the outside. Her prose is achingly beautiful. I want to read more.

Burnt Shadows is published by Bloomsbury.

The Open Book Festival is on at The Fugard Theatre from 7-11 September. More information at www.openbookfestival.co.za

This Writing Life

I have been reprimanded for being such a slack blogger.  Now that I have survived the first semester of self-imposed immersion, I have a little more time, although I should be thinking about a thesis for next year, and probably starting on it! The real treasure of this course is the exposure to so many different talents and opinions. One good outcome of doing the MA is that I now have a license to write. So spending all morning at my desk and doing what I love, is now legal.

During the course of this semester we will be having weekly workshops, each with a different author, introducing us to various genres, as well as talks about publishing, branding and agenting. So it’s starting to feel a lot more like the real thing. Over the last two weeks I have been depressed by the prospects for publishing (1% of manuscripts actually get published, only 1 million people buy books in SA) and I am worried about whether it is possible to produce a book by this time next year.

This week we had South Africa’s latest shining star, Lauren Beukes come and talk to us. Leonardo di Caprio has bought the movie rights to her book…enough said. I can barely watch CSI if I am alone in the house and the very idea of Dexter or Hannibal is guaranteed to give me sleepless nights. So The Shining Girls is not at all the kind of book which would appeal to me – time travelling serial killers!? I think not. However, I was impressed with her focus and commitment to her writing.  We all know writers who are better than we are, she said, but they gave up.

I also admire her ability to market herself. She showed us a book trailer for The Shining Girls (yes, a video clip to advertise the book). I immediately recognized it as something which would interest my daughter. I showed her the trailer when I got home and by the following evening she had not only gone out and bought the book but was a good bit of the way into it.  It has been a while since I have seen her reading for pleasure… actually, not since The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

I have been having doubts about writing non-fiction, about what right I have to appropriate other people’s stories, about how accurate my memories are, and other angst-ridden questions. Lauren also had the following advice, which has set me free, in a way. Write what challenges and interests you. Let the book rest and get as much feedback as you can from different people. Don’t think about publishing for at least three months after the thesis is completed.

I realize that I should simply go ahead and write the story I want to write, as best I can, uninhibited by the idea of publishing.  Right now it is my story. I’ll worry about sending it out to the world at a later stage.  

Solutions Journalism

Imagine that every day someone sat you down and told you everything that you had done wrong the day before. Every day you would receive a report on your sensational failures and mistakes; no solutions or insights would be offered and any successes or attempts at good deeds would be ignored. Pretty soon, after a few days, a week or perhaps a month, if you are more resilient, you would start to feel despondent, disillusioned and possibly depressed.

Now consider what it would be like if someone else came along and while acknowledging your mistakes, also reports on what you did right and perhaps suggests ways that you could improve. Or maybe you heard about another person’s report which was more positive and it inspired you to try what he/she was doing.

I get pretty depressed reading the news. It seems as if our country, our continent and our world is one disaster after another – that seems to be the main thrust of the media. I know sensationalism sells but is the role of the media not also to educate and to inspire, to inform and to offer solutions? This topic came up while I was in Sweden and I was excited to be told about Solutions Journalism…

Solutions journalism is critical and clear-eyed reporting that investigates and explains credible responses to social problems. - See more at: http://solutionsjournalism.org/about/solutions-journalism-what-it-is-and-what-it-is-not/#sthash.WkyWbBs3.dpuf

In the video link below, Sarika Bansal tells how Bill Gates was inspired by an article he read in the New York Times on how inexpensive it was to treat diarrhea. Gates credits that article for the reason that he now gives $800 million every year to improve the health-care of children who may otherwise have died. Not only was he informed by what he had read, he was also inspired to make a difference.

Reporter’s Diary: Sarika Bansal’s TEDx Talk on Solutions Journalism - See more at: http://solutionsjournalism.org/2013/03/20/reporters-diary-sarika-bansals-tedx-talk-on-solutions-journalism/#sthash.OMkmVMtu.dpuf

There will always be bad news to be reported on, but there are also many positive stories out there. This has been a thread through the past semester, in the courses that I took and the books which I read. We deserve to get both sides of the story.

Africa - the time has come

It's a small world, after all

I found myself thousands of kilometres from  Cape Town having a conversation with a Swedish woman in traditional Midsummer dress, and the UAE ambassador to Sweden, about Nigerian writer, Chimamanda Adichie’s book, Half of a Yellow Sun, which we had all read and enjoyed.

My son and I have spent four days in a small town in Sweden attending the Tallberg Forum. Tallberg is situated on the edge of Lake Siljan, a three-and-a-half-hour train ride to the north of Stockholm.  It has 230-240 permanent residents and eight hotels, all of which started out as farmhouses. The green hills surrounding the water, and long days of sunshine far from the bustle of the city, are conducive to interaction, reflection and absorption.

Every year since 1981 the Forum has been convened around the theme “How on earth can we live together?” It was established to provide a platform for free and open exchange of ideas and experiences. Participants come from all walks of life, from over 70 different countries. The people who attend are committed to finding solutions to improve the state of the world and are involved in businesses or NGOs which support that commitment. 

This year the focus was on globalization and how it relates to education, technology, culture, religion, race and identity. Huge problems exist globally around issues of the environment, education, health and human rights. I was struck by how South Africa is a microcosm of the concerns around the world.  

Our society is still so deeply divided and we are suspicious of those from whom we have been separated by apartheid. Before we can interact with the rest of the world, we need to learn to interact with the people who we live side by side with. We need to take time to get to know our neighbours, the people we go to school or university with, and the people we work with. We need to create an environment that invites sharing; a sense of community on a local and national level before we can truly be part of and participate on a global platform. Stereotypes and prejudices exist because we don’t take the trouble to move out of our comfort zones to get to know each other.

There’s hard work still to be done, necessary if we want to move forward. While we may not all agree on the issues, it is important to start talking. We may find that we are not all that different after all.

Celebrating Africa

This year Africa Day arrived with a renewed sense of pride and hope for me. I have been immersed in two electives - African Non-fiction Literature and Public Culture. African literature focused mainly on South African books post-1994 and in many ways it was a gift of history far removed from the history that I had been taught at school in the 1970s. While it was painful to plough through the accounts of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, I was enlightened by the behind-the-scenes revelations of the negotiation process and the run up to the first democratic elections. I was entertained and motivated by stories of growing up in Kenya and Katlehong –  stories which give life to communities, breaking down stereotypes and mass-labelling of people to fit into neat little boxes.  And I will look at Johannesburg with new eyes after reading Portrait with Keys, the tribute by Ivan Vladislavic.

It was Noni Jabavu’s books, published in the early 1960s, which were a special treasure though. They are a portrait of black life at a time when Verwoerd was introducing his draconian laws.  She provides an insight into the traditions, tribal customs and family life from a personal point of view. She straddled two opposing worlds – her roots in the Eastern Cape of South Africa, and her life in England, where she had been sent as a child.  She shows how we can use writing to correct the perceptions of the past, to record the voices of the past and to help preserve the traditions which, in SA, the government attempted to wipe out. I was very fortunate to find both her books at Clarke's in Long Street. This bookshop, established in 1956, is worth a visit if you're looking for South African and African books.

The Public Culture course looked at curating positive images of Africa and South Africa, to challenge the colonial stereotypes which abound. We focused on visual images along the theme of play and were exposed to photographers, archives and exhibitions, both past and present. I had the opportunity to look at the notion of music as a tool of resistance, at how it played a role in uniting and strengthening the community and how it flourished and developed in spite of oppression. 

I was struck anew at how jazz can be seen as a metaphor for the melting pot which is South Africa. It has a truly South African identity shaped by many influences - music of the African people, the Malays who were brought here by the Dutch, the slaves who were part of orchestras on the farms; visiting minstrels from the US which set the scene for the still-popular coon carnival, the  rich choral traditions and so on. It seems ridiculous now that there were laws governing details like whether black and white musicians could play together on a stage or perform to a mixed audience.

 We have developed a rich culture of music, writing and art, and people with spirit and values. What is often overlooked is what African people are doing to help themselves, rather than sitting back and waiting for others to come and solve our problems. Yes, there are starving children and disease, much suffering and oppression in Africa, but this is not the only narrative.

Let's go out with a bang!

Machu Picchu courtesy of TripAdvisor

I was a bit taken aback recently when someone commented that going back to university at my age was perhaps best left to the young ones, and that I shouldn't be cramping my daughter’s style. While my brain may be teetering close to overload, I am not quite ready to be put out to pasture. I cannot remember when last I have been so stimulated by what I am learning.

Last night I met someone, “my age”, who has climbed Kilimanjaro and hiked to Everest base camp. Next on her list is the Inca Trail and Machu Picchu in Peru. My friend, Kam, has also done the Everest base camp as well the Inca Trail.

I dragged myself away from my books to have a quick look on the internet which revealed that in November 2012, life expectancy in SA was said to have increased to 60 years from 54 in 2009, according to The Lancet health journal. In 2009 the South African Institute of Race Relations said that South Africans would not live longer than 50 years, and World Bank indicators in 2010 put the life expectancy for women in SA at 52.2 years. So it does seem that I may well be in my twilight years…

However, I am not getting depressed by this. Far from it. I am surrounded by inspiring women who are not letting age stand in the way of their goals. My friend, Mary, has just published a cookbook which she did the layout for and took the photographs; Alison, who, recently became a grandmother, has just returned from a trip to the Antarctic, has walked the Santiago and learned to speak fluent Spanish. There are numerous others who have changed track completely and re-invented themselves.

There are many mountains left to climb - let's go out with a bang!

In Remembrance

This morning I had to abandon my plan to read my book for African Literature while I was having a coffee at my local cafe. Not for the first time during the last two months I have simply wanted to weep because of what I was reading. 

This week we are looking at Antjie Krog's Country of My Skull,  her account of the proceedings of the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. It's such a dark place that we get to when we look back at our horrendous past - oppression, violence, torture and death. I have not gotten beyond the first few chapters and already I am horrified by the stories that are being revealed. This is why I have been subconsciously been putting off reading this book.

A community should not wipe out a part of its past, because it leaves a vacuum that will be filled by lies and contradictory and confusing accounts of what happened. Krog writes bravely and sensitively about a horrendous past. 

For my Public Culture course I am looking at culture in Africa through music during the apartheid era. What could possibly make me want to weep when I am looking at music, you may wonder. I came across the story of Vuyisile Mini who composed the protest song, "Ndodemnyama we Verwoerd" or "Watch out, Verwoerd!". Mini was one of the organisers of the resistance and was arrested in 1963. When he refused to testify against his comrades he was sentenced to death. His booming voice singing that song could be heard by fellow prisoners just as he was about to be executed. 

Birth by Peter Harris, Tomorrow is Another Country by Allister Sparks and Midlands by Jonny Steinberg, have all had me wondering anew at the miracle which got us this far.  We are a deeply damaged society and we need to work hard at building that "rainbow nation" that Archbishop Tutu, who headed the TRC, talked about. As painful as it is, it is important to know our history, so that we may endeavour not to repeat it. 

Made it to Mid-term!

It’s been pretty quiet on this side of the blog front as I juggle student life with being the toilet fairy. This week we have been on vacation, NOT holiday, I must stress. At post-graduate orientation one of the professors informed us that it was called a vacation, because you vacated the university campus to go and work at home!

So indeed, here I am having a break, working on a short story, writing a 2500-word book review and sourcing images for another course.

Walking has kept me sane. I am out there at 7 in the morning doing eight kilometres three times a week, putting one foot in front of the other. It clears my head as I move through the neighbourhood and I often come back having mentally worked out an issue.

So many people are asking my daughter what it is like to have me on campus. For the record let me say that we hardly see each other and only share one lift. I promised that I wouldn't be hanging around on the Jammie steps with her. Anyway she is way too cool to worry about whether I am cramping her style or not.

Now if it was my son, it may be a different story. Although last week he took one look at me parked in front of the TV with a packet of chips and a mug of tea (comfort after a 3-hour workshop) and said, “You’re turning into me!”

I have survived the first term and am enjoying the breather. I have gotten over both the shock of the youth and the technology (well, sort of) and think that pretty soon I will be able to hold my own. Every day I come home in awe of how much I am learning. I feel so blessed to have this opportunity to be back at university. I even found myself wondering what I could study next, once this was under the belt...Okay, it was very briefly...

World Storytelling Day

World Storytelling Day logo designed by Swedish storyteller, Mats Rhenman

20 March is World Storytelling Day. It originated in Sweden in 1990 and has become a global celebration of the art of oral storytelling, taking place on the spring equinox in the northern hemisphere. The idea is to get as many people as possible from around the world to tell stories through the day and night. 

The theme for this year is "Fortune and Fate". Appropriately, I will be in class tomorrow, sharing stories about bulls and bullfights. 

My friend, Marlene Winberg, is travelling to the Kalahari Desert where she will be facilitating a two-day event with  indigenous people from all over the region. Visit her  website: marlenewinberg.com 

Let the stories begin!

Diary of a born-again student

Things are starting to settle down a bit around here. We haven’t had take-outs for supper this week...yet. In fact, yesterday getting groceries and preparing dinner seemed far more attractive than usual. Something familiar that didn't take much thought. I could just cruise through on automatic pilot.

Some days my head has felt ready to burst. A few days ago I sat down with a cup of tea and the Sudoku puzzle - anything that didn't need words. I'm starting to understand why my adolescent son communicates in grunts. With all that is going on with his body, plus school it’s all that he can do to piece together words for food or a lift.

Last night he was doing his Maths homework with a friend, via SKYPE. One of my courses is completely computer-based and has had me waking up nights with my stomach in a knot.  To address my technological inadequacies, I have found someone who is sympathetic to the challenges of the “mature woman” to do some computer coaching with me. 

After three sessions I feel like we have done some feng shui for computers and simplified matters. My daughter was greatly puzzled by the fact that he had whipped out a pen and paper to explain things to me, but that is exactly the level that I needed to start from. 

I have been telling the kids, much to their amusement, that I am going to be sooo clever by June...either that or I’ll be crazy! To put a positive spin on the stomach in a knot part, I am trying to convince myself that, come the end of the semester, I am going to be blessed with a six-pack – which is also one of my son’s goals in life. I am starting to notice a bit of regression on my part...

Queen of Queens

http://www.sactwu.org.za/events/55-spring-queen

This week as part of my Public Culture course, I visited the District Six Museum Homecoming Centre where they are running an exhibition of the Spring Queen pageant. The Spring Queen festival has  been organised annually by the women factory workers in the clothing industry since the 1970s. In June or July each factory chooses a Spring Queen who would then participate for the Queen of Queens title in November of that year.

My first reaction to the idea of a Spring Queen was of a demeaning beauty pageant, a cattle parade, objectifying women. It was an appeasement, a consolation, something to keep the “poor Coloured” workers happy. I grew up in the days when there was a white Miss SA and a coloured Miss Africa South.

I came away with a different perspective – one of unity among the workers, a diversion from the daily grind of working in an industry which is notorious for poor wages. Typically the women who work in the factories are single parents, often with a number of children. One of the workers who had worked at a factory which had recently closed down, related her experiences of the pageant.

“People see us as factory workers, and that is all you are worth,” she said. The pageant offered the young women an escape from reality, a fairy tale – “even for one day you can feel like Princess Diana”  - she told us. She used phrases like “very exciting and very beautiful”; “you feel like millionaires”; “an exciting and happy time”. There were opportunities to further a modelling career or a bursary to study further.

While she was talking, her colleague, an older woman, who had been sitting quietly observing, slipped me three photographs, slightly crumpled and dog-eared.  They were all of her in costumes, possibly ten or fifteen years previously. In one photo she wore an elaborate pink creation, looking indeed like a princess.

When I whispered my admiration to her, she smiled proudly as she put the photos back into her bag. In that moment I realised how much participating in the Spring Queen pageant must have meant to her. For a brief moment, someone had looked at her with different eyes.  She had felt special. She had been acknowledged.

The exhibition is on at 15 Buitenkant Street, Cape Town, until the end of February. The centre is open form 10h00 to 16h00, Monday to Saturday. 

We Say Enough!

Yesterday thousands of UCT students and staff marched in protest against the scourge of violence that has become part of our society. Marching does not seem like nearly enough to be doing but after witnessing the recent spate of violent crimes, I felt that I had to do something.

I was struck by a recent article in the newspaper which pointed out that a few years ago we were all shocked by the violent abuse and death of a young girl, Valencia Farmer, and yet here we are again in the same situation.

Carrying placards, mostly dressed in white, we marched and chanted, up from the middle campus to congregate on the Jameson steps on the main campus. When we were addressed by the vice-chancellor, amongst others, I couldn’t help thinking back to the struggle days. And, indeed, he reminded us that ordinary people had brought apartheid to an end and that it was time that we stood up again to bring about change.

We need to demand our rights, to make ourselves heard, to voice what it is we want the government that we elected to do. It is important to use whatever platforms that are available to us to get this message across and to keep up the momentum of what others are doing.

WE SAY ENOUGH. STOP THE VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN AND CHILDREN.

You may also like:http://saaray-livinginsa.blogspot.com/2013/01/stop-abuse.html

Cycling for Red Cross

RadiologyFM - YouTube:

'via Blog this'


You may also like:http://saaray-livinginsa.blogspot.com/2013/01/making-difference-cycling-for-red-cross.html

Surviving School

Do you know those Tom and Jerry cartoon images where Tom has stuck his finger into a plug socket and is bolted up into the air, every hair on his body standing on end? Well, that's how I have felt for the last ten days. 

At my very first lecture last Tuesday I thought I was in the wrong place! All around me students who looked 19 (but couldn't possibly have been since this was a post-graduate course) spoke with American accents and the lecturer was explaining elementary things like where District Six was and that the boxer in the black and white photo from the 1950s was actually Nelson Mandela, not Muhammed Ali.

It made sense when I realised that the course was being run in conjunction with Brown University and that there was a large contingent of exchange students attending. The clarity lasted about five minutes before we were being told about setting up websites, creating Tumblr accounts and joining a Face Book group. All this would be used to monitor and assess our involvement!

Later in the week I was in a lecture on African Non-fiction Literature. This time the class was smaller and there was only one American voice, but listening to these young ones talk, I had the distinct feeling that I have missed out on a few steps...like studying English language and literature...

We are a group of diverse writers in the Creative Writing seminars and I am sure that we will learn much from each other and the many established authors who we will be meeting during the course of the year.

 Everyone assures me that I will be fine once I get into the swing of things. I just need to find a way to channel the adrenaline which seems to be coursing through my veins, clearly my body has been preparing for flight. My brain, however,  has prevailed and here I am gearing up for the second week. 

Orientation

If the walls could talk...Jameson Hall on Jammie Steps

The flashes of panic I was having about my impending academic journey had evolved into a more pervasive sense of bewilderment by the weekend.

Part of the bewilderment is that nothing is actually as it was – the library is not where I remember it, for example, and you can't drive down University Ave. And places are called by different names: The Steve Biko Lecture Theatre, The Molly Blackburn Hall...who would have thought? I feel like I have entered a parallel universe and someone has messed with my memory.

I was unprepared for the emotion I felt climbing up Jammie steps on Thursday on the way to the postgraduate orientation session. Thankfully, at 830 in the morning there were not many students around to see the middle-aged woman with wet cheeks pausing to soak up the moment. It seems like a lifetime since I first ventured up there.

It’s a long way from handwritten assignments in the Occupational Therapy department on the other side of the cemetery below Groote Schuur Hospital. At the orientation, someone from the library was talking about consultations by appointment, the writing centre person about developing writing and the IT manager about computer labs with uncapped bandwidth and free on-campus access to wireless.

Later I noticed that the change in student diversity has been as dramatic. Now it is only age that may make me stand out from the crowd but I am willing to believe that at UCT I will be treated with suitable irreverence. At least no one here will call me “Tannie”!

I haven’t met my whole group but probably the majority are half my age...and have been studying English and language and literature in the time that I have been raising children. I am envious of the ease with which they engage with lecturers and the certainty with which they are making choices.

After two tries, I have survived the registration process and am now in proud possession of a student card. I look forward to the week ahead when “all will be revealed”. Now I just need to remind my family that the toilet-paper fairy has left the building...!

As time goes by

When I was at university in the 80s, I took notes by hand, and rewrote them at night struggling to decipher my feverish scrawl at the small desk behind the door in the room I shared with my sister. My sister surrounded her bed with a ring of salt to ward off evil spirits which she feared may have come in with the black bag of bones I had brought home for my Anatomy studies.

But I digress. Back in the day, it was acceptable to hand in assignments which were "neatly hand-written" if you didn't have access to a typewriter. Computers were still a dream, like democracy.

My dad owned a small grey Olivetti typewriter. Every evening he would sit at the kitchen table and pound away at the black keys using two fingers to write his reports or exam papers.  The tick-tack-tick-tack rhythm of the machine interspersed with a “cling” and a “swish” as he got to the end of the line, was calming, like a bedtime story, when we were too old for a nightly installment from “365 Bedtime Stories”. Sometimes, when he wasn't busy, I would get to use it for a special assignment, correcting paper at the ready...and carbon paper for copies.

I was thinking about this while trying to decide what courses to do this year, now that I am planning to charge up the brain cells. “You can look everything up before you go to register,” said my daughter. For once she didn't roll her eyes at my technological challenges as she downloaded the faculty handbook and guided me through the 400 pages.

“Are you sure you need to go to orientation all day?” she asked. “You’ll probably find your way around just fine.” Well, having not spent any significant time on the main campus the first time around, I do need a bit of help trying to “navigate the administrative maze of post-graduate studies”. I would hate anyone to have to spread salt to still my spirit if it takes to rambling around the ivy-covered buildings!