Serendipitous Discoveries - Perugia, Italy

This photo is courtesy of Tripadvisor 

The fans came in all shapes and sizes – pink, white, black and yellow; old couples with bent backs, feet tapping out the rhythm; young families with toddlers running around and babies in prams. There were designer-clad yuppies rubbing shoulders with hippies and Rastafarians. It seems that jazz is quite the unifier. While people milled about, paused to rest on benches under trees with ice cold watermelon or on the stone steps of the cathedral, slice of pizza in hand, the music played on. Two stages were set up at either end of the town and free concerts played from lunch time to well past midnight. In between, musicians busked on street corners, and played in the restaurants and cafes.

Clowns juggled and made balloon animals to entertain children, an artist decorated the sidewalk with chalk, his mural depicting the many roads which led to the music, and vendors sold arts and crafts on tables set up along the main road. Shops stayed open till late into the night, the music lending a festive air to the shopping sprees.

We had happened upon the festival while trying to book hotels on our travels around Italy. Puzzled by how full it was in Perugia, we investigated and discovered that we were looking for accommodation during the annual Umbria Jazz Festival.  During the ten-day festival, musicians like Al Jarreau, Erykah Badu and Esperanza Spalding were performing along with Sting and Rita Marley. We were heading in the right direction!

Perugia is a medieval town in the Umbria region of Italy (“the gentler version of Tuscany”, it has been described). Etruscan ruins date back more than 2 000 years. The hilly town is surrounded by the old city wall. Narrow cobble-stoned streets weave through buildings so close they seem to lean over and reach out to each other, shutting out the harsh midday sun and providing a welcome relief.  Tiny old shops which have seen generations of owners and customers still do business, their walls pock-marked with history.

The Umbria Jazz festival has been running since 1973 and attracts followers from all over the world. We were unable to get tickets for the grand finale with Sting but that night when we returned to our room and flung the widows open wide to let the night air in, the strains of “An Englishman in New York” floated up the hill and into our room.

Perugia had been a serendipitous experience which stimulated all our senses. The 40^th anniversary of the festival seems like a good excuse for another visit!

Healing Memories of District Six

“The first time I took your mother out on a date we went to the Avalon bioscope, to the 4.00pm show to see “Trapeze” with Burt Lancaster, Tony Curtis and Gina Lollabrigida. Your mother was only allowed to go to the afternoon show. It was 1958. Chut Frieslaar was the manager of the bioscope.” The words poured out of my father’s mouth as we sat down to tea. We had just been to the District Six Museum and clearly many memories had been stirred.

My dad is a man of few words but as we walked around, he became more and more animated as he recognised people and places – the barber shop where he had his hair cut, his old school and his standard five teacher, and the public wash house. “You could find anything you wanted in Hanover Street, except petrol,” he said. “There was no garage, but everything else was there.”

On one of the walls was a recipe for “oumens onder die kombers” (which literally means old person under the blanket), which my grandmother used to make.  It is a traditional cabbage and meatball recipe – the cabbage is wrapped around the meatball, like a blanket. Alongside were recipes for other dishes from my childhood - tomato bredie (a lamb and tomato stew), bobotie (a spicy meatloaf) and skaapkop (sheep’s head).

I walked around with my book and pen on hand. I had wanted to capture these memories for a while now.  My dad had grown up in District Six and my grandmother had lived there well into the 70s. So we spent much time in Hanover Street – the house doctor, the barber, my uncle’s tailor shop, and the restaurant which sold the best samoosas and curry and roti, were all there.

It was almost as much of a journey for me as it was for him and I feel so blessed to have had the benefit of some of the stories. Before we left, my dad proudly signed the ex-residents’ book. 

Rio+20

Twenty years ago my husband and I attended the Earth Summit or, to give it its proper name the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development (UNCED), in Rio de Janeiro.  About 170 heads of state, or representatives attended the UNCED program while there was a simultaneous gathering of about 2400 representatives of Non-Governmental Organisations (NGOs). This was a historic meeting – never before had so many people come together in concern for the earth’s survival.

We lapped up the atmosphere; we were high on hope and the probability of a new democracy back home. We posed for photographs in front of a gigantic “Tree of Life” with leaves symbolic of the thousands of pledges to commit to bring about the necessary change.

Under signs of “Bush go home”, in front of dark and sombre banners of a sick earth, we joined in political demonstrations, discussions and networking. On lawns and under trees people practised everything from capoeira, to music and meditation. We wandered by craft stalls, information booths and mingled with the 17 000+ participants and 200 000 local residents who visited.

The message was clear - we needed to change our attitude and behaviour so that our children and their children could continue to enjoy life on this earth.

Rio+20 has just concluded. There are no new international agreements, no new actions and no real action...twenty years on it seems we are still just talking. 

Clued up on Culture

Yesterday I went shopping for a gift for visitors from the Middle East. I hadn’t met them before, although my husband had. I wanted to buy something meaningful – which is difficult when he was as scant with information as he usually is in situations like these and had no helpful suggestions.

I rejected neutral gifts like scarves/shawls (coals to Newcastle and all that). Foodstuff wouldn’t do and you don’t buy perfume for anyone else unless you know what they like. Something South African would be great, so I dashed off to the Carrol Boyes shop at the nearby mall. 

While looking at the beautifully displayed pewter and stainless steel artworks on the shelves I remembered, in time, that I couldn’t be buying anything with the human form or figures, especially not naked, for fear of offending religious and cultural customs and beliefs. Eventually I settled on items which were not too big to transport, which I trusted would not offend and which would convey the feelings of welcome and friendship we wished to. 

In the Middle Eastern countries like Qatar or Saudi Arabia there is a process of doing business. You do business with people you know and trust. There is a ritual of exchanging gifts, sharing meals and getting to know each other, that cannot be hurried.

After negotiating this task, I remembered a valuable little book I bought a few years ago. It is called “Clued up on Culture” and is a guide about religious and cultural observance in South Africa, aiming to raise awareness about the diversity of the different people who make up our still new democracy. The primary function of the book is to advise the reader on what to do and say when confronted with the life stages of traditional Africans, Hindus, Christians, Muslims and Jews.

As Barney Pityana, of the SA Human Rights Commission says in the foreword: “It helps...to be conscious of the richness and glorious diversity that is a gift to our country...as a result...understanding and tolerance are promoted."

If you have ever wondered whether to send flowers when a Muslim colleague loses a family member or whether you should remove your shoes when entering a Hindu home or what to wear to a traditional African wedding, this concise handbook is a worthwhile investment.

Clued up on Culture by Barbara Elion and Mercia Strieman is published by Juta Gariep Publishing Company (Pty) Ltd

Knit One, Purl One

In my day we learned to knit and sew at school, producing garments which hid a multitude of sins beneath the uniform exteriors presented for marking. The wool was of the cheapest acrylic you could buy from OK Bazaars and the fabric was stiff, government-issue. The products of our labour were not meant to be worn proudly.

Luckily, my creative side was not totally killed off. I was surrounded by women who were skilled crafters. My paternal grandmother’s fingers flew over her crochet work – churning out intricately designed bedspreads which supplemented her small pension. My maternal grandmother was renowned for her annual stall at the church bazaar which she stocked with everything from cushions and tea cosies to knitted baby clothes and adult-sized jerseys. My mother could knit up a storm. She preferred knitting smaller items for children so family and friends alike were treated to the fruits of her busy hands.

It was as a university student that I really got over my first awkward attempts and started sewing my own clothes. Later on I proudly produced clothes for both my children, with fun fabrics bought from the Naartjie outlet up the road. I also became a prolific knitter (although none of my children benefitted from that phase – they had granny). As students we were into pure wool, hand-spun and naturally dyed which we had to roll into balls before we could begin to knit. Together we sat between lectures with our thick needles and brightly coloured yarn, comparing life experiences and the jerseys we were knitting for boyfriends. And then slowly without any conscious decision, I stopped.

This flood of nostalgia was brought on by popping into the Knead restaurant a little while ago. I was eager for one of their roasted aubergine pizzas (yum!). Right at the door was a basket overflowing with fluffy, bobbly wool and knitting needles. “Knit a row and go” said the sign next to it. I didn’t need a second invitation. So while I waited for my order, I took a trip down memory lane.

The “Knit a Row and Go” campaign is a drive to get 1 000 blankets for orphaned babies launched by Me-a-Mama. Look out for wool, needles and instructions at cafes, waiting rooms and hairdressers. 

Flu Season

I have been in lockdown for a few days in an attempt to rid myself of the dreaded flu which is doing the rounds at the moment. By all accounts it hits you, tricks you into thinking you are better and then comes back for the blow behind the knees. I have had a lot of time to think about this! In spite of my two-pronged attack (orthodox and complementary medicine) I have been forced to lie low.

After a weekend of hacking cough, piles of used tissues and an anaesthetised mouth from sucking throat lozenges, and drinking copious amounts of hot water with ginger, lemon and honey, I had had enough. On Monday I cancelled all my appointments, re-arranged what had to be re-arranged, and have not even set a toe outside this house since. It seems to be helping.

Today I am feeling better, the sun is shining and I am thinking about venturing outside to allay the cabin fever. “Next week,” I have decided, “I will have to detox, rid myself of the after-effects of drugs and germs...eat well...exercise. This flu is vicious - got to see that the children keep warm, eat well and take their vitamins.” And, resolutely I set off down the stairs to see what needs doing.

There are reminders for grocery shopping on the notice board on the fridge:

·         COCO POPS!!!! (This has been his weekend treat for more years than I can remember, and, for some reason, the shops have been out of it)

·         Milk for the weekend (okay that one’s alright, although it’s probably for the copious amounts of COCO POPS he plans on eating)

·         Maple Syrup ("the fake one" – underlined a few times, just in case I had any plans of buying anything healthy)

So much for detoxing and eating well...I guess youth will carry them through. For us oldies, perhaps a little basking in the sun...keep warm and rest. 

Freedom is a Good Start

“I have discovered...that after climbing a great hill, one only finds...many more hills to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But I can rest only for a moment, for with freedom comes responsibilities, and I dare not linger for my long walk is not yet ended.” 

(Nelson Mandela on his release in 1994) 

      

Two weeks ago I attended the Leadership for Human Rights evening organised by the Swedish Postcode Lottery, in the Stockholm Concert Hall. The evening was dedicated to the fact that "all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights". The participants were our very own Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Jan Eliasson, the new UN Deputy Secretary-general as of July 2012, and  the actor, Sean Penn, the ambassador at large for Haiti.

Tutu echoed Madiba's sentiment when he said “freedom means being forever vigilant”. We cannot sit back and leave a few people to guard our precious, hard-fought-for democracy – we all have a role to play in safe-guarding the freedom, dignity and equality of all the people who live in our country and maintain the integrity of this legacy for our children and their children.

Democracy is not a free ride, is the message that comes out strongly in the movie, Fair Game, starring Sean Penn and Naomi Watts. The movie is based on the memoir by CIA agent, Valerie Plame, whose cover was purposefully leaked by the Bush administration after her husband and former ambassador, Joseph Wilson, writes an editorial in the New York Times disputing the administration’s claim of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

In the movie, Joseph Wilson makes the point to his wife that just because he can shout louder than her does not mean he is right, in the same way that the Bush administration was not right just because they were more powerful, and that this should not stop them from speaking up for the truth.

It’s time to roll up our sleeves and get on with the business of being free.