Olympic Moments

Last night my daughter and I cheered loudly for Oscar Pistorius. We knew that he didn’t stand a chance of doing well enough but we were proud of him. His bravery, determination and perseverance are inspirational and his fellow-runners as well as the crowd certainly acknowledged that.

I have been enjoying the proudly South African moments brought on by our performance in the Olympics in the past week. I last felt like this two years ago when we were in the grips of soccer fever. We all need the positive model of hard work and dedication which has been provided in bucket loads, not only by our swimmers and rowing team, but from all who have succeeded in representing their country at this gathering.

Cameron van der Burgh got us off to a good start with our first gold medal since the 2004 Olympics. The rowers paced themselves and gave it their all with a final push to surge into history. And then young Chad le Clos...what can I say?

I got all choked up as I watched his bottom lip quiver and his eyes fill with tears as he stood on the medal podium. And who was not moved by the image of his father mopping his face with the South African flag which he then covered his head and face with. Every parent must have an inkling of what he was feeling then. I wonder what it must feel like to be so young and then to beat your idol – where do you go from here?

Our lone medal winner from the last Olympics, Khotso Mokoena, failed to make it anywhere near the top three this time, but hey, he is still up there with the best in the world.

Caster Semenya’s parents are braving an airplane journey for the first time in their lives to watch their daughter represent her country. I’m looking forward to that. 

Writing’s not for sissies! – by Nadia Kamies | The Writers' College Blog

Writing’s not for sissies! – by Nadia Kamies | The Writers' College Blog:

'via Blog this'

barbie girls - so fantastic!

Boys’ cross-dressing on stage is guaranteed to get a laugh. When we discovered on Monday night that my son's school group had not yet planned their item for the cultural evening happening later in the week, we did a quick brainstorm around the dinner table. “What about dressing up as...Barbies and performing to the song ‘I'm a Barbie girl’?” we suggested.

Out came his phone. "I'll have to check first." From cyberspace came a few tentative yes’s but he needed to discuss this further at school the next day. We seemed to be more anxious about the time factor than he did. The next afternoon, he came back with a majority agreement - and some very definite no’s. Never mind, we decided, there could be a few Kens. "Can you come and help?"he appealed to his sister. "But no hugging anybody!"

Two days to go. She got up earlier than usual so that she could help them before her lectures. "It's a disaster," she texted me later. Back to the drawing board that evening. We suggested a plan and some moves (keep it simple, no time to practice). We looked for possible Barbie clothes (anything pink, plastic and bright). Surely they have sisters? There must be stuff they could bring from home?

The next day after school I decided to have a look, bearing props for the supposed-to-be dress rehearsal (the day before the show). It really was a disaster...there was a sprinkling of costumes and some wigs; no agreement on the moves, and no music!

This was proving to be more difficult than I expected. It seems that 14 or 15 year old boys are more insecure about their sexuality than I realised. While for some it was ok to cross-dress, heaven forbid that they had to touch each other! Not even an arm placed around the shoulders or a twirl of Barbie to end the dance, was going to be considered.

At home that night we made lists, played the song ad nauseum and tried to work out a sequence, all the while aware that there really was no time to practice. Tensions were running high in our household. The next day his sister got suckered into another early morning practice. "My name is not going to be associated with this!" came the irate text an hour later. A big smiley face was the answer to my offer of help in the afternoon.  

In spite of Barbie’s disappearing to rugby or squash, arguments about who didn’t know the moves and worries about parents coming to watch, we managed to find a semblance of order. Getting them to move their hips was like trying to make a surfboard sexy, and hell would freeze over before Ken would allow Barbie to come close enough to plant a kiss on his cheek.

We managed to scrape together enough outfits and wigs, got the music and a big dollop of cheek. All we could do was hope for the best. Before curtain up, one Barbie got cold feet and another managed to camouflage himself with scarves before he sneaked up to the stage. One of the Ken’s tried to send his mother to the wrong venue. The front-row Barbie’s had no clue and Ken managed to avoid any physical contact with Barbie. But great fun was had by all. And brownie points for being brave enough to get up there dressed like that!

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