Midsummer, Maypoles and Maidens

When the school year comes to an end, Swedes prepare to enjoy a five-week, nationwide paid siesta to worship the sun’s rays. Midsummer's Eve is always celebrated on the Friday between 19 and 25 June (very convenient for planning purposes). We’ve joined the mass exodus to the archipelago and summer houses, emptying the streets of Stockholm (and they really do empty, even the restaurants are closed. It's quite spooky!). 

          

         

The days stretch into balmy evenings at crayfish feasts set out on trestle tables draped in white cloths, on balconies and in gardens all over Sweden. Leisurely lunches of pickled herring, new potatoes and sour cream on rye or crisp bread are accompanied by bottles of schnapps and silly drinking songs. 

The wistful glow of light at midnight bestows a sense of magic on the summer. Midsummer night is the longest night of the year and was thought to be magical. On their way home young girls are supposed to pick seven different species of flowers and sleep with them under their pillows, in order to dream of their future husbands. 

The ancient pagan tradition of Midsummer marks the end of the spring work season and the beginning of the interlude before hay-making. At the local village green the celebration of light and fertility commences with reeling ring dances to the strains of accordions and fiddles, around a giant leaf-clad maypole. Thankfully, there are no longer virgin sacrifices although maidens in flowing dresses with flowers in their hair abound. Floral wreaths adorn front doors, gardens drip with heavy scents and bright flowers bloom on the side of the roads and tumble out of pots.

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The Swedish summer is so short that I can appreciate the celebrations and I admire the psyche of taking full advantage of the sun when it's there. Though I'm still not quite sure about the following song performed by children and adults, with actions, alike: (must have something to do with the schnapps and aquavit).

The little frogs, the little frogs are funny to see

No ears, no ears, no tails they have!

Kou ack ack ack, kou ack ack ack!

Glad Midsommar! (Happy Midsummer!)

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A Salute on Youth Day

Some of the young people who spent their December holiday
building water storage tanks for a village in Thailand

I cannot help but admire the many young people (18-23) who traipse in and out of our house to visit my son and daughter. They're bright, confident and pro-active, they don't carry any baggage, generally respect each other's differences and want to contribute to our country. 

Shen Winberg with Malala and the group of SA musicians who
performed at the World's Children's Prize in 2014

I have noticed there's a generation of young, energetic people across the world like this - I've seen them at the World Economic Forum among the young global leaders and shapers, met the gold recipients of the presidents award, engaged with the young people who make up the jury of the World's Children's Prize ... champing at the bit to bring about change. I am optimistic that their generation will get it right, if we haven't messed up too much already. But I realise that the youth I generally come into contact with are often more privileged or those who have overcome dire circumstances through intervention by extraordinary people. 

Kai Fitchen Making Mountains Metaphors 

On the other side of the coin, I am constantly humbled by the overwhelming obstacles that the youth of the different projects I am involved with, have to overcome to lead "normal" lives. Too often I am floored by the day-to-day realities that present stumbling blocks - the meeting that has to be cancelled because a young man couldn't leave the township because taxi-drivers were shooting at each other and the police had put up roadblocks at the exits, the teenager who gets accepted at university and then has to find a job because his girlfriend is pregnant, the one whose father can't see why he should be wasting his time at band practice when he could be earning a pittance cutting plastic for a few cents or the young man whose parents live in a shack in someone's backyard and try to make a living driving a taxi which breaks down every other day.

Saxophonist inspiring youth in Delft

A friend is renovating a place in Woodstock. all the workers are from Manenberg, a township in the news lately for the ongoing gang warfare. She's trying to do everything by the book and has provided them with hard hats, masks and boots to wear on-site. They push the masks up onto their heads and laugh at her protestations - why should they worry about getting hurt at work when it's more likely that they will get killed in the cross-fire walking home?

One of the problems is a lack of organisation and forward planning, e.g. not thinking about applying to study further because you don't believe that you're going to do well enough and then missing the deadlines. But then, how can you blame them when no one in the house or even the neighbourhood has finished school let alone gone any further. I know that we cannot hold their hands but many of them need a hand UP, not a hand OUT. It's a tough world and no one said it would be fair, but we have a responsibility to help them face in the right direction. 

Adelia in Delft 

This photo of Adelia Douw, vocalist for the Delft Big Band, in her vibrant purple dress and high heels against the backdrop of the township, is a reminder for me of the potential of our youth and what they can achieve with hard work and encouragement from someone who believes in them.  

WCP photos from www.childrensworld.org
Kai Fitchen's photo supplied by him for a previous blog.
Photos in Delft by Jac de Villiers for the Delft Big Band 

An Unnecessary Woman: A Book Review

Aaliyah, the unnecessary woman of the title, is alienated from her family, rejected by her impotent husband, a single childless woman in a society not fond of divorced, childless women. She lives alone in Beirut in an apartment which her family think she doesn’t deserve.

Aaliyah’s secret passion, which gives her reason to live, is translating books into Arabic, a seemingly unnecessary task since no one gets to read the works. She stores them in boxes in the maid’s room and bathroom. “I create and crate,” she says wryly. “It is the world outside that box that gives me trouble.”

Every year on New Year’s Day she starts a new translation. “Beginnings are pregnant with possibilities,” she observes. She is 72 years old and has about 37 translated works boxed in her apartment.

The novel starts with her staring into the mirror at her hair which has turned blue after she rather vigorously shampooed it, using ten times the amount prescribed on the label on the shampoo bottle … “Reading instructions happens not to be my forte..” She'd overheard her neighbours (who she calls the witches) discussing the “unrelenting whiteness” of her hair.

She is alone…a choice she made with few other options available… “Still I made my bed – a simple comfortable and adequate bed, I might add.” But how adequate can it be when she seems to stand on the outside of society eavesdropping on her neighbours, engaged in the pointless activity of translating famous books that no one will read. Why does she do it? For the sake of art?

Throughout the book she offers her musings of Beirut present and past on literature, philosophy and art and on her life, constantly reminding us that her name means “above,” or “the one on high.” But Aaliya does not feel at home in her native city. For most of the novel, she walks through her neighbourhood in West Beirut, remembering how it used to be her beloved Beirut, now battered by decades of war. Beirut - “the Elizabeth Taylor of cities,” she calls it, “insane, beautiful, tacky, falling apart.”

She is now retired after spending her working life in a small, poorly-frequented book store where she got to know the only two people who have meant anything to her: Ahmad, the young boy who volunteered in the bookstore just so he could read, and Hannah, her closest confidante, who imagined herself engaged to a young lieutenant she met in a taxi.

She admires the works of the 17^th century philosopher Spinoza, identifying with his story and his life; “a pathological outsider” is what makes him her favourite. “He gave up his family inheritance and became a private scholar, a philosopher at home … When I run across his name in one of my readings … butterflies flap their wings about my heart as if I’ve encountered a lost lover or rediscovered an intimate, an almost sensual experience.”

Aaliyah invites us to think about what makes a human necessary when she relates the story of Bruno Schulz, a Polish writer and artist, forced to relocate to the ghetto by the Germans in 1941. Felix landau, a Gestapo officer who fancied himself a lover of art, decided that Schulz was a necessary Jew and extended him protection in exchange for painting a mural at his home. Shortly after this Schulz was shot and killed by another officer in revenge for Landau having killed the officer’s own ‘personal Jew’.

Her tidy little life is interrupted by an unexpected disaster that exposes her vulnerability to the “witches” as they help her to cope with her loss. The book prompts the questions: how much does a life matter? What do we value in life? Is a doctor’s life more necessary than a street-sweeper’s? Perhaps how we choose to live our lives is what gives it meaning. This is a deceivingly simple book, a portrait of a recluse, a meditation on an unconventional life.

photograph from the author's website 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rabih Alameddine is the author of the novels The Hakawati; I, the Divine; Koolaids; and the story collection, The Perv. He divides his time between San Francisco and Beirut.

- rabihalameddine.com

Discovering Noni Jabavu

One of the treasures of going back to university must be the licence to read and discover as much as I could without feeling like I wasn't working. Taking the African non-fiction literature course was like going back to learn history the way the apartheid government tried to stop us from learning. History has always been recorded by those who had the money and power to commission paintings, tapestries, maps and books which filled libraries and museums. It was Chinua Achebe, the Nigerian writer, who said that "until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter". 

One author who I was excited to discover during the course was Noni Jabavu. Our course reader included an extract from her book, Drawn in Colour. I was so taken with the memoir of the first 'black' South African woman to publish a book (in 1960) that I tracked down the out-of-print book and her second, The Ochre People, at Clarke's Bookshop in the centre of Cape Town (established in 1956).

I had never heard of this writer whose book had been reprinted five times in the first year of its publication and had been translated into Italian in 1961 and reprinted in New York in 1962. She was one of the first successful female African writers and journalists, becoming a weekly columnist for the Daily Dispatch (under the editorship of Donald Woods) and a presenter and producer for the BBC. It would take 20 years before the book was published in SA.

Noni Jabavu was born in Eastern Cape to Professor Davidson Don Tengo Jabavu, the first 'black' professor at the University of Fort Hare, and Thandiswa Florence Makiwane, the founder of Zenzele Woman's Self-Improvement Association. Her aunt, Cecilia Makiwane, was the first registered professional 'black' nurse in SA. Cecilia Makiwane Hospital in the Eastern Cape was named after her.

Her grandfather, John Tengo Jabavu, was a founding member of the SA Native College, later renamed University of Fort Hare and became the editor of the first 'black'-owned newspaper in 1884.

At the age of 14 she was sent to live with friends in England to be educated. She later married and settled there but travelled and lived in Africa (Kenya, Uganda, Zimbabwe). The Ochre People is the story of her trip back to visit her family in 1955. The book offers "scenes of a South African life" (the sub-title) that challenges the images of 'black' South Africans the apartheid government tried so hard to propagate and ensure by keeping us separate. Having lived in the UK, Jabavu looks at the tribal customs and traditions with sensitivity and respect and paints portraits of a rich culture and family life  that I was delighted to see through her eyes.

Her recollections of the daily lives of ordinary humans, who just happened to have been born with a darker hue to their skin, make these memoirs a valuable addition to the stories of where we come from and who we are. Historical narratives are important, but not necessarily written by historians. It is the writer's voice which brings our history to life. Telling our stories is something we have to do so that the story of the hunt will also reflect our pain and our courage.

See also Celebrating Africa
http://www.sahistory.org.za/people/helen-nontando-noni-jabavu
Picture of the author from the bid-or-buy website.

African Violets, Bonfires and Daffodils

African violets need the sun  

My daughter has just returned from a stint in Prague where the temperature slowly climbed its way from 2 to 18 degrees C...spring, apparently! She's been complaining about the weather here since she came back. When I asked what she, a born-and-bred Capetonian, was going on about, she had two words for me - central heating. 

I must admit that I've been alternating between huddling over the heater in my study or melting my slippers beside the fire in the living room. Either winter has set in with quite a vengeance or that dirty little word, age, is responsible. But, there are few countries in the world where, in the middle of winter, you can experience the sunshine that we've had for the last few days. 

“There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes,” the pragmatic Swedes say, while wrapped up in several layers. Woolly hats and scarves, stout sheepskin-lined boots and jackets zipped up to their chins, is standard gear from October to April. We’ve experienced the country’s many moods, a reflection of the changes in weather. The seasons are defined, decisive and distinct, unlike the weather in Cape Town which, like a teenager with too much choice, swings wildly from one season to the next, often in the same day.

I’ve inhaled the crisp fresh air in spring, heralded by wild yellow daffodils bravely pushing their way up out of half-frozen soil. The country, emerging from months of enforced hibernation, seems to have a bounce in its step as it re-discovers itself. There’s anticipation in the new green leaves and a not-quite-warm-enough sun which nonetheless shines brightly in a clear blue sky. I’ve been tricked into shedding my scarf and jacket only to quickly regret having exposed myself to what masquerades as warmer weather. 

Summer is a time to celebrate. As the school year comes to an end, Swedes prepare to enjoy a five-week, nationwide paid siesta to worship the sun’s rays. But more of that later, since Midsummer is coming up. 

In the damp chill of autumn, when gentle rains fall from gloomy skies, the changing leaves float reluctantly down to the ground and quiet wisps of mist swirl through the trees. After an indulgent summer it’s time to get serious before the October snow falls. As the light starts to dwindle the locals scurry around like squirrels preparing to hibernate.

I haven’t been to Sweden in winter when darkness falls as early as 15h00 and friends say the drop in temperature causes a personality-change. Drinks on the wooden deck become a distant memory replaced by furtive dashes in and out of the garage. On St Lucia’s Day in December, processions of children led by a girl with a crown of candles, sing songs to bring light into the darkest month. I'm not sure that I would survive. I often joke that I'm like an African violet, I need the sun. 

Mediaeval traditions, to keep witches and evil spirits away, mark the end of the season. On 30 April a bonfire bids the cold farewell and welcomes the beginning of spring. The accumulated debris and leaves which have been vigorously swept up are piled high and set alight. Neighbours, who’ve been insulated against each other and the elements for months, emerge to party into the night, illuminated by blazes and filled with the crackling sounds of leaves devoured by flames. 

The rituals between the seasons create a distinct rhythm to life in the country and it seems that you always know exactly where you stand and what to expect. “The Swedish way is to gather information so that plans can be made,” a friend told me once. 

“In South Africa we tend to wait and see what happens,” I countered, “and then plan accordingly.”

And if the sun comes streaming in through the window,
take the opportunity to bask in it!

This is an extract from my masters' thesis. 

Stockholm - a few of my favourite things

The Royal Palace, Stockholm across the water from The Grand Hotel.
Behind the palace lies Gamla Stan, the old town.

Proof that he's done it!

Friends have just been to Sweden to run the Stockholm Marathon and asked me about things to do there before they left. I am of absolutely no use as far as the marathon is concerned (I did Google it and learnt that it is one of the most scenic routes in the world, along many waterways and taking in the Royal Palace, Park, the City Hall and Opera House).

Stockholm is my favourite city in the world   ("We give you one winter and then let's hear if you still think that," warns a friend who would love to migrate south.) and there are a few places I can recommend. 

Here are a few of my favourite things

My favourite hotel = Hotel Skeppsholmen

Situated on a small island with the Museum of Modern Art and the Museum of Architecture as its neighbours. Last year I combined a visit for the World's Children's Prize ceremony with a stay to work on my thesis. Imagine brisk walks interspersed with writing in the dining room after breakfast, Norah Jones playing softly in the background. At least go there for breakfast or lunch or brunch if you’re not staying.

 

I have also stayed at The Grand – but it is just that – grand! Kind of like the Mount Nelson or the Table Bay. Also popular for tea. Across the road from the hotel is a little kiosk that belongs to them – good coffee to go. Have a kanelbullen. Oh, the Swedes drink very strong coffee…just saying.

The Grand Cafe

kanelbullen

Square with Nobel Museum on the right

You have to walk around the old town –  across the water from the Grand you will see the royal palace and that whole area behind it, is the old town Gamla Stan. It’s one of Europe’s best-preserved medaeval towns. The Nobel Museum is on the town square; worth a visit for some insight into Alfred Nobel's legacy. Also visit the restaurant, Den Gyldene Vrede, which dates back to 18^th century. Nobel decreed that the committee which decides on the prize for Literature, meets here every Thursday evening. 

Typical street in Gamla Stan 

Sign outside Den Gyldene Vreden 

And then there’s a very different, funky restaurant Pubologi. It’s an experience. Book online before you go.

My favourite museum = Fotografiska. The café at the museum has the most beautiful views of Stockholm and the restaurant is another eating experience – book for dinner.

And nice for a walk around inside and out – Waldermarsudde art museum; and have something to drink in the café which is actually the original kitchen of the house of Prince Eugen (1865-1947).

Aerial view of Waldemarsudde from website 

Everyone says you have to visit the Vasa Museum but I haven’t yet. 

It’s the only almost-fully intact 17^th century ship in the world. 

The ABBA Museum is another place I haven't made it to. 

 

And my favourite shop (for gadgets and because I can buy small gifts to bring back) – 

Design Torget.

Photo: Visitstockholm.com

Visit the Sodermalm district for its vibey, alternative feel – shops, art galleries, cafes, etc. 

Take a boat trip in the archipelago if you have time and the weather is good.

Photographs of ship, ABBA, the kanelbullen and the medal, courtesy of C. Kotze.All other photos, unless otherwise credited, taken by me.  

Themba Lize - going places

About three years ago, I wrote about a local craftsman, Themba Lize, who had overcome many obstacles to become a fine leather designer. Imagine my excitement when I spotted the sign "Themba Lize (Pty) Ltd" at the crafters' exhibition at the Cape Town International Jazz Festival in March this year. 

"I am currently making sandals, handbags & toiletry bags. My business has grown in the manner that I am now attending short courses provided by the CCDI* and this helps a lot in terms of managing my business and to do things like product Costing etc," Themba updated me. 

             

*CCDI is the Cape Craft and Design Institute which  was set up in 2001 to support the needs of creative businesses in the Western Cape, and to grow the region’s craft and design sector. A not-for-profit company, the CCDI is a joint initiative of Western Cape Government and the Cape Peninsula University of Technology (CPUT). CCDI offers business, marketing and product support to develop capable people and build responsible creative enterprises, trading within local and international markets.

Themba at work in his workshop in Franschoek

Themba tells me that he is working on new ideas to expand his business. Watch this space. 

Themba's Contact Details:

Cell: 084 880 3128

E-mail: themba1.lize@gmail.com  

Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/thembalizehandcraftedleathergoods

Photographs supplied by Themba