Still Calling Out My Name

Zoë Sharp

Roman columns at Jerash in Jordan

December already. Where did the year go? Well, I ask that question but in reality I know the answer. It passed in a rollercoaster of ups and downs. Highs and lows that sit like peaks and valleys of a mountain range on the horizon, one that is rapidly disappearing into the gathering dusk of another year.

Some of my highlights, though, involve travel. Like many people I have a bucket list of places I really want to see. And if I remember 2013 for no other reason, it will be because I managed to tick one-and-a-half things off that list.

One-and-a-half.

Yeah, I know, but stick with me on this.

In some ways, I dislike the term ‘bucket list’ because a list implies a certain dismissive quality. As though you step off the plane and say, “OK, that’s another one out of the way,” before turning around and climbing right back onto the plane again.

My idea of a bucket list is not just a place, but an experience.

The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan was an experience. Watching the sun rise over the desert at Wadi Rum, or set over the Rose City of Petra was definitely an experience. The smell of fresh mint tea and cooked lamb, the distant sound of AK-fire.

The Monastery building at Petra

Wandering the Roman ruins at Jerash was the kind of experience that lingers, as was standing on a hilltop in northern Jordan looking out across both Syria and Israel at places named in the Bible, racing hell-for-leather across the shifting red sands of the Jordanian desert in knackered old Nissan Patrols (yup, they let me drive) on the way to stargaze at the Perseids meteor shower from our desert camp, and walking the walls of a mountain fortress built by the Knights Templar in the time of the Crusades.

Racing through the desert in elderly Nissan Patrols.

The half-a-one involves the Northern Lights. I wanted to see them from the magical landscape of Iceland. Sadly, although the landscape was certainly magical, the sky above it was not playing ball. But seeing the moon reflected in the midnight ice while we searched the heavens for a hint of green, that almost made up for it.

And this has concentrated my mind on what else is on my bucket list—for want of a better term for it. At the moment—because these things are always evolving—this includes:

To watch another sunrise—this time over Angkor Wat in Cambodia. I want to put a hand on the tree roots that have enveloped these mystical ruins and feel the centuries unfurl beneath my fingers.

Part of the 500-acre temple complex at Angkor Wat

To feel the beat and passion of real flamenco guitar in its home in Seville in Andalusia, southern Spain, like this fabulous flamboyant piece Guajiras de Lucia by Paco de Lucia, considered one of the greatest flamenco guitarists.

Flamenco guitar and dance in Seville

To sail into harbour on the Amalfi coast. Arriving from the water gives you a totally different perspective on a new place. I’ve always wanted to see this area of the Italian coastline, but the idea of the crowds and the traffic involved in travelling there by conventional means does not appeal to me at all. Travelling by small yacht—one of those giant floating hotel cruise liners is my idea of hell—would be the perfect way to slip under the surface.

The Amalfi coastline in Italy.

Does exactly what it says on the sign ...

To ride the highest motorable pass in the Himalayas—the Khardung-La, which reaches 18,380 feet. I’ve even checked out the Enfield Bullets which seem to be the motorcycle of choice for this trip, and I can get both feet on the floor, although I’m sure that would be the least of my troubles.

These are just a few of the places and experiences on my wish-list.

So, where would you go? And, more importantly, why do you want to go there?

What is it about a particular place or experience that stirs your imagination?

This week’s Words of the Week are all about the senses:

Petrichor — the scent of rain on dry earth or the dust after rain has fallen.

Gymnophoria — the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you or that you are being viewed naked even though you are fully clothed.

Knismesis — light tickling, more often to arouse than to induce laughter.

Psithurism — the sound of rustling leaves or the wind in trees, a whispering sound.

Basorexia — the overwhelming urge to kiss.

Umami — a pleasant savoury taste—not sweet, sour, bitter or salty—found in meat, cheese and tomatoes.

Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela: July 18, 1918 - December 5, 2013. Rest in Peace.

“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”

It is very difficult for me to describe or explain the emotional attachment I have to Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela, known as Madiba, an honorific that is the name of the clan from which he comes – the Madiba clan of the Xhosa people.

I was one of millions who cried when TV showed his release from 27 years of incarceration on February 11, 1990.  And I am one of millions crying now.

Madiba triggers emotions in me that are normally very private.  He embodies so many characteristics that I admire: courage of conviction, patience, vision, tolerance, compassion, and humour. And, of course, dignity.

"During my lifetime I have dedicated my life to the struggle of the African people. I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and see realized. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die."

He has been able to set aside, at least in public, what one would expect from someone who had been jailed for 27 years by an undignified, bigoted, oppressive regime.  He has shown no anger, bitterness, no desire for revenge, and no need for retribution.

Instead, when he became president, together with the remarkable Bishop Tutu, he fashioned the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which encouraged the perpetrators of heinous crimes on both sides of the apartheid fence to confess their crimes publicly, often in front of the families of the people whom they had killed or maimed.  And if they confessed, showed remorse, and asked for forgiveness, they were forgiven.

Remarkable.

Madiba and Bishop Tutu embrace

Every time PBS shows its documentary on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, I try to watch it.  It is a most moving insight into the depths of inhumanity and cruelty that people can sink, as well as the heights to which people can soar. 

All areas of conflict in the world could learn from this, rather than devolving into endless cycles of revenge and persecution.

Madiba believed for there to be a peaceful transition in South Africa - something that few people expected - all South Africans needed to feel included, feel wanted.  Before and during his Presidency, he encouraged the citizens of South Africa to bury the awful past and to work together for a future that included everyone. To create the Rainbow nation that is South Africa.

To unite the multiple ethnic groups of South Africa, it was decided that the new South Africa should have eleven official languages: Afrikaans (the language of apartheid), English, Ndebele, Northern Sotho, Sotho, Swazi, Tswana, Tsonga, Venda, Xhosa, and Zulu.  Less than 2% of the population have as their first language one that is not an official language.

The new, haunting national anthem, Nkosi sikelel’ iAfrica (Lord Bless Africa), replaced the old one, Die Stem (The Call or The Voice), which was always sung in Afrikaans - the language of the oppressor.  The new anthem is also a model of inclusivity.  The first verse is in Xhosa and Zulu, the second in Sotho, the third in Afrikaans, and the fourth in English.  The Afrikaans stanza is from the hated, old national anthem.

You can listen to the new anthem here - you will hear the language changing. 

One of the most emotional moments, probably for all South Africans, came in 1995, the year after the country became democratic.  For years South Africa had been isolated from international sport.  In 1995, the Rugby World Cup was held in South Africa to celebrate the arrival of democracy.  And South Africa won the title.  But it was not just winning that was emotional for a sports-crazy nation long starved of good competition.  It was the presence of Madiba, dressed in a Springbok (the national team) rugby jersey, sporting the number of the Afrikaans captain.  Rugby has always been dominated by Afrikaners – and to have a black president embrace the game and literally the white players was completely unexpected.  It defused potential opposition and welded people together.  (The movie Invictus captures these moments very well.  It is well worth watching.)

Then Madiba did what most politicians should do, but don’t.  After one term as President, he said it was time to leave.  To leave the country to be led by others.  Even though I believe the country would now be better off had he stayed for two terms, I have the greatest respect for his decision.

I found the following photos and quotes on ABC's Good Morning America on Yahoo.com.  They speak more eloquently than I can.

From what I have read, Madiba, although a private person, was also someone who enjoyed physical contact - kissing, embracing, and hugging.  South Africa's Mail and Guardian newspaper has put together a short slideshow of Madiba with some of his more famous huggees!

Close to my heart was Madiba's commitment to education:

"Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world."

And to children.

You can honour Mandiba’s belief in children through the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund by donating here to help construction of a new Children's Hospital in Johannesburg.

Please be generous.

"It is my deepest conviction that the children should be seen and heard as our most treasured assets. They are not ours to be used or abused but to be loved and nurtured and encouraged to engage in life to the full extent of their being, free from fear.

The dream to build a child-centered society is a permanent mandate for the Fund to share with its local and global partners. The difference the Fund makes should see it contributing to the remaking of our world to be more familiar with the smiles of children than their tears."

What's it called? Cumbernauld!

Sometimes having a fertile imagination does no good at all. I am recovering from Scotland’s national book week where I was all over the place, including a new town called Cumbernauld.

Well, when I say new....

                               

                                                The welcoming doors...

How many films does this remind you of?

In how many did the blonde get out alive?

                                       
                                  Yes, we ran from pillar to pillar, hiding from the mutant zombies

                                       We reached these doors in safety... but they were locked
                                            We were zombie fodder....

Looking a bit better, plenty of cover....we might just make it

The gates to the mutant zombie robot underworld.

Mutant zombie robots must also follow health and safety re fire exits...

The portal to the next dimension... and the escalator wasn't working there either. 

At this point we could hear footfall but there was nobody to be seen

We have passed this way before. Twice.

                                                   Going in the right direction..

                                                                  Or are we...

                                         We were defo being followed by something evil.....
                                          then a librarian came and scared them away....

                                                           safe and sound. Body parts intact.
                                                 Crime writers 1        Mutant Zombies 0

The library, the huge library, is well stocked and has one of the highest  lending rates in Scotland – no wonder, once you get there- alive with oxygen masks to cope with the altitude and phasers on stun -  you are so relieved you take out all the books you can. Just in case you don’t make it make back out.

Or maybe they use their books as weapons. A well aimed Harry Potter has been known to kill at six paces.

These long, long corridors echo of nothing, and go on for ever. They are cold, windy with a huge sense of abandonment and neglect.  As most of you know, Zoe Sharp can make an atomic bomb from a hat pin and a piece of Play do, she can disarm a man with a Lego brick and a tomato. She was not far from my mind the minute the mutant zombies entered it.

Kill them with your stiletto Caro, I heard her say.  Stiletto  heel in the throat, the other scraped down their shin. I must ask her what to do if aforesaid zombie mutants have neither throats or shins....
Fortunately I had my version of the soviet coat on as an armour of confidence.

                                                  

Cumberland centre seems to be made up of buildings like this. The only bits occupied were the library and the nursery next to it. Floors and floors, corridors after corridor of nothing. There is a penthouse flat at the top of this building, nobody have ever lived in it.

                                     
                                             Even the new bits leave a lot to be desired

The saddest thing about it was the ten minute film  from the 70s that the library shows on a constant loop. Cumbernauld was built as an urban utopia… integrated, beautiful housing. Shops with parking. Cars and pedestrians kept well apart. Lots of green. Lots of very good ideas.

The Clyde Valley Regional Plan (1946) allocated sites  where new towns were to be built to help the severe overcrowding and poor housing in Glasgow.  Cumbernauld was designated a new town in 1955, the third to be designated in Scotland.

                                                 

This place was voted by The American Architectural Association as the Best piece of architecture in the world… (Ok that was in the 1960’s). In  2002 it was voted the worst town in Scotland ( and that takes some doing!) but by 2010 it was voted most improved.   Although awarded the best town at Scottish design awards, it has won much more rather less flattering awards including  "Plook on a Plinth" in both 2001 and 2005. In December 2005 the entire Town Centre won a public nomination for demolition in a tv channel vote. It then won  "the worst building in Britain".
                                               
                                                   Looks good on paper....

"Cumbernauld is the most clear example of a modernist new town vision in the UK". says the website.  And a good example that folk don't like living in boxes and rabbit warrens.
But it had good ideas; the housing was in satellite neighborhoods clustered around the hilltop town centre. Separation of people and cars was vital. ( then they realised women do not like walking through underpasses late at night). People came from round the world to marvel at the architecture but the fact remained... nobody wanted to live there.

                                                        

 Then to make it even more unpopular,  Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs was located there to provide employment.

The 'core' of Cumbernauld remains the Town Centre buildings which are all phases of one building the first of which was completed in 1967. I think that bit is now the mutant zombie play ground. But it its day, it was the first shopping centre in the UK and the first multi-level covered town centre. It never got to its planned size, the population numbers stalled and  it has never really 'lived' in the way it was conceived.
You can understand that millionaire playboys have better places to live than a cold, wet concrete jungle so the centre's penthouses located within the "alien's head"  lie empty and derelict.
A substantial portion of the original Shopping Centre was demolished due to structural damage and the the  passage of time has exposed serious defects in post-war concepts of centrally-planned retail and civic centres developed in the absence of proper community consultation.
We are all aware of the backlash against modernist architecture in general and  Cumbernauld's Town Centre is right up there as the best example of the worst.
 The confusing layout is an abiding source of frustration for both visitors, residents and visiting crime writers.,.                                              
But history will show that Cumbernauld  was born in a significant moment in town design and in 1993 it was listed as one of the 60 sixty key monuments of post-war architecture.

However, common sense has prevailed and the town's housing is now well planned and  generally considered a bit posh. The central part has become exactly that and is a great shopping centre that is thriving in the credit crunch.  Sevy Ballasterous designed the golf course and the new housing looks outward to the Campsie fells. The bit of the concrete megastructure we were in is due for demolition, or they might wait until it falls down. Half the new New Town as originally envisaged was never built. 
Today, it  is a nice place to live and work. I'm sure the bit round the library should advertise itself to the thriving Scottish film industry as zombie territory or the refuse collection point of a hyperdrive alien space craft. A murder in the wheelie bin of an alien space craft--- I'm holding that thought.

Caro 6th Dec  2013 

Phoenix Malema

A few weeks ago I wrote about the Goldman Sachs report on South Africa twenty years on from the election of the new government.  Much has changed for the better, but the young and the poor – and especially the young poor – remain marginalized in the new society.   Much of the school system remains in disarray, and the graduates of these schools, and in some areas, those of colleges and universities as well, essentially don’t have the skills to be employable in the twenty-first century.  South Africa needs the growth rate of a China to make headway with jobs for these people; currently it looks as though 2% is the best we can expect.  That’s enough to create some jobs, but far less than the number of new job seekers entering the market every year.  It’s clear something needs to be done; the problem is deciding what to do and then getting it done.  Recently the government approved a youth wage plan (which is basically a subsidy for first time youth hires) in the teeth of the trade union movement’s vehement objections.

Julius Malema at the launch of the EFF

Enter Julius Malema from stage left – far left.  He worked himself up to the powerful position of chairman of the ANC Youth League and set about enriching himself.  He once famously said that the people don’t mind if their leaders are rich.  And he seemed to be right.  Trusts and companies appeared from nowhere and he started building mansions and buying fancy clothes and cars.  All would probably have been well if he’d settled back and enjoyed that while wowing his followers with rhetoric.  But he had ambitions way beyond that.  His eyes were on the presidency.  All he had to do was to persuade the party that he was the popular leader and the heir apparent to the tarnished President Zuma.  And he was following a pretty good example.  Zuma pulled that off against the previous president - Thabo Mbeki.  Characterising Mbeki as out of touch with the people – which he was – Zuma paraded in traditional dress, dancing and singing his anthem “Bring me my machine gun” to the delight of his followers and the horror of white South Africans.  Once Mbeki was off the scene and Zuma was president, the machine gun was retired along with the song, and everyone got on with the important business of making money.

President Zuma doesn't seem too concerned...

What Julius didn’t understand was that there was much behind the scenes manipulation which went into the unseating of Mbeki.  Zuma is much too wily to fall for the same trap.  So when Julius tried the same sort of tactics, he was firmly slapped down.  One of the charges against Malema was that his “Shoot the Boer” song was hate speech.  (Do we detect a theme here?)  When he ignored the slap, he was expelled from the party and hit with corruption charges.  Now he claims to be penniless and living in the tiny house where he grew up. He claims his expulsion from the party showed that the ANC “has become a pig and is eating its own children.” He went on to say that Zuma “removed me because people said to him, ‘Remove Malema and white people will be happy.’ ”

Having failed in his takeover from within, Malema’s strategy has moved to a takeover from without.  Launching his new party –Economic Freedom Fighters - at Marikana – site of the miners’ strike where more than 30 people died – he appeared in Hugo Chávez red beret and called on his followers to complete the revolution which, he claims, stalled in 1994.  “We must restore the dignity of the black majority,” he declared to a crowd of thousands. “Now is the time to deliver on the promises of 1994.” His policies include such tried and tested economic recipes as seizing white owned land and nationalizing the mines and banks.  These have worked out so well in Zimbabwe that it makes absolute sense to do the same thing here.  Well, sarcasm will get me nowhere, but promising to do something – anything - tangible for the poor may get Malema a lot of votes in next year's general election. 

People tend to treat him as a joke, and the EFF as a paper tiger with no purpose but to restore Malema’s fortunes.  That’s as may be. History is littered with people who were laughed at and went on to overturn the world.

The EFF expressed "disappointment" at somesupporters displaying racist posters at its launch

 Michael – Thursday.

Peking Duck

I had a list of things that I wanted to do while I was in Beijing. Some of them involved food items. I wanted to eat lots of dumplings. 

I wanted to eat ziran yangrou (stir fried mutton with cumin) and yangrouchuanr (mutton kebabs). I really wanted a jianbing guozi, which is a sort of crepe with an egg cracked into it, sprinkled with green onions, dribbled with hot sauce if you want it (I do) and wrapped around this crunchy thing that looks like the latticework of a waffle. I call them "Beijing Breakfast Burritos."

On my list as well: checking out the recent and fast-developing microbrewery scene:

(I made pretty good progress on that last goal)

And I really wanted to have some Peking Duck. But my last full day in Beijing, I was on my own, and Peking Duck isn't the kind of thing you eat by yourself. Instead I settled for a jianbing, checked out one of those aforementioned microbreweries, the truly excellent Great Leap, where I had a great conversation with the manager, a Chinese guy named Jose who is a total, passionate beer geek. Great fun. That was enough to fortify me for a trip to the Hongqiao Market. 

The Hongqiao Market is south of Tiananmen, near the Temple of Heaven. It is sort of your one-stop-shop for, well, everything: Pearls, designer clothes (or reasonable facsimiles thereof), scarves, toys, souvenirs, crafts, paintings, electronics, suitcases, musical instruments, you name it. The kind of place where you're told you're getting the "special price, because you speak Chinese, and you are a friend of China." I know, I know. I make half-hearted attempts at bargaining but most of the time, I let it go at that. I go there to buy gifts for people, in this case, a traditional jacket for my mom, and nearly every year, a new cord for the jade I wear around my neck.

The funny thing is, whenever I shop for the cord, the dynamic changes. The aggressive shop girl who wants me to buy buy buy, suddenly drops all that and wants to help. She looks at the jade, "Oh, when did you get this? This is a good piece. You can't find this kind without paying a lot of money now." She doesn't have a cord herself but walks me over to one of the jewelry counters, and she and the woman there talk about the jade, and ask me what color I want, and everyone makes this sweet sort of fuss abut it: No bargaining, no rip-offs, just a careful job of tying the jade onto the cord, singeing the ends with a lighter, and that I should come and see them next year, when I return to Beijing. I really don't know what it's about, but I've had a version of this interaction every time I've bought a cord at Hongqiao Market.

Mission accomplished at Hongqiao, I made my way up to Qianmen, an area I generally avoid any more. A few years ago, during the drive to spiff up Beijing for the Olympics, the city planners tore down vast swaths of the traditional hutongs around Qianmen. Qianmen Street is just south of Tiananmen Square, running on a straight north/south line. They tore down most of what used to be on that street and rebuilt a sort of Disneyland version: new "Qing Dynasty" buildings containing luxury shops and "time-honored brands" and the usual tourist schlock. A lot of the storefronts are still empty. 

"Not Qianmen, but an incredible simulation!"

By this time, I was getting pretty worn out. It was a bad air day in Beijing, bad enough for my iPhone app to go off and warn me that protection was recommended. That meant wearing a mask to filter the particulates and coal dust. 

The pollution just wears you out. It casts a pall over the city that's like some kind of bad spell, a curse, filtering the light through a brown haze, tinting everything a sort of yellow. At night the streetlights illuminate the smog, making the air seem to oddly sparkle. 

I needed to sit. Needed to eat. And thought, huh, my favorite Peking Duck place isn't far from here. Maybe I should just go ahead and check that one off my list. 

Li Qun is the duck place I take people if they want duck. It's in a hutong, unrenovated (or not much), with the toilets out in the alley. Another throwback to Old Beijing. 

I ordered duck, thinking, this is going to be way too much food, and it's not cheap. But I'd come this far, and I was too tired to think straight. 

If you haven't had it, Peking Duck is incredibly rich, the crackling brown skin backed with fat. It's also really delicious. I ate as much as I could but still had more than half unfinished when I asked the busboy to wrap it to go. I wasn't exactly sure what I'd do with it -- my hotel room didn't have a fridge -- but I figured maybe it would make a decent breakfast. It was expensive, and I didn't want to waste it.

After that, I started walking north, carrying my duck, in the smoggy, yellow-black night. At first the streets were small, modest, leftover from an older era in Beijing. I made my way onto a broader avenue, and the buildings got bigger. There were PLA soldiers on the street, an older officer coming out of a restaurant, a half-dozen marching, a few younger guys in fatigues jogging. 

Then, to my left, Tiananmen Square. Deserted this time of night, other than soldiers doing some sort of changing of the guard around the Monument to the People's Heroes. 

I went ahead and used one of the pedestrian tunnels to cross Chang 'an Blvd. 

Just about a week ago, there'd been an incident where a Jeep deliberately crashed into a barrier in front of the Tiananmen Rostrum, where the portrait of Mao hangs. Five people were killed, including everyone in the Jeep and two tourists. The people in the Jeep were, as far as we know, Uighur separatists. In some accounts, they were waving a banner, shouting at the crowds to get out of the way. Or, they wanted to kill as many people as possible. We may never know.

After that, I made my way to the subway, and headed "home,"carrying my duck, still wondering how and when I was going to eat it.

The last few years, I've seen a lot more beggars on the subways. Generally they work in pairs, with one of the beggars having some kind of severe handicap. You know they're coming because you'll hear ear-splitting music coming from a boom box, sometimes karaoke-style, with the horribly burnt guy singing some traditional tune. This happens a lot during rush hour, when it's so crowded you wonder how they can even push their way through one car. They're generally met with irritation, wonder (that someone that horribly disfigured is pushing his way through a subway car at rush hour) and indifference. Does anyone give them money? 

The rap is, beggars are in an organized gang, run by bosses, and giving them money is a waste of time at best, encouraging a criminal enterprise at worst.

I was beyond exhausted, my eyes, nose and throat aching from the bad air. I grabbed a seat, leaned back and closed my eyes. Drifted off.

Then, the dreaded boom box. 

I thought, I will just sit here with my eyes closed and ignore it. I don't like being that person, being that hard, but you shouldn't give these people money, right?

The music stopped in front of me, the speakers pulsing with distortion. Someone tapped my arm.

I opened my eyes. A frail, middle-aged woman, wearing a traditional peasant robe. Maybe she was deaf. Leading a blind man, who was carrying the boom box. 

She smiled at me. I played dumb. 

Then, she pointed at my bag of leftovers. Smiling.

I didn't even have to think about it. I smiled back, and handed her the bag. Thinking, if they really are poor beggars, when was the last time they ate Peking Duck? And what was I going to do with it, anyway?

You shouldn't eat Peking Duck by yourself. 

Lisa…every other Wednesday...