The Loss of Wonder

We are born with a sense of 'wonder'; we know that. We are innately curious. New things interest us, the routine draws boredom and yawns from us. Yet, riding the roller coaster of life, we lose that sense of wonder. The edges of curiosity are blunted by distraction and work.

This sense of 'wonder' is not just a gentle wave inside our minds; it is a physical thing. When I first came to Africa, looking up at the blue African skies thrilled me in ways very few other sights had done. The vast still expanse of blue looked like an ocean turned upside down, the still clouds its white snow-covered peaks and islands jutting upwards. The high it gave me was a physical thing and if I focused even briefly, I could sense the part of me that tingled the most!

A few weeks ago, I noticed that the wonder was gone. How did that come about? Were the winter skies any less bright and beautiful? Maybe. Or was it that immersed in my routine, I had stopped looking up? I did not like the feeling. The loss of wonder is not acceptable to me because that is me. Fortunately, it is reversible with awareness and stillness of mind.

It is back. The blue African skies are luminescent again!

Apartheid Museum - Another Look

This week, I made my third visit to the Apartheid Museum at Johannesburg. Someday, I could earn a few Rands here as a guide!

This time I accompanied Siddharth. I was keen that he (and Abhishek whom I took on a similar tour last month) developed an understanding – even if an incipient one – of the several things that this experience must teach us human beings. I wanted him to get an idea of how walls built in human minds can shut out rationality and compassion. How we are capable of the cruelest of indignities and worse and have no trouble in justifying the indefensible. How human spirit cannot be broken by incarceration and lashes and bullets. But above all, I was very keen that both the children grasp the marvelous courage that goes into forgiveness and reconciliation. A miracle that was born less than two decades ago, a miracle of Nelson Mandela’s leadership and the bigheartedness of millions of South Africans.

(Siddharth next to one of the images in the museum - the coal miners during apartheid)

For me, this was the best visit of the three. I have just finished reading John Carlin’s Playing the Enemy. The book is a fine snapshot of the history of the years that followed the end of apartheid. It uses the events leading up to the finals of World Cup Rugby as the core around which the fascinating tale of Mandela’s contribution is built. On this visit to the museum I could identify many of the dramatis personae of the story among the documentaries and artifacts. It made my connection with the tale so much more vivid and real.

“I am a Yankee”, he tells the crowd at New York’s Yankee Stadium, much to their obvious delight.

He spars with George Foreman in lighthearted shadow play.

27 years after being locked up in solitariness, breaking stones and other menial labour, he retains his dignity and poise; I watch him on film, travelling in London in an open buggy with the Queen - he looks like the real royalty!

He tells a deeply moved Cameron Diaz “I love you too” in reply to her kiss on his cheek.

He puts President Klerk in his place in a speech in his presence, that feels and sounds like the steel of his resolve.

And, he appears at the World Cup final in the Springbok jersey, sporting on the back (the number of South Africa’s captain Pienar) and electrifies the entire nation; in the eyes of the blacks, the Springbok was, after all, a hated symbol of the apartheid.

Watching those documentaries of Mandela is an experience! His humanity is moving. The experience chokes me up and unless I am worried about others watching me, I do not bother fighting the tears. That is also the reason why I read the book on Mandela in solitariness!

The Happy Mosotho!

I am picking apples in the local Fruit and Veg. Next to me is a Mosotho male,making his selection. I look up and our gaze meets. he breaks into an open happy smile and calls out, "N'tate!". (In-da-day) "How are you N'tate?" he goes on to ask. "Kea phella hantle, kealeboa (I am well, thank you)", I reply in my basic Sesotho. He breaks into a wider grin, clasps my hand in a Basotho hand-shake (hand shaken thrice in succession in different grips) and shows unadeltrated pleasure. We talk a bit and then he leaves, his N'tate ringing in that part of the store.

I see Basotho people as a happy lot. The above example is repeated endlessly everywhere. Don't get me wrong - the happiness is not merely at looking at a 'foreigner' or even at a foreigner who chooses to respond in a bit of Sesotho. It is the same when they greet each other in streets, shops and everywhere else. The word N'tate (a respectful salutation for men) is easily the most used word in Sesotho. Every man is a N'tate. It has nothing to do with his perceived status or station.

Politeness is endemic. Everyone smiles at you before speaking. Blowing a horn is considered a mark of discourtesy. People give each other way on street, allowing another car to pass before driving on. Pedestrians are treated with care.

They dance easily. As I mentioned in another post, one of my colleagues is sure that God chose to fit an iPod in the mind of each inhabitant of Lesotho. There is a tune on all the time and you can see that in the sway in their bodies. Add some external music and you have a party. Sometimes a party of one!

What makes them a happy people? Remember that we are talking about the people of one of the poorest countries on land and a nation that is battling with 23 percent (official figures) of HIV/AIDS prevalence.

And what makes us grumpy? Why are we perpetually impatient? Here, I am yet to hear a horn blow in a traffic jam. Back home, the INSTANT lights turn green, the entire cavalcade bursts into frantic horn-pushing, exhorting the man ahead to smash through the man ahead of him, if possible! We never acknowledge the presence of another stranger in a lift or street. We wear a scowl on our faces as if we are paid for it. Has life become too unbearable for us? Is it the pressures exerted on resources of all kinds by a population whose growth should worry us but doesn't? Are we in too much of a hurry? To get where?

There are things to be learnt from this happy people!

Writer's Block

If I stretch the description of my secret ambition, I would say that I aspire to be a writer! I have always wanted to be one, though, clearly, that 'want' has fallen well short of the point where serious effort can begin. When I visit the blogosphere, I see that there are many people who write with apparent ease and felicity! Some have interesting stuff to peddle but others are happily strewing the scene with the mundane and yet coming up with readable pieces. The amount of work that appears each day fills me up with amazement and considerable envy. Why can't I roll off words to describe my daily life and attract readers? Is that so because my routine is, well, very routine? So is it for the others! Am I then the chosen one who has a congenital and persistent case of Writer's Block? Or could it be that I am intending and thinking about writing rather than doing the actual writing? I suspect that even my vote will go for the latter. Two of my friends have ascribed their writing to a motivation from within or above. They don't struggle when the urge comes calling. Clearly, I am not in that orbit. A few months ago I read parts of a series of interviews on the Guardian online. Accomplished writers were presented with questions on their approach to the art and craft of writing. On the question of how to get inspiration to write, there was unanimity; there is seldom a flash from above. One simply has to sit down - preferably at the same time each day - and dig the elbows into the desk and force the words onto the page. Or the screen. That is the mantra, they said. The only one.

We Watched A Game!

When Brazil met Egypt in a Confederation Cup fixture, we were in the Bloemfontein stadium to watch them play.

By all accounts, Confederation Cup is a test for South Africa. FIFA World Cup is less than twelve months away. One question has repeatedly been asked inside and outside the country – is South Africa ready?

There is the spectre of daily violence, particularly in Johannesburg and Pretoria. Hijacking of cars, armed robberies, murders and even shootouts on streets are commonplace. Most houses hide behind tall walls and spiked gates and protected by security companies with alarms and round the clock guards. Streets in these two towns empty out by last light. Travel advisories bluntly caution visitors against seeking out strangers on the street with queries. The situation is not showing any promise.

An international tournament of this – indeed any – stature has logistical requirements that are rigorous. Slip-ups are likely to be quickly grabbed by media and held up. National prestige may be made or marred.

We were met at the stadium by an army of volunteers eager to read our ticket and show us directions. There was an air of happy urgency that only detailed briefings and rehearsals produce. Security was all pervasive. Everything appeared efficient and in place – barring a sign-post that pointed us to the wrong entrance.

The stadium was full up to the brim on all the lower tiers. The crowd was joyous, festive and very intent on being audible! Minus the generous flow of beer that I saw in the IPL T20 match last month, it was party time!

I love the rhythm that people here have in their bodies. I love the complete spontaneity with which they break into a dance. They validate one of my cherished beliefs i.e. to lead you life fully the principle is the same as for dancing in public – you must pretend that no one is looking! The crowd sang and danced, supporting Brazil and Egypt both, almost in equal measure. My colleague Manish has got it right, “God has fitted them with internal iPods”.

There were not two set of fans – everyone was taking turns to support either team. And Brazil and Egypt gave seven reasons for cheer and happiness. Brazil won 4-3 in the dying moments, two of the victors’ goals coming from world’s most expensive player, Kaka.

Though, with a name like this, in my country he would not have made it beyond his mother’s lap!

Autumn

The landscape is ochre-brown. Vast open spaces yield to no other hue. Only at a few places do we see trees that have turned lime-yellow. They will rather shed leaves than to make any further concession to autumn.

It is cold now. There is a dryness in the air that carries no intimation of rain, much less snow. But we are expecting to see whiteness on the mountains around us. I believe, a couple of years ago, it even snowed in Maseru. We await that with expectation that has hardly dimmed since childhood.

Yesterday we drove to the North, past TY and Leribe (and the dinosaur foot-prints) and to Liphophung (DI-pho-fung) caves where King Moshoeshoe I had taken shelter. In the coming few days we will travel to Bloemfontein, Pretoria and Durban. Siddharth is here with us and we want him to see these places.

A New Indian Imprint

For over a month, Indian Premier League has been the rage in South Africa - at least in Johannesburg, Pretoria, Durban, Cape Town and even in the smaller towns of Bloemfontein and Kimberly. Nearly 50 T20 cricket matches later, the tournament comes to a close in a couple of days. Hordes of people have filled up each stadium. Each match is an event, a family one. It isn't so much about cricket. In fact, in the one match I saw, I hardly got to see any cricket. There are no close ups (of course), no replays (the first time someone misfielded, I instinctively waited for a 'replay'!) and, from a distance, most of the players are anonymous. How was that I did not recognise Brett Lee, one of my heroes, even as he stalked the boundary line? The noise, the din, the songs (Indian pop music belted out with gay abandon), the lights, the fireworks, the 'Mexican waves', the hooter that was designed to invite a roar from the crowd, the dancing cheerleaders, the waving of flags, the placards that demanded another four or a six, the signs that tried to be witty enough to catch camera's eye, the announcements made by the DJ and the easy availability of beer and braii and coffee - all made it a party. I cannot think of many things that would have helped India leave a bigger imprint in South Africa.

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A Museum For Apartheid

No reconciliation can truly begin till the truth has been stared down.

The Apartheid Museum at Johannesburg is an uplifting example of a nation coming to terms with the truth of its own past. There are not many countries – including the one of my birth – which possesses the maturity or courage to build a reminder as stark as this of all that was ugly in the very recent past.

As visitors silently file past photographs and memorabilia and films and explanatory sign posts, there is no rancor, just the hush of awe and reverence. School children and grown ups look similarly affected.

Nelson Mandela is everywhere, of course. The greatest man alive (in my book), he was at the heart of the movement that restored dignity to all, irrespective of the colour of the skin. He is a miracle. What else explains the complete absence of bitterness after 30 years of incarceration? Who would expect that a man cheated out of much of his life would aggressively push for reconciliation among all?

Watching his triumphant return on film is a moving experience. The glory and the adulation of the stupendous welcome he received in 1990, his inauguration as the President, his appearance at the Rugby World Cup wearing South African captain’s jersey (South Africa snatched victory from the fancied New Zealand team in the dying moments) and his meetings with leaders and celebrities are just – if small – rewards for this colossus.

South Africa is far from ‘cured’. But it is hard to imagine that this nation freed itself from such a burden only 15 years ago. I am certain that the idea that apartheid has gone forever has taken root – but I am not sure if everyone is orientated to the new reality. Human mind, after all, takes time to reconcile. Walking through the Apartheid Museum is one exercise that can help.

Conversations With Corporal Mohtlane - 1

HIV/AIDS is an unfortunate tag with this beautiful country. Statistics vary (one estimate puts the prevalence at 23 percent), but the bottom line is that the disease is rampant. The challenge is being met on several fronts; one cannot but notice this in the offices of every government agency and NGO. But the battle still looks unequal.

Corporal Mohatlane (Moh-et-la-nay) is my driver. But he is more than that. He is my Jeeves (hopefully I am not his Bertie Wooster). I often turn to him for views and even advice.

I asked him about the social impact of HIV/AIDS on individuals. The conversation began when I quizzed him about someone we both know and who has the disease. Our common 'friend' looks weak, but from the hard physical work he puts in I can see that there is strength inside that frail frame.

“It is still a stigma. People are secretive about it. They are encouraged to open up but most choose to hide it. They feel they will be isolated, which, in fact, is what does happen. People are mostly aware of how this disease comes about. There is a great deal of information that is available; even workshops are conducted. Parents, however, still don’t talk to their children about sex and the dangers of promiscuity. It is a cultural thing. In fact, I do not even watch television programs that have sexual content when my children are present.”

Is there an element of denial at work? Perhaps not. But, as my professor at Hawaii Robert Wirsing used to say, "Culture matters!" For people and societies to leap across cultural divides and start acting in ways alien to them is never easy. The shift has to be incremental and graduated.

Under New Skies

Four months ago, on a pleasant day, I walked out of the tiny plane and walked the tarmac of Maseru's King Moshoeshoe Airport. I looked up. Brilliant blue skies with sunlight pouring down and filling up the vast open spaces. A few huge blobs of white resting against the blue, like elephants in impassive siesta. But, ah that sunlight! It was undeterred!

The skies over Africa continue to fascinate me. In my travels to Johannesburg and Pretoria and Kruger and Clarens (not to mention the aborted visit to Durban, given up at the railway crossing near Winterton after a car rammed mine from the rear!)

To revert to the blue skies and my first day. The picture here is not taken that day; I clicked it a few days later I visited Ladybrand, a quaint little town in South Africa. As we sat awaiting delicious pizzas in Little Italy, the skies caught my attention.

As they do every day.


I am leading a new life under these blue African skies, a life that is riding a rhythm different from any I had so far in 51 years of my life. I seem to have got off the roller-coaster and am getting a view. I am looking at Time with new eyes.

This blog is about the slice of my life at Lesotho.