When A Crocodile Eats A Sun

When I began reading it, I was cautioned that this is a White man’s version of contemporary Zimbabwe. Even if I assume that it does suffer from that implied infirmity of bias and discount for it, the narrative is moving, heartbreaking and compelling. It rings with credibility. It is a tale of twin and parallel furrows of despair and love, of hopelessness and courage, cruelty and generosity. And yet, this is no outpouring of bitterness alone; just beneath the surface hope for humanity is visible, swimming serenely, waiting for its time to rise.....

This is a tale of the family of ex-policeman Peter Godwin as it negotiates an increasingly bleak and even cruel landscape in the country of its adoption. It is a human story that makes the contours of political and economic life in contemporary Zimbabwe rise in relief and we see a vivid picture.

Zimbabwe: the horrors of land-distribution, the sheer anarchy, the dark despotic shadow over millions of lives and the de-humanizing of a generation or more are a – for want of a better word – madness that has afflicted it, like the disease of a moment of passion. One aging man appears to have put Zimbabwe into an unstoppable tail-spin that can have but one ending. Or so one fears.

Reading it, I once again marvelled at the miracle of neighbouring South Africa and silently thanked Him for Nelson Mandela. In the post-apartheid decade, this country too could have careened onto the path of vengefulness. It too could have unleashed the pent up fount of vitriol and, in the name of ‘righting the historic wrongs’ destroyed a beautiful country. Even today, the fears of a Zimbabwe-like slide have not entirely stopped haemorrhaging; we can hope though that with the horrendous example of Zimbabwe to learn from and with the passage of each year, that ominous spectre will fade beyond retrieval.

The book is lovingly crafted, each sentence a surprising necklace, studded with imagery that shines and shines in its own lambent brilliance. Sunday Times blurb on the cover got is exactly right, “A moving meditation.....”

The House on the Hill

32 - mostly retired - people live in Haga Haga. These include the couple that run The Store – the only grocery in the village – and, of course, Mark and Liz, the gracious owners of the House on the Hill.

The Hill can only be reached by a gravel road that winds through a fenced area on either side for some fourteen kilometers of up-and-down, before sliding towards the sea and losing itself among houses, and a solitary hotel. Like everything else, the hotel overlooks the ocean that sweeps gentle breeze through its portals, caressing table cloth in an open bar, where later I was to wash down a mean Lasagna with an unapologetically sweet Martini.

There are no street lights in Haga Haga; indeed there are no streets beyond brown etchings on the slope. There are very few sign posts either and Mark, who magically appeared out of dark in his bakkie to receive and guide us, confided that the community wants to keep the landscape as unspoiled as it can.

The community in question is also very warm and friendly but there is no unanimity for pining for more tourists. That might attract crime to this haven, some feel. Right now Haga Haga is an island of peace where its inhabitants are happy to remain unseen by passing ships wanting to berth. The worst that can happen here is an occasional petty theft by men or monkeys clambering over walls. Dogs, even benign ones, ward off both.

The original visitors came here more than a century ago, farmers from Transkei and elsewhere, caravans of wagons snaking to the hill. They parked themselves on the slopes while their oxen grazed freely. Legend has it that commandeering those animals to water needed vocal persuasion; shouts of ‘haga haga’ were found to work the best. There are stranger ways a village can acquire its name but this is right up there among the quaint.

Mark is of Irish lineage and is quick to assert that he is a South African first and last. Liz was born in Scotland. On our request they join us for a drink and we are rapidly and interestingly made richer in our understanding of a microcosm of South Africa. We also hear what we have heard before – most Whites did not support apartheid. They might have been beneficiaries of that abominable system but that often fails to reflect the fact that many never supported the authors of this practice, the National Party. They are proud South Africans, not visitors to a distant land. I detect no rancor in their description of the changes that have come about since 1994. But more than once, I feel a pulsating unease of the approaching unknown.

We walk the beach on a cloudy and cool day. The dog from the house accompanies us with the studious air of a reticent guide. Once he senses that we are not visibly grateful for this effort, he jettisons our company for a while and swims in a lagoon. The water is cold and he enters it gingerly, bringing memories of my own childhood winters when I would skirt the shower till I could no longer defy my mother's stern encouragement from outside.

The sea is in low tide, baring a forgotten battlefield of black coral reef. The sand is pleasantly damp all the way to the hill, marking the impressive nocturnal reach of high tide. Inland, two young men wade through a lagoon, carrying strange contraptions. I join them to learn how to catch sand crabs for fish-baits. You push a giant tubular syringe shaped squirt-gun into soft sand beneath still waters and suck up as much sand as you can. Decant it into a net and voila, you have a few captive crabs, tremulous and confused by the sudden change of light and air.

Another older couple complete the instant demography. The man is standing in knee-deep water waiting for fish to take the bait. There has been no luck so far, he tells me but I sense from his sun-beaten face that he has seen enough not to be disappointed over it.

His wife Elizabie sits on a rock, watching birds. She has an illustrated book in Afrikaans to help her. They are farmers, she tells me, and were neighbors of the recently killed white supremacist leader Terry Blanche. I ask her if it was true that he was butchered over pay dispute. She rubbishes it out of hand and offers me a credible alternative argument that masquerades as evidence of darker designs. She would not say who engineered the murder but there is apprehension pealing through her voice like a distant fire brigade engine.

They are farmers and this is not the first time in the past year and a half that I have noticed stark uncertainty among this community over the trajectory their future might take. There has been no Zimbabwe style attempt to grab and redistribute land in South Africa. No horrors of the sort that Peter Godwin chronicled in When a Crocodile Eats the Sun. Yet, there is a palpable throb of anxiety that neither bursts nor disappears. Incidents like the gruesome killing of Terry Blanch and the diatribe of some youth leaders of ANC in its wake can hardly help.

Elizabie slowly warms up to me and reveals such remarkable layers that in turn warm the cockles of my heart. She is quite clearly a serious bird-watcher. She points out a seagull to me, identical in detail both on the sand and on her page. She is a farmer and tends 150 cattle-heads. She is also a tennis coach and only recently decided to lay down the racket after 32 years of smashing the ball around. She has 18 gold-medals for cross country wins. “I am quite well-preserved” she tells me, “and I still run with these legs.” But now her effort is limited to 4-km races, she says with sincere regret. After all, she is in her mid-sixties now.

Elizabie knows a great deal about India. She agrees to pose for me and insists on writing down my name in her book, next to the seagull she had introduced me to.

Farmers are not the only ones that live in uncertainty. In post-apartheid era, business owners were asked to have black-partnership in their enterprises. Some were forced to transfer majority shareholding and a few chose to give up painstakingly built businesses instead and took up fresh vocations. Even large grocery stores were affected. These had traditionally ‘supported’ the community by offering wares on soft loans. Once the store was no longer viable, the owner quit. It was like taking away the oars of the entire community.

Yet, the post-apartheid South Africa is a miracle, conjured by that ultimate magician, Nelson Mandela. There are ripples and undercurrents but the ocean is largely serene.

I watch a brilliant dawn as sky breaks into beautiful azure and bright pink-byzantine, slowly sponging all the blackness out of the sea.

I hope dawns over South Africa always remain the same.

A Basotho Wedding

We drove up to the mountains to the town of Teyateyaneng (quite a mouthful, I know. Everyone calls it TY) and then branched off on to a narrow road to the village of Ha Mohatlane. Brilliant African skies canopied over us and, as you can see from the picture, massive chunks of pure white clouds rested against the horizon, like elephants in afternoon siesta.

We were on time but like all weddings, things were nowhere near ready. The bride’s wedding dress hadn’t arrived from the shop that rents it for 2500 Malutis. The guests were trickling in. Smell of fresh vegetables being cooked over slow fire was wafting out of a window.

So we decided to explore.

We walked around, looking at the traditional Basotho hut where Mohtalane’s mother stays even today, the tent erected for the ceremonial feast with its rich decoration and the kitchen where beef, chicken, beans, vegetables, salad, rice, maize meal ‘pap’ and desserts were being readied.

Now, the Basotho hut is being very slowly but surely nudged out from Lesotho’s landscape by modern construction. But it is a marvel in itself, this Basotho hut is; its roof is a strong weave of grass that keeps the inside cool during summers and traps heat during winters. Not a drop of water seeps through it, Mohatlane tell me. And you need to change the grass only once in 20 to 30 years.

The weddings here are a two-part ritual; in fact, it is two weddings rolled into one! On Day One, the wedding takes place at the girl's place - church function, speeches and a grand feast. All the main relatives and friends of the groom travel to the girl's place - as this lot did to Mafeteng. They return home that evening with the bride and a couple of her relatives. We met the two sisters who had accompanied the bride.

On Day Two, it is the groom's family's turn to get into the act and another wedding ensues - church, speeches, a photo session and a feast fit for kings.

I met all of Corporal Mohatlane's people - his mother (we chatted, even though I don't know enough Sesotho and she is not familiar with English beyond a word or two!), sisters, wife, children (seen in a picture) and friends. And, of course, we met the groom – Corporal Mohatlane's younger brother – and the bride. We took pictures. Everything looked exotic to us. I am sure we looked no less exotic to everyone else.

The bride looked vivacious and radiant in a flowing wedding dress. During the photo-session (held at Blue Mountain Resort at TY to obtain a backdrop befitting a wedding), she laughed and giggled while the groom looked subdued, even puzzled. In one photo setting, he was made to lie down by her feet. The closest I have seen ‘another ones bites the dust’ in action! So what was on his mind?

Not the dowry. The ‘dowry’ is called 'lobola' and it is paid by the boys’ people to the bride’s family. The initial 'lobola' for this wedding was agreed for 25000 Maluti or Rs 1.5 Lac! And later they might have to pay another installment of the same amount!

Manish charmed many with bits of Sesotho (‘O shabahala hantle’ or ‘you look pretty’, ‘khotso bo n’tate’ or ‘May peace be with you revered gentlemen’ and ‘O phela juang me?’ or ‘How are you Lady?’). I chipped in too.

And I looked at the flowers and wondered if ‘rose’ can ever be any different in any language?

On the Robben Island

Nelson Mandela spent a greater part of his 27 years in this cell on the Robben island. For many like me, visiting it is a pilgrimage.

Nelson Mandela, who, last week, celebrated the 20th anniversary of the day the South African apartheid regime decided to bring him out of incarceration (he did it with a dinner with his family and his ex-jailer!) is a miracle. South Africa is work in progress, for sure, but the distance it so rapidly put between itself and its immediate past is a miracle too. And the two miracles are completely intertwined.

Another View from the Cape Point

What is it about oceans that inspires awe? Is it the vastness that instantly brings home our own tiny place in the scheme of things? Is it the unseen retreat of our egos as it cowers in face of evidence of a Higher - indeed a Bigger - intelligence at work?

Deserts inspire too, as due vast blue skies and open spaces. And huge mountains. So the scale has something to do with it, huh?

At Cape Point - Looking Down at the Atlantic Meeting the Indian Ocean

I peered hard and long to spot the 'line' where the Atlantic washes into the Indian Ocean. I did not spot one, of course. I also wondered if the waters of the two were different. And they are!

As we drove down to beaches a few kilometers on either side of cape Point, we found the water of the Indian Ocean distinctly warmer (there being a perfectly geographical explanation) and cleaner. Maybe that was just our patriotism working up. Or maybe the beach was actually neater and cleaner for other reasons.

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.