Style is Everything.
The unexpected windfalls of travel. I may be the only person in Albuquerque with brand-new boy’s pajamas from the Mutra Souk in Muscat. Is that special or what?
Last day in Oman. One day too many maybe but quite a unique time in an odd sort of way. The first day offered the experience of small-town life in a man’s world. The second day was more of the same with a couple of girls added and a second walk along an unlovely beach with lovely breezes. Today we took a taxi into Muscat proper and went first to the souk, then found out the museums where we were headed next were closed because it’s still the holiday week, took a taxi out to the rich (Grand Hyatt Hotel territory) side of town, walked along the upscale beach of embassy land, had chicken livers and rice pudding at a very sweet waterside restaurant and came back to our home across the tracks in Seeb.
We’ve come to like our hotel quite a lot. The staff is much more reserved than one expects in a budget tourist hotel (without tourists) but kind and helpful when asked. For a couple of days we had to eat in the ‘family room’ in the restaurant which I found annoying (of course) but tonight the restaurant was very normal, even had a guy in shorts, a black person and pretty women waitresses serving alcohol—none of which had been seen by us in Seeb before. Wish we had a chatty person about to explain how this all works with religious holidays in man-land.
The conundrum for me in Muslim countries is that people (mostly the people one meets are men so I should say men) are so very nice, especially to older women I think. And it is so safe. And there is no hassling. And at the same time so many issues surrounding women’s rights exist. Hard to get one’s head around. I like it and I don’t. I want to return and I don’t. I do think I will keep reading and exploring a little more of this almost unknowable (to outsiders) region.
Muscat is an otherworldly-looking city. So white and pure and rectangular. The hills around are absolutely bare and charcoal brown. The sea is blue blue blue. It’s all stark and strange-land beautiful in its own way.
Tomorrow we are off to Sri Lanka. We have big plans for our days there including getting to a bookstore because I sent all my new South African crime novels home with Steve the elder and Scott. We may go see an elephant orphanage or go to where they make devil masks or visit gem mines. And eat a lot of spicy food.
The laziest day of the whole long trip except maybe for one in Addis. Which is okay because there is nothing to do in Seeb in the heat of the day and in the night it’s just to walk around with the ‘boys.’ Although we think up to one percent of the people out this evening were female. We are both so glad we came here because it is a world we would not have seen in any of the major cities in the region but two days has been sufficient. Tomorrow we will go into Muscat and hang out in the souk (I’m looking for new pajama pants and there’s no Costco here!) and maybe go to a big international hotel for lunch where we are not shunted off to the family dining room–not to disturb the males of this world. Here’s a little photo album…I challenge you to find a female in any of this evenings pics. The prize is a trip to Seeb.
Seeb watches a lot of TV.
The men of Seeb.
More men of Seeb.
And more.
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A blur of men on the beach.
Way too much exposure.
Herds of Men. Gaggles of Men. Congregations of Men. Droves of Men. (of whom I did not know how to take pictures without being rude, maybe tomorrow)
So glad we came to Seeb. It is a very different world away from the main city centers of Arabia, at least here in the Gulf States. On our long walk after the sun went down we experienced the WORLD OF MEN. This is not an exaggeration; we strolled shopping streets, side streets and along the sea. Many people were out enjoying the evening air…let me rephrase that…we saw a few hundred men in various groupings and gatherings and exactly seven women out enjoying the evening air. NOT exaggerating I promise. We were so overwhelmed that we kept careful track. Of the seven women, only two were youngish, in jeans, without head coverings.
About this plethora, multitude, glut of men, at least 80% were the workers of the Arab world in jeans and t-shirts, probably all of whom were Indian, Bangladeshi and Pakistani. The other 20% were Arabic in traditional white robes. There were no westerners. None. Lonely Planet says Seeb is a “typical Omani town…that barely sees a tourist….” Yes indeed. The atmosphere was casual, friendly with a bit of distance and some curious glances. I told Steven everyone undoubtedly thought he was a Filipino nurse caring for the one little old American lady that somehow wound up here in Seeb.
It has actually been a very nice day. Slow, naps, computer time. We are now so used to not watching TV that we don’t even turn it on anymore.
Perfect evening meal in the ornate and empty restaurant downstairs. We had a Cashew Nut Fry, Palak Paneer, a sweet and a salty lassi finished with a platter of sweet seeds that tasted like licorice.
We stopped at a sweet shop on our stroll and have sweets, mint water and big fat golden raisins for snacking.
Cold showers because we inadvertently switched off the hot water but that felt just right after our hot and sticky trek about Man Town. Steven says we know why it is named Oman here…which he keeps referring to as Oh Man!
THE ROAD TO SEEB is paved with good intentions.
But good intentions can go awry with booking snafus that wind up costing a lot of money, and officious petty bureaucrats, and long nights sitting directly behind jerks that recline their seats all of the way. The dark side of travel.
Lonely Planet says “you can’t do better than a trip to Seeb,” a village just outside of Muscat, Oman. So here we are, shortly after noon on a holiday Saturday. It the Eid Al-Adha festival of sacrifice (description included at end of post).
Steven and I arrived about 4am after 22 hours of stressful travel—which is a horror story for another day—at our hotel Al-Bahjah which was also described quite glowingly by our Lonely Planet friends.
GOOD MORNING SEEB!
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- HOTEL ART, SAME THE WORLD OVER.
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- MORNING OUT OUR WINDOW
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- DOESN’T SEEM TO BE MUCH ACTIVITY ON THIS PARTICULAR HOLIDAY?
Two of my favorite things right in one place.
It is much too easy to be cranky when tired and, had I started writing a few hours ago my disagreement with LP would have been quite vehement. Little things with the hotel. Bigger issues with a late morning walk out in the boiling sun through bleak and trashy streets. Just a bit of a shock after the tidy shiny lusciously-green or animal-filled or just plain gorgeous environs of Kigali, Okavango Delta, Cape Town and Durban.
But, Dorothy, we are not in Kansas—I mean—Cape Town anymore. We are here. In Seeb. We’ve read up a bit on the festival and will sample its wares this evening. The hotel is kind of charming and they have a great restaurant (LP says); they also have loaned us the right adapters for our electronics and wifi is good (though expensive).
About the dirty streets I cannot say. Maybe last night was a big party? There is a street sweepers’ strike? The architecture is not as interesting, though of course with similarities, to Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine, Senegal. But then we’ve only seen a tiny bit to date. Everything was closed when we were out earlier but we’ll take a long stroll after the sun goes down and scope out the seafront and nightlife!
To nap and read. And here’s BBC’s (via Wikipedia) description of this holiday.
Animals are sacrificed and then distributed among family, friends and the poor. This is a four-day public holiday in Muslim countries. The festival remembers the prophet Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son when God ordered him to.
Ibrahim’s sacrifice
God appeared in a dream to Ibrahim and told him to sacrifice his son Isma’il. Ibrahim and Isma’il set off to Mina for the sacrifice.
As they went, the devil attempted to persuade Ibrahim to disobey God and not to sacrifice his beloved son. But Ibrahim stayed true to God, and drove the devil away.
As Ibrahim prepared to kill his son God stopped him and gave him a sheep to sacrifice instead.
Celebrations
Ibrahim’s complete obedience to the will of God is celebrated by Muslims each year.
Each Muslim, as they celebrate, reminds themselves of their own submission to God, and their own willingness to sacrifice anything to God’s wishes.
During the festival Muslims who can afford to, sacrifice domestic animals, usually sheep, as a symbol of Ibraham’s sacrifice. (British law insists that the animals must be killed in a proper slaughterhouse.)
The meat is distributed among family, friends and the poor, who each get a third share.
As with all festivals there are prayers, and also presents.
There is a period in any lengthy trip when you miss work. Really. That wonderfully simple yet complex undertaking of getting up and going to work. Which is, after all, the act that lends structure to most of our lives most of the time. Obviously I am speaking for the many of us with meaningful, challenging and/or agreeable jobs—not for the billions who head off to long days at someplace comparable to a Bangladeshi sweatshop or North Korean rock pile.
The thing about travel is you realize how amazingly diverse the world is—piquing your curiosity for even more global adventures. While simultaneously offering up a chance to contemplate how important the ordinary actions of an everyday life are: going to work, buying groceries, vacuuming the rug, watching Netflix, the morning paper, the noontime Fritos and bean dip, the afternoon abs class, the evening bowl of cereal while you read the morning paper.
Yes, you guessed it right. The end of three weeks of travel. Phase One (me and the kids and their intro to Africa) Phase Two (dad and bro arrive and it’s adventure time in South Africa and Botswana. Only Phase Three to go…we can do it. Actually we are all probably ready to come home—that end-of-three-weeks-on-the-road travel dip in enthusiasm for me—and enough with the loud music down the street or across the pond for everyone. Except Steven the Younger who needs these extra 10 days to plan the rest of his life of 75 years or so.
What’s the right way to say ‘my eyes are bigger than my stomach’ when referring to travel?—once again, my wanderlust is greater than my wander-stamina! But by tomorrow morning when Steven and I board the plane for Johannesburg to Dubai to Oman I will have revived. Somewhat.
Steven has been researching Oman and has discovered there is nothing to do there, but men and women must wear long pants at all times and internet is expensive. Actually I’m a little bit excited; unlike the other Gulf States Oman has a rather exciting history and all those connections with Zanzibar which is a splendid place. And while there I will have lots of time to write my big Okavango Delta travel pieces and Steven will have time to get that future under control.
So here is a small photo album from Cape Town. Since I did not go shark cage diving or hike Table Mountain or even re-visit the penguins (my children have those pictures), my photos are rather prosaic.
SINCE STARTING THIS POST I WENT OUT TO EAT WITH KIDS AND THEN DOWN THE STREET TO GET SOME CASH. SLICK GUY AT ATM MACHINE PULLED A ‘HELPING’ SCAM AS I WENT TO USE CARD, TOO SLICK AND FAST TO DESCRIBE EXCEPT TO SAY I WAS STUPID AND FELL FOR IT FOR ABOUT 30 SECONDS WHICH WAS LONG ENOUGH FOR HIM TO GET THE CARD. Thanks to Leau at work where the bank called with a fraud alert and my best friend Angela at US bank downtown I think all will be well. Last time something like this happened was at my gym in Albuquerque (car window smashed) so just have to deal with it everywhere. In this case I was just too slow to respond when I should have been kicking and screaming. My bad. Well actually the bad guy’s bad I suppose.
ON WITH BEAUTIFUL FUNKY HIP CAPE TOWN. LONG STREET AND THE BEACH.
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AFTERNOON WITH ME
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NIGHT TIME ON LONG STREET
I LOVED CAPE TOWN…BACK IN 2010 AND IN 2014.
Made it safely out of Hippo and Elephant land. And what an adventure it was. Well, actually the hippos didn’t charge and the elephants didn’t try to stomp on our heads and the chef (a cook from Old Bridge Backpackers—but it made us feel more like the big safari dudes to call him a chef) did produce a tasty tuna salad and some good wine out on the island where we and one or two/several/quite a few other visitors had our own isolated camping sites. And actually a small hippo did clump around and snort outside our flimsy tents in the middle of the night. I intend to write a proper travel piece about this with a few of my twelve hundred zebra and wart hog pictures in an accompanying photo album. Stay tuned. I’ll embellish if need be to make it a real ‘adventure’ piece. Or add an elderly but ever so dashing crocodile wrestler to make it a love story. Or exotic Delta herbs, a roasting springbok and unique swamp wine for a foodie tale—with recipes of course.
Meanwhile it is 5AM in our Cape Town hotel and the rest of the gang just left to go shark-tank diving. I’m going to Durban later today to visit my friend Boyzie and will return tomorrow evening. After the ‘youngsters’ here are through hiking Table Mountain. More about Cape Town ‘California’ later. Or at least my favorite bookstore where I’ve already visited once.
This post is about age. I do keep coming back to that don’t I? There are five of us on this trip. Twenties, fifties, seventies. I said in an earlier post that I felt like this trip would take me into some undefined ‘next stage’ of life. One of physical vulnerability—something like that. And yes, that does seem to be the case.
It has been a bit rocky to be honest. Mental anguish. Physical blips, nothing serious. The initial sleeplessness which, in itself, was not a big deal. However the wondering if it would make me ill not to sleep, which never would have occurred to me before, was a bigger deal than I thought.
Then there was the emotional drama of being back in my memory’s dance-heavy Joburg where after a lunch and wine at Lucky Bean I was very short of breath for an hour or so. Psychosomatic?
And finally, some days later, after THREE HOURS of a four-hour trek in the burning sun I started feeling unwell. A short rest in the shade cured me of course. Three hours of continuous walking in 95° blazing sun, no shade in sight, is unpleasant and I probably was on the verge of sunstroke but probably not death! Probably not.
Altogether though enough to make my sons start treating me like a frail elder instead of simply their older mother. With the best of intentions of course. I know they love me and do not want me to drop dead in a foreign country—can you imagine the red tape—nevertheless it pissed me off. And made me sad. And, yes indeed, feel quite vulnerable. Of course I am a little cranky about all of this even though I so wisely wrote about it before the trip even began. What to do? Nothing. There’s no cure.
A big piece of it is what my granddaughter refers to as FOMO. Fear Of Missing Out. Which is most apt. I can only walk three hours in the effing sun. I think I should be able to do eight. I cannot hike up Table Mountain with the rest. Which I would like to do. Or go shark-tank diving. Which I have no desire to do and actually seems a little silly. Or swimming in the pond just down from our campsite in the Okavango Delta. Which I could do but don’t like cold water so did not. Shrug off the tent-spiders. Which I would Never Ever have shrugged off in my whole life. Or stay up in the evening eating and drinking to the accompaniment of loud music. With which I am simply bored because only so much noise, alcohol and rich food can be enjoyed in one lifetime. Then—you’ll see—it’s just mind-numbing and stomach-disturbing. But damn it I want the choice of all of the above. Aging is all about side-lining, peripheralizing (new word?), fading out of the picture, disappearing, isn’t it? Deal with it.
There, out of my system. 6AM now. A little more sleep before preparation for Durban. I have Deon Meyer’s new book so I can enjoy the bloody side of Cape Town for a few escapist hours.
8:30AM. Time to post, shower, go find some sweet rolls. The hotel is undergoing construction on the first floor so they send guests around the corner for hearty breakfasts at an attractive little restaurant with an array of tantalizing pastries. I’m off to see Boyzie.
A VISIT WITH BOYZIE IN DURBAN
Scott and his kids are checking out ‘the scene’ up on main street Melville, Steven the Elder is in his room, and here I am after a trip to the bookstore, happy though still a bit hung-over from two and one-half wines at Lucky Bean for our final Joburg lunch.
I’m still on my nostalgia trip. The bookstore. Love that bookstore. Knowing I may not stay in Melville again because when I return in three or four years even downtown will be user-friendly for visitors. Or Malema will have come to power and everything will have gone to complete hell.
Steven E. turned in early. Hope he’s having fun. Hope everyone is happy for having had an African time. Hope I did not lure them here under false pretenses—that they would love this place like I do.
Intended to write a whole post about food but I’m too tired. Went over my one wine/little old lady limit. This age-thing is fine, even advantageous at several levels (patience, pleasure in thinking/observing, big picture views, wisdom [maybe]). What it sucks at is physical stamina. For important things like drinking wine and tramping about in the Okavango Delta. We will soon see about the latter.
Here’s a small album. The family, the room, the food. Next stop Botswana.
Wish I had an atlas with me. A big paper world atlas. One whose pages I could write on—latitudes and longitudes; countries left to visit on the African continent; degrees from here to there.
It is 9614 miles to Albuquerque from Johannesburg.
Crazy cawing flocks of birds are flying overhead. It’s spring, where are they coming from, going to? Are they crows?
I am still feeling discombobulated about being here. Thought it would change once I played tourist with family. But it hasn’t. Feels like Laura should be staying here. And Cathy just a street or so over at a place managed by our perfect hostess Ann. Where we could stop by to chat with some other Dance Umbrella aficionados. And I want to be looking forward to Gregory or Faustin or Hafiz or Neli or Desire or Boyzie or Panaibra or Vincent or more and new work and ideas. Okay okay I know this is just a passing moment. Over when I leave for Botswana. But just now…in Joburg…
Enough then with the sentimental…
NOW.
The Family: Steven the Elder, Scott, The Elder Elder, Teresa and Steven the Younger.
Yesterday we were tourists, me revisiting places I’ve been one or more times, but also sites where it is good to go to be reminded of what happens in the world for worse and for better. My family for the first time. They are smart moral people willing to pay attention. For my grandchildren who will soon, with their cohorts, run the world it is supremely important to know these things.
Apartheid Museum, Mandela’s House, Hector Pieterson Memorial—all tributes to the struggle against apartheid. And a lengthy jaunt and lunch in Soweto. There is such pride in Soweto. It is quite inspiring actually to think of where it began and how, every year, there are more successes in claiming it as an authentic and important city, one to be reckoned with. I wonder when the first white families will move in—would that be the ultimate sign of the past being past or doesn’t it matter. According to our driver/guide who lives in Soweto that moment has not come although of course there are white spouses and partners of local residents.
We drove past the millionaires’ houses and the middle-class houses and only briefly by the shanties. Still there. Shrinking? Expanding? Most of the people we’ve talked to do not have good feelings about where things are going now. The owner of the company that our hotel works with as drivers and guides is not at all optimistic about where Malema is headed with this new party…Freedom something or the other. Isn’t it the case that so many of the crazies stick the word ‘freedom’ in the names and verbiage of their groupings? And it feels like there is just general bafflement about Zuma—I don’t know that of course, it’s just that people don’t seem to love OR hate him.
The family is off on a scenic bus tour of Johannesburg which I am skipping only because, in the course of four or five previous visits, it seems that I must have been to or by most parts of town. And I feel like being here in my sun-filled warm familiar room all alone for a few hours.
Thinking is hard for me to pursue with people around. Not sure what deep and profound things I must think about but maybe something will pop up!
Possibly I will be inspired to write a detailed report about lunch at Lucky Bean later on. A greeting to those of you who read this and wish you too were at a Lucky Bean lunch today.
It is 2014…I am back in South Africa with my family. We arrived around 10pm last night but given Sunday evening airport staffing didn’t get to Thulani Lodge until nearly midnight. It’s the end of winter here and from my bedroom window the grounds I usually think of as pretty lush and green have that early spring slightly bedraggled look.
It feels so strange to be here without dance, dance friends, dance performances to anticipate. The last time I was here, fall 2012, I saw some of the best dance pieces of my presenting career, all my favorite friends were here and I became ill and depressed and knew it was the appropriate end of ‘dance time’ for me. It was, needless to say, the oddest of Joburg sojourns in many ways because I knew the loveliest passage of my life was over—by my choice—at the right time—never to be revisited. Sad happy relieved sentimental.
So now two years have gone by. Global DanceFest is a shiny memory, more glowing than the reality of it, but isn’t that always the way…. And I have always known the decision was right and, in fact, have felt very little nostalgia. UNTIL THIS MOMENT. This morning at Thulani Lodge.
First time here, I think it was 2005, I came with Bernard and Jill met us here. Jill and I shared a cramped room inside, the attraction being that it was cheap. Bernard was in the big friendly cabin across the grassy lawn which is where I am at this very moment. I mostly remember coffee/lunch with Boyzie up on the main street and dinner at the restaurant by the Market Theater in all of its eclectic glory. PHOTOS 2005
BERNARD, MARJ, BOYZIE, JILL
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- MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF JO’BURG’S FAMOUS TOWERS
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- YES, VIVA MANDELA.
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- JILL
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- BERNARD
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- JILL AND LAURENCE (WHO HAS TAKEN ME AROUND THE COUNTRY AND UP TO LESOTHO SINCE THAT TIME
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- ME…AT THULANI LODGE IN 2005
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- ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT THEATERS IN THE WORLD
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- A FRIEND’S CHILD AMONG THIS GHOSTLY EXHIBIT, STRIKING PHOTO, YES?
Since then so many nights and dances and lunches at Lucky Bean and trips to experience what was apartheid South Africa. SO NOW I AM VERY NOSTLGIC.
NOW IS NOW however. I wish I could make an album from all of that South African dance past, however I am here and my photos are in Albuquerque. In a little while I’ll take a few photos of my current crew of companions, non-dancers all, but quite interesting nevertheless.
Thulani Lodge looks a little older–although still its friendly cozy self–maybe Melville does as well or at least it seemed so coming in last evening. My family will probably not understand my love for this Joburg place at all because it is not possible to see it through my mind’s ‘dancing’ eye. Oh well. That was then, this is now. Time to shower, drink coffee, be a tourist.
It would be nice to close this tiny tribute to then with a profound comment of some sort. What might that be? Break a Leg?
In 2005, I went to the national museum in Pretoria with friends. Here’s a work from ‘old’ South Africa and their born-free daughter with a new friend from an adjoining exhibit.
We Do Love our Books and Electronics and Bed.
Breakfast with the Animals.
What fun we have had and are having. It’s the fun of family and travel and mixing the important things of knowing more about the world with being silly about cold water showers and teasing about each of our peccadilloes. Steven takes being the guy responsible for two ladies seriously, is a great debater and comedian. Enjoys a variety of foods although his sister’s tastes can get even too weird for him. Teresa is the person with socks lined up neatly in the hotel dresser drawer, the reader, and a partaker of small meals of sardines and peanut butter. I am the cop-out artist, turning the various currencies over to Steven to handle, and the obsessive book collector. Also, even though I do enjoy new tastes to a point I was wildly happy to have ordinary pancakes yesterday.
We’ve found a great Kigali bookstore—unfortunately. Does keep my suitcase from blowing away in strong winds though. A gourmet restaurant named Heaven owned and operated by an American couple; a book “A Thousand Hills to Heaven” has been written about it. Perfect Japanese Plum pancakes. Another excellent restaurant last night, Republika. All local foods, tiny grilled fish (Sambaza) from Lake Kivu, a chicken dish, sugared fried plantains and wine. It has been a perfect first phase of a long journey.
Steven is happy for Breakfast…in HEAVEN no less.
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- Must be walking toward Heaven. For the pancakes and the art.
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- Heavenly or Devilishly Alluring.
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- Heaven’s dining room.
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- Wanted this piece in Heaven’s Gallery. Oh well.
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- Heaven’s MOST Heavenly Japanese Plum Pancakes.
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- We stayed Inside Afrika…near Heaven.
I want to end our Rwanda trip with a few photos from the memorials and burial places. These are the same churches I visited in 2010 but as you can see the condition of the clothing has deteriorated while the sites have been determinedly maintained and even improved. I suppose the cloth items will have to be stored differently at some point in time if they are not to disappear completely. I am grateful that I saw them; those bloodstained simple shirts and blouses and trousers and tiny baby covers will never really leave my mind. I’m not sure grateful is the right expression except I feel that I know something more about the depths of good and evil that is all about us and within ourselves by witnessing these places, these sites sitting so peacefully and green and flower-infused in this countryside that was hell. Maybe it makes me a little wiser or better of a human to know this…but I’m not really sure. Sadly.
And at the end of the day we had a quiet dinner and then drank a little and even laughed a little and walked home quietly.
