The OffBeat Traveler

Cyprus in the Blink of an Eye

2011-09-26T20:55:00.000+03:00

So, we all sailed off to Cyprus. It was on a whim actually – needing to get away, anywhere, anyhow, for even the briefest of breaks, Marlyn and I – and our close friends, Lynore and Neil Blum – decided to take a weekend cruise to Cyprus. It was one of those absolutely-not-to be missed deals, priced at way less than you can get a "tzimmer" in the north, and with the promise of being "chutz l'aretz" (overseas) that enticed us to book.

To make it a real adventure weekend, we decided to take a train from the Hod Hasharon station near our home to Haifa port. Good decision, we felt, because we got off the train almost at the gangplank; well, except for negotiating check-in, passport control and the duty free shops.

And there she was, waiting for us, moored to the Haifa dockside, our splendid craft and home for the weekend, the Golden Iris run by Mano Cruises. At just under 17,000 tons, not the hugest of ocean liners, but neat enough. Of course, Marlyn and I couldn't help initially comparing it to the Caribbean Princess on which we spent a week swanning about the Caribbean on a gifted holiday in 2007.

But comparisons are odious. The Caribbean Princess was 10 times the size, three times the height and carried nearly four times as many passengers and crew. But then, what to do you really need for an overnight float across a short expanse of Mediterranean blue? Believe me, our Golden Iris was more than up to the task. Very comfortable air-conditioned cabin (stateroom...to give it the correct term); excellent meals, and all the shipside diversions and entertainment normally associated with "cruising" – if you like discos, rather over-loud and quite honestly, mediocre cabaret, a raucous and smoke-filled casino and a crowded duty free shop somewhat like an Israeli supermarket just before a "chag". Did I mention that the ship was full? One thousand Israelis of all shapes, sizes, persuasions and origins; English-speakers, Russians, Israeli Arabs, Israeli Israelis...French-speakers, Spanish-speakers...just the sort of ethnic mix you would encounter anywhere in Israel. We were a floating microcosm of Israel, sailing off to experience a microcosm of Greece...
The pleasure of the cruise for us was sitting on deck, in the glorious moonlight, cruising along at a decent clip on a glassy, smooth almost unruffled sea. We didn't get entangled with a single Gaza-bound flotilla, never encountered the Turkish navy, nor got within eyesight of an Israeli-Cypriot drilling rig. The balmy night air, the hypnotic view of the wake thrust aside by the ship's prow, the throb of the engines and an ever-so-gentle swaying put us in the mood for a good night's sleep. Early the next morning, we entered Larnaca harbor. My immediate reaction on viewing it out of the porthole was that we had turned around during the night and sailed back to Bat Yam...but that's a tad uncharitable. Larnaca, it turns out, was a somewhat pleasant enough city, gently laid back on a Saturday morning, with not too much traffic in the streets; which it turned out was a good thing because driving in Cyprus – courtesy of its colonial heritage – is on the left, like in South Africa and we had decided to hire a car for the day.
Actually it only took a few minutes for us to do the "mind switch" and revert from left-hand drive to right-hand drive and call on our early driving education (sitting on dad's knee steering his enormous old Chevy...) But don't be fooled – driving in Israel for more than 20 years has left its mark – our car was a manual model and more than once I found myself trying to shift the door handle into third...
Once we collected our vehicle we met up with friends of the Blums', Sharon and Frank, who had moved to Cyprus from Durban 10 years ago. They offered to show us around the island for the day, and off we trundled, following them along the main highway up into the hill country towards Nicosia, to the village of Lefkara, famous for its fine filigree lace.

Lefkara Lace

The view from Lefkara to the sea

Believing that traveling independently of the guided tours ensured we would not be crowded out by the unwashed hordes, we found Lefkara charming, quaint and very quiet – until the tour busses loaded with our shipmates all sporting their red Mano Cruises baseball caps, arrived! So, we beat a hasty retreat from Lefkara back to the coast. On the way we took in the view from the heights down the valley towards the sea. Lefkara sits in a landscape much like the Jerusalem hills. The terrain is very similar to Israel (well, it's only 260 kms away...almost part of it, you might say) and the temperature was about the same – HOT!

Driving down the coastal highway we passed through Limasol, taking a brief glance at the beachfront residential area – looks like a great place for an extended stay – and headed for Aphrodite's Rock – a legendary tourist attraction almost at the far western end of the island. In mythology this is the birth place of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, beauty, and sexuality, (know by the Romans as Venus) and is the stuff of legends and superstitions. According to our guides, this was the ancient forerunner of Viagra; it is claimed that any man swimming around the rock, will be bountifully endowed. Neil, Frank and I agreed that none of us needed to take a swim, and off we went for lunch...

Aphrodite's Rock

Overlooking Aphrodite's Rock from an airy restaurant on the hill above the beach, we tucked into a delicious local lamb stew (at least we were told it was lamb, and we took their word for it, ignoring the goat herds in the vicinity...). Soon enough it was time to make our way back to Larnaca, return our car, and board the ship for the overnight trip back to Haifa.

It had been a magical day in Cyprus, and we had only one glitch – that was when we stopped for petrol right next door to a local branch of Marks and Spencer's - BIG MISTAKE. Marlyn and Lynore leaped out the car, with promises of "Just fill up and we'll be back..." The car was filled and the clock was ticking as we hung about for what seemed hours, waiting for the wives. The garage attendant started giving us strange looks and I swear she was on the verge of calling the local constabulary to check out these two weird looking guys, hanging around the gas pumps.
Neil decided to mount a one-man search party and resolutely plunged into the store. I know what you're thinking – why not just call them on a cell phone? Well, it turns out that none of us had thought of setting up international calling facilities, so we had no reception...and besides, Marlyn had left her phone in the car. Eventually Neil staggered out of the store, totally bewildered. He had searched all five floors, and nary a sight of the girls. Had they been abducted by M&S staff, intent on holding them hostage until they bought thousands of Euro worth of goods? So, we waited – and I had visions of us missing the ship, being incarcerated in a Cypriot prison as illegal aliens, trying to explain to the children how their mothers had been engulfed in the bowels of M&S, when they appeared, smiling and – joy of joys – not a package between them (credit cards had been mercifully left in the car!).We made it back to the ship in time, took a nap, met for dinner and then settled in for the night cruise back to Haifa.

We arrived early Sunday morning, having been away for around 48 hours – and as we stepped off the Golden Iris and headed for the station and the train to take us back to Hod Hasharon, it really felt like a week. Until we got on the train – remind me, never, ever to take a train from Haifa (or anywhere in the country for that matter) between 7:00 and 9:30 in the morning. It was already packed with commuters and soldiers heading back to their bases – so full in fact that Neil and Lynore sat on the steps and I stood the entire 1½-hour journey home....still, we'd been to Cyprus, we'd been "chutz l'aretz" for the weekend– albeit in the blink of an eye – and it was worth every single micro-second – even standing in the train all the way home.

Jacob’s Ladder Festival – 35 years of Music, Camping and Family Fun

2011-05-28T14:36:00.001+03:00

Hans Theessink Blues Workshop-Abrams Brothers closing the festival

Given its location, the artists and the ethnic make-up of the audience, Israel’s annual Jacob’s Ladder Festival could be considered one of the most unique music festivals in the world. The location – on the edge of the Lake Kinneret (Sea of Galilee to those outside Israel) is magical; and the selection of top class artists from around the world and an audience of mainly Anglo immigrants from all the former colonies, gives this 35-year-old festival an uncommonly distinctive character.

Every year thousands of lovers of folk, blues, Blue Grass, country, Irish music and more, congregate to enjoy a weekend of music, camping, chilling out and taking in the “good vibes” and general camaraderie that this festival engenders. And many an aging – let’s rather say “mature” – hippie from the ‘60’s, finds this an ideal opportunity to revisit those long-gone days of their youth…

We still “let it all hang out” – some of us rather more than we wished – we still “groove”; no longer quite as late, or as early in the morning, as we used to; and “get high” on the music and whatever else takes our fancy – nowadays it’s more likely to be a good Scotch or bottle of fine wine than anything vaguely herbal.

Because Jacob’s Ladder was almost exclusively patronized by Israelis of Anglo heritage – certainly in the early years – it is known in Israel as the Anglo-Saxon “Mimouna”, in comparison to the joyous Moroccan festival held at the end of the week of Pesach, epitomized by song, good food and celebration.

Having just attended the 35th Jacob’s Ladder festival at Nof Ginosar on the shores of Lake Kinneret in mid-May, I can tell you that the festival has lost none of its charm. There were more than 3,000 or us this year with a healthy percentage being kids whose own parents were hardly thought of when Jacob’s Ladder kicked off with its first gathering back in 1976. This was when Menachem Vinograd (festival director) and two friends from Kibbutz Machanayim, just north of the Kinneret and then largely inhabited by immigrants from the UK and US, started a folk club to quench their longing for the folk and protest songs they had left behind them in their native countries. The name “Jacob’s Ladder” was chosen to reflect the Kibbutz’s supposed link to the biblical story of Jacob and the fact that “ladder” in Hebrew (“sulam”) also refers to a musical scale.

We went to our first Jacob’s Ladder in the late 1980’s, a year or two after our arrival in Israel. Our three kids were still littlies and camping was a new experience for us. We had bought a new – and to us then, a very expensive – tent which we all shared…together with our faithful Corgi. Believe it or not, we STILL have that tent, and still use it – it’s an identifying beacon for our camping crowd: “look for the Butchins’ tent – that’s where you’ll find us…!"

To us, coming from staid and conservative South Africa, Jacob’s Ladder was the closest thing to Woodstock we had experienced. Nothing remotely like it in size or scope you understand, but the free and easy atmosphere and rocking to the legendary Libby and her hard-core band belting out earth-shattering blues at four in the morning, took us to new heights. We were also convinced that most of the audience were gently floating about a foot off the grass …. the Friday night music marathon would always end with Libby leading a raucous rendition of "Goodnight Irene" … just as the sun rose. Since those heady early days, we have attended nearly 20 festivals – with a few misses over the years. Migrating from Horshat Tal – that magical camping site on Israel’s northern border with its ancient oaks and icy water tumbling from Mt. Hermon, we followed the festival to the steamy surroundings of Gan Hashlosha in the Bet Shean valley; then to the shores of the Kinneret where we picked it up again at Karei Deshe, just a few kilometers north of its present location at Nof Ginosar, which offers hotel, “Zimmer” and camping facilities.

While the present day audience it is still predominately made up of Anglos, there is a growing number of native Israelis attending. Many of them the spouses of Anglo “Olim” children who have grown up in Israel and represent the second generation of “Jacob’s Ladderites”… now bringing THEIR children – Jacob’s Ladder’s third generation – for a shot of rhythm ‘n blues and the fun of camping out, barbequing and running free. Our group this year was a microcosm of this little bit of festival anthropology: we were a crowd of 27 altogether, 10 “1st generation”; 10 “2nd generation” and seven “3rd generation” – with three more 3rd generation future festival fans on the way!

The Jacob’s Ladder festival is marveled at by the Israelis who attend. They remark at the open family atmosphere, the friendliness and respect that everybody shows and that when packed up, the campsites are left clean! There is very little mess around the many stages and music venues now a part of the Jacob’s Ladder scene – this is as much due to the vigilance of the festival staff as to the natural instinct of Anglos to clean up after themselves. But whatever the reason, it makes it all the more pleasant for festival-goers not to have to wade through mounds of rubbish.

From it’s early single night roots, Jacob’s Ladder has grown substantially and now runs for two nights and two days. It is now held in mid-May, instead of late August, providing much cooler weather than in earlier years. A round of applause must go to the festival directors, Menachem and Yehudith Vinograd and their team of volunteers, stage managers, security people, sound and lighting engineers, caterers, and – perhaps most important to the campers – the team providing the amazingly efficient, clean and pleasant ablutions (after many years of having less than rudimentary facilities), with piping hot water showers at any time of the day or night.

This year’s festival was rated one of the best ever: the organizers compiled a program featuring high quality music, talented performers and other fun entertainment – from prominent international Bluegrass/rock groups such as the Abrams Brothers from Canada (now on their third visit to Israel), to Blues “meister” Hans Theessink from Holland, to local harpist Sunita with her specialty Irish and Jewish melodies, folk/rock duo favorites Larry and Mindy and Irish groups and continual pick-up jam sessions wherever there is an open space. This year’s program featured workshops, storytelling, Balkan dancing, Square dancing, tap dancing, Yoga, Tai Chi and Chi Kung lessons to name a few…a well-rounded program catering to the entire family with much aimed at little ones.

And this year, the old tradition of singing “Goodnight Irene” was revived again, with the large crowd – not a dry eye among them – joining in the chorus at the closing of the festival late on Saturday afternoon.

So Jacob’s Ladder moves towards it’s 36th year with the knowledge that a sound tradition is being passed on from generation to generation – it’ll be a blast to still be around for the 70th anniversary!

Sailing, Sailing over the bounding Main...

2007-12-20T18:10:00.000+02:00

We’ve recently come back from a cruise – we almost didn’t come back because we very quickly became accustomed to the life of sheer “looxury” we experienced aboard the Caribbean Princess. But we had to come back to reality eventually, so we reluctantly followed the captain’s orders and slunk off the ship after 7 days and 7 nights of absolute bliss.
OK – let’s begin at the beginning:
The Caribbean Princess is currently the largest cruise ship operated by Princess Lines out of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It is a beauty, built in Italy only a few years ago and weighing in at 116,000 tons, with capacity for 3,100 passengers and 1,200 crew.
And we were fortunate enough to be invited to join the other 3,098 seafarers in a dream cruise around the Caribbean at the beginning of October.
The fact that it was the start of hurricane season didn’t deter us one bit, as we boarded the ship at Fort Lauderdale’s Port Everglades at the start of our dream holiday.
The boarding procedures were incredibly efficient: we had been assigned our cabin on “Emerald” level, so when we eventually got to the head of the long line snaking out of the customs house, we knew exactly which well-marked counter to go to. That’s where we were given our shipboard credit card “...there’s no cash on board...just use your card...”, our luggage was whisked away by invisible porters (it appeared again in the passage - er, sorry, companionway, outside our cabin an hour later); and then we boarded the vessel, negotiating a bevy of photographers “Have your picture taken at the start of your holiday...” and the incredibly tight security arrangements.
But these security checks were far more more efficient and pleasant than anything you’d experience at an airport. I suppose it’s because the people in charge of security are from the ship’s company and actually treat you as paying CUSTOMERS, instead of just one more obstreperous traveler.
It’s at the entrance to the ship where you could imagine a huge container, emblazoned with a sign: “Drop your brain here – collect it after your cruise...” Because for the next 7 days and 7 nights, all you had to think about was where and what to eat, when to eat, when to go back to eat some more, and how long until you could eat again. It's no wonder they wanted to take your picture BEFORE the cruise – it’s so you can compare it to your picture AFTER the cruise. They say you enter a cruise ship as a passenger and leave it as cargo.
Just do the math – if the ship takes 3,100 passengers, each of whom put on at least 5 kg over the week, then you’d have the ship’s displacement being increased by ... oh who cares? But she was definitely riding somewhat lower in the water when we reentered Port Everglades a week later.
OK – on with the cruise. Our route took us from Fort Lauderdale to the Bahamas, then to Jamaica, the Cayman Islands, the coast of Mexico and back to Florida. We would bypass Cuba – which we could actually see off the starboard bow. Most of the traveling, except for two days, was at night. We would dock (or drop anchor at those destinations where the harbor wasn’t deep enough) early in the morning, and have the entire day to go ashore, tour, walk around quaint Caribbean port towns and shop, shop, shop. Or you could just stay on board and eat, eat, eat!
The first morning, after being ferried to shore aboard one of the ship's tenders, we stepped onto the sparkling sands of Princess Cay - actually a private Bahamian beach owned by the Princess Lines, exclusively for their guests. The beach was nice, lined with little blue canvas cabanas to protect you from the Caribbean sun, with crystal clear water and muggy weather. After an hour or so of swimming and mucking about in the gentle surf, we agreed that a beach was nothing really new and different for us (we lived in a coastal resort for years, so there was no real novelty in that): right - back to the ship - let's go see what they've got for lunch! Not that after our amazing breakfast we were remotely hungry, mind you - just curious. And you can't really investigate something without experiencing it, so...curiosity fattened the cat.
Dinner that night (am I talking about food again?), was in one of the ship's exquisite restaurants and was the first formal evening of the cruise. When I say "formal" I mean REALLY FORMAL. Dinner jackets and long flowing dresses, suits and ties if you don't have a tux; and some Scottish brethren even wore their formal kilts and sporrans. This was the captain's official welcoming party to all his guests. Champagne was flowing in the atrium, where most of the passengers gathered to hear the captain's welcoming speech; It was all like being spirited back to a gentler, more leisurely and far more decorous age - and thoroughly enjoyable. A quick word about teh food - it must eb quick because I could devote an entire chapter to the food alone: just unbeleivable - five star, haute cuisine, every day, every night...amazing.
There were two formal evenings during our cruise. On other evenings you were allowed to dress "smart casual". The description of "smart casual" in the ship's guide was "wear whatever you would to a reasonably smart restaurant in your home town..." Well, for an Israeli, that means jeans, t-shirt and sandals: but my better half gently persuaded me that I would not be accompanying her to dinner dressed like that, and so I had to follow a far more sober dress code.
After a full day at sea, early morning on day 4, found us docking in the Jamaican port of Ocho Rios! Yah mon! Here we were, unbelievably, in the heart of Rasta land, ready to move to the beat, hum along with Bob Marley wannabe's and commune with the common folk. Well...while dreams are often far removed from reality, we weren't that disappointed. The little town of Ocho Rios reminded us somewhat of any small town in Southern Africa - they even drive on the same side of the road (being formerly British, you understand); and the townsfolk were pretty similar to those of any small town we were accustomed to.
The group of schoolgirls gathered outside a supermarket in the main street could have been standing outside any supermarket in any main street in any Southern African country town. The market in Ocho Rios was fun: craftsmen carving gorgeous parrots out of wood, arrays of "Bob Marley" masks, steel drums, women offering to convert your hair into dreadlocks, and ice cold Red Stripe Jamaican beer.
The arts and crafts are quaint, ethnic and appealing and after much bargaining and Middle East-style haggling, we eventually purchased a new addition to our meagre collection of original art. It's a beautiful little painting of a typically Jamaican scene; a ramshackle bus, careering down a dusty road, a young boy on racing by on his bicycle; passengers hanging from the sides, the roof stacked with bags and sacks...all in bright primary colors. It's gorgeous and it now occupies pride of place in our salon. When we eventually took it to be framed, we were asked, "Ah, Drom Afrika?" So the similarity wasn't just in our imaginations.
Day 5: Grand Cayman - formerly known as Tortuga (anybody who has seen Pirates of the Caribbean, will recognize the name!). Quite different from Jamaica - more pristine, more orderly, very nicely laid out town with all the major financial houses lined up along the sea-front promenade. Of course,m there are dozens of shops: some just offering the usual tourist fare - trinkets, t-shirts, caps, key rings, but some of a more, shall we say, up-market nature. A store selling Harley Davidson motorcycles, another offering exquisite Lladro porcelain, designer stores, and lots and lots of jewelry.
We settled for a common old liquor store, bought a few bottles of rum and the yo-ho-hoed back to the ship.
Day 6, was to be the most exciting day of the entire cruise: We were now off the coast of Mexico, the Yucatan Peninsula to be exact. We took a ferry onto the mainland and then took a long bus ride to the ancient Mayan city of Coba, believed to be one of the largest Mayan cities and once home to more than 50,000 inhabitants, set deep in the Yucatan jungle. This set of ruins, originally discovered in the 1920's has only recently been opened to the public. The site covers nearly four square miles and is surrounded by beautiful lakes. It features a ball court where the deadly game of “Poc ta Poc” was played. Legend has it that the captain of the winning team was put to death - sent to the spirits as his reward. other stories claim it was the losers who were put to death: either way, it was not a game for sissies. The central attraction is Nohoch Mul, a pyramid with 139 steps. It doesn't sound much, but each step is double the height of a normal step, so if you have stamina, and a head for heights, you can climb it. I got half-way up, decided that the air was a bit too rare for me at that height and inched my way down again.
The husband-half of our travelling companions and hosts, Larry and Blair Belkin, is an archaeological architect who was instrumental in restoring such ancient Israeli sites as Bet Shean and Tzipori, couldn't resist the challenge of climbing to the top of the highest pyramid in the Yucatan. For him, the site offered a very different set of stones and ancient monuments from what he was used to in Israel and a totally enthralling experience.
After a full day exploring these fascinating ruins, it was back to the Caribbean Princess for our sixth night on board and a day of sailing ahead of of us.
Our final day at sea gave us a good opportunity to really get to know the ship. It is a magnificent example of modern naval architecture. It has 19 floors - that's right, with the Skywalkers night club perched on the 19th level, literally hanging out over the stern of the ship, with nothing but the ocean below you. It is a floating city: shops, a casino, an incredible 1000-seat theater, lounges, libraries, reading rooms, art galleries, bars, cafes, restaurants, more restaurants and still more restaurants. The ship's company, both the "sailors" and the "hotel staff": as they are know is made of people from the four corners of the earth. The gym is run by two South Africans; one of the dancers in the chorus line was from Harare, waiters from the Philippines, India, Greece, Italian and French chefs, stewards from Thailand; receptionists from New Zealand, Australia, the US; entertainment managers from the UK, and even a number of Israelis.
We were fortunate enough to be invited on a tour of the bridge and to get a real feel of how this amazing vessel operates.
And so, like all very good things, it had to end: one week and an inundation of experiences later, we docked again in Port Everglades, the cruise port of Fort Lauderdale and reluctantly dragged ourselves ashore, leaving our temporary floating home for others to enjoy. Ahead of us, four days in and around Miami ...but that's another story.

At the Spiritual Center of Afrikanerdom

2007-05-06T19:48:00.000+03:00

Last night I ventured into the heart of Afrikanerdom to observe a long-standing tribal ceremony with all its attendant ritual, symbols and zeal.

The “temple” I visited was the Loftus Versveld stadium in Pretoria – the spiritual home of Afrikaner Rugby and the place where foreign teams come to the slaughter.

And what a slaughtering it was last night; as the Blue Bulls (the team formerly known as Northern Transvaal) led 15 bewildered Australians to the alter and in 80 minutes, literally massacred them, 92-3...a score almost unheard of in the annals of South African rugby.

The faithful started gathering in the environs of Loftus in the late afternoon, bringing out their symbols of faith in the power of the Bulls – braaivleis (Bar-B-Q), boerewors (fat sausages) biltong (dried meat – delicious for the initiated); boere musiek (Afrikaner music) blaring forth from massive speakers...and everybody, like ancient Druids, slathered in blue woad – faces, hair, beards, stomachs (some rather larger than the national average) to affirm their allegiance to their team: the Blue Bulls. Many wore helmets adorned with bull horns, some had bull horns fixed to the front fenders and hoods of their “bakkies” – powerful utility vehicles used for farming, building and deliveries.

By the time we arrived, the pre-sacrifice fervor was well underway. Thousands of the faithful were streaming into the stadium; those that weren’t moving into the stadium were still partying in anticipation of the blood-letting to come (I’m not sure how many of them actually made it to the game...). Vendors were doing a roaring trade in blue t-shirts, blue hats, blue flags and handing out posters which read: “Ons Bloed is Blou!” – “Our blood is blue!”

I was fortunate to have been invited to sit in a reserved box, with a grand view of the floodlit gladiatorial arena, and a constant flow of beer and biltong; the fuel that keeps the fervor going.

By the time the game was ready to start, the stadium was filled to capacity – around 50,000 of the faithful, a veritable sea of blue from end to end. Flags waving, music blaring over the massive sound system, giant screens flashing advertising videos, the electronic scoreboard lit up and raring to go.

The unfortunate Aussies didn’t have a chance even before they set booted foot on the manicured field. They were defeated even before the whistle went – the sheer overpowering support of the locals was enough to demoralize even the toughest of opponents.

First blood actually went to the Australian team – known as the Queensland Reds – when they scored a penalty kick in the first three minutes: but this was to be the last time they were ever to see the goal posts. Perhaps the Blue Bulls felt it was fitting to give them a modicum of dignity in their demise.

One of the most enduring rituals at Loftus Versveld is that whenever the Bulls score a try (now worth 5 points by the way, not the traditional 3), the opening bars of the hugely popular Afrikaans song “Liefling” (My Love), something of an anthem, is pumped out over the powerful sound system, as the crowd sings along in unison.

“Liefling” was to be played 13 times that night. As a local radio DJ quipped later in the evening: “If I hear Liefling once more, I’ll blow my brains out!”

And so the devoted masses celebrated time and again as their gladiators, huge men with shoulders as wide as ox yokes and thighs the circumference of oak trees, pounded their way to victory and literally “donnered” (mauled) the visiting Aussies into the bright green Loftus turf.

But what was really happening here? In an incongruous yet even appealing way, this was a clear demonstration of the more successful aspects of the new South Africa. Wait, you may ask, wasn’t this pure tribalism, the mass psyche of superiority which characterized to the worst excesses of apartheid?

The Blue Bulls (“Die Blou Bulle”), which was always the nickname of the Northern Transvaal team in the old days, is now a totally racially integrated team. There are four blacks on the team and they are cheered and adored by the crowds as much as any Afrikaans boy might be. The team has a squad of eight gorgeous cheerleaders, The Bulls Babes, who parade around the perimeter of the field, dancing, doing flick-flacks and generally exhorting the crowd to even greater cheers. Three of these girls are black.

After the game, the crowds gathered in a parking lot where a beer tent and braaivleis area was set up together with a gi-normous sound systems blasting out the latest popular rock song to get the Afrikaners swinging: a number by a leading black artist from Soweto – the township south-west of Johannesburg.

So here we have what was perceived in the bad old days of apartheid, as the hard core of racialism, embracing other South Africans unreservedly and enthusiastically in a spirit of good natured openness and acceptance which has come to epitomize the new South Africa.

At the same time, we have a specific community group, Afrikaners to their very marrow, asserting the best of their heritage loud and clear: “We are Afrikaners, we are proud to be Afrikaners – and we are proud to be NEW South Africans.”

What an amazing demonstration of the way this country has adapted and accepted the momentous changes which were wrought without bloodshed just over a decade ago.

Now, all they have to deal with is crime, graft, corruption, cronyism, public servant inefficiency....

But who cares about that when rugby still rules, ja!

Riding the Iron Rooster - or, How to use a "Squat" on an Indian Train....

2005-11-07T14:45:00.000+02:00

NOTE: With sincere apologies to Paul Theroux for the use of the title - but it's SO appropriate.
EXTRA NOTE: If you are squeamish, have a sensitivity to graphic descriptions of bodily functions or are of a delicate nature, do NOT read this!

One of the first things you learn when traveling at the level we did in India, is that bodily functions are generally performed in a "squat" - a euphemistic term for a toilet without a seat and on which you have to perch somewhat precariously in order to fulfill your needs (not "wants" - just "needs").

There are three main senses you need to draw on to use a squat:
* A sense of balance
* A sense of adventure
* A sense of humor

All your other senses - sight, smell, taste (even hearing), you can safely tuck away - if fact, the further away, the better.

By way of description, (moving from the general to the specific):

We spent a good deal of our traveling time on trains. When you are on an Indian Railways train for 27 hours (between Kolkata and Jaipur for instance), the chances are you are going to need to visit that swaying little cabin between the coaches on at least one occasion - and your visit will in all likelihood be to perform what you usually do sitting down (of course this is written from a male point of view).

The "squat" is a hole in the floor , through which you can see the ground underneath the train rushing past. On either side of the hole are corrugated footrests - one left, one right. They are uniform in design, to ensure that each foot (shod of course) stands neatly on the rest, no matter which direction you are facing (again, the male point of view). The male standing function is fairly easy to achieve: you mount the footrests, the corrugations ensuring that you don't slip, aim in the right direction, and there you go...

As long as there is no updraft, you will probably leave the loo in the same dry state you entered it.

Now: to perform what you would normally do in the sitting position (ladies, this is also for you), you need to take stock of your situation before advancing...your sense of adventure is useful here.

Look around carefully - note the position of the grab handles on the wall - they are sometimes at a rather uncomfortable angle at which to hold on for dear life (do you get the picture?). Secondly, ensure that you have an adequate supply of toilet paper with you. Oh, did I mention that Indian toilets (as a general rule, not only on the trains) are not overly generous with such luxuries? To make up for this lack, there is usually a cute looking water spout situated strategically in front of you.

This is activated with an interesting combination of movements - push up the spout with one hand and contain the resulting powerful spray of water with the other. How you achieve this without letting go of the safety handles is where your sense of balance becomes quite useful.

The newer trains have a shower arrangement which, to the novice, initially looks inviting: showers on a train, my goodness! Er...NOT. These "showers" are designed for a specific purpose. Shower or spout, you better work this out or you will find your popularity with your fellow passengers plummeting.

Also take a cake of soap or a leaf of "paper soap" - a fragrant little square of soap-impregnated paper, which must rate as one of the best inventions ever to come out of the sub-continent.

A word of caution: make sure that your toilet paper is accessible and easy to reach at the appropriate time - more on this later.

So, to the actual performance: you are on a train, remember, belting across the Indian countryside - yes, they do move quite fast once they get going. Trains tend to bounce and jounce around, and this is where those grab handles prove their worth as life preservers.

Depending on your preference - and of course wishing to ensure that your clothes remain unsullied - you can either strip down completely and hang your slacks, shorts, or knickers on one of the hooks provided; or you can roll said clothing items up your thighs as high as they will go, while still allowing you to assume the required position: feet flat on the footrests, knees bent double, legs jutting at 45 degrees to the rest of your body, and everything else free and easy in the breeze billowing up the disposal chute.

You grab the handle in front of you with both hands, take a deep breath (if you dare) tell yourself: "I can do this - I HAVE to do this...!" and let nature take its course. Pretty soon, you get the hang of it - picture a skier behind a speed boat - and there you are riding along in perfect unison with the swaying of the train, like a bizarre ride at the Lunar Park - faster and faster, you ride this Iron Rooster and the freedom is exhilarating!

Eventually all good things come to an end, and you will have to finish up. This is where life can get complicated. Remember my earlier injunction to ensure that your toilet paper is placed exactly where you can reach it? A lack of planning in this department may result in the following potentially embarrassing scenario:

If you have stuffed the paper into the back pocket of your shorts or slacks and somewhat naively hung these on the back of the door, you will find that they are just three inches beyond your immediate reach. Hanging on to the grab handle with one hand, stretching for your clothing with the other, leaves you in a dangerously vulnerable position. You dare not let go for fear of sliding into the oblivion beneath you. If your shorts etc. are rolled up your thighs, you will soon find out whether you are actually double-jointed or you may even put your back permanently out of whack.

(Hylton got himself into this situation and we nearly had to send the plumbing rescue team in to extricate him) .

But once your session is completed, and you rise to your full height again in one fragrant piece, all clothing in the same, albeit slightly more rumpled condition in which you entered the booth, you will realize you have a huge grin on your face. Returning to your compartment, your fellow travelers welcome you with victory cheers and slaps on the back. One more achievement to chalk up to experience.

Of course, you can always use one of the Western-style toilets provided on all trains - but then, why deny yourself the fun!

Pix Update

2005-11-02T15:30:00.000+02:00

Top: Street Scene, Jaipur; Udaipur - hotel in the lake,
Interiors Beth El (left), and Maghen David Synagogues, Calcutta

Update 4: Udaipur - Delhi

2005-11-02T10:00:00.000+02:00

We trained overnight from Jaipur - a beautiful city, with everything abuzz ahead of Divali. We visited the Amber Fort on a hillside (choosing not to take the elephant ride up, mainly because we felt the elephants we not particularly well treated). Later we did some shopping in the crowded main street, dinner on the roof of our hotel with a view of the city and then to the station to Udaipur.
How can I describe Udaipur? Heaven, Paradise, Garden of Eden, Little Switzerland? Actually all and none of the above. It is quite exquisite and I do not use the word lightly. The lakes are full for the first time in many years after good monsoon rains. The palaces and hotels on the island dotted around Lake Pinochola sparkling in the morning sun, turning golden at sunset. If ever there was a place to rest up after a weary, grimy and totally exhilarating tour of India, this is it.
The town is clean and quaint. There are tailors working in literal holes in the wall, food shops offering cooking lessons (we are going to one this morning); a music shop offering tabla lessons (this afternoon)...restaurants offering superb fare and the market stores are alive, buzzing, entrepreneurial, assertive...
The past two days have been crazy, with Divali being celebrated with fireworks and bangs, music and dancing - every few seconds there is a huge "bang" and then a volley of crackles, whizzes, whoozes, swishes and cracks. In the evening, rockets shower sparkling stars over the lake...amazing.
Udaipur takes much pride in having had a James Bond film (Octopussy) made here a number of years ago, and you can take in a showing at one or other hotel every night. There are palaces and temples, museums and gardens. It is without doubt a jewel in the crown of Rajasthan.
I won't go into much more detail now; there is so much to tell and so many pictures to show: all that later. We leave (sadly) tonight for Delhi - one day, a short evening and then on the plane to Istanbul and eventually home.
It's been amazing...'nuff said for now.

Blog Update 3

2005-10-31T14:30:00.000+02:00

We left Kolkata on Friday evening, which seems like ages ago. Since then we have traveled almost 2,000 kms across the country, through Utar Pradesh and Rajasthan and are now in Udaipur, a most beautiful city set on a lake: but more of that later, as I bring you all up to date on our experiences and travels since we had tea in Darjeeling.
Let's actually travel back in time (about a week) to the start of our Darjeeling leg. We had spent a day and a half in Kolkata, being fed and hosted by Helen's school friend Yvonne ("Goldie") D'Silva. We left on the Thursday evening on the train for New Jalpaiguri (three hours late and from a different platform and that was a story in itself!): arriving in NJP in the morning, we decided not to take the Toy Train as originally intended. Reasoning that it was a long trip with this mode of transport (8 hours!) we felt that it would be better to hire a jeep and driver and enjoy the reputed 1-hour ride up the mountain to the "Queen of the Himalayas" as Darjeeling is proudly called. The so-called 1-hour ride turned into a 4-hour mountain climbing saga; it was raining so we couldn't really see where we were going, which I suppose is just as well. The road curves upwards around mountains and bends, trucks, busses, cows, jeeps all coming down the mountain towards us, around blind curves, hooting, braking, other jeeps overtaking us around corners... but as we couldn't really see the sheer drop just beyond the rather insubstantial looking barrier, we had - as our Aussie companions would say - "no worries mate". We were enormously comforted by all the warning signs and homilies encouraging safe driving hewn into the mountain side: "Give blood in the blood bank, not on the road..." - "If you're married, divorce speed." Even more encouraging was the report from Gill who had been sitting next to the driver - a devout Christian with flashing icons of Jesus all over his dashboard - that he had been praying all the way up the mountain! Fortunately we only heard this AFTER we arrived safely in Darjeeling.
Darjeeling itself was a delight. It is a beautiful little town, set on the hillside with startling views into valleys and across nearby mountain tops to the peak of Mount Katchendjunza (sp!), the highest peak in India and third highest in the world. I have already related one of the highlights of this visit, but I must relate our experience on Tiger Hill, watching the sunrise spilling onto this peak at 5:00 in the morning. After two days of rain, we decied that should it be clear the next morning, we would take the ride to Tiger Hill, about 14 km out of town, to view the celebrated sunrise.
We were woken at 4:00 am, as promised by our receptionist if the weather appeared to be clear, and off we trundled in a tiny van (the little Suzuki mini-mini bus we used to call a "half-loaf" in Israel) to experience what we expected would be a couple of mad tourists sitting under a tree on a remote hill, watching the rays of the rising sun hitting the nearby peak. We arrived at the site, the last in a line of about 300 jeeps and busses stretching up the hill to the viewsite, where at least 3,000 people (this is no exaggeration) were waiting for the sun. As the sun rose, so did a cheer from the crowd, and Mount Katchendjunza rose through the clouds to present a magnificent spectacle. Even more exciting, was a view of the tip of Everest in the far distance. A memorable experience, as much for the crowds, as for the sunrise.
We had booked our trip down from Darjeeling with Raju, the same driver who brought us up, figuring he was good with Lord, and looking forward to his promise to take us on a tour of the tea estates and other places of interest. He was as good as his word, but unfortunately his prayers did not help with the weather. It was raining and misty all the way down and for eight hours the only view we could see was about four feet in from of the jeep. But we did visit the Mirik Tea estate and one of their factories, a fascinating experience. We also stopped at the Nepalese border and Nate was nearly arrested for taking photographs of the border crossing.
After an 8-hour journey down the mountain, we made New Jalpaiguri and booked into the Hillton Hotel (!), all in one room, to freshen up and await our train back to Kolkata at 2:45 the next morning.
Marlyn has already written much about our personal experiences in Kolkata, so I will not repeat those here, except for our last day there, which to us was one of the most memorable to date:
I mentioned in an earlier posting that David Nahoum, one of the last remaining Jews in Kolkata, who runs his family confectionery business, had promised us a tour of the two remaining synagogues in this city. The shuls were found in the back streets of the city, among the markets and beggars, the food stalls and fabric shops, the fruit vendors and Divali decoration sellers: but they are in perfect condition, having been declared national monuments, and are looked after by a dedicated small staff, with David Nahoum as the de facto gabbah or governor.
The Beth-El and the Maghen David (sic!) congregations worshipped mainly in these two beautiful Beitei Knesset. Helen's mother and father were married in the Maghen David shul, and her grand uncles and other members of there family were instrumental in founding the community. Built in the style common to Iraqi jewry (the origins of most of the Calcutta community), they are large, imposing, beautifully decorated...and incredibly sad. At its height the community, which was established in the first half of the 19th century, boasted more than 5000 souls and played a major role in the cultural and economic life of Calcutta. Today there are some 30 Jews left in this impossibly crowded city - David Nahoum and Auntie Maggie Meir (about whom Marlyn wrote earlier) amongst the last. But David and his dedicated colleagues still build a Succah at Maghen David every year...a continuing tribute to the rich past of this passing community.
On our return to David's confectinery in the market we bought typical delicious Iraqi "shabbat" treats and sweetmeats - cheese samoosas, sticky buns, kaka biscuits and date biscuits (who aid this trip was about dieting?)
Friday night, we left the damp, sticky heat of Kolkata on our 27-hour train journey across the country to Jaipur in Rajasthan (where we just missed the third cricket test between India and Sri Lanka by one day). And that is a totally new blog all on its own...
until next time:
Namaste...and Happy Divali!

A Colonial Day

2005-10-28T12:53:00.000+02:00

Well, yes rather Carruthers, I think we'll take in the Darjeeling and Calcutta Kennel Club Dog Show this morning, and then perhaps afternoon high tea at the Windamere, what?
No, this is not an extract from a story about the Raj, but an actual set of events, which took place in the foothills of the Himalayas just a few days ago: central characters - Marlyn and Larry, Hylton and Gill, Nate and Helen...ex-colonials all of us, and reliving the glorious days of...we'll you get the general idea.

We stepped into the Dog Show at the Darjeeling Gymkhana Club (no kidding) and it was like stepping into a parallel universe. The hall in which the show was held was decorated in bunting and flags, the announcements were made in perfect (albeit somewhat accented) English, the contestants (owners) were dressed to the nines - even the children were in suits and party-type dresses and the dogs were, well, ahem, er...let's say somewhat short of expectations. Now don't get me wrong, there were actually a few beautiful specimens and some cute puppies but their handling and behavior was not quite up to snuff. But let's be fair, this was after all, just the "Pet" section. The Championship Show, for which we did not stay, was scheduled for later in the afternoon. Sorry, old chap, hafta run, we have another engagement up the road, at the Windamere.

The Windamere - an institution if ever there was and talk about time warp! As we entered the grounds a young be-suited manager appeared next to us, as if out of thin air: "Can I help you...?" "Yes," we replied in unison - "tea and scones please, if we may?" Very polite as befits the Windamere. Allow me to explain, (and I'll send some pix eventually as well), the Windamere has been plucked from the pages of a potted history of the Raj. If ever there was a building, an enterprise that epitomized the eccentricities of British Colonialism, this is it. The building is typical Victorian colonial architecture. Wide balconies, corrugated roof, creepers and dahlias surrounding the manicured lawns. But it is inside ("no photographs please") that the real atmosphere of the Windamere manifests itself.

We ordered "High Tea" which was served in a private lounge, fireplace which was soon stoked and roaring, walls bedecked with letters over the past 100 years, testifying to the grandeur of the hotel - "the dear old Windamere," as many described it. Photographs of illustrious visitors - the King of Nepal, the local Committee for the Support of the War Effort; pictures of the Governor General and his staff...almost a museum. And then, while we were all viewing the walls and pointing out quaint language from an almost forgotten era - "Guests are requested not to sleep behind the sofa..." our High Tea arrived:

A china plate each, bedecked with egg and cucumber sandwiches - no crusts - crunchy biscuits, chocolate marble cake and two huge pots of genuine Darjeeling tea. Quite a treat in total counterpoint to the real world of modern India. After our tea, we wandered around the hotel for as long as the young manager's beady eye would allow us. Then we found, what to me, was the gem of all - in "Daisy's Music Room" a picture and a transcript hung in a corner of the room caught my eye. On close inspection, I found it was a picture of one of England's greatest WW1 poets, Rupert Brooke and in his own handwriting (complete with corrections) his celebrated poem, learned by heart in my Sixth Form year, The Soldier: "If I should die, think only this of me, there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England..."

This was the crowning glory of our visit to the Windamere: shortly afterwards, as we were viewing the Gift Shop, Young Manager appeared and with a polite cough, indicated that our visit to his establishment had run its allotted course and would we please leave now as paying guests were arriving. Stepping outside, we heard - as if on command - the pipes and drums of a military band in the vicinity: had we actually been transported back in time? We rushed up the road hoping to see kilts and sporrans parading in the town square...only to find the local Darjeeling Police Band piling themselves and their instruments into their trucks and heading back to their quarters.

Ah well, spending a day in the splendor of the Raj was fun...now it was back to the real India with all its contradictions and sensuality; noise and color: the real India, which in is language, institutions and bureaucracy, still honors this British colonial period of its history.

India-Journal 1

2005-10-23T18:30:00.000+02:00

Here are a few pix - I can't upload too many because they are high res and quite heavy, but they should give some idea of what we've seen.
(Click on the pix to enlarge)

The first is the street outside our hotel in Delhi...

Second - the Gandhi Ghat (Delhi) - the site of Gandhi's cremation

The beggar girl and sibling on Kolkuta station - holding the paper pencil and sharpener Marlyn gave her - this child could read, write and draw beautifully!

The dawn sun reflecting off Mt. Kantchendzunga (sp!) seen from Tiger Hill outside Darjeeling this morning (23/10). We were there at 5:00 am with THOUSANDS of other people (locals mostly) - we even saw the tip of Everest in the VERY far distance.

More later...

India Blog 1

2005-10-21T13:20:00.000+02:00

Welcome, Namaste, Shalom:

Here we are in India and we can hardly believe it. I am actually sitting in an office in Calcutta using a lap top which belongs to a friend of a friend....forget it: it's a long story and there are so many others to tell!

We arrived in Delhi early on Sunday morning after a fairly quick flight from Istanbul; found our bus driver waiting for us as promised and were taken to the Prince Polonia Hotel (!) in the center of the Delhi market. We got there at about 4.00 am after an unbelievable ride in the from the airport. The roads were absolutely chockablock with trucks, little motorized rickshaws, Ambassadors (formerly known as 1958 Morris Oxfords) and bicycles, pedestrians, buses: Hylton was riding up front and he was giggling hysterically the entire way to the hotel - mainly I think from sheer terror! Our driver managed to squeeze in and out of spots, cross intersections, get the best of buses...the driving in India is a story all on its own so I will deal with that MUCH later.

When we got up at about 7:00 we took stock of exactly where we were. The hotel itself was very nice and clean, air conditioned room, bathroom, but we thought a little expensive at Rs 1000.00 per night (NIS100.00 or $20.00). The street had potholes and rocks in the road; the jeep could hardly drive down it. Almost immediately outside the hotel were three cows just lying around the street: a little "makolet" across the road where we could buy bottled water etc, a baker (everybody working like a scene from medieval times - sweaty and dusty; bread baking on the open skillet...fruit and vegetables being sold outside, "chula" (dung) fires in the street, a lady removing lice from her daughter's hair, mangy dogs, mangy beggars...VERY "colorful" and entertaining.

We went to find the railway ticket office to book our tickets to Kolkuta. Long story short, we ended up with a jeep and a driver for the day and to take us to Agra to the Taj Mahal - why?
Because we couldn't get a train from Delhi as the holidays have just started here and the trains are FULL! The only train we could get was from Agra to Kolkuta so the guy at the tourist information office (where we had to book the tickets) organized an air conditioned jeep, driver etc etc to take us all to Agra in the morning. In the afternoon, we had the jeep to tour around Delhi and then to fetch Nate and Helen (and their friend Rita) from the airport. Sounds very "larny" but we had the jeep the first day free because we had booked it for Agra.

On the way to the station, we walked through the market - absolutely amazing what was on sale...anything you could think of. The traffic at the intersections is CRAZY! Huge trucks blocking the road, drivers just hooting and squeezing alongside them, little motorized rickshaws bouncing along the road, bicycles, cars, cows, noise, hooting. Near the market there is a main intersection to the station. You just take your chances and cross the road and hope you get to the other side.

The traffic moves on its own, never mind the lights. To get to the tourist train booking office, we had to take one of these rickshaw scooters. Four of us piled in (we'll send pix) with "Jolly" (a Sikh in a turban) as our driver. I was sitting up front next to him and about half way there he said: "YOU drive sir..." and let go of the handlebars! I found it, shall we say, "entertaining" - actually bloody scary! He was directing me which was to go but I was trying to concentrate on the traffic whizzing around and trying to find the brakes.

Once we had organized our tickets and the jeep and driver we were taken on an extended tour of Delhi. Highlights of the day: We went to the Jamal Masjid - the largest mosque in India, and then the Red Fort - both built in the 17th century. Around the mosque are hundreds of beggars of different shapes, sizes and afflictions(!) We have become very good at ignoring them and the snake charmers and the touts (selling ANYTHING you want). In the evening we drove around New Delhi (the British city - which is actually very beautiful, very green, wide avenues), but the biggest highlight was a visit to the Gandhi Ghat - the place where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated. The feeling there is indescribable: hundreds of people visiting the site, you have to take off your shoes and walk through the beautiful landscaped gardens to the simple black slab on which his body was placed. We bought some rose petals to place on the spot and the amazing atmosphere literally overwhelmed us. I believe this is one site that anybody with any feeling and understanding of humanity HAS to visit...(more about this much later.)

We then drove to the government offices and then to India Gate, a huge monument commemorating India's fallen soldiers - thousands of people thronging the area as it's the start of the holidays. There were ice cream sellers and balloons and a festive atmosphere: like Yom Ha'aztmaut 10 X !

In the morning we left early for Agra by road. After about three hours (and a stop at a VERY smart restaurant along the way for breakfast - driver's choice, not ours) we arrived in this town and were taken directly to the Taj Mahal. To reduce pollution, vehicles are not allowed within a kilometer of the site, so each couple had to hire a bicycle rickshaw to get us there. Suffice to say the Taj Mahal is just magnificent: there are no other words to describe it. It's familiar from all the pictures you have seen in travel mags etc but in real life it is quite spectacular. I wont go into the history now, but the entire edifice is built to a precise symetrical pattern; what is on the right is mirrored on the left, perfect symetry.

We were followed in by a horde of photographers: you would have thought we were visiting VIPs with a crowd of paparazzi in tow. We tried hard to fend them off, but eventually agreed to let them take our pictures, which came out quite nicely.

Next morning we took the Kalka Mail from Toondla (outside Agra) to Kolkuta: our "compartments" were four-berth cabins with two berths on the other side of the corridor. The only thing separating them was a curtain which could be drawn. Our "cabin mates" were Vimal and Beena from Kolkuta, a lovely couple who had been to a health retreat in Rajasthan and were returning home. We swapped stories, discussed our different lives and families and struck up a lovely relationship. They taught us some Yoga exercises and we also exchanged food...they gave us Dhal sweetmeats and we gave them halva: a real intercultural experience. Now they have INSISTED that we have dinner with them when we return to Kolkuta.

Oh Calcutta (English spelling); what an amazing city. Take away the shmutz and the beggars, clean up the buildings a bit and it looks very much like London; which is not that surprising seeing as how the British built it almost from scratch 300 years ago. The traffic was once again hair-raising. Ambassadorss (those Morris Oxfords again) literally squeeze in and out of tight spots, bend themselves around corners, belch their dieseled way through the streets and eventually, despite the apparent odds, deposit you where you want to be - somewhat the worse for wear. We spent the next few hours after our arrival viewing the city and booking into the YWCA (about which we shall say NOTHING except YEUCH!!!).

Helen was like a kid..remember she was born in Kolkuta and hasn't been back since 1977. She visited her old apartment, and then took us through the New Market to visit Nahoum's Confectionery - a business which was started by the Nahoum family in 1902 and has been in its present spot in the very heart of the market since 1916. It is run by David Nahoum, the last
in the Nahoum family line still involved in the business and one of the last few Jews left in Kolkuta. His cakes and sweets are delicious and the business is an institution in Kolkuta. Helen was very emotional. She kept saying "the ghosts...the ghosts..." remembering her childhood and the vibrant Jewish community life which thrived here all those years ago. David has promised to take us to see the last two synagogues in the city when we get back from Darjeeling...

Goldie - Helen's friend about whom much more later - took us to a new restaurant for a typical Bengali lunch - just too delicious for words: meanwhile it was pelting down outside and the Kolkuta streets were awash. The drainage leaves something to be desired. The interesting thing about this city is that there are some really upscale shopping areas - Park Street for instance - with really classy cafes, restaurants, clothing stores and a fantastic music and DVD shop...and across the street are the beggars and the rundown little stalls; the scruffy dogs and scrofulous children; squalor and opulence side by side.

We left for Darjeeling yesterday (Thursday ) afternoon. Well, it was supposed to be Thursday afternoon but ended up as Thursday night - our train was delayed for hours. We waited on the station platform (9a);then we were told it was 9b; then we were told the train was only leaving at 7:00 pm instead of 5:00, then it was changed to 8:00 pm on platform 8. But if you really want to see a slice of Indian life, it is on the station platforms that you really get up close and personal. We met Karan, a beggar shoe cleaner boy of about 9-years-old, to whom Marlyn gave a pencil and sharpener and some paper - he was thrilled. And then we were accosted by a little girl, she couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 carrying her little sister of about 2: the sweetest faces you could ever imagine, begging for scraps and rupees. If you allowed yourself you could actually fall apart over the filth and degradation and utter poverty in which these children live. But one has to put up a shield and actually shoo them off: begging is more like an industry in India - the more deformed and deprived the beggars look, the more valuable they are as beggars. It's a strange logic; we didn't want to appear lazy by finding porters, but actually realizedd that by NOT getting them to shlep our bags, we were depriving them of employment.

And now we are in Darjeeling having arrived a few hours ago after an overnight train ride from Kol, and a four hour jeep ride up the hill; twists and turns, buses, trucks, jeeps other vehicles coming and going - one or two actually not making it. There were a few wrecks teetering on the edge of the mountain. We shared our jeep with Col. Muhkarjee, an officer in the Gurkhas and a really colorful character. He has invited us to the Officer's Mess in Darjeeling this evening for drinks and dinner and we are looking forward to it.

So far, we've had not stomach troubles at all; really enjoying the food and keeping to sealed bottled water.

Darjeeling is charming but its raining and cold so we are not walking about today. Tomorrow we'll start looking around as the weather promises to improve. That's it for now. Future blogs will feature the Bog Blog or How to use a squat on an Indian train and some more on the traffic and Indian drivers...till then

Namaste

Our Personal Passage to India

2005-10-03T09:00:00.000+03:00

We're going to India. Amazing how those four simple words can evoke a universe of reactions. Everything from: "Wow...Brilliant - I wanna come too..." (Our 29-year-old daughter Camilla, who spent five months there) to "Are you bloody mad???!!!" (the expected response from certain acquaintances who shall be nameless!) Other responses from friends and family run the gamut of open jaws (no sound emitting), to "Huh, where?" to "Start taking Immodium-NOW!"
Well, we still have four months to go - October 15 is launch date - and we haven't started packing just yet (altho' our Australian cousins who are meeting us there claim they've started...so they don't miss the plane).
How on earth do we have the audacity to go to India? We're not that young anymore (well, we're not OLD), we're - you know, not just out of the army heading east like every young Israeli who finishes serving the nation and heads for the wilds of Borneo, or Thailand or India or other such exotic climes. And NO, we are not going to do "India Luxus" staying in 5-star hotels swanning around in airconditioned Ambassadors with turbaned chauffeurs. We don't have the money for that, and even if we did, we wouldn't...know what I mean?
It all came about when our cousins (Nate and Helen) in Melbourne, who we haven't seen for three years, arranged to meet Gill and Hylton, our cousins from Tel Aviv in Delhi and they said why the hell don't we come along too - get all the bloody (sorry, blood-) relations together in one bloody place at one bloody time???
The lure of spicy, good, genuine, hot Indian curry every day for a month was just too much! Hylton and I have been threatening to get a curry evening together for months now, so I guess this is the only way we're going to do it sometime soon.
Now the plans and ideas, suggestions and comments are flying back and forth across the email and internet waves between Israel and Oz with alarming speed (the joys of being able to speak to Melbourne FREE via the Internet - yes this IS a plug for Skype!). Indian Internet sites are being visited more than ever in their entire existence; we are finding hotels and guest houses at ridiculously low prices (medium range, + private bathroom, +"beautiful view and sumptuous breakfast served overlooking the Ganges") for less than NIS50.00 a night DOUBLE (that's about $11); we have finally (I think...) figured out the strange and labyrinthine routes through an India Railways timetable - jeez, I negotiated my way through an Italian railway timetable and booking office - how bad can India be? (He he - chuckles Camilla, the one who spent five months there - just you wait and see....!) We do know that Helen, who was born in Calcutta, will be a wonderful guide and we've already started learning Hindi.
Here, courtesy of Helen, is Lesson 1:

namaste = hello (said with both hands together in a prayer-like formation: one is actually praying that they understand one) (pronounced: namaste)
ap kaisa hai = how are you (pronounced how arr yuu)
kitna paisa hai = how much is it (pronounced: emmachizit)
hum nai pasand karata hai = I don't like it (said to helpful coolies who try to feel one up at the same time as trying to snatch one's parcel in an effort to carry it for one and thus get some business so they don't starve to death)
hum usko nai mungta = I don't want it (to be said over and over again to over zealous shopkeepers, rickshaw wallahs, cholera ridden food vendors, public toilet paper dispenser ladies)

Here endeth the first lesson for the time being...
OK - so we're going to find out that the Internet is the biggest spin-doctor in the history of the universe; that the hotel rooms looked the way they do on my screen only once ever (the day the pictures were taken) and that breakfast on the Ganges may not be quite as romantic as it's made out to be...but that's what we're going to discover. Our sense of adventure has not been dimmed in our respective fifth (or is that sixth?) decades and we will take a one last deep breath of clean, airconditioned, aircraft air and savor it before setting foot on Delhi's tarmac.
We have been promised it will be an eye-opener; we have been promised that we will never be the same again; we have been promised the experience of a lifetime - and we can't wait!
We'll keep you posted on our personal passage to India.
Oh, and if anybody has any suggestions, ideas or tips, please email them or post comments on this site.

Sometime later (3 1/2 months later to be precise):
Since last editing this posting, I've learnt some new Hindi, which has become something of a personal favorite: "agar magar mudt kedjeaye = no if's and buts, please!" which I learnt not from Helen, but from that wonderful handbook on India, "Holy Cow" by Sarah Macdonald (Broadway) - absolutely required reading for anybody with even a remote interest in India. I practice this phrase daily (not sure about the pronunciation yet) but I'm sure I'll get it right eventually. After all, as somebody remarked to me at a party the other day, when I was mimicking a Durban-sourced Indian accent: "You'll have no trouble - you already speak the language..."

It is now early October and our odyssey looms large on the Eastern horizon. Just a week-and-a-half to go and then we'll be gone, flying Turkish Airlines magic carpet to who knows what adventures and experiences. Hotels are booked: - ha! let's see if the Prince Polonia Hotel in Delhi (Mr. Brij, Director) actually does meet us at Delhi airport in the wee wee hours (2:30 am ETA in their "own big car (tata sumo) for Rs700 - (NIS70.00)". Gill did a wonderful job sorting out the hotel bookings - emails, telephone calls, sending copious amounts of rupee as deposits...

We had our shots three weeks ago - our "Pun-jabs" as a friend remarked. Marlyn had four, I had five - and we are now suitably inoculated and immune for decades to all manner of dreadful little bugs and diseases which still stalk our lonely planet, particularly in those remote and undeveloped areas known as "The Third World". Still on our shopping list are hugely expensive malaria tabs (I thought a nightly slug of Gin & Tonic would do the trick - it worked for the Raj didn't it?) and a cartload of Immodium and one more hepatitis shot each.

Our inventory of clothes and accessories has been checked and set aside: camera - extra batteries - check; additional memory chip - check; battery and cell-phone charger - check; torch - check; locks for luggage - check; Visas - passport and plastic - check; minimal clothing (three pairs of shorts, three longs/jeans, T-shirts, something warm for the mountains; walking shoes - that's it...).

We've sort of decided to take only backpacks and a small wheeled carry-on suitcase (at least I have - I'm using Camilla's amazing backpack she had in India - well balanced, easy to lug, huge capacity; Marlyn has decided to take our standard traveling suitcase - mainly to make sure she has enough room to bring back the loads of cotton fabric she intends buying in Calcutta.

So now all that remains is for me to advise another few clients that I'll be away for half of October and a few days into November... (with some trepidation, Marlyn told her new boss...he was thrilled at the idea...); to get through the Chagim - Rosh Hashana tonight and tomorrow (too much to eat, I'm sure) next week Yom Kippur - nothing to eat - and then we fly...

I'll be keeping this up to date as much as I can during the trip - so log in from time to time (or I'll advise by email): Shana Tova to all - INDJAH - HEAH WE COME!

Prague Summer 2004

2004-10-24T19:51:00.000+02:00

Published: July 2004
We’re back from a short and wonderful week in Prague where we – Marlyn and I and Camilla, Craig and Aliza - met my sister and her family from Johannesburg and also a cousin from Cape Town – now living in Cambridge – whom I hadn’t seen for about 20 years.

Prague is a wonderful, beautiful, magnificent city – and any of you who have not had the pleasure of visiting there, I recommend it as something you absolutely HAVE to do.

The entire city looks like a movie set for a film about Renaissance Europe – except that all the buildings are genuine, all the cobble stoned streets are authentic…all the bridges actually span a real flowing river: which just two years ago overflowed its banks and flooded a large portion of the city and its historic buildings.
But everything has been lovingly restored and the city if thriving again.

The city is clean, which is somewhat amazing considering the incredible number of tourists thronging its streets. The municipal authorities obviously take great pride in keeping the city pristine – even the horses pulling the tourist carriages have “facilities” strapped to their hindquarters.

Prague is a very user-friendly city: everything is within easy walking distance; cars are kept out of the city center (except for those with special permits which are kept in short supply and have to be applied for a year in advance.) To get to areas beyond the city center, the public transport – the metro, trams and busses – are efficient, clean cheap, and generally safe. We had been warned about pickpockets and muggers, but quite honestly didn’t even suspect anyone of looking too hard at our bags and cameras slung around our collective necks. There is a very discreet police presence and one suspects that they’ve had enough of their city’s reputation being tarnished. This is not to say that one should be foolhardy. We heard that round mid-night one can purchase most anything you would desire on the streets…and some back alleys looked decidedly dodgy. But then other back alleys revealed the most amazing shops and restaurants. The best shopping can be found down these passageways and corridors which lead off the main streets.

The shopping in Prague is incredible: every designer label you could wish for, the most wonderful glassware, clothes, shoes, ornaments and off course souvenirs. But it’s no longer as cheap as it used to be…prices are creeping up, but you can still get a pretty good meal at a good restaurant for much less than it would cost in Tel Aviv or London! The food is reasonably good “continental” style – mainly Italian, with Czech fare being mainly goulash and dumplings…but the beer is fabulous; and there is fast food in abundance – even falafel, shwarma and pita.

Music abounds; this is after all the city of Mozart, and every church presents concerts at all times of the day: some are free, some are quite expensive…but the variety is the spice here – organ recitals, soprano solos, children’s choirs from different parts of the world; and of course jazz, all night, every night.
The Jewish Museum – really a collection of synagogues, museums and the ancient cemetery with gravestones dating back hundreds of years – is both fascinating and moving: especially so the Pinkas Synagogue, in which the names of all the Holocaust victims from Prague and surrounding areas are handwritten on the walls.
Of course, to get a real sense of the Holocaust in this part of the world, one must visit Terezin – Theresienstadt – the Nazi’s showcase ghetto…some showcase. In what was a once small, rather attractive garrison town of some 7,000 residents, the Nazis crammed 10 times that number of Jews at any one time. More than 160,000 went through Terezin…some stayed for only one day, some for years – most ended up in Auschwitz.

We experienced Terezin as a Jewish family: 10 of us – the youngest just 11-years-old, the same age as many of the children sent to Terezin - taking the short train ride from Prague to Bohusovice Station and walking the kilometer or so from the small town to the ghetto, following the same route taken by thousands of Jews just a generation ago. Terezin was not a “death camp” in the same sense as Auschwitz, but the entire experience was moving beyond words. But perhaps the most moving and poignant moment came when we visited the museum in what was once the Boys Home and saw the exhibition of art work and the clandestine newspaper published by the pre-teenaged boys in the ghetto. In one showcase, was a picture drawn by the magazine’s founder, 14-year-old Peter Ginz, titled “A View of Earth from the Moon.” It was a copy of this picture which Israeli astronaut Ilan Ramon took with him on the ill-fated Columbia shuttle mission…

Away from the misery of Terezin and into the Czech countryside, we spent a magical day at a cottage in the village of Struhey (I think I got that right), some 50 kilometers north east of Prague, where my nephew’s Czech wife’s family live.

Another wonderful day was spent in the Spa town of Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad) where people go to “take the waters”…then we spent a day in the beautiful small town of Melnik, at the confluence of the Labe and Vltava (pronounced Voltava – or Moldau) Rivers. It was here that we visited a small Charnel House – a repository of bones gathered over centuries and stacked in neatly arranged piles around the walls. Quite eerie and somewhat ghoulish.
There is much more to write about – Prague’s Charles Bridge, thronging with tourists, where you can buy anything from a caricature portrait to trinkets, listen to a jazz band, hear an organ grinder; watch performing dogs…the walk up what felt like the longest hill in the word to the Hrdcany Castle, with a magnificent view of the city…
And then back on the Metro for the 15-minute ride to the northern suburb of Kobylysy and our small but very comfortable and very reasonably priced pension.

In all, we spent seven magical days in this magical city and its surroundings; our kids met up with their cousins from South Africa who they had not seen in nine years and the bonding was immediate and amazing.
Then it was back to Tel Aviv – just over three hours away and 15 degrees difference in temperature. Leaving the plane at Ben Gurion airport was like walking into a sauna.

Back to work, back to study, back to putting together our memories of a really memorable time…
You can share some of our experiences with us by viewing our photo album at: http://photos.yahoo.com/elesbe2004
Enjoy…

Sunny South Africa – 15 years down the line…

2004-10-24T19:47:00.000+02:00

June 2003
My family and I left South Africa on Aliyah at the end of 1987. I have not been back since…until this month, when a last-minute family simcha (it’s a long story) brought Marlyn and me back to SA for a short, hectic, wonderful visit, some 15 years after we left.

It was with mild trepidation that I embarked on the El Al flight for Johannesburg. What would I find on the other end? How would I feel about visiting my old stamping grounds, seeing old friends and family, left so long ago…and how would I feel about the “new” South Africa with all its promise and problems.

In a sense this trip was about closing circles. In Durban, visiting my parents graves in the Redhill Cemetery… walking across the trimmed lawns to pay homage to friends who had passed away long before their time…visiting my niece’s tombstone at Stellawood (she was just under a year old when she died of typhoid in 1986).
It was also about renewing acquaintances with old friends, finding that despite the intervening 15 years nothing had really changed between us and meeting new family members…children born after we left; new wives and husbands brought into the family by younger cousins, and the crowning event of our Durban leg – visiting our former maid, now totally blind, at the Natal Blind Society where she earns her living making cane chairs.
We started our 13-day whirlwind trip in Johannesburg – almost unrecognizable since I lived and worked there 30 years ago! The international airport is magnificent; the customs and passport officials, all black, are friendly, courteous, helpful…

The place is buzzing. There are thousands of international visitors – business people and tourists — arriving every day. Flights from all over the world pull up to the terminal every hour…foreign languages abound, foreign currency flows: but the Rand is still languishing around the R8.00 to the dollar mark, close to R13.00 to the Pound – what a win for anybody traveling with these currencies! For although prices in South African terms are high, when local prices are converted to dollars, you can hardly believe your luck – a succulent steak for R75.00 (read around $9.00!); a luxurious villa with all the trimmings, garden, swimming pool, electrified fence etc. for only R1 million or so (about $120 000 – that sort of money might buy you a two-roomed apartment in Holon).

But when you’re earning in Rands everyday things are pricey; I was told that until recently a reasonably “good” salary on which a family could afford some of the good things in life — including live-in servants — netted out at about R14 000 a month. Today, a family needs two salaries to live at the same standard. But — and this is a HUGE “but” for former South Africans in Israel — you can buy a house (even if it is in the million Rand bracket) with just 10 percent deposit…and everybody drives leased cars – Mercs. BMWs, a wide range of SUVs…and there are generally two vehicles in the driveway (providing they haven’t been stolen in the past 24 hours). If you’re in that bracket life is fine. However, in the new South Africa, while there is still a reasonably affluent middle-class white population, and a rapidly rising black middle-class, the majority of the country’s citizens are very far from this standard of living. More about that later.

Johannesburg is still the big, raucous, brash fast-moving city it always was. Except that now that city stretches from Vereeniging in the south with Mid-Rand joining Johannesburg with Pretoria in the north. The east and west Rand are contiguous to Johannesburg and there is hardly any space between any of these areas whatsoever. It is a gigantic megalopolis. The highways are plentiful, broad and fast moving — except in rush hour when they grind to a halt as in any major world city.

I used to live in Sandton in my bachelor days. Back then, it was sleepy dormitory town, untarred roads were used more by horses than cars (it was also known as the Mink and Manure belt); there were few streetlights and my trendy bachelor pad faced onto Bob Grayston’s stables. The only reminder of those stables is that dear old Bob’s name has been perpetuated in a pub in the Holiday Inn which now stands on the stable acreage.

Sandton City is literally that – a huge shopping city, with the relatively new Sandton Mall designed as a market square in an old European city – surrounded by restaurants, coffee shops and galleries. And so it was with the rest of Johannesburg. I knew we were in Oxford Road, but only because somebody told me. Jan Smuts Avenue was vaguely familiar because we passed Zoo Lake and Barry Herzog Avenue was somewhat the same because it started near Wits University. But that was about it. The entire environment around these main arteries has changed. Not so much in the housing, but in the shopping malls, business parks, apartment blocks...and in the teams of beggars, hawkers and other unfortunates who crowd around your car – windows up, doors locked, air conditioning on – at every stop.

We didn’t go into the center of Johannesburg. We had been warned enough times about that, but we did manage to get a glimpse of the CBD from the M1 highway which skirts the eastern side of the city. It looked pretty much the same, except for a huge building or two and the new Nelson Mandela Bridge which replaced the old Queen Elizabeth Bridge linking the city to Braamfontein.

In fact, this seemed to be our recurring impression of the new South Africa. Everywhere we went —and I think in Durban most of all — seemed so familiar...and yet so strange. It was the nearest thing I have ever come to being in a sort of time warp. As if I went to sleep one night and like Ryp van Winkel, give or take a few years, woke up 15 years later. Everything was the same – yet NOTHING was the same.

On the social level, the new South Africa is fantastic. The interaction between black and white, amongst the people of the rainbow nation, is quite remarkable. From what we could see in the malls, the restaurants, coffee shops, department stores (Woolworths still rules!), people are relaxed, totally at ease with one another. Shop assistants, black and white, are courteous, helpful, smiling, and all apparently without any rancor, bitterness or grudges about South Africa’s inglorious political past.

But this is at a superficial level; seeing it as a foreigner, albeit one who lived there in the dark days of apartheid.
The country still has a long way to go. There are enormous challenges and issues to face. There is unemployment — mainly among whites, who face the competition of “affirmative action” in the workplace. As one young cousin, a highly qualified stockbroker who had worked on the JSE for seven years and now cannot find a position in his profession, quipped: “If you’re white, male and qualified...forget it; there are no jobs available.” He and his young wife are seriously considering leaving the country for England.

There is still black poverty — a lot of it. We saw shantytowns on the outskirts of Johannesburg and Cape Town every bit as run down as they were in the “old days”. But Alexandra and Soweto have running water and are electrified — and that’s why, in the cynically tongue-in-cheek words of a white South African, “...we have to keep buying new TV sets...”

Corruption is said to be rife and AIDS is decimating the black population. One of the major problems is that of AIDS orphans...left to their own devices, without a roof over their heads; with no money and no job prospects, roaming the streets of downtown Johannesburg, Durban and Cape Town, at the core of a huge social problem which the government is reacting to extremely slowly. A huge government-sponsored AIDS awareness advertising campaign has been slammed by local critics as being aimed at completely the wrong target, with completely the wrong message.

My brother-in-law, a director of an light industrial company, related that at every Christmas party, the staff stand for a silent minute remembering those colleagues who had died during the year, mainly of AIDS and related illness – fully 10 percent of his black workforce...every year!

Crime is widespread: there is hardly a single person that we know who hasn’t been a victim. My sister in Johannesburg had her car stolen, was mugged and lost all her jewelry and had her house broken into (despite an arsenal of burglar alarms and a huge German Shepherd) all within about 3 months.

Every single house, gorgeous and luxurious as it may be, is surrounded by a massive wall, topped by electronic trip wires, alarms. Security company shields adorn every gate. When entering a driveway, you stop and check to see if anybody is approaching from any distance before opening the gate. A good friend of ours in Durban had a gun thrust into his neck as he was getting out of his car in his garage. Now he has full length mirrors on the garage wall...and doesn’t leave his car until the garage door is closed.

Durban is still Durban: nothing much has changed and yet, as I said, everything has changed. We didn’t go to the city (warned off on that one again...), we didn’t go to the beachfront (another warning); we drove down Old Fort Road past the old Indian Market (“don’t get out here....”) and yet we strolled around the Musgrave Center and Gateway shopping malls without a care in the world. No armed guards at the entrances...no body searches, no searching bags and jackets. The only place where we did undergo any sort of search on entering a building was at Johannesburg’s lavish Monte Casino shopping and casino complex. Yes, there are casinos everywhere. Durban has one right next to Natal Command, the local SA Defense Force headquarters on the beachfront.

But Durban was more about catching up with old friends, closing circles and remembering passed family and friends. We stopped in front of our old house in Carrington Heights and saw how the new owners had converted it into two separate units...we took pictures to show the kids where they grew up. Visiting our dear Thelma Njoli – our maid for 10 years who literally brought up those kids – and we told her what fine job she had done. She was visually challenged even then, and today is totally blind.

Our friends are just as we remember them...slightly grayer, balder, a little more paunchy here and there...their kids are all grown up, independent and gorgeous. Some are married, many are living abroad; some (like ours) are still living at home.

But perhaps the most bizarre aspect for us to come to terms with was just how far we seem to have come in the past 15 years...and how for those we left behind, nothing seemed to have changed. At dinner one night in Durban, there was some polite small talk about Israel and “the situation...” and then back to everyday South African affairs — the men still talked business, the women still talked family and servants and shopping....and it was as if I had left the room in the middle of a conversation 15 years ago, and just re-entered it...deja vu all over again. The topics were the same; the complaints were the same; the issues were the same...the setting was the same. This is not a value judgment, only an observation – an observation made that much more brittle by our personal and collective experiences in Israel since 1987.

As an Israeli, there is a darker side to South Africa, which is more than disturbing...it is downright frightening. It manifested itself in the World Anti-Racism Conferences last year and it manifests itself in the outright anti-Semitic and anti-Israel attitudes of a large proportion of the population. It is fanned by incitement of the Mullahs and leaders of the huge Muslim communities, especially in the Cape. It is abetted by the fawning self-hatred of thankfully a small number of the South African Jewish community themselves – Minister Ronnie Kasreels for instance, and a certain Johannesburg Rabbi who refused to say a prayer for the Israeli victims of terrorist attacks because it wasn’t “even-handed” to single out Jews and not say a prayer for Palestinian victims of “Israel’s aggression”.

There were questions about the wall being built between Israel and the Palestinian areas...”...why? it’s not fair, what do we hope to achieve?...the poor Palestinians...” and this from people who live in designer prisons...behind high walls, with electronic anti-intrusion devices, even barbed-wire, vicious guard dogs and rapid response systems, all aimed at keeping out those who only want to share their wealth. The irony was lost on them.
And then there were other attitudes...more militant and more right wing than any West Bank settler: “I don’t understand your prime minister – why doesn’t he just go in and finish the job....”

Any attempts at explaining the complexities of our situation; how Israel tries its utmost to avoid harming innocent civilians at enormous cost to its own soldiers; how Israel has tried to avoid indiscriminate attacks, how we have maintained the most painful restraint in the face of wholesale murder and provocation...was lost on them too.

The final leg of our rush through SA was Cape Town...and we had forgotten just what a gorgeous city it is. We were told that the BBC had named it one of the five world cities you have to see before you die, and we fully support that viewpoint (agreeing with the BBC for a change...?!). We thought Sydney was beautiful, and it is, but Cape Town is as beautiful in a very unique way.

However, it wasn’t the drive down to Cape Point, or out to the Spier Wine Estate in Stellenbosch, or even the magnificent Waterfront shopping and entertainment complex that topped our Cape Town trip. It was that short voyage across 11 kilometers of Table Bay to Robben Island that will be a lasting memory.

We had a choice (we were only in Cape Town for two and a half days...) up Table Mountain or out to Robben Island. As a returning South African, for whom Robben Island was the most sinister symbol of apartheid South Africa, there was no choice. I had to close this final gap.

Arriving at Robben Island dockside, one is greeted with huge enlarged photographs of early prisoners arriving on the same dockside. And then you walk towards the prison enclosure itself. The gateway, bearing its decade’s old engraved message: “Welcome to Robben Island – Welkom in Robbeneiland” and the boastful prison service motto: “We serve with Pride – Ons Dien met Trots...” is alarmingly resonant to any Jew.

And although there can be no physical comparison between Robben Island and the atrocities of Eastern Europe, in one respect they are the same. People were incarcerated here because they dared to think differently...to be different...to be racially different from the rulers who believed they were the pinnacle of humankind.
The tour guides on Robben Island are former black prisoners and former white guards. And this, more than anything, highlights just how far the new South Africa has come from its dismal past. They live and work side by side now. Neither one being better or worse than the other...neither one controlling or being submissive to the other.

It was strange to hear the tour guide telling a group made up largely of foreigners, the stories of the prisoners on Robben Island; Mandela, Sobukwe; Sisulu...names which I, as a young journalist on a Johannesburg Sunday newspaper those long years ago, knew so well. And it was surreal to hear the tour guide talking about those Whites who fought the good fight for justice in the old South Africa...Helen Suzman. Benjamin Pogrund...people I had met, interviewed, written about and frankly hero-worshipped in my days in the newsroom, covering social and political events. And frankly, I felt a swelling of pride that I had been involved – albeit in the minutest of ways, albeit vicariously as any journalist must be – in the struggle which has brought about the brave new South Africa.
Our trip to the Cape ended all too quickly. It was back to Johannesburg for one night...out to the airport early on Monday morning, aboard the El Al 767...and within 9 hours back to our own brave new world beyond the gates of Ben Gurion Airport.

We had been away exactly 13 days, met up with 86 family members and friends... spent two days viewing game in the Pilansberg, traveled literally around South Africa, hopping from Johannesburg to Durban to Cape Town and back to Jo’burg; and now we were back in the sweltering mid-summer Tel Aviv heat. We had settled a lot of unfinished business...we had seen the new South Africa and we had loved every minute of it – but now, we were home.

ends

Sleepless in Dubrovnik

2004-10-24T19:00:00.000+02:00

(July 2000)

Trust a bus load of Israelis to cause a traffic jam in a foreign city…well, it wasn’t really our fault; you see this truck pulled out in front of us and the bus driver just couldn’t resist trying to impress us by ignoring it. Sound familiar? So without doing anything, our group of 40 high-tech personnel and their spouses, significant others, lovers and friends, caused the biggest traffic jam ever seen in Dubrovnik. At least five cars were backed-up behind us and the locals came out to gawk.

But this wasn’t the only sensation we had caused that morning.

Our Israir jet’s arrival was the most significant event of the day at Dubrovnik airport an hour earlier. The only other aircraft parked on the airport apron were two aging prop jobs – looking suspiciously like surplus WWII Stuka dive bombers camoflagued in bright orange to resemble crop sprayers. Was this the Croatian airforce…?

And then one of our party had the audacity to loose her passport. In her frantic search for that valuable document, she tore apart her entire travel kit – it looked like three suitcases, two back packs, four carry bags, a handbag and her make-up bag: well, that’s what it looked like, strewn all around the arrivals hall. So all things considered, our arrival for three days of company “bonding” was off to an auspicious start. Thanks to an alert Israeli security guard, Barbara ‘s passport was found on the plane and the customs hall was returned to its stark splendour.

Back to the accident: with the crunch of a tourist bus hitting the back of a delivery van came the our inveitable expectation of a street fight between the drivrs – but… our driver, Drago, just sat in his seat, not moving, not blinking, hardly breathing, or so it seemed. The driver of the delivery van stood next his vehicle – no shouting, no threats or cursing each others’ grandmothers for seven generations. All we could hear was him muttering in broken English: “This bad – this very bad….” as he waited for the police to arrive.

One of our group decided that he was a frustrated traffic cop and got out to direct the traffic. He needn’t have bothered. A municipal bus, wishing to maintain its schedule squeezed around the corner between our tourist bus and the pavement, demonstrating that Croatian busses bend in the middle (we were to learn more about this amazing feat later in our tour). Not the articulated “autobusim arochim” which you can see snaking around Tel Aviv streets, with concertina-style middle bits. No, this was just a regular 30-year-old 40-seater with a very determined driver. He succeeded in his quest and went on his way.

Eventually the police arrived, presumably from Zagreb (some 2000 kms to the north), judging by the length of time it took and we were allowed to proceed to our hotel in a substitute bus. We never learnt what happened to Drago. Of course, the days of communism are over, so persumably he is not serving time in the Gulag…perhaps he was demoted to baggage carrier.

Our hotel was the grandest in Dubrovnik. A four star beauty by Croatian standards. Very clean, very flash…marble floor, glass entrance doors – a big banner welcoming us (it didn’t really matter that they had the name of our division wrong, it’s the thought that counts), a welcoming drink of canned orange juice. No, let’s not be cynical. They were very pleased to see us. And very polite, and very helpful. In fact the hotel was rather nice all round, except…well, there was something just slightly out-of-kilter about the whole place. Sort of: “What’s wrong with this picture?” The rooms were spacious and nicely appointed – except there was no mirror above the dressing table. Rather, the mirror stretched from the corner to the beginning of the dressing table – and just above head height. The bathroom was large and well appointed – everything you could desire – with mirrors everywhere. You could view yourself from seven different angles; but it was almosty impossible to get in and out of the bath without a ladder or stretchng your difference to climb into the tub. No expense spared in the fittings – gold and oppulant – but the screw-type bath stopper didn’t work. The cupboard had only two doors, when it needed four – and no shelves…ah well.

The hotel boasted CNN – but you had to struggle through a snow storm to see it: so we spent the weekend in blissful ignorance of what was going on at Camp David and watched the European athletic championships on Eurosport instead. Perhaps this was a blessing – we were supposed to be on a break, and any respite from news about Israel is a holiday. OK, hotel management,.score 10 for that. In deference to their Israeli guests, breakfast was an attempt at recreating the type of breakfasts for which Israeli hotels have become famous. Salads, peppers, tomatoes, boiled eggs, cheese – a brave attempt which has a long way to go – but, no complaints. In fact, there were no real complaints about the hotel at all. It just seemed that they were trying so hard to impress us and like an eager child were just falling short of the high standards they tried to attain. Yet there was something quite refreshing in all of this- something unspoiled and naïve and, yes, charming. I hope it never changes, but I have my doubts…

After checking in, leaving our luggage in a side room while our rooms were being prepared, we went on our famililiarization tour of Dubrovnik. And this is where the magic started.
For Dubrovnik is quite enchanting. Not much more than a square mile of ancient buildings, many of which were badly damaged during the eight-month siege by Bosnians, Serbs and Montenegrans in the recent war, it is designated as a world heritage site by the United Nations. This status was conferred on it after a devastating earthquake in 1979, but totally ignored by Croatia’s enemies, who continued shelling the city even while UN flags flew from its parapets. Just inside the city walls is a plaque with a map of city, marking every building and every piece of masonry hit by artillery – a mass of tiny red triangles bearing testimony to the bitterness which raged between neighboring states.

But – Croatia wreaked its own share of havoc as well: the Bosnian town of Mostar was bombed unmercifully and the ornate medieaval bridge crossing the river was totally destroyed by the Croats. If there is one thing we learned about this most recent, acrimonious war in the Balkans, it was that nobody was innocent – except those civilians on all sides caught in the crossfire. And more pointless was the fact that nobody really gained anything.
But that was at least five years ago and this part of the world seems to be mending old wounds and trying to find some sort of modus vivendi. This was of great comfort to us, as the Bosnian border is just on top of that hill over there, about five kilometres away, affording any trigger-happy gunner a perfect vista of potential targets along the southern Croatian coast. Mind you, as Israelis, we are used to living on a narrow strip of beach …

Back to the cobbled streets of old Dubrovnik. This walled city which is home to some 3000 lucky inhabitants, demonstrates its Venetian heritage in the style of the buildings and in its life-style. It is lively, bouncy, vibrant, boisterous even, especially in the way restraunteurs tout for business. They literally grab you as you pass by, some even speaking a smattering of Hebrew - they spotted us from a mile off – shoving poorly translated English menues into your hand, beckoning you to sit and have a meal in their “very cleanest, best ever restaurant in Dubrovnik!” The claim wasn’t idle either – because all the restaurants seemed to offer good, wholesome fare (if you consider smoked ham and cheese in oil wholesome!).

There was a wide range of other dishes as well, notably fish, lamb skewers, loads of pasta (the best outside Italy) and thick farm-style bread. And all of it very, very reasonably priced. But again, there was that slightly “out of focus” feeling to the whole enterprise: like not being able to get a Capucino in a jazz bar after 11.00 pm because the machine was shut down…

Best of all however, was the willingness of one restaurant to cater to the needs of a some of the more observant members of our group, who requested that their fish be grilled in aluminum foil. The restaurant complied without any fuss, served what appeared to be a delicious meal, and won the hearts – and future custom – of a section of the community who often find it impossible to enjoy local fare because of their convictions.
Part of our Dubrovnik familiarization took in the small, ornate, 17th century synagogue, tucked away in an alley known as Jews Street. There are Hebrew inscriptions on the outside walls of the houses and a distinct Jewish flavor to the names of the shops in the streets: like the one called Ima and Aba. The synagogue itself is small, cozy almost, with hard upright wooden benches and a beautifully carved “bimah” and ark. Set into the wall are old “donation boxes” bearing name plates of towns and villages in Israel – Hebron, Tiberias, Safed. Members of the once prosperous community could deposit money into the box of whichever settlement they wished to support. Today, the Dubrovnik community numbers some 45 mainly elderly people. It is ironic that communities in Israel are now helping to support them.

Our next stop was a ferry ride to the island of Lokrum – no more than a few hundred meters out of the harbour. This island is famous for three things: its botanical gardens, founded by Benedictine monks; it’s curse – also courtesy of the Benedictine monks, and its nudist beach (no monks involved here). Quite a few members of our group - no names, no pack-drill - came back with all-over tans. The curse is another story altogether. Apparently, sometime in the 15th or 16th century, the City of Dubrovnik decided to sell the island to raise much needed capital. The monks, whose livlihood was ensured by tending the island, placed a curse on it - and the first person to buy it was drowned on his way across the narrow stretch water from the harbour. Another famous owner, Emperor Maximillian of Mexico, whose house lies in ruins just next to the quay, was assasinated, and the last owner of the island was none other than…Archduke Ferdinand, assasinated in Sarajevo…in fact every single person who ever owned the island since it was first put up for sale, has died….

Our second day dawned with strange sounds in the air. Was it gunfire? An artillery attack - no – it was thunder…and then, wonder of wonder for Israelis escaping from the especially oppresive Tel Aviv heat, rain. It poured for nearly three glorious hours – buckets of wet stuff coming out of the sky, cooling everything down. In fact the weather was glorious from the moment we arrived. Clean and fresh, totally unpolluted.

There is virtually no industry in this part of Croatia. They live on agriculture, the sea and tourism. The air is clean, the sea is cleaner – you can see right down to the bottom and one hopes that it remains like this forever.
Those of us who had opted for a Saturday tour boarded the bus and set off for a trip around three villages close to Dubrovnik and the promise of a very special lunch at a much vaunted restaurant in the beautiful Konavle valley, some 25 kilometres south of the city.

Our first stop was at a farm house on the way to the town of Cavtat, a beautiful seaside resort, which prides itself on being the home of both the Croatian champion water polo team, and the best ice cream on this stretch of Adriatic coast. The farm house, owned by the Gujic family is typical of those in the area: a large central stone house, owned by the patriach, with the smaller houses of his sons and daughters and their families clustered around, forming a family compound, the center of the family’s enterprises. In this case, the distilled liquor of grape husks and skins, known as grappa, good as a digestive after meals, also useful as paint remover or tractor fuel; and a rough red wine, which can only be designated as “plonk”; not really suitable for drinking but which might add quite a kick – as in “mule” – to a winter stew.

After visiting the villages, we made our way through the Konavle valley to a quaint restaurant set deep in the woods, in lush vegitation, beside a swiftly running stream, with water wheels and little wooden bridges. The sort of place from which you expect to see Hansel an Gretl emerge with their mouths stuffed with goodies. Our own mouths were soon stuffed with goodies – and at prices to make you drool. A full, delicious meal, glasses of white wine, dessert and coffee cost about NIS100.00 for two – less than a third what you would pay in a “reasonable” restaurant in Tel Aviv. But hey, why am I telling you this – it just means the area will be flooded by Israelis and the prices will go up, and they’ll start selling Magen Davids in their jewellery shops…

Sunday’s wake-up call came early, for this was the day we were to head south, across the border, into the mountaineous country of Montenegro. The border has only been open for a short time, as Montenegro and Croatia were enemies in the war and Montenegro, now one of only two states in the “New” Yugoslvia which they share with Serbia, occupied the entire southern coastal region of Croatia. But in Montenegro’s quest to be considered a western democracy, they have apologized to Croatia, signalled that they wish to reconcile the differences which tore them apart, and have indicated that they will probably seek independence from Serbia. This carries its own dangers, as it was the desire of the disparate Balkan states for independence from Yugoslavia, which brought war and devastation on the region. Part of Montenegro – Kosovo – is still in a state of turmoil, but this was a long way from our tour route on this cool Sunday morning.

Montenegro is well named – the name means “Black Mountains” in Italian - and mountains are the dominant feature of this rugged land. Not just rather large hills, which we in Israel are used to calling mountains, but great, big, enormous, bulging extremely high geological formations. The difference between Croatia and Montenegro is evident from the moment one crosses the border. The border post is on a narrow winding mountain road, about 45 minutes south of Dubrovnik. There is a stark and sudden contrast between Croatia and Montenegro and I don’t mean just in the landscape.

Montenegro is decidedly less well off than its northern neighbour. Not that Croatia is that affluent, but this makes the contrast even more marked. The buildings in the town of Herceg-Novi, shortly after the border, are duller, darker, older, in much worse repair than those in Croatia – and they didn’t even suffer war damage.
The cars are older, there are still ancient Soviet-style diesel trucks parked on some of the small farms and many of the buildings still carry Cyrillic script with a red star emblazoned on the plinth, testimony to an inglorious communist past.

Did I say the cars were older? There is at least one place in Montenegro where the cars are as new and shiny as anything you would find in Savyon or Herzlia Pituach – the seaside city of Budva. And its not because this city has a magic formula for wealth: it’s just that it’s known as the car theft capital of Europe! Now I can’t swear to it, but it seems somewhat incongrous that a young Montenegran who maybe earns $200.00 a month, can afford a $70 000 BMW, Jaguar or Mercedes – or how about a spanking new Porsche? They’re all there, parked along the quay of the Budva Marina. Are they really stolen property? Only the police know for sure but they don’t seem to be doing much about it...

There is a story doing the rounds about a German couple who were planning a motoring holiday in Montenegro. When their friends asked why they chose this destination, they replied: “…because our car’s already there….”
Budva itself is the most developed and cosmopolitan place we visited in Montenegro. It’s old walled city, completely destroyed in the 1979 earthquake and a ghost town for nearly 10 years, has been revived, rebuilt, and re-inhabited. It is lively, full of coffee houses, restaurants, novelty shops and bars. The Marina is packed with luxury yachts, launches and pleasure craft, many from far-away ports.

It’s a delightful city, and the prices are reasonable. Talking of prices, although Montenegro is a part of Yugoslavia which uses the dinar as its currency, Montenegro, in its striving for western acceptance, refuses to use this coinage. Instead, the “official” currency of Montenegro is the deutschmark, which makes it much less confusing for foreign tourists.

But before you get the impression that Montenegro is all depression and “third world”, let me hasten to assure you that this day-trip was one of the highlights of our tour. The scenery is absolutely magnificent. The mountains are stark and majestic and the Kotor fjord which creeps inland for many kilometres is one of the most beautiful in Europe.

The ancient city of Kotor lies at the very end of this shimmering body of water, set amidst imposing mountains. The city itself, again walled and dating back many centuries has – like the rest of Montenegro – withstood seige and invasion and has a proud tradition of independence. Kotor is the gateway to the hinterland, for from this city, one begins the climb up to the central plateau, some 1600 meters (nearly 5000 ft) above sea level.
And this is were we confirmed our suspiscion that Croatian busses (our bus was from Dubrovnik) were able to bend in the middle. The very narrow road from Kotor to the little village of Nagoci twists up the mountain in a series of 26 hairpin bends and turns that defy description – with a sheer drop of increasing altitude on one side and the face of the mountian on the other. It didn’t seem possible that the bus could negotiate each bend in the road without a three-point turn, and yet our driver Nico – remember Drago was probably incarcerated in some Dubrovnik dungeon – was as skillful as any Le Mans racing driver.

He folded the bus around those bends as if it was made of rubber. Fortunately there was no traffic coming down the mountain. To put us at our ease, we were assured that no trucks or busses ever come down that road. But our spirits were high and getting higher with every meter we climbed: the truth was, there was so much mist and cloud cover that we actually couldn’t see just how high we were. Until we reached about bend number 22 – and Nico stopped by the side of the road for us to experience the view. We clambered out, scarcely able to see each other in the cloud, wondering what we were supposed to look at. Just then, as if on command, the mist cleared and spread out before us was an absolutely breathtaking view of the fjord, the mountains, the coastal plane away to our left and the Adriatic Sea beyond that.

When we got our breath back, and finished oohing and aahing at the panorama, we climbed back into our bus and trundled on to Nagoci where we were assured we would stop for a snack. Although Nagoci didn’t actually experience any hostilities, it is typical of the sort of village we’ve all seen in television coverage of the Balkan war. It is bucolic, seemingly tranquil, a few houses on each side of a meandering road; small, neat fields with a cow and a goat or two…some chickens running around the yard. We stopped at the Nagoci Inn – or whatever it is called in the local dialect. A small pub, pretending to be a restaurant, pretending to be a hotel. Rather pleasant with wooden floors, ceilings and beams; wooden tables and benches. At one end of the room, was a table bearing our “snacks” – some very smelly hard cheese on some harder bread accompanied by a glass of the locally-brewed honey wine – medovino. This had a taste and texture closer to beer than wine and left the drinkers with a warm, fuzzy feeling – not exactly intoxicated, just pleasantly buzzing. It apparently had quite an effect on Doron, who decided to give the Nagocians a display of Israeli folk dancing in the middle of the village high street.

Pretty soon there was a whole group of us on the road, dancing in a circle and singing “Maim Maim…” in the Montenegran mountain air. A couple of locals, who had obviously been involved with a bottle or two of medovino for some time before we got there, joined in bellowing out their own version of Hava Nagila at the top of their out of tune voices and waving happily to us as we boarded the bus.

And so we went on our merry way through Montenegro, making our way back to the coastal plane, visiting Budva, crossing the border and returning to Dubrovnik early that evening after a memorable tour to a place which had only ever conjured up images of mountain bandit princes and which we never ever dreamed we would actually visit.
Monday morning dawned with another early wake-up call, summoning us to the airport and the relatively short flight home to the crowds, bustle and heat of Tel Aviv.

Our three-day stay in Croatia was so filled with experiences and new sites, sounds and tastes that it felt like we’d been away for a week. The clock seemed to stop and indeed it was almost like entering a time warp – floating back to an era of less commercialism, less pressure, less sophistiction, an altogether slower pace with more time to enjoy the good things life has to offer: clean air, crystal clear seas, enticing islands, concealed beaches. Like I said, when it comes to the provision of glitzier, faster, trendier, more efficient services and facilities for tourists, the Croatians may still have a lot to learn – but I for one hope they never do...

In the Footsteps of Raffles

2002-10-30T19:02:00.000+02:00

October 2002

I had always wanted to drink a stenga at Raffles Hotel: ever since reading a novel about the Japanese invasion of Singapore during World War II, it had been my ambition to sit on the balcony of said venerable establishment, in the steamy tropical sundown and gently sip from a tall glass filled to the brim with Scotch, soda and ice.

Well, there was Raffles Hotel and here I was, with my wife, on a tour bus gliding past in the pulsing Singapore traffic. That was about the closest we got to this iconic landmark, because for the next three days in this remarkable city state, there was just no time to sit idly anywhere, let alone on the veranda of Raffles Hotel.

But I'm not complaining: far from it. Our stay in Singapore was serendipitous. We were on our way back from a wonderful five week holiday in Australia and New Zealand and decided to take a special deal offered by Singapore Airlines for a three-night stop over at a five-star hotel at a ridiculously low cost. We were put up at the Orchard Hotel, on the famous Orchard Road and immediately got a taste of at least one reason why Singapore boasts nearly 8,000,000 tourists a year. The service, from the moment you step inside the hotel lobby is nothing short of superb.

"Good morning Mr and Mrs Butchins, welcome; would you like a smoking or non-smoking room? - Double bed, king size or singles... (we chose the king size): higher floor or lower floor... (we chose the middle)..." and so on. And then the room itself was magnificent, "sheer looxary" and all for about US$30.00 a night on a special Singapore Tourism Board promotional deal. (Is this a plug? Perhaps, but it's well earned…)

We weren't planning on sitting around our hotel room, air-conditioned and gorgeous as it was. We wanted to experience Singapore in all its vibrant, cosmopolitan, sweltering splendour. Oh yes, sweltering it was...way up beyond 32C and climbing and as humid as you can get. We'd just come from an early Sydney spring, rather tepid and pleasant (somewhat different to the Tel Aviv heat we were used to), and Singapore came close to this...but with a good mix of sub-tropical ultra humid Durban (SA) in mid-February thrown in for good measure.

Our first trip was a night safari at the Singapore zoo (discount courtesy of the Singapore Tourist Bureau). This is not just another kitschy set of holding pens with sullen animals peering at gawking humans through bars. The Singapore Zoo is known as an "open zoo". It is quite unique in that all the animals are kept in totally natural surroundings; dense overgrowth exactly matching the South Asia jungles, running streams, grassy grazing areas, spacious, landscaped enclosures separated from visitors by moats concealed with vegetation.

If animals have to be in zoos (and that's another discussion entirely) then these are perfect conditions. Visitors are taken around the enclosures in a motorized train or they can do it on foot, along winding paths through the tropical forest. After our introductory train ride we chose to walk along the well defined, but very dark, pathways. The air was steamy, muggy, it was like wading through treacle; the sounds of the night all around, chirping insects, the occasional grunt of a wild cat, the chatter of monkeys...ominous slithering sounds from the undergrowth; we clambered through an enclosure filled with bats and viewed tapirs up close and personal. A small leap of imagination and we were a troop of Wingate's Chindits slogging our way back to base...

And then, the highlight of the evening – coming face to face (thankfully through some rather thick, reinforced sheet glass acting as a screen), with a real, live, 400-lb White Royal Bengal Tiger. A quite magnificent very rare creature, royally reposing on a fallen tree trunk, lord of the few hundred square metres he surveyed.

After our night-time jungle experience we headed back to our hotel and our welcoming air-conditioned room, to catch some "zees" in preparation for tomorrow's day on the town.

Next morning, after a really five-star breakfast, we hit Orchard Road and made our way to the nearby Singapore Stopover "Hop On" Bus Stop. This is where you can hop on a brightly coloured bus which takes you around the city on a designated route, allowing you to jump on and off at will. Busses run every 30 minutes during the day and this is the ideal way to get to see this compact, vibrant city-state. We headed down towards the centre of town, street maps in hand, and planned to take in Arab Street, the Indian quarter – known as Little India – Chinatown and then head towards Suntec City – the huge multi-towered mega mall and office complex which dominates Singapore's skyline.

Arab Street itself is a colourful panoply of all the sorts of things you would expect in any "shuk": leather goods, basket ware, flamboyant fabrics; sweetmeats. The area is dominated by the Sultan Mosque with its impressive gold dome and large prayer hall. Depending on your propensity to buy any and everything in site (great price, by the way), it should take a couple of hours to wander through this district. But time's a' wasting and there was much more to see and do.

We made our way back up to Little India – and it was like being back in Durban's Grey Street; the heart of that city's Indian community. The smells of pungent Indian spices, the sounds of Hindi music blaring from shops – different tunes, different volumes…quite a cacophony. The fact that it was in the middle of Deepavali, the Hindu festival of lights, made it that much more of a kaleidoscope of color, noise, aromas and excitement. The streets were bedecked in ribbons and garlands, bells and lights, and most of the shops were decorated with a vast array of lights (flashing electric, candles, oil lamps). The shops themselves were perfect replicas of those I remember from Durban; small, neat, family-owned stores, presenting a vast range of goods from gold and silver jewelery to bolts of sari fabric, tourist memorabilia, vegetarian food…and of course by now my mouth is watering for a good curry. Still, I had to forego that as my wife was gently tugging on my and whispering into my ear: "Suntec City, Suntec City, Suntec City..." I should explain that she is a shopping mall and supermarket fiend. And we had heard that there was a fantastic hypermarket in Suntec City, so that was our (well, her…) main objective. But on the way, I insisted we visit Chinatown, because I had heard that was where we could get a really good deal on a really good digital video camera.

So we hopped on the "Hop On" bus once more, made our way down towards Chinatown and that's when we saw it: Raffles Hotel, in all its colonial splendour – almost immediately opposite the Suntec Mall. I WAS tempted, I must confess. My thoughts flickered around suggesting: "Well dear, there's the Suntec Mall, go and have a wonderful time – I'll be relaxing on the veranda enjoying my 'stenga'…" But marital bliss seemed a lot more important than what was essentially just a Scotch-on-the-Rocks, albeit a hugely symbolic Scotch-on-the-Rocks, and I restrained myself to just declaring: "There's Raffles…" and took a picture through the bus window. Such are the joys of limited time and a surplus of things to do and see.

Chinatown was not dissimilar to Little India or Arab Street…except the majority of people were Chinese – or tourists. But we did find our camera and after half an hour of bargaining with Mr. Chee in his Temple Road photographic emporium., walked out with a wonderful little Canon at a wonderfully little price. Much better than we could possibly expect in Israel even at the duty-free shop. That little camera has done some sterling work, but it was stolen in Tel Aviv recently…another long story; so now I'm gong to have to spend more than I originally would have at the duty free on a new one. Bitter irony.

Mission accomplished, a look at the nearby Sri Mariamman Hindu Temple and now it's back to Suntec! Aah – except the "Hop On" only goes in one direction and we didn't feel like travelling all the way back around Singapore, back past the hotel, down Orchard Road again…for what was essentially a six minute ride back to the mall. Or so we thought. OK, we'll walk, we decided. NOT a good idea. As I mentioned Singapore was hot, very hot and sultry and we were soon bathed in perspiration…and walking in completely the wrong direction.

The only alternatives were a bus or a cab, so we chose the latter, paid a few Sing. Dollars and were soon standing in the awesome presence of the Suntec towers. By now we were also getting pretty peckish: we'd been on the go since around 8:00 am and had spent more than five hours taking in the local colour. Now it was time to take in the local cuisine, mall-style, and we headed for the food court where we found a great little rustic American country-styled restaurant. Did I say "rustic American country-styled" in Singapore? Yes, because Singapore is nothing if not cosmopolitan and the Suntec restaurants epitomize this. You can find food from almost anywhere in the world, at great quality and reasonable prices.

To give you a blow-by-blow on Suntec would need an article on its own, and quite frankly, unless you're a mall and supermarket aficionado like my wife, it's not that interesting. The shops are magnificent: all the designer labels you could want, the world's brands laid out before your eyes, the mall itself is beautiful and it's BIG. The Carrefour hypermarket – yes Carrefour, the same famous French chain – is huge and full of exciting produce and things and temptations. But it's not Singapore. Ignoring the multi-ethnic clientele and the Chinese, Arabic, Hindi and English labelling, we could have been in any super/hypermarket anywhere in the world. Globalization at its best (or worst, depending on your point of view).