Flu

Tuesday was the 7th day I had been feeling crap. Well, not that crap, to be honest. But certainly not up to going to gym or running. I got back from Europe on a Saturday and it hit me on the Tuesday, so who knows where I got it. Blamed my daughter since she was ill at the time, but I could just as well have picked it up on the plane. 300 plus individuals breathing a finite volume of warmed and rewarmed air for 11 hours cannot be a good recipe for infection control.

It started with a tickle in the throat, followed by frank discomfort on swallowing followed by a sensation of having a little bunsen burner on the back of the tongue, steadily toasting one's throat and tonsils. Then came the headache and the muscle ache and the bone ache and a few other aches besides. Did I mention sinuses? A few shivers and chills and sweats - just the old virus reminding me that it had breached the firewall and was now happily circulating through my blood stream. By the next day it had shifted down into the windpipe and voicebox, with the result that I really sounded ill - useful that, if one wants any sympathy from family, friends and colleagues.

Normally I carry on until I literally cannot drag myself out of bed and then surrender to a day off to recuperate. So this time I told myself to be clever and mount a pre-emptive strike. Take a day off early and the little buggers won't know what hit them. So that is what I did - day 2 I didn't go into work. I hung around the house in my tracksuit and drank copious quantities of rooibos tea with lemon, honey and fresh ginger infused.

Next day I felt worse, but I had already taken my day, couldn't shift my appointments and simply had to go in. Same deal on Friday. By the weekend I felt like death. Somehow managed to get through it all mainly by being extremely antisocial and grumpy. The first day I felt even vaguely human was the Wednesday (day 8), and by day 10 I was just about back to normal.

Now I don't normally get sick - touch wood. I mean I get one or two colds a year but they generally just irritate me and don't interfere with my work, only my leisure. I can count on two hands the number of sick days I have taken in the last 10 years I think. But this virus laid me low. Maybe it was a particuarly virulent one. Maybe this was punishment for forgetting my flu jab this year. Maybe it was the great god of homeopaths, naturopaths and all practitioners of murkly medicine getting his (her?) back on me for laughing at his disciples and not taking my extract of wild potato with tincture of piggy-pooh. Maybe I am just getting older. Bottom line: I did not enjoy it one bit.

Postscript: About one month later. First long run since London. Feeling good again. Hopefully that is it for '09.

The Hague

Four nights in The Netherlands. Amazing how different cities can be. I had detailed instructions from my colleagues here including exactly where to change my pounds for euros at Schiphol (in the baggage claim hall) and what ticket to buy (2nd class to Den Hagen Centraal Station CS or Den Hagen Hollandspoor Station HS). I had a Google map showing my colleagues' offices, my hotel, the station and the place where we were due to meet with members of the Dutch government in the afternoon. And I had an email which read, "Too far with 2 suitcases. Take tram 16 to Wateringen or 17 to Statenkwartier just outside station on the left, and get out at Kneuterdijk. From there 2 minutes walk. Small stripe cards of 1-2 euro are available in tram. Or take a cab for about 10 euro."

Difficult choice - 2 euros or 10 euros ... my Scottish blood coarsed strong. I took the tram.
That is when things started going wrong. It may have been on account of my thinking the busdriver would appreciate it if I spoke Afrikaans rather than English. "Hoeveel kos dit om na Kneuterdijk te ry?" I asked. He looked non-plussed, bored, sullen. "Kneuterdijk" I said again. Maybe I was pronouncing it wrong. "Knay-ter-dayk?" "Knay-ter-dike?" "Kneea-ter-dayk?" "Kneea-ter-dike?" No response. Eventually a sullen "Een sestig". Problem was I only had one forty in change, and besides that a few 50 and 20 euro notes. He wasn't interested. I dumped my suitcases on the front bench and stood so that I could look out for the busstop signs. The tram lurched forward and off we went. It was very pretty - canals, old houses, cobbled streets - charming. Problem was none of the signs said "Kneuterdijk". Eventually I summoned up the courage to go back to the grumpy old fart. "Ekskuus meneer, maar sal dit nog lank wees voordat ons by the Kneuterdijk kom?". "Dis lankal verby," was all he managed to grunt, with an air of satisfaction and a slight smirk. He then told me I should get out and catch the next tram back. "Moet ek hier uitklim?" I asked. "Ja, ek sal so se" - again the smirk.

I managed to get the luggage out and across the road to the inbound busstop. Then I remembered I still had no change and presumably the fare would be the same. So I popped into the local cafeteria and seized the first edible thing I saw which happened to be a punnet of apples. Just as I was paying the tram arrived. I grabbed my cases and the apples and sprinted out the door. Hague streets are different - well some of them are - the trams run in the middle, flanked by pavements where the tram stop is, and outside those are the car lanes. I dashed across the car lane and a large panel van screeched to a stop, narrowly missing me. But I couldn't be bothered - I ran on and hopped onto the vehicle just in time. This time the driver was a little more sympathetic and showed me where to get off. Except it took about five times before I realised he was saying "Buitenhof" - it sounds like he was chewing cardboard.

Then I misread the map and went looking for the Park Hotel in Park Street - sounds logical. Problem is the Park Hotel is in Molen Street. Eventually I asked somebody and they kindly pointed me in the right direction.

The hotel itself is in a charming little street just off the old city centre. It is not wide enough to take more than one car. It is flanked by 3-4 storey old buildings. Presumably the upper floors are offices or apartments. The ground floors are shops - many restaurants, but also an art shop, a tobacco and pipe shop, some clothes shops, a cafeteria, an Italian take away - none of them huge, in fact many of them only a room. I had reserved an entry level single room but the hotel was pretty empty and they kindly upgraded me to a double in the "garden wing". Nothing fancy but comfortable enough. Complimentary fast internet connection. Walking distance to the office, the station - just about everywhere. I could see I was going to enjoy this.

The next morning I met my colleague at the station. We had a meeting the other side of town, about 3km away and she suggested we go by bicycle. It was a fine day - a little windy but dry enough. She had hired me a bike and off we set. The Hague is extremely well supplied with cycle paths, cycle lanes, cycle just about everything. The place is crawling with bicycles, which is somewhat intimidating to start with for both pedestrians and cyclists but once you get the hang of it it is easy enough. I was wearing a suit so felt a bit of a Charlie, but then noticed that there were many others doing likewise and I didn't stand out in the least.

That night I went to a dinner organised by the folk at the office. They meet regularly in each others' houses and have a "theme meal". This time the theme was "Morocco" and I enjoyed a number of traditional Moroccan dishes whose names I cannot remember but which tasted really scrumptious. I took with me a bottle of SA wine - found some pinotage at the cafe across the road for 7 euro's or so. I didn't recognise the estate but at least the cultivar was genuine SA. Actually it was a very pleasant little wine. The venue was someone's apartment about 10 minutes' ride from the hotel. We rode through the "Hagenbos" which is a very pretty little wood. The meal was delicious, the company excellent and the wine did not disappoint. I managed to pilot the bicycle back to the railway station from where it had been rented and walked the remaining km or so back to the hotel.

My last afternoon and night in The Hague was supposed to be another cycle, but the heavens opened, complete with thunder and lightning and instead of some exercise I sat in my hotel room and tried to catch up on emails. Boring ...

About 8 pm I was feeling decidedly peckish so thought I would take a walk and see what was on offer. Across the road from the hotel I found a small Italian restaurant. Actually more of a take away - just one table if you wanted to sit and eat. The lasagne had just emerged from the oven but was unfortunately too hot to serve. I settled on a tomato and pesto panini, expecting the kind of thing we get served up in our supermarkets under the name panini. I stepped out onto the cobbled street, drizzle starting to run off my hair, took one bite and was almost blown away. So this is how panini's are supposed to taste! I was so impressed that when I had walked all the way around the block, by now pretty much wet through, I returned and said rather sheepishly "I have come back for the canneloni", which I took back to my room like a polar bear with a fresh fish, to devour in private and at my lesiure.

Then it was all over and I was on the train to Schiphol and on to Cape Town। But I had been there long enough to have decided that I liked it and that I should come back for a holiday and get to know the Dutch, the Netherlands and The Hague a little better.

Churches

One of the great things about being a Christian is that virtually anywhere you go in the world you can find a church to worship in and people to worship with. Another is that you are very unlikely to have the same experience twice, such is the heterogeneity of the Christian church and yet you always feel like you at least know the basic plot.

I have visited 3 churches in the last week. The first was the Rotunda of St. Martin (11th century) in the Vysehrad Castle grounds in Prague. I was walking past and heard what I thought was a sizeable choir singing plainsong. It turned out to be just a priest and 2 assistants celebrating mass but due to the smallness and acoustics of the venue (it seats about 10, 20 at a push) it sounded like many more. There were only 2 congregants and both looked like they were in their 70's. Reminded me of the Magna Carta song "Father John", about "Miss Pringle and Miss Prendergast and George who does the brass are there / to say the words they've said for twenty years and noone knows or cares." Which got me wondering whether it matters whether nobody knows or cares. Presumably God both knows and cares. The liturgy and song were in Czech so I didn't understand a word, (Latin would have been easier) but it was such a beautiful setting and the people looked so friendly and genuine, that I decided to stay and sat down. No sooner had I done so than the mass ended and they started packing away. Ah well, better luck next time - I should have read the notice on the door. Maybe it was the setting, maybe it was the people - but the place had an air of lightness, of joy, of sunniness, which made me happy.

The second was the Basilica of St Peter and St Paul, also at Vysehrad Castle, just down the road from the chapel. There was no service going on, but the church was open for visitors (at a price of 30 krone, about 1 euro, which I was glad to pay). The lady caretaker was a little late opening and appeared flustered and unhappy. Inside it was very ornate, beautiful, peaceful, but somehow seemed sad (to me at any rate). Maybe it was the absence of any worshippers or music. I read some of the displays - it seems that the place suffered a bad fire many years ago and had to be rebuilt. It also appeared as though many of the ancient treasures had disappeared in the years of Communist rule and those on display now were considerably less ancient and had mostly been donated from private collections. I felt a heaviness about the place and did not stay long. I wondered what those heavy walls have witnessed over the centuries. Rulers and their people thankfully celebrating God's providence after they return from a campaign, having successfully decimated and enslaved their enemies, or following the birth of a male heir to the throne, or maybe crying out in hopelessness for protection as invading armies advance? The walls were mute - clearly they were not going to yield their secrets to me.

Today I went to church three times. That is a record even for me! Well, not exactly. I attended Matins at Westminster Abbey at 10 a.m. and learned that there was an organ recital at 5.45 p.m., preceded by evensong at 3 p.m., so I figured what the heck, I may as well do both. I love all sacred choral music, but am particularly fond of English cathedral music, so this was like a three course meal, with all three courses being desert. I won't bore you with all tre details, but in the two services I heard music by Mendelssohn, Clucas, Turle, Vaughan Williams, Tomkins, Monsell, Ross, Leighton, Taverner (the 16th century one), Wesley and Vierne. It was sung by arguably one of England's finest choirs, accompanied by a world class organist playing one of the world's greatest instruments, in a stunning acoustic and in a setting which would surely lift the spirit of even the most miserable. The language of the liturgy was formal but not archaic and I found it beautiful to listen to. Added to that we had two well constructed, pithy, thought provoking (and short!) sermons by the resident canon, Robert Wright and later the head of theology at Christian Aid, Paula Clifford. As if that wasn't enough I also got to go to the recital by James McVinnie, assistant organist (how can anyone that good be an "assistant"?) He played works by Bach, Ross and Escaich. Ross, a contemporary British composer, is a mere 23 years old. What talent! Having thus gorged myself, I left feeling strangely elated. On the way out, I thanked the Canon for including Jacob Zuma, Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu in the prayers of intercession during evensong. Seems like the Brits spend more time praying for our president than we do!

Inauguration Day

I remember Inauguration Day 1994 when Nelson Mandela was made my country's first black and first democratically elected president. I was driving from Johannesburg to northern kwaZulu Natal on my own in my brother in law's car which I had had to borrow because both of ours had been stolen from the rural hospital where I worked on the same night. I listened on the radio. As the national anthem started playing, I started crying. Tears of sadness for the hundreds and thousands of South Africans who had died needlessly, amongst them some of my friends - why could not this day have taken place 30 or 40 years earlier, when many other African countries were realising their independence from European colonial powers? Tears of frustration for all the time and money wasted on trying to perpetuate a system which was not only morally wrong but profoundly impracticable. Tears of joy that at last the sun appeared to be rising, at last we would be able to build our nation the right way and be proud of our achievements in the global community. That at last I did not have to feel embarrassed about being a white South African.

Today Jacob Zuma is being inaugurated at President. I am proud that my country is still a democracy. I would argue that our elections were as free and fair as any in the world and probably more so than in many so called "Western democracies". I am proud of some of the goals which have been achieved since 1994 - progress made in housing, education and primary health care, for example. There is also much of which I am not proud.  The arrogance of our elected leaders, when it is blatantly obvious they do not know (or at best are unsure of) what they are doing, but refuse to accept advice from those who could help them. Mbeki and Tshabalala-Msimang's stance of HIV-AIDS was a good example. The tacit acceptance of corruption (read "cheating and dishonesty") as an acceptable practice, where the only real transgression is getting caught. (As I write the UK is in uproar over the dishonesty of their own MPs). Most of all, the failure of our new government (since 1994) to protect, both physically and otherwise, those whom they govern, but particularly the vulnerable. That is not to say that the previous government succeeded on any of these scores - but we expected more from their successors.

So today I shall have mixed feelings as Mr. Zuma becomes President Zuma. I respect him because his party was elected to govern by 2 out of 3 of my compatriots, knowing full well that Jacob Zuma was that party's presidential candidate. I respect him because I believe he gave up much and risked his life to fight apartheid in the days when I was a priveleged white kid at an exclusive white school, growing up in Johannesburg. I actually like him when he smiles and laughs and dances and sings (could wish for a new song to replace "Leth' umshini wam", but you have to admit he has a good voice). It is good to have a president who can "walk with kings nor lose the common touch". I wonder, however, whether he can live up to the rest of Kipling's list of desirable attributes - keep his head, trust himself, wait and not be tired, not deal in lies, not give way to hating, not look too good, not talk too wise, dream, think, meet triumph and disaster with equanimity, risk, lose and start again, hold on when there is nothing in him except willpower, keep his virtue, count with all men.... 

He is said to be a Christian pastor, so perhaps I should rather refer to the ideals set out in 1 Cor 13. I want to see whether he shows love, I shall be looking to see whether he is patient, kind, free of envy, humble, polite and truthful or whether he is self-seeking, easily angered, vengeful, and delights in evil. I will be looking to see whether he is protective, trustful, hopeful and persevering. Some of this language is included in the Presidential Oath of Office - I hope he has it framed and hung on the wall of this office. 

It remains to be seen what measure of person Zuma is. Without love, he "is and gains nothing, is a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal". What a fitting description for most politicians! But maybe, just maybe, he will surprise the sceptics and his enemies and show us some of the "ubuntu" love which presumably was his original motivation for joining the struggle all those years ago. I wish him well and am grateful I am not in his shoes.

Prague

I have fallen in love with Prague. It took just 24 hours, which kind of dents my long held theories about the nature of true love. It was, or rather it took, a walk in the park. A walk just before sunset on a glorious spring afternoon. The birds were singing, the flowers were in bloom and the trees were in lush green spring leaf. Everywhere I looked there were teenage and not so teenage couples basking in the sunshine, with their mouths locked and their hands on or up each others’ tee-shirts. Even the occasional bottle of champagne and glasses. Some good citizens of Prague were exercising their dogs or perambulating their infants. A group was practicing sword fighting on the lawn – not the fancy French “en garde” stuff with spotless white suits and helmets and thin rapier like weapons – these were bare-chested young men wielding what looked like clamours! Reminded me of the movie Braveheart. Half expected them to turn round and lift their kilts. The old brick and stone buildings were bathed in golden sunshine, the river was calmly reflective and a beautiful blue, the sky was clear ... it was just perfect.

The conference has been well organised and is well resourced (presumably EC funds since the registration was only 50 euro) but doesn’t appear to be very well attended. They say there are 1500 delegates registered but I haven’t been in a session with more than about 500, even the plenary on the first morning. They had invited an American called Jeremy Rifkin as the keynote speaker. He gave a very thought-provoking address on the urgent need, given the economic crisis, global warming and the inevitable drying up of fossil fuel reserves, for what he called “the third industrial revolution” and told the mostly European scientists present that they were the ones to usher it in. Made me think about getting around to putting up a solar water heater and buying that hybrid. Somehow in South Africa these issues get eclipsed by the sheer business of survival, but it seems clear that if nothing is done, developing countries will bear the brunt of the consequences.

While we were occupying the back of the Prague Conference Centre, there were some high level political goings on happening at the front. Police cars everywhere, large areas cordoned off, TV crews, a helicopter and much excitement. Still have no idea what it was about but assume that it has something to do with the EC presidency now being a Czech responsibility. The Czech police look like they mean business. Young, fit, professional – ours could take a few tips. One thing that this country could do with is an Nkosazana Dlamini Zuma to tighten up their smoking laws - their buildings stink, to put it bluntly. When it comes to smoking, Europeans are at the bottom of the heap, I am afraid.

By 6 pm I had had enough – I think it went on till about half past, but outside it was glorious sunshine and much warmer than when I arrived yesterday, so I went back to my room, shoved the laptop under the mattress, got into some comfortable clothes and headed for the Vyšehrad Castle.  The shape reminds me of the Cape Town castle, although it is not symmetrical and it has an extra protrusion, like an amoeba’s pseudopod. The walls are higher than our castle, maybe by 10 or 20 feet higher, and it is built on a hill overlooking the river, unlike ours which was basically built on the beach! I found that there is a well used path running just inside the wall at the same level as its top and the views this affords in almost all directions are superb. Inside the ground slopes gently down and there is a lot of open parkland, trees, an old well, and a good number of attractive old buildings, including the church. I spent about an hour just wandering around, took about 60 photos and finally wandered back to my room when the sun was almost set.

Have done some research on Vyšehrad Castle, courtesy of Wikipedia (where else?). Turns out that it was built in the tenth century, on a hill over the Vltava River. The church I mentioned is called the Basilica of St Peter and St Paul, and the cemetery I mentioned contains the remains of, amongst others, the composers Antonín Dvořák and Bedřich Smetana and the author Karel Čapek. I found a Dvorak grave but am not sure it was the right one. Vyšehrad only became part of Prague in 1883. It may be the location of the first settlement which would later become Prague. Sounds like there were 2 seats of power for about 200 years – Prague castle, where the Přemyslid dynasty ruled, and Vyšehrad castle. It was only in the early 1300’s, when Charles IV enlarged Prague Castle to its current dimensions  that Vyšehrad was abandoned as a royal home. It was captured by the Hussites at the beginning of the Hussite Wars, underwent renovation in the 17th century, when the Habsburgs invaded after the Thirty Years' War and it served as a training center for the Austrian Army. So clearly a bit of history here.

Supper was a ham and egg baguette from the 24/7 downstairs again – just haven’t got the energy to go and eat in the restaurant. Washed it down with a 500mL bottle of Cambrinus beer, which I think is Czech. Interesting that I could buy it at the supermarket – why can’t I buy beer at Pick ‘n Pay back home?

Prague

For some reason I am still awake – not a jet lag thing, as the time zone is the same as SA. It is still light outside and it is 8.40 pm! Guess we must be quite far north. The flight was tedious but no more so than usual. We had a stunning view of the Alps, specifically Mont Blanc, and Lake Geneva as we flew over Italy and Switzerland at 37 000 feet. It was relatively clear from the Mediterranean (which was where I opened the window shade) until the northern border of Switzerland but thereafter Europe disappeared entirely under its usual thick grey blanket. In Amsterdam it was 13 degrees Celsius and rainy. Immigration was cursory and pleasant for once. I sometimes think one of my late Dad’s greatest gifts to his offspring was the right to a British passport.

So here I am in Prague. It is cold and windy and I cannot understand a word of what people say or what I see written on notices and signs. But the people seem very pleasant, many of them speak English when they realise you aren’t from around here (which doesn’t take long) and the place really is beautiful. I’ve heard it said that many people who visit a foreign town or country for a week feel they can write a book about it, those who visit for a month can only manage a chapter, those who stay for a year can’t put out more than a page and those who stick it out longer than that don’t feel qualified to write anything. So having spent 6 hours in Czechoslovakia, I am about to commit my impressions to paper and shall probably make some sweeping and unjustified generalizations. I shall probably also get some of my facts wrong.

I am staying at a reasonably modern hotel in an old part of the city – not a bad compromise. I chose it because it is very close to the conference centre where the meetings are being held over the next 2 days. On my booking slip there were some complicated instructions on how to get from the airport to the hotel – take the 119 bus, then the one train, get off then take the other train, get off at this station and walk up the hill or something like that. When I confirmed my booking I was assured it was safe. I am afraid that at the last moment I chickened out and took a taxi, which actually cost less than in Cape Town (28 euro) and the distance seemed longer. The cab driver seemed grateful for the 2 euro tip (I gave him 30 euros and told him to keep the change), which I found quite humbling.

Despite the country being in the EC it still has its own currency, the Czech krone. The exchange rate seems to be about 25 krone to the euro or 2 krone to the rand. Prices are not too bad, certainly not compared to Western Europe. I paid about R60 for two large baguettes and a large bottle of diet coke. Not sure I would have paid much less at Woolies or Pick ‘n Pay. And that was at a 24/7 convenience store next to the local petrol filling station.

There seems to be a rather jarring contrast between the beautiful, very old and the rather ugly, relatively new. For example, a few hundred metres from here there is a deep valley through which an old railway runs, flanked by the most stunning multi-storey red roofed houses, and above them parkland with some stunning trees, all in spring green now. Clearly the city fathers (or mothers) needed a means of getting across the valley without negotiating its windy streets so they just built a huge concrete bridge which actually goes over the houses. Bizarre. Practical but bizarre. What would Prince Charles have said! (and would anyone have cared?)

Another example: I visited (but couldn’t get inside) the ca. 1350 Karlov Church and (Augustinian) Monastery. Just outside the perimeter fence of the garden is a very large, ugly and heavily graffiti’d concrete statue which might once have been in the centre of a pool. A notice near the entrance says “Welcome to Karlov in the grounds of the Czech Police Museum”. The original church (the Church of Our Lady and St Charles the Great) was consecrated in 1377 and was associated with Charles IV, of whom there is a statue in the quadrangle, dating back to 1837. The octagonal vault of the church has a diameter of 23m and a height of 18m. The organ was built by Bedrich of Telc and dates back to 1733. The monastery underwent “Baroque reconstruction” in the 1600’s. There are cellars under the building in which the conans kept their wines. Emperor Joseph II broke up the Augustinian order in 1785 and the monastery became a “hospital for incurables”. During the Great War it was a home for recovering soldiers. What an amazing place! What an interesting history!! The Czech Ministry of the Interior took it over in 1960, “reconstructed” it yet again, made it into the State District Archive and later a museum, finally the Czech Police Museum. What an ignominious fate for such an imposing building. What on earth were they thinking?

On my way back to the hotel I made a detour to another church whose imposing twin spires I had noticed from across the valley. It lies within a walled area ? fort which I think is called the Vyšehrad. On the map it looks like the church is that of St Peter and St Paul. All I could find was a notice which said Basilica Minor, which I thought odd for such a large church. It was unfortunately shut, but I walked through the adjoining graveyard – mostly early 19th and 18th Century graves but some earlier. Very well kept. All the gold lettering on the headstones seems to have been touched up recently. Must go back when the church is open.

I have registered for the conference and collected my bag. The sessions don’t look like showstoppers but I hope I pick up some information which might be useful. Life is tough – forced to spend 3 days in one of the world’s most beautiful and most interesting cities and I don’t even have to present anything – just sit and listen.

Anyway, here are some photographs to give a flavour of the place. Clearly I must do some reading up and hopefully some more sight-seeing.

Airports

Airports must be the most depressing places in the world. Remember the big fuss when Jan Smuts was changed to Johannesburg International and then again to Oliver Tambo? Who cares? If someone is ever misguided enough to name a building after me I hope it will be a home for destitute Corgies or a Thai massage parlour - somewhere people at least enjoy visiting. I have seldom seen anyone in an airport looking cheerful. Actually it is worse than that. I have seldom seen anyone in an airport who does not look harrassed, tired, uncomfortable, irritable or just downright depressed.

Give them their due, some airports do try, and they are getting better. The new Johannesburg international sections are a vast improvement on the old - roomy, better ventilated, adequate seating, reasonably quiet except for when some Einstein trundles past with a large red bookshelf on wheels - at 10 pm. There is wireless internet which actually works, quite a selection of shops, most of which don't all close their doors the moment the sun sets and clean loo's which you can't smell from the other side of the building. Some go even further. Singapore has a gym, rentable sleeping rooms, a pool, an outside garden and free internet. Even Maputo, which used to take the cake for inefficiency and sheer user-unfriendliness, is improving. So it is not that they don't try. It is just somethign about being an airport.

It is the things which we have to do at airports which make them symbols of frustration. Everything from getting forex to getting a customs letter for your laptop to checking-in to getting through the security check to surviving passport control is a hassle and potentially a big hassle - will I make my plane? will there be problems with my visa? will I forget my wallet when I take it out of my pocket for the Xray scanner? Even loyalty program platinum card travellers usually have to put up with these irritations. It is partly the anxiety but it is also the indignity of being treated as a number. Or a potential criminal.  Why does it take 15 minutes, a gazillion questions, a boarding pass and a passport to draw 100 euros at the ABSA Bureau de Change in the airport, but I can go to an ATM in Paris, stick my card in and walk away with the same amoutn of cash in under a minute?

But OK, one runs the gauntlett and makes it into the hallowed halls of the "duty free shops". I mean what is it with duty free shops? Who do they think they are kidding? They load the prices by 200% and then tell you you are saving because you don't pay 14% VAT. Do they think we are imbeciles? We obviously are because we carry on buying there. How about a little honesty, like "ACSA charges us a fortune to rent these premises and so we will charge you at least triple what you would pay in the Pick 'n Pay? Also, half of you are used to paying in pounds, dollars, euro's or yen and so you actually won't notice. And lastly, many of you have unspent rands you want to get rid of and we would dearly like to take them off you.?" Then at least we will understand each other. But spare us the "save with duty free" garbage. The coffee shop here wants R33 for a tuna sandwich, R25 for a latte, R10 for a can of cold drink, R18 for a muffin, R25 for a large packet of crisps, R35 for a tube of Pringles. Converted into dollars those are reasonable (but not cheap) prices.  Leaving them in rands they certainly aren't.

Then comes boarding. In theory there is no advantage to being in the front of the queue, since seats are reserved. But actually, there is. Those who get on first fill up the overhead racks with all the bulky luggage which they should have checked in in the first place and because there is not enough room the rest have to somehow find space under the seats, usually limiting leg room in the process. Everyone knows this so there is a fair amount of jostling and barging and queue jumping at the gates. It is a tense time, made worse by the special treatment doled out to first and business class passengers (considering what they are paying I don't have a problem with that). It is more the crowd control tactics they use when marshalling us into the plane which leaves me feeling resentful.

OK - here's the last bitch. Is it really impossible to reorganise the seating in a plane so that passengers don't have to climb over other passengers when they need to go to the loo? Or stretch their legs? How about pairs of seats facing inwards - I refuse to believe that we can produce iPhones but not figure out how to get 300 people seated without causing gridlock. Why does it take 5-10 minutes sometimes just to get the aircraft doors open when disembarking? Why do we all have to go out the front door?

OK - that is my gripe for the night. In about 15 minutes I expect to be summoned to the cattle wagon. I guess 50 years ago I would have been boarding the Union Castle. Transit time about 50 times longer but at least you could stretch your legs.

Here we go - business class Gate 9, economy gate 10.

Ho hum.

Lamb stew

2nd May. My dbw's birthday. She is 40-mumble. We normally go out for a meal somewhere but this time my brother and sister-in-law were down from the Eastern Cape visiting their son and daughter in Cape Town and we opted for a family lunch at our house. So the next question was what to eat. Clearly the birthday girl should not be expected to cook. Out of the question. Which left me.

I enjoy cooking but am certainly no expert and seldom get to do it. Normally when I announce that I am going to cook lunch or supper there is a rolling of teenage eyes heavenwards. This especially since Princess Firstborn started taking home economics, or whatever it is called in the new school curriculum. Now dishes not only has to taste good but need to be nutritionally balanced, preservative free, eco-friendly, humane and preferably not associated with anything or anyone not cool. I have learned that if I am making a serious bid to invade the kitchen, as opposed to just trying to pretend I am willing to shoulder my share of the housework, it needs to be firm and decisive, as in "I am making the dinner and no, I don't need any help, thank you! Everybody out! Yes, that includes you, dear. Especially you."

But that still left the problem of what to eat. Too cold for a braai. My dbw is fond of lamb. Lamb chops, roast lamb, lamb stew. I remembered an occasion years ago when my Mom-in-law came to visit us and made us the most divine lamb stew. 15 years later I can still taste it. I swear she used a Woollies' leg of lamb for the stew. I had never tasted anything like it and don't think I have since. So I phoned her up at 6 am on a public holiday (she is an early riser) and asked forsome advice. Asking people for their recipes is tricky, but this was in a good cause - her daughter's birthday lunch. She happily obliged but said it wouldn't have been a leg of lamb she used (which would have been a waste) but rather lamb knuckles. She also gave me a list of extras I would need to buy and add.

And so began the Great Lamb Stew. In the end it contained lean bacon, tomato, onion, olives, sauerkraut, mutton stock, red, yellow and green peppers, brown mushrooms, thyme, salt, pepper and a little red wine. I cooked it in a large cast-iron pot over low heat for about 6 hours the day before the birthday lunch, by the end of which it was smelling hugely enticing and the meat was pretty much falling off the bones. I let it stand overnight and then the next morning it went back into the oven for a few hours at the lowest heat. Some wild rice and mixed vegetables completed the picture and we were ready. Couple of bottles of du Toit's Kloof wine on the side to wash it down. 

Gauging how good one's food is is difficult. Guests are usually polite unless it really is inedible. Even family are usually polite. But they vote with their feet, or rather their mouths. I am delighted to say that most present went back for seconds, even my dbw, which means that either they were really ravenous or that it was really good. Finished off the occasion with a choice of cheesecake, chocolate mousse cake, fruit salad, ice cream, yoghurt and melktert - clearly not dieters' delight. I justified my indulgence by invoking the kilocalories burned in the half-marathon the day before. Not sure what excuses the others used, nor do I care.

Happy birthday, my love.

Labour Day

Labour Day

I ran the Safari half marathon in Wellington this morning. As usual not enough time to prepare - did a couple of long runs weekends but nothing much else so wasn't expecting a fantastic time. Set the alarm for 4.30 but the clock time was wrong so it went off at 3.30. Finally dragged myself out of bed at the right hour. Let the dogs out to wee and had a glass of apple juice myself. Recently read an article in Runner's World about runners who had got caught short doing marathons and had to visit the nearest bush and use their socks for loo roll - so made sure I visited the throne room before leaving. Broken hearted, paid a cent etc. Put on my gear, bade my half awake dbw farewell and headed for the northeastern territories about 5.15. It was still pitch dark and there was a spatter of drizzle but not too bad all things told. Listened to the somewhat inane banter on Talk Radio with "Udo". I gather it is short for Rudolph. Nice enough guy. Some folk phoned in with funny jokes. Well almost funny. Nothing is hilarious at 5.30 am.

Picked my sister up at 6 - she was coming for the ride and to support me but not running this time - still recovering from the 2 Oceans. We managed to just about get lost in Paarl, due largely to roadworks, poor signage, bad driving (some of it mine) and generally adverse weather conditions. I started to worry about the time - it was 6.45 and the race started at 7.15. We switched on the Blackberry GPS and after that it was a little easier. I needn't have worried - I made it in good time. There was a large crowd behind the tape. They said something about a field of 5000 for the half. There was a good vibe. Still a bit of light rain but nothing to write home about. Just before the start we had a minute's silence for those killed in the Paarl printing works fire. From the buzz of conversation to absolute silence - it was quite spooky but very beautiful in a sad way. Poor buggers.

A short speech by the madam mayor of wherever and then we were off. The race starts with a short and very steep uphill, then levels off. I must say it was nice after the 2 Oceans to have some room to move. I slotted in behind the 2 hour pace keeper ("bus") and stayed with him for about 5 km. After that I seemed to be keeping pace with a guy slightly older than me with a big"Run with Jesus" label on his vest. Never thought of Jesus as a runner, but what do I know. We ran out of town and then turned onto a dirt road. The smells were interesting to say the least - manure, that rotten grapes smell one often gets around vineyards, woodfires from the labourers' cottages. All along the road, outside nearly every farm there were groups of farm folk, even in the rain. Kids shouting "Hou bene Hou! Hou bene Hou!" and holding out their hands to be "high fived". The spirit was amazing.

At about the halfway mark the rain got heavier, the wind picked up and it became a tad unpleasant. My shoes and socks were starting to get wet. Some of the runners had light "second skin" type of apparel which they put on. They rest of us grinned and bore it. The second half of the race has some pretty mean hills. Meanest of all is the fact that at about 15km one passes through Wellington East and one is within earshot of the stadium where the winners are coming in - you can hear the public address system and the applause - but then you go out of town again and follow a long curve to come in from the south I guess.

At 18km I was distinctly uncomfortable on account of the previous night's muesli and yoghurt. There is a lesson there of course. I wasn't sure whether I would be able to last until the finish. My prayers were answered in the form of a small outhouse next to the refreshment table and I gratefully "abluted" before resuming the race. In retrospect it cost me a few minutes but gave me a second wind (no pun intended) and allowed me to complete the final few km at a good pace. I finished in 2:15 which is no great shakes for a serious runner, but I was quite happy with it. 2 years ago I did a sub-2h in this race but I was fitter and the weather was better.

My sister was waiting with a mini-bar-one, banana, towel and jacket. There was a bit of a damper on the rest of the activities which are nornally part of this event - live bands, braaivleis and the like, so we decided not to stick around.  I phoned my dbw to let her know that I had not ended up in the coronary ICU of the local hospital or the morgue and that I would meet her at the shopping mall in about an hour. Then we found the car and headed back to Cape Town where most sensible people were just getting out of bed. We almost got lost in Paarl again! The GPS lady got increasingly irritated as we disobeyed one instruction after another. Finally found the N1 and after that it was plain sailing.

Next is the Robertson half in about a month. Can't wait!