Task 52: Read Middlemarch

Although I have always enjoyed reading, there are a number of the classics - especially the weightier ones - that I've never tackled.  The Challenge seemed an excellent opportunity to rectify this.  The novel that immediately sprang to mind was War and Peace but Vivien, the friend whose own Sixty at 60 Challenge inspired me to do mine, had chosen that as one of her tasks so I felt I should pick something else.

My husband Peter and my very well-read friend Kathy strongly recommended Middlemarch, by George Eliot.  Having ploughed my way through Silas Marner and The Mill on the Floss at school, and loathed both - so miserable and wretched - I had some doubts.  On the other hand I'd found the TV adaptation some years ago very absorbing, and with glowing recommendations from two people whose opinions I respected, I decided to plump for it.  

Full of enthusiasm, I started on my birthday.  Five weeks later, I was only 70% of the way through - it certainly meets the requirement of being weighty - and I wasn't enjoying it at all.  The characters were well drawn and the social history aspect of life in 1830s provincial England was interesting, but I didn't feel involved in the story and thought that if Dorothea was so daftly high minded as to have married the grindingly dull Mr Casaubon, she had only herself to blame.  Nearly everyone was miserable and suffering from various unfairnesses and misfortunes, and it was all too reminiscent of the other two Eliot classics I'd had to endure.

Suddenly, though, it came alive and I found the last quarter riveting.  Instead of interminably long and convoluted sentences - over a page each in some cases - often about politics or religion, the pace quickened and the focus shifted more towards woman's role in society and the extent to which money (or lack of it) determines happiness.  Particularly poignant was the realisation by Dr Lydgate that he has made an awful mistake in marrying the shallow and worldly Rosamund, and yet he simply must find a way of making the marriage work if their lives together are to be bearable.  If it means abandoning his long-cherished ambition of doing research that will bring real benefits to many people, and settling instead for a profitable private practice, that is what he has to do - even though his wife won't even understand how much he has sacrificed.  Without money or the possibility of divorce without scandal, he has no choice. 

I decided by the end that it was well worth struggling through the first three quarters, to reap the rewards of the rest.  Anyone with an interest in the politics or religion of the time, particularly the Reform Bill, would probably enjoy much of the earlier part too.

Task 15: Visit a South African township - Part 2

This continues directly from Part 1, published earlier today.

Roger, our tour guide, would really like to move to the third section of the township, which has single storey brick built houses that are part of a government housing programme.  There aren't many of them and demand is high, so although he has had his name on the list for years, he isn't optimistic about his chances.  We visited one of those houses, which has been the home for many years of a mixed-race woman now in her late fifties.  She works as a nurse in the care home in Franschhoek, as well as working part-time in the local craft centre which she helped set up, and running a restaurant in her garden where she provides home-cooked meals for up to 70 people at a time:

While Roger waits in the hope of being able to move into similar accommodation, his plan is to save enough to buy the large shack across the road from where he lives now, and convert it into a three storey building comprising three flats, which he would rent out.  Ideally he would like to live in Franschhoek village, in one of the small houses that were originally intended to people in his position, but these are now completely beyond his reach as the price had doubled in recent years because white families buy them for their nannies.

The three-tier pecking order also applies to the creches in the township.  We visited the middle-ranking one, which has over 30 children in one room, with no outside space.  The children spend all day there apart from Sunday, from 7am to 5.30pm, sitting on the floor.  The two teachers, who each speak three languages - Khosa, English and Afrikaans, as well as some Shona - seemed genuinely caring but their facilities are minimal.  (By contrast the creche in the third section has plenty of outdoor space with lots of playground equipment.)  We took a crate of apples and bags of crisps for the children, who looked a fairly happy bunch despite their circumstances:

The exception was Roger's own daughter, who has only been there three days.  While Roger's fiancee was studying financial management, their little girl was living with his mother in the Eastern Cape.  Life there is very different, as it is an economically undeveloped rural area with its own language, customs, dress, hair styles, food, etc.  The pace of life is slow, shoes are rarely worn and most young children are being looked after by their grandmothers while the parents have moved to the Western Cape in search of work.  Now that Roger's fiancee has finished her course and is looking for a job, their daughter has come back to live with them.  It is a huge and difficult transition, and not surprisingly she is finding it tough.  There is little doubt she will adjust quickly, learning Khosa and English and making new friends, but for now it is hard.

Unlike many townships, there is little violence here - partly because it is relatively small and therefore easier to police - but theft and drug-related crime is a major problem.  There is a fairly palpable tension between the South African residents and immigrants, particularly Zimbabweans, who are well educated and willing to work for as little as a third of the usual going rate - which for someone like Roger is only R300 a day (about £18).  One of the reasons they can live on so little - apart from desperation - is that unlike the South Africans they don't care about wearing designer brands.  Virtually all of them, other than those who are on drugs, take pride in having clean clothes - and the schoolchildren emerge from even the most squalid-looking shacks wearing immaculate uniforms - but for the South Africans it really matters to be seen wearing Nike, Reebok etc.  They may be counterfeit but they proclaim status.  You can live much more cheaply if status isn't an issue.

Despite these tensions and the poor living conditions, there appears to be a strong sense of community, helped by having a large and well equipped primary school in the township which serves all three tiers.  About 97% of them are Christian and although the men drink a lot on Saturday nights in the so-called tavern - Castle lager, not home-made hooch - most of them will go to Church on Sunday morning, especially those of mixed-race.  The graveyard is beautifully maintained:

The creativity and resilience of the inhabitants is clearly evident in the way they paint and decorate their shacks and houses.  The restaurant, now sadly defunct, boasts impressive murals and the fencing around the open top floor - from where there is a fine view over the rugby ground (Franschhoek favours rugby rather than football) - consists of a variety of metal bedheads:

It was a fascinating visit and I wish more tourists were aware of the opportunity to see the township - or even of its existence.  If they knew that the smiling waiter or shop assistant, immaculately dressed, lives in a shack with no running water and only a couple of hours' electricity a day, they would be more likely to want to support their opportunities for economic development and a fairer chance in life.

Task 15: Visit a South African township - Part 1

In all the years we've been coming to South Africa, Peter and I have never visited any of the townships as it felt a bit too much like voyeurism.  Although we'd heard a lot about them and knew that the best organised visits do provide some benefit to the local communities, and we were certainly interested to see them at first hand, on balance we felt too uncomfortable with the idea.

A couple of years ago, however, when we were chatting to an American friend whom we'd first met here in Franschhoek two years before, she told us about a visit she'd just made to the local township.  Like most visitors to this beautiful winelands valley, we had no idea it had a township.  In Cape Town you pass a number on the way to and from the airport, or going through Hout Bay, but there was simply no sign of one in Franschhoek.  As she spoke about what she'd seen and how she had helped to sponsor a soup kitchen there in the morning, we decided it was something we would like to do.

The plan had been to go with her and a local guide this year but for various reasons that didn't look as though it was going to happen, so instead we asked in the tourist office if there were any organised trips available.  (Going independently to any township is very unwise.)  A few phone calls later and we were signed up to go the next morning with a local company.

When we arrived at their office, it turned to be only the two of us plus Roger, a qualified tourist guide aged 35 who has lived in the township pretty much his whole life.  He is ambitious, speaks at least four languages and, as he proudly explained, is the first person in his family ever to hold a driving licence - though he couldn't afford a car.  He drove us there in the company's minibus and we were surprised to find not only that it was less then two miles outside the town, up on the hillside, but also that it had well maintained roads throughout the settlement - which was about the size of a small town.  Given the state of the dwellings, many of which were basically decrepit shacks made out of sheets of rusting corrugated iron weighted down with rocks to stop them blowing away, we'd assumed there wouldn't be any proper roads.  Roger explained that the area had originally been a fruit farm with a substantial house and labourers' cottages and outbuildings, so there had been a reasonable infrastructure already in place.

The township was created in about 1980, when apartheid was still firmly in place.  In that area, as elsewhere, it was an offence for non-white people to walk in groups of three or more or to walk on the pavement, and failure to produce your passbook on request could result in a 6 month prison sentence.  Freedoms which we take for granted simply didn't exist for the majority of the population.

Almost immediately a three tiered class system developed in the township, based mainly on income, and it is still fast entrenched.  The poorest, including immigrants from Zimbabwe, live highest up the hill in extremely basic shacks, with no running water.  They have to fetch their water from a communal tap by the side of the road.  Electricity is now available to virtually everyone but on a pre-paid system, which not everyone can afford for more than an hour or two a day.  The shacks in these photos will house entire families:

Roger showed us his previous home in this section, where he lived through most of his 20s.  By scrimping and saving, he eventually managed to move into the area lower down the hill, buying the house you see here, with his fiancée in their kitchen:

   

I was surprised to see that the kitchen was well equipped, with a good quality cooker and microwave, and that there was a very large satellite TV in the living room.  The rest of the furniture was minimal and scrappy, with no chairs apart from a battered old settee, and the rooms were tiny - mainly because Roger has rented out most of the building to a Somali family who run a shop from the front room.

As this post is rather long and the full version might exceed the limit, I've split it into two parts, and Part 2 will follow shortly.

Task 26: Eat 5 foods I've never tried before - 3rd post

As we're now in South Africa - specifically Franschhoek, the culinary high spot of the country and arguably of the entire continent - the scope for completing this particular task seemed promising.  Over the years of coming here, including on safari, I have eaten some fairly weird and mostly wonderful things, but I was pretty certain there were still some I hadn't tried.  Sure enough this week has yielded two: kohlrabi and sweetbreads.

According to Wikipedia, kohlrabi is a low, stout cultivar of cabbage, although I think it looks more like a sort of corrugated green turnip:

It can be eaten raw or cooked and is said to taste like a cross between cabbage and broccoli stems, which doesn't sound too appealing.  I had the advantage of eating it at Ryan's Kitchen, a restaurant ranked no.4 in Franschhoek, where it formed the core of the vegetarian main dish, in the guise of pasta-style ribbons - lots of them - with asparagus, sautéed mushrooms, truffle and Parmesan:

The first mouthful was interesting and the accompanying ingredients were delicious.  It fairly quickly palled, though, as I chomped through what felt like an entire turnip.  At least it's apparently rich in vitamin C and various minerals, so no doubt it's done me good - and I never have to eat it again.

Now to the sweetbreads.  Anyone squeamish might like to stop here.  I'd thought they were either another term for offal or for the unmentionable bits, neither of which would be top of my list.  In fact they are the thymus gland (or sometimes the pancreas), usually from calf or lamb.  My opportunity to try them came as a starter at lunch today at Foliage, the no.1 restaurant in Franschhoek.  Its rating is well deserved and despite the excellence of its cuisine, it is far less expensive than its equivalents in the UK, partly due to the favourable exchange rate.

Discovering what sweetbreads actually are, was not at all welcome news as far as I was concerned.  As many of you will know, Peter has a condition called myasthenia gravis and although there is no cure, the removal of the thymus gland (at the base of the throat) can alleviate symptoms.  It is quite a delicate operation and in his case it definitely helped. The thought of eating something - albeit not a human version - that he had had removed, was frankly repellent.  If that's the way I feel, I should be a vegetarian and I don't really have any excuse.  The only line I draw is at eating veal, which most of my vegetarian friends regard as not much more than tokenism.  In the unlikely event that any of them are still reading this post, they may take some grim satisfaction from my quailing at the prospect ahead of me.

In the event, it was delicious.  The dish was described on the menu as "pan-fried black pudding and sweetbread salad, charred cabbage, Niel's bacon, hazelnut and raspberry vinaigrette, onion croutons".    The balance of flavours was superb and the sweetbreads had a delicate lightness which was unexpected. The attractive presentation added to the pleasure:

Of the five new foods I've tried for this Task, the only one I've disliked is the kohlrabi, which was probably the one I thought I would enjoy most.  I wonder if I'll find the same with other Tasks I've yet to attempt?

Task 51: Visit 5 museums I’ve never been to before

I’ve always enjoyed visiting museums, especially quirky ones.  When I was at university I worked unpaid one morning a week at the Bristol City Archives and considered doing a postgraduate degree in Museum Studies, in the hope of having a career in that area.  Luckily the fact that I couldn’t afford it meant it didn’t happen, as I think I’d have found it too specialised.  Much better to keep it as a hobby than devote my whole working life to it.

When Peter and I were staying with friends in Girton between Christmas and the New Year, we had a spare half-day and decided to go into Cambridge and wander around.  It’s years since I was last there and I was keen to see it again.  As it was bitterly cold, we quickly abandoned the idea of strolling outside and headed instead to the Fitzwilliam Museum.  Neither of us had ever visited it before and had heard glowing reports of it – and of its café. The entrance certainly lived up to expectations:

Curiously it didn’t feel much warmer inside than out, but the atmosphere was welcoming and the Christmas tree gave it a festive appeal:

We made a beeline for the Impressionist paintings and enjoyed browsing the collection, including a Renoir we hadn’t seen before:

Other highlights in the same section included some Tiffany glass in gorgeous colours and a Van Gogh landscape that is remarkably unlike his other work and is unsigned, prompting dark suspicions – though it’s hardly likely the Fitzwilliam would have made a mistake.  Still, it's intriguing.

In another room we spent some time admiring a painting by Pieter Brueghel the Younger – Winter Landscape with Bird Trap – which felt bleakly seasonal:

Meandering along various corridors we accidentally found ourselves in a superb exhibition of mediaeval manuscripts, including fascinating information on the colours available and how the paints were made.  I like to read every single label, to learn as much as possible.  It’s probably rather pointless as I retain little of it and it can be very irritating for companions who prefer to move more briskly and concentrate on the overall impression, but it’s a habit I find hard to kick.  Not surprisingly I was only about a fifth of the way through, when Peter reappeared having gone round the whole exhibition and champing at the bit for lunch.  Reluctantly I sped up and we made it into the café in time for a late lunch and a much-needed hot drink.

If you haven’t been to the Fitzwilliam, I’d thoroughly recommend it.  We plan to go back some time as we saw only about half of it.  If we do, I hope my ability to hold the camera steady and keep it in focus will have improved, but at least the photos gave some idea of the wonderful art and glass on display.

Task 2: Drive to Cambridge and back

On the rare occasions when there are few other cars on the road, I love driving, especially using a manual.  Feeling in control of a potentially lethal machine and either flooring the accelerator or carefully manoeuvring round a tight bend is a great experience.  As it is, the reality of driving in south-west London is no fun at all.  In fact I find it downright scary, particularly when lanes merge or diverge and I have no idea which one I should be in.  The worst is being in fast-moving heavy traffic and having to move across to the far left lane.  Over the years, particularly as Peter is happy behind the wheel, I’ve increasingly left it entirely to him – to the point where some of my friends don’t realise I can actually drive.

We have an automatic, which helps, but I’m aware that it’s a responsibility I actively shirk.  That’s wimpish and it also means I’m not as independent as I should be.  I would really like to be in a position where I don’t even think about driving, whereas at the moment I’ll find almost any excuse not to have to.  Motorways, large roundabouts and difficult weather conditions are especial bugbears.  That’s why driving to Cambridge and back in late December is in my Facing the Fear section.

Our very dear friends and former neighbours, Joyce and Bill, moved to Girton about a year ago and we’ve been to stay with them a few times.  On each occasion, of course, I spent the journey firmly in the passenger seat.  We were going to see them again for a few days between Christmas and New Year, which offered the ideal opportunity for me to do the drive there and back – particularly as I had just completed Task 11, learning to use the satnav. 

The morning didn’t start well, as there was thick patchy fog and black ice, and the UK news was dominated by accounts of a multiple pile-up in Oxford, in which one woman had died and two others were seriously injured. Feeling very nervous, I set off rather gingerly and had only done two miles before making my first mistake.  Reaching a mini-roundabout, I suddenly went blank about who had priority.  There were two cars on the road to the right of me, neither of which had moved onto the roundabout, so I decided it was my turn.  Wrong.  Peter left it a few minutes before commenting mildly that in fact they had priority.  It was sheer nerves that had caused my mistake, but it wasn’t encouraging.

Things took a further dip when I realised that the satnav was directing me towards the dreaded North Circular.  Did “go right” mean move into the right hand lane (of three) or simply bear right, ie stay in the same lane – or possibly even turn right?  Our old satnav used to say “turn right” when there was just a sharp bend in the road, and it took a while to realise that this new one was more accurate.  I did get beeped once, when I moved from the centre to the left lane, having first checked I had enough space and then indicated with plenty of warning.  Probably I hadn’t allowed as much space as I thought, but I felt it was a relatively minor infraction and grimly pressed on.

Once we were clear of London it was relatively straightforward and we arrived in the pretty village of Buckden bang on time for lunch – crayfish sandwiches and a much-needed cappuccino.  As I’d hoped, I even had a spare half hour afterwards for some retail therapy in the sales, and emerged with two tops and a handbag.  Then it was on to Girton, where we arrived at 4pm, as planned, and joined Joyce and Bill for tea and Christmas cake.

The following day I did the driving, which was minimal, and then it was time to prepare for the journey home.  By then the weather was significantly worse and there had been another bad crash in Oxford.  Looking out of our bedroom window, the fog was really thick and the road covered in ice.  We gratefully accepted Joyce’s suggestion of a leisurely breakfast with them and by the time we set off at 11am, the conditions were quite a bit better:

The trip was uneventful and we were home within two and a half hours.  I felt tired but elated, and would happily have set off again in the afternoon:

So, mission accomplished.  Now all I have to do is keep it up.