Eating words and Indigestion

The extremes of the ‘Cape to Cairo route’

tshedi_ramos — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 08:20:00 GMT

South Africa displays the extremes between the pleasures of its beauty and the misery of its lowly in a way that makes one believe that the universe is as it should be. Otherwise how could magnanimous stretches of bare lands framed by infinite mountains, cheerful skies over congested shanty towns, and laid back Dutch towns overlooking warm sea waters all be a destination to be probed and enjoyed?

It is a vibrant and beautiful country that still writhes from the throbbing scars of its past. Sprawling shanty towns and squatters inhabited by the poor black populace litter the peripheries of every town. The locations of these areas excluded the blacks from partaking in the continued civilization of their native country during apartheid and still do so. Good Sanitation, good schools, electricity, good housing and clean water are often hard to come by.

Soweto is however one of shanty towns (KASI in township Slang) that has managed to shed off its old skin and has over the years metamorphosed into a vibrant city. Located just outside Johannesburg, it is the most populated township in South Africa, and its growth is connected to the discovery of Gold in 1885. The inhabitants of Soweto pride themselves on being urbane and streetwise and are precisely so. Travelling in this part of South Africa should thus be done with the help of a guide. Most residents here are rooted in the metropolis and are detribalized, speaking a mix of all the 11 South African official languages. It is a ‘location’ like any other in Africa and bears no special way of living that is peculiar only to a place of its kind. It is however a special township for it is in Soweto that the first democratic president of South Africa and Nobel peace Laureate Nelson Mandela lived. His house has been turned into a museum and filled with collectables from the man himself. Those who are inspired by Mandela would thus find this township exciting.

The zigzag of shacks and chatter of children, chickens, women and blaring taxis in the main road of the ‘dark side’ of Soweto could be to a person who has never been exposed to such, an interesting place. Poverty is a tragic, but to those that live in it, it seems but a normal way of life. I guess it is true that contrasts are essential to teach us life. The people have never known any other better life, now how can they know and appreciate any other life? To them burglary, killing to get what one wants is acceptable and customary.

Discarding civilization or a lack of it, a ride along the N1 reveals treasures and wonders of nature at every glance. Shanty towns and the buzz of Johannesburg are left behind as one travels south of the country. The N1 road is a partial realization of the Cape-to-Cairo dream route and joins Polokwane: a city where South Africa meets Zimbabwe and Botswana and runs all the way to the coast of Cape Town. Expect to experience four seasons as your travel down this road. Temperatures vary between 35 degrees Celsius and 9 in summer and from 30 degrees to ‘snowy temperatures’ in winter. The scenery changes as does the temperature. A green mat of earth and green mountains around the greater Johannesburg area changes into red dust of earth and bare mountains as you go down the road towards the Karoo. The name Karoo originates from the Khoisan who inhabited this area before the arrival of white settlers and means ‘dry land’. The Khoi left behind their striking and defined rock paintings in Beaufort West and Nelspoort along the N1 and they truly are admirable. Some Stone Age sites are also to be enjoyed around these areas. The dramatic Karoo villages and towns show the amazing laid back and pristine life of this part of South Africa. Here one experiences blazing summers and icy winters. The area is said to have over 9000 plant species. The ground periodically becomes covered by yellow flowers as far as the eyes can see as one continues along this road. Yellow vibrant flowers, which I long to lie on and breath in.

The amazing and dreamy Karoo National Park is situated right in the middle of this expanse of land and is said to have a part of 9000 plant species and the endangered black rhinoceros.

Photos: NAHOON BEACH, EAST LONDON

tshedi_ramos — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 20:31:00 GMT

beautiful shots of the ovely nahoon beach. it has warm waters ans is often a haven for surfers

How to survive Johannesburg Bus and Train Station

tshedi_ramos — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 00:16:00 GMT

Crowds are a magnet for vile opportunists and fortune hunters who have intentions of making quick cash by cheating and robbing clueless travelers. Bus stations, train stations and airports are full of such people. They thrive on the sensory overload of travelers as they rush about in fear of missing their transport. The screams of joy as family members are re-united and divided are a cloak under which they operate. Travel is therefore insanely dangerous for travelers who are visiting places for the first time.

Park station in Johannesburg is a major crowd puller for travelers and to be frank, the most congested station I have ever been into. It is the centre of public transport that takes you to all the different parts of South Africa. It houses coaches that go to the different parts of the Eastern Cape, Western Cape, Mpumalanga, North West and even international coaches that go to countries like Botswana, Namibia and Zimbabwe.

The station is right in the middle of the city and depending on where you have been before, is one of the most hostile places in the Johannesburg CBD.

There are police officers all over the large Park station building but nevertheless, one can get robbed of their valuables point blank and in daylight. The worst thing is that though people might see what’s happening to you, they will not stop to help. You become a victim of both robbery and neglect.

The dangers of travel do not nevertheless deter us from travel. They teach us to take necessary care and skill while on the road. Here are some tips of surviving park station:

1. Trust is more a weakness than a virtue- Do not trust anyone to carry your luggage for you, unless the person has a cart for carrying bags and is wearing a yellow policing vest that shows he is authorized to carry luggage in park station.

2. Do not ask for directions from random people if you are lost. Look around for a police officer or an elderly woman to ask.

3. Make sure you have enough money safely put in a bag and avoid the ATMs

4. Keep your handbag underneath your armpit and hold tightly onto it with your other arm

5. Travel light and avoid huge luggage

6. Relax, walk with your head high and swiftly so that you blend in

7. Wear flat shoes so that you can move about swiftly and freely’

8. Avoid showing off your phone, laptop, mp3 and any other gadgets

9. When arriving at the station, read the signs for the waiting area of your coach and show the attendants your ticket so that they can tell you what time it is leaving and where you should wait

10. Listen carefully to the announcements so that you can hear when they announce when you should board your coach or the train

When Parliamentarians pick up Hikers

tshedi_ramos — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 22:09:00 GMT

Good sense has taught me to boot luck and fate into a locked closet labeled ‘for the happy-go-lucky misfits’, somewhere in the back of my mind. Luck and fate I believe, are tools often abused, much like the name of God by agnostics whose state of affairs are ‘out of the blue’, tangled beyond mortal aid. If the odds are stacked against you, that’s it, live with that and try something else. You can call me a realist.

Travelling by public transport in Botswana, Particularly in Tlokweng, an ‘urban-village’ right on the border of the Capital City Gaborone, my realism ideals were sprung to the winds faster than the speed our taxi was going at. I found myself calling the name of god and wishing for a lucky miracle aboard a rage of wheels that surely had us all hovering over instant extinction. My taxi of choice overtook dangerously, travelled at an unlawful speed and barely waited for robots ‘to say go’, as it sped off to the main Tlokweng-Gaborone Road. I was reminded of the movie Taxi and I knew trouble was brewing. I could swear the life expectancy of all those that take taxis in this road are reduced by at least a decade!

The Tlokweng-gaborone road is one of the roads in Gaborone City whose slow construction is making it difficult for prudent driving especially during the mad rush hours. Our Combi got wedged in the middle of sluggish traffic, with cars kissing each others backsides.

The driver swerved out, drove on the pavement, precariously a strand away from the vehicles snailing on the road. A delirious wail from an aged passenger elicited a snarling inaudible retort from him amid the now frantic voices in the Combi. We shoved, twisted and twirled back into the traffic, our heads banging against each other, until our Schumacher was assured that we were now in perfect tandem with the rest of the cars. With my heart in my throat, I put a death grip on the opposite seat’s back rest. I might never know when I would need the grip!

The need to move around places surpasses safety when one does not have a private motor vehicle to go about. To some people like my friend, owning a private vehicle at the blink of an eye, needs a carefully orchestrated plan, nothing else. Taxis and heart-wrenching moments be damned! ‘The plan is simple’, he told me, ‘become a parliamentarian’. That is the only job where one is guaranteed a luxury car and a lavish lifestyle as a perk. Being a parliamentarian does not depend on any set qualifications and my being a university graduate, I stand a good stead of making it in the trade, I was told. That is the plan…To execute it he told me, he gave away all his fancy clothes to the poor families in his home village whose name I cannot spell. He went into grannies’ yards just to greet and ask whether he should fetch water from the communal tap for them. Even better, he influenced his aunts to give the grannies collecting pension, lifts back home; all in his name of course. The Aunts also gave lifts to the grannies children who work in Chinese-owned stores in the village and think they are better than public transport. They are of course not to be blamed for such feelings. While doing all this he asked to officiate at funerals all over the village. Before long he became renowned for his love for ‘the common man’. He now sits in high places and has all a man can wish for; a majestic fleet of cars included. It is even possible that he owned the very same Combi I was travelling in. Good senses…

Go! Go! Go! Go! Our driver chanted like an exorcist, shaking me out of whatever false safety net he had lulled me into. His collar veins strained against his weathered skin as a female driver dawdled in front of him. Vroom! He went into the pavement again and thank God just before us lay a Bus Stop. I paid my fare and hailed lifts…With luck on my side, I could just run into a parliamentarian wannabe on a humanitarian motive…

The Ancient is not always priceless

tshedi_ramos — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 21:34:00 GMT

My expedition into Molepolole, the birth place of Chief Sebele in Botswana, feels like a long walk through the dusty pages of history that might soon turn into a reality show with all its bizarre weather conditions but, without the color-coded bandanas and an aim at a million.

Chief Sebele along with Chief Khama and Chief Bathoen successfully petitioned the English in defense of Botswana against the invasive Boer forces, armed and ready to colonize the land and its people during the ‘scramble for Africa’. They are still credited, to this day, for the friendly relations between Botswana and the elite English.

And so I am in the village, on the fringes of tapering hills and the Kalahari sands with their rich cultural life. About forty kilometers and one billion light years away from the Capital City Gaborone, Phua lerole as it is called by its natives is generally a dowdy suburban village of small, neat dwellings and dirt roads. I head to Borakalalo, the oldest shopping centre in the village which now lies a wasteland. Under the exploding sun, sweat forces my eyes into needle-size slits and I for a moment feel the frustrations of short sightedness. Gusts of winds give a shot at soothing me, but whisk-broom charred sands into the sky in the process. Everything becomes one with the brown dust and red dirt and I cannot decide which is worse; the sun or the wind.

Abandoned buildings and miscellany shops owned by Chinese nationals and Arabs are the only remains of the once thriving Borakalalo Mall. The floors which once boasted shop produce are choked with droppings of both the animal and human type. Their acidic smell hang in the air, perhaps warning those that pass here of the dangers that lurk within the caved walls.

‘The place is a ghost town Phenomena’, Jamaal an Arab shop owner tells me in flawless Setswana. ‘Thugs hide out in the buildings, terrorizing all those that pass through the mall. Night or day, it is not safe to walk around here’, he continues with a dejected air around him.

In the store, his elderly customers saunter around inspecting the assorted wares. This is a mini Game Stores. Farm produce, toiletries, food stuffs, sweets, spices, household equipment, farm implements, are all sold under one roof.

A long queue has formed where the farm produce is sold. The beans, maize, sunflower are weighed with a cup and sold for P5 a cup. This is the time when the demand for them is high due to the impending ploughing season, Jamal tells me.

I purchase a grandpa pill and an elderly with a tooth gap asks me to buy snuff instead of the pills. Her shoes like everyone else’s in the store match the soil outside. Snuff she says is the best remedy for a sun-induced headache. I reluctantly buy it, and go back to the rude surrounds which to a painter might resemble paradise.

Ruins are our comfort

One of the buildings has been turned into a bar or sepoto as places like this are called. ‘Khadi (traditional beer) and Shake Shake only’, the patron tells me as I ask for a soft drink and I settle for half a cup of Khadi. Thirst has been known to turn even the most devout men into dissenters, albeit for a moment. The vile, bitter liquid burns my tongue and I for a moment are taken to years long gone, when my Aunt used to sell the drink. We would often take a sip or two, much to her reprove. Men who look bruised and have bruises thrive in such places as this. They walk meandering man made paths between homes, searching for the brew and possibly, the next fight. To them alcohol is more than a drink. It is a companion. A sedative against the life they fail to understand. The world is full of them.

Sitting on an orange Kgalagadi Breweries Crate, a colored looking man tells his companions of last nights’ incident. At midnight while walking to his house, he’d seen a huge snake circling above him in the air. When he looked again, it was gone and behind him stood a white woman in white clothes. ‘He’d seen it with his own eyes’! He says and his friends jeer at him. They are doing it for good reason, I thought. The friends however start coming up with their own ‘better’ versions of their ‘midnight stories’. In drunken Languor they tell tales of dragons, witches and talking monkeys. Their eyes glimmer as they carry on, but behind the shine, I see deep wounds and scars. To someone like them, whose past informs their present, it is impossible to find a pattern that would make everything understandable. Like the ruins around them, their thriving days are long gone.

Kasi Restaurant

tshedi_ramos — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 00:09:00 GMT

Trapped between the steam of the huge pot and the smoking firewood from her makeshift stove, the woman stirring the stew beside the road is an indistinct blur which but for her praise song of ‘The strengthening affordable stew’ , my roving eye would not have caught. Around her curtain, impatient school girls with powdered faces and gleaming lips stand, surreptitiously eyeing the train of people along the street. Every so often they would duck beneath the overhanging iron roof housing the woman, when other youths in school uniform pass by. Moments later, they would emerge squinting, blinking and theatrically coughing; seemingly overcome by the thick smoke. Reputation is a big thing for these youths. To be seen at this particular ‘eatery’ it seems will irreparably damage it and they will suffer to protect it.

Drifting off the brisk and random train of animated chatter and glee exuded by the pedestrians, a bunch of dust coated men and women join them. They are excitedly discussing some issue, with one woman in particular prattling on in Soprano. She waves her hands and sends dust into the rest of the group, much to their annoyance. The young girls predictably avoid the line of the dust vapor. The men’s faces like those of the multiple others in this South African township are dry, parched and neglected.They speak volumes about their occupation. I have been told that most of them are in construction and a lucky few with some negligible education do some clerical work or another in town. The educated mass have moved to town, leaving their birth place a waste land full of people who most often than not, turn to comprador business to feed themselves and educate their young. It is a vicious circle of existence.

Finally the woman behind the smoke curtain comes out, bowl full of stew and plates in tow and I wheeze in shock. A nearby man in a rainbow Louis Vuitton Belt that seems out of place with the rest of his sullied outfit looks at me questionably and I hide my shock beneath a smile that fails to reach my eyes. The eyes are the windows to the soul and I swiftly look back at the ‘eatery’. The stew seller has a voluptuous figure and is wearing a sooty apron which by the looks of it, used to be sky blue. Her face has been artfully coloured white, her eyes the only thing discernible. Her neck and wrists are choked by multi coloured beads; Yellow, blue red, green, purple, that threaten to get a taste of the stew. Dishing out to those that extend coins to her, she in sweet melody and bliss praises them in poetry and song. In peacock style, she shifts her neck beads to and fro and they glimmer as they catch the waning sun. She seems to know this and basks in that knowledge as she shows off. The woman with the soprano voice ululates, much to the chagrin of the school girls.

More and more people pour in, buy their stew, listen to song and go back to the train of the diverse people on the street. Now and then, a taxi would dangerously screech past the eatery, scattering papers lying on the thin roadside. Like the papers, the customers would scatter, shouting obscenities and promises to ‘Mur’ put senses into the driver. Of course by then the taxi is long gone.

I am Human, what are you?

tshedi_ramos — Fri, 3 Dec 2010 23:29:00 GMT

The world is understable to all but me. Is it insanity that I can't find anything that makes sense in life? I oftentimes enquire of myself. I wnat to understand the nature of man: His greed, temperance, deceitfulness and kindness. The shape of a flower, a natural landscape, tall eerie trees that appear to withhold knowledge acquired with age. I need to listen to the song of a bird at mid day anf understand its melody, the echo of a hooting owl in a clammy cave, the garbled song of a drunk old man, a taxi driver singsong the destination his taxi.

I want to see splendor, poverty and scarcity, wealth, green grasses and barren land. I want to live life’s intellect through mystery, and then maybe I’ll understand what he is all about. I am insane. But it is my insanity that makes me who I am. Human.Are you Human?