The phone rang. “Hello, Maria...yes....OK great, see you there.”
After a call from Maria, complaining that we had not seen each other for 12 months, I found myself, on a beautiful autumn morning, seated at Huckleberry’s. Here at this delightfully quaint cafe in the park, a popular restaurant for light meals and teas, in Magnolia Dell, Pretoria, we could absorb the surrounding and enjoy some “catch up” chat. It had been seven years since I had visited the park and again realized why I keep coming back.
The first thing that strikes you on arrival is the sudden splash of natural beauty in a built-up urban area. The park nestles snugly in the valley of the Walker Spruit by a lakeside in Pretoria. It provides an oasis of nature, lawns, greenery and trees, with a stream running through the entire park. Large poplar and oak trees shadow the banks of the stream and the cafe terrace. The bright sunlight shatters the leaves and produces charming warmth of dappled colours on the table cloths. The sound of a lilting flute floats sweetly in relaxed harmony with the swans as they leisurely carve V-shaped ripples in the water. Watching the unhurried pecking of the Hadidas brings immediate calm to one’s soul.
Magnolia Craft Flea Market has grown and become unique, now offering a large variety of exclusive items. I was struck by the endless rows of quality arts-and-crafts stalls, sometimes numbering up to 200, and a societal mix of African, European, high and low technology items. Tourists can submerse themselves in a search for their typical experience to find a piece of ideal Africa. The stands are packed with masks from Cote d’ Ivoire, Sierra Leone, Mali, Senegal and Congo; batik-printed bolts of cloth from Zimbabwe; Ndebele necklaces, beaded dolls, wire baskets and a variety of other indigenous objects of dubious age, usage and authenticity.
Besides exquisite African curios, art and handicrafts, the Magnolia market features many contemporary items, such as beautifully painted portraits by aspiring artists. I was surprised to find several young African designers of clothes and jewellery displaying evening wear, handmade chains and earrings with gemstones found only in Africa. I was especially stunned by a pendant of a striking dark blue Tanzanite, a semiprecious stone indigenous to Tanzania.
The myth that SA flea markets are laden with a variety of second-hand goods is not true. Most of the products are either manufactured by the store owners or acquired directly from suppliers in rural villages throughout Southern Africa such as South West Africa, Ivory Coast and Kenya.
Aside from the shopping, the Magnolia is a family-friendly outing. My kids especially enjoyed the park as there is ample space for them to run around as well as games, candle-making and sand art tables, fun rides, and fantastic deli stalls.
The mouth watering aromas of the boerewors (farmers’ sausage) and “braai” (barbeque) hangs in the air. The stall selling biltong (dried meat) is an irresistible magnet to your taste-buds. Many tourists find this meat quite an interesting snack to stave off the hunger pangs felt during the day.
Walking away at the end of the day with heavy bags and a light wallet, I’m personally gripped by the nostalgia that the place conjures up within me. Some memories flooded my mind. The tree that served as the finish line for the 20 mile church-walk, when at 15 years old I finished 18th overall. The languid days spent here with my children playing in safety. The four teenagers we rescued from a BMW that ended up in the stormwater canal behind Huckleberry’s.
I watched the full red sun disappear behind the trees and throw their creeping shadows over the laughing children and tired traders, now packing to leave. It would soon be winter. Apart from the captivating magical atmosphere of a lively African flea Market I felt peacefulness in my soul that I had not experienced in years.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
DIE KANTOOR
Out-of body experiences are much more common than we suppose. Some people have mastered them to the point of “astral tourism “. Well, at least this appears to be the case on Friday nights at Die Kantoor, our local pub. Die Kantoor (Afrikaans for The Office) is so named to preempt the situation where a patron receives a telephonic enquiry from his spouse as to his whereabouts. He can then quite honestly respond that he is still at “The Office”, without having to tell a lie.
During early evening the patrons start arriving. Seeking out their friends they greet each other warmly with squeals of delight from the girls and back slaps from the men. Everyone is relaxed; drinks are ordered and sober conversation ensues. This normality is temporary.
By ten o’clock the dance floor is packed with a crowd that seems to have been “beamed in” from other planets. I sit there; submerged in a cacophony of sound that drowns out the raucous laughter and load voices as everyone strains to be heard. The music is largely old pop music. On the dance floor anything goes, provided you can gyrate, contort or ululate to the beat of the music. Periodically couples do something that resembles a foxtrot or some other ballroom dance. The guests are of every size, shape, sex age and dress. The people range in age from seventeen to seventy eight years old. Leonard Cohen’s words, “She is a hundred but she’s wearing something tight”, come to mind.
The pedestrian quality band loudly throws out, thumping, shaking sound waves that bounce back at into the restricted space in a mass of palpable noise and I ask myself, “What are you doing in this uncouth place?”
I am here because I love it. Everything is happening at once. After four double whiskies the effect of being able to choose your focus from a multitude of intense events is very satisfying. The sexy bar ladies that come out from behind the bar to welcome me. The variation of sub-cultures that attend this little pub never ceases to amaze me. The subcultures that range from the deadly Max gang to the highly refined Archeologist. They range from the fanatic, lovable Boer to the sensitive neurotic Scotsman brooding over his draft. The lesbian sub-culture dominates as their exuberant unrepentance is totally acceptance by the group of musclemen discussing their rugby prowess and exactly why their team lost the Currie Cup Final.
These people love rugby. On Saturday afternoons the supporters arrive wearing their respective team jerseys to watch the games on one large, and six normal, television screens. These events are electric. Passion runs high whether they are all united to watch the Springboks or during periods of fragmented loyalties to watch provincial sides. Expletives flow loudly and frequently. They are among friends and if you don’t like it you had better become a friend…. fast. If an African player drops the ball he is a f…… dumb k...... . If two minutes later he scores a try they are writing his name in ecstatic hero-worship on their shirts. If the whistle blows against your team the referee is always a “domfok”.
The place is saturated with love, intrigue, hate, hope, perfume and simple humanity. This is just life and life only. I doubt if any curious tourist could get a better impression of Afrikaaner culture than to spend some time at DIE KANTOOR.
During early evening the patrons start arriving. Seeking out their friends they greet each other warmly with squeals of delight from the girls and back slaps from the men. Everyone is relaxed; drinks are ordered and sober conversation ensues. This normality is temporary.
By ten o’clock the dance floor is packed with a crowd that seems to have been “beamed in” from other planets. I sit there; submerged in a cacophony of sound that drowns out the raucous laughter and load voices as everyone strains to be heard. The music is largely old pop music. On the dance floor anything goes, provided you can gyrate, contort or ululate to the beat of the music. Periodically couples do something that resembles a foxtrot or some other ballroom dance. The guests are of every size, shape, sex age and dress. The people range in age from seventeen to seventy eight years old. Leonard Cohen’s words, “She is a hundred but she’s wearing something tight”, come to mind.
The pedestrian quality band loudly throws out, thumping, shaking sound waves that bounce back at into the restricted space in a mass of palpable noise and I ask myself, “What are you doing in this uncouth place?”
I am here because I love it. Everything is happening at once. After four double whiskies the effect of being able to choose your focus from a multitude of intense events is very satisfying. The sexy bar ladies that come out from behind the bar to welcome me. The variation of sub-cultures that attend this little pub never ceases to amaze me. The subcultures that range from the deadly Max gang to the highly refined Archeologist. They range from the fanatic, lovable Boer to the sensitive neurotic Scotsman brooding over his draft. The lesbian sub-culture dominates as their exuberant unrepentance is totally acceptance by the group of musclemen discussing their rugby prowess and exactly why their team lost the Currie Cup Final.
These people love rugby. On Saturday afternoons the supporters arrive wearing their respective team jerseys to watch the games on one large, and six normal, television screens. These events are electric. Passion runs high whether they are all united to watch the Springboks or during periods of fragmented loyalties to watch provincial sides. Expletives flow loudly and frequently. They are among friends and if you don’t like it you had better become a friend…. fast. If an African player drops the ball he is a f…… dumb k...... . If two minutes later he scores a try they are writing his name in ecstatic hero-worship on their shirts. If the whistle blows against your team the referee is always a “domfok”.
The place is saturated with love, intrigue, hate, hope, perfume and simple humanity. This is just life and life only. I doubt if any curious tourist could get a better impression of Afrikaaner culture than to spend some time at DIE KANTOOR.
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