Riverboat on the Thames at Hampton Court

LONDON FROM THE THAMES
We had travelled to London for a day's exploration on the Thames and curls of mist swirled around our heads as we made our way to Victoria Station, then down into the bowels of the city where the underground trains, like dragons, gobbled up and spewed forth passengers.

My daughter, experienced with the workings of the London Underground, guided me expertly through jostling crowds and onto a waiting train to Charing Cross Station.

The London Eye, England's Millennium Wheel

 
England’s great river, although dwarfed by the 2,560 mile Mississippi and sedate in comparison with the rapids that swirl and tumble through the Grand Canyon, nevertheless has a long and impressive history. As a clear bubbling spring it rises at its source in Cirencester. Two hundred and fifteen miles later, its swollen tides sweep into the English Channel.


Crossing its wide expanse on the Hungerford footbridge I leaned over the railing to watch water taxis, ferries and other small craft bustling, like ‘riverboatmen’ insects on a pond beneath us.

Westminster Bridge, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament

London’s river thoroughfare is one of the city’s most popular tourist destinations. Travelers can undertake a circular tour on a river ferry, alighting or disembarking at any one of three stops between Westminster and St. Katharine’s Piers to explore such places as the National Theater, Southwark Cathedral, Westminster Abbey and the New Palace of Westminster, more commonly known as the Houses of Parliament. Serving as Britain’s seat of government this outstanding example of gothic architecture is in fact a royal palace that replaced the original destroyed by fire in 1834.


Today, as you pass on the ferry at teatime you may witness an illustrious gathering of Earls and Dukes, the Prime Minister and numerous Parliamentarians. The country’s leaders assemble daily on the patio overlooking the river to enjoy that most English of rituals, afternoon tea.

Photographs copyright Anne Gordon

Posted on Friday, 30th September, 2011

The Great Ceremonial Hut

ZULU ENTERTAINMENT SHAKALAND STYLE
As evening approached at Shakaland, guests gathered for sundowners at the U Kamba bar. The low thatched shelter was open down one side and furnished with tall stools around tables made of upended logs. Lanterns swinging from the roof provided a dim romantic light, and a gently swishing ceiling fan cooled the night air.

Whilst James drank Lion beer with two conservationists, I chose a quiet corner to write my journal and watched black and white chickens with long yellow legs twitter and cheep as they stepped daintily between the logs, pecking at the dirt floor in search of stray peanuts. Their soft mutterings turned into squawks of alarm when the resident Staffordshire bull terrier playfully darted in their direction.

After dinner, at 8.30 sharp, the sound of drums and the thud of feet on compacted earth heralded the approach of dancers. As they moved in single file between the guests a deep mysterious chant filled the enclosure. Although not many understood the leader’s Zulu speech inviting us to an evening of dance, it was obvious that we were to follow, and we did.

One by one we entered the Great Ceremonial Hut through a metre high opening and settled ourselves on raised seating around thatched walls. The dark interior was hazy and the smell of wood smoke burned my nostrils.

The drummers were already in place, one on each side of the hut. Animal skins were pegged out against the curved interior walls, whilst in its center a fire burned, filling the air with a strong herbal aroma.

As we waited for the dancing to begin a young Zulu woman passed in front of us carrying a pot filled with smouldering wild heather. With a graceful sweep of her hand she encouraged us to brush the herbal smoke towards our faces whilst breathing deeply. “It will frighten away evil spirits”, Dube assured us.

Suddenly, with a thunderous crash of drums, the male dancers leaping, gyrating, whirling, entered the hut. Their voices filled the smoky interior with a Zulu chant that sent a tingle up and down my spine. These were the sights and sounds of a distant past, primitive as the African jungle itself.

For the next hour we were treated to an amazing spectacle. The drums thundered until I thought my ears world burst, then whispered as the drummers brushed their hands across tightly stretched skin surfaces.

Beside the entrance, a man crouched on the floor playing a primitive bow-like instrument. Its music, a weird drone produced with the aid of a stick and his lips, accompanied the drums throughout.

The chief, Baba Ngemo, wore a circlet of leopard skin around his head. Expressionless, he sat facing us in dignified silence.

Clad in no more than aprons of wild cat tails in the front, fastened to skirts made from unborn nguni calfskins at the back, fluffed up cow tails around arms and knees, and for the sake of modesty, black underpants that could be seen between the swinging cat tails, the men danced until their bodies gleamed. As they leapt into the air, ribald comments rocketed back and forth between them.

Each dance had its own name; among them the Bull dance and the Pondo dance. During the latter a thunderous roar of “Haw dammit” every minute or so conveyed the gist of the dancer’s feeling. With each explosive “Haw Dammit”, the audience roared with laughter and the dancing girls screamed their approval. Not tapering to a quiet finale as some performances do, this one ended with a mighty shout, a leap into the air and it was over.

Then it was the turn of the girls. Without any translation needed it was obvious that they intended to outdo the men. Ranging in ages from 10 years to 20, scantily dressed in only beaded skin aprons, the girls leapt to their feet and with no preliminaries launched into the most energetic foot stomping dance I have ever seen. They rocked, stamped, screamed, flung their legs so high that their knees touched their foreheads. Everyone, audience included, shouted and clapped to the roar of the drums. The whole hut rocked with sound.

During cultural experiences in countries around the world, I have seen the traditional dances of the North American Indian, Spanish flamenco and the energetic red-booted Ukrainian folk dances. I have seen English Morris dancers waving handkerchiefs and crashing sticks together and Scottish dancers stepping daintily between sharp swords, but never before have I seen such dancing as we saw that night in a smoky hut in Africa. It was a raw, awe-inspiring display of youthful vitality. It was magnificent.

Just after dawn the following morning while photographing a herd of goats wandering between the huts, I met one of the dancers and asked him whether he had suffered any after-effects following such energetic exercise the night before. He laughed heartily, “You are thinking we are feeling some pains on the bums. No way”….It was my turn to laugh.
 
Photo copyright Anne Gordon
 
Posted on Wednesday, 21st September, 2011

Baba Ngemo, Shakaland chief

JAMES VISITS THE ISANGOMA (WITCHDOCTOR) AT SHAKALAND
After a hearty breakfast the following morning we were invited to visit the iSangoma (diviner) who is in contact with the spiritual world and looks after psychological and spiritual matters.

Her badge of office, the tail of a wildebeest which she shakes and points in a menacing manner, is used to seek out mischief makers. Her hairdo, an elaborate concoction of black and white beaded braids decorated with inflated gall bladders, held me enthralled.

Also present was the Inyanga (medicine man) who is responsible for the health of the community. He prepares natural remedies from roots and bark, berries, tubers and animal fat.

When my husband James told him in all seriousness that he found it hard to get out of bed in the morning and did he have a cure, the wise old man came up with the answer immediately. “Haw Inkosi, it is because you are lazy.”

After our 'interview' we made our way to a dusty arena where young warriors challenged some of the more adventurous German tourists to a spear-throwing contest. Sitting on a boulder beside a fire, another warrior made the lethal looking weapons.
 
More to follow ...

Photo copyright Anne Gordon
 
Posted on Tuesday, 20th September, 2011

Funnel of the Bianca C, the island of Grenada

IN GRENADA, THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE SINKING OF THE BIANCA C, "TITANIC OF THE CARIBBEAN"
For nearly 50 years, the ‘Titanic of the Caribbean,’ the Bianca C, has rested on the ocean floor in Grenada’s coastal waters. October 24th, 2011 will mark the 50th anniversary of the sinking of this massive ship.


This once majestic cruise liner is iconic amongst the diving community and is considered one of the top 10 wreck sites in the world. At 600ft, the Bianca C remains the largest and most impressive shipwreck in the Caribbean.


“October 24th will mark 50 years on Grenada’s ocean floor,” said director of tourism for the Grenada Board of Tourism, Simon Stiell. “When the Bianca C sank in 1961, our community rallied together to assist in rescue efforts. This year we’ll be paying tribute to those who helped get the crew and passengers to safety.”


A number of events will take place in Grenada to commemorate the sinking. The community will be given the opportunity to view treasures retrieved from the Bianca C, along with photos and stories of those who assisted in the rescue efforts 50 years ago.


One of the top dive destinations in the Caribbean, Grenada is home to the world’s first Underwater Sculpture Park, found at Molinere Bay. Originally designed by Jason deCaires Taylor, divers and snorkelers can float amongst dozens of beautiful sculptures that have helped regenerate marine life in the area. In honour of the Bianca C, a replica of the ‘Christ of the Deep’ statue will be placed amongst those at the Underwater Sculpture Park. Costa Line gave the statue as a gift to the Government and people of Grenada in recognition of all that was done to rescue and host passengers and crew.


A commemorative plaque will be placed on the Bianca C and another on the ‘Christ of the Deep’ statue. Locals and visitors alike can gather on Grand Anse Beach for a picnic to take part in this historic event. For avid divers and those simply interested in Grenada’s culture and history, this is an event not to be missed.

Posted on Monday, 19th September, 2011

Zulu maidens at Shakaland

BLESSING DUBE, SHAKALAND'S CULTURAL ADVISOR, INSTRUCTS ON ZULU LIFE
For overnight guests Shakaland’s programme includes two sessions conducted by Blessing Dube, Shakaland’s Cultural Advisor. His knowledgeable and sometimes amusing commentary gives visitors a unique opportunity to learn about the lives of the rural Zulu.



Gathered around a miniature family kraal, Dube explained the rituals of courtship and the lobola system, whereby a bridegroom pays for his bride with a gift of cattle to his new in-laws.


Etiquette, we discovered, is strictly observed in Zulu society. For example it would be disrespectful to walk uninvited into a Zulu man’s kraal. “How would you like it if you found me right there in your flower garden doing my own thing?” Blessing asked.


We learned how to make Zulu beer and sipped some of the brew from a hollowed out calabash shell. It was thick, pale- coloured and sour.


Being South Africans we were not surprised to see young bare-breasted women walking about the garden with clay pots balanced on top of their heads. The Zulu custom is for single women to wear only the tiniest of mini skirts and to go topless.


Once a woman marries her dress is more modest. Her breasts are covered with a beaded antelope skin and she wears “a married woman’s skirt” made out of a cow skin cut into strips and sewn together to form pleats. The hide is softened by rubbing it with wild animal fat, and colouring it with charcoal. She also grows her hair long, rubs in a mixture of fat, herbs and clay and braids it into an elaborate head dress which requires sleeping with her head on a wooden cradle at night.


In Shaka’s time, married warriors who spent many months away from their wives when at war, had to wear a penis cover devised by their ingenious leader. “It was called ‘the mad man’s hut’ and it controlled feelings”, Dube explained.
 
More to follow ...
 
Photo copyright Anne Gordon
 
Posted on Monday, 19th September, 2011





Shakaland Boma

SHAKALAND, ONCE THE MILITARY HEADQUARTERS OF SHAKA, AN AFRICAN CHIEF
Shakaland's setting is perfect. Nearly 200 years ago, the great African chief Shaka, at the height of his powers, established his military headquarters close-by.

Modelled on a traditional Zulu umuzi (family kraal), the complex was built around a boma. The hotel bedrooms, beehive huts built of mud and thatched to within three feet of the ground, are grouped in clusters of 10 or so, each with a Zulu name. There is Kwawuhlamehlo (place of the closed eyes), Kwabonamanzi (place where you see the water) and others.





Kwabonamanzi - Place where you see the water

 When we visited in the spring time the path to our hut in Kwabonamanzi was lined with wild gardenias and thorny acacia trees. Hanging from tree branches, lanterns lit our way after sunset.


Inside the hut it was cool and dark; its single window a shuttered square cut into the clay looked over a valley where at night the waters of Umhlatuze Lake shone pale silver in the moonlight.


It was an enchanting place but not without surprises. As I stepped into the bath later that evening I pushed the rickety shutter covering the bathroom window expecting it to open just a fraction. Suddenly, with a deafening crash the shutter fell to the ground leaving a gaping 1 metre square hole in the wall. Directly opposite the opening, a path of light streamed from our neighbour’s front door and I stood stark naked in the spotlight.
 
More to follow ...
 
Photo copyright Anne Gordon
 
Posted on Sunday, 18th September, 2011

Zulu in traditional dress, Shakaland

SHAKALAND IN THE TRIBAL LANDS OF THE ZULUS
There was a time long ago when the tribal lands of the Zulus in South Africa echoed to the sounds of stamping feet, chanting, and the clang of metal as Shaka’s warriors prepared for war.



Today all that has changed. On the hilltops in KwaZulu-Natal one hears only the melodious song of the native people, the soft whiffle of coastal winds rustling through dried grass, and the shrill calls of herd boys tending cattle.


A scenic three-hour drive along the coast from Durban brought us to Shakaland, a place where an undulating landscape of hills and valleys rose and fell like waves on a wild sea. Many years ago we had lived close to this place. My daughter was born here and we knew it well.

Entrance to Shakaland

In recent years Shakaland, built in 1984 as a movie set for a TV series called Shaka Zulu, was acquired by the Protea Group, one of South Africa’s major hotel chains. It is now a gathering place where foreign visitors and South Africans alike can learn about and experience Zulu culture.

More to follow ...
 
Photos copyright Anne Gordon
 
Posted on Sunday, 18th September, 2011