Recycling a dress fit for a Princess

An innovative fundraiser sets the scene for a stylish fairy-tale ending.

As every South African girl knows, the matric dress is second only to her wedding dress as a style milestone in her life, so hunting down and deciding on the dress is an undertaking approached with the same intense determination as the hunt for bin Laden.

Once upon a time, long, long ago (in 1997, actually) Deseree Knowles’ mother splurged out at Saint Laurent boutique in Pretoria to buy a fairy-tale dress for her daughter’s matric farewell.

Deseree and her mother are very close and the selection process was tremendous fun as Deseree tried on dress after dress.

 

The black and burnt orange halter neck dress with layers of chiffon and tulle glowed copper as it came off the rail.   Every pot reputedly has its own lid and seemingly every dress has its unique owner – this dress called out a siren song to Deseree; it was love at first sight.

The second she put it on, Deseree felt like a princess.  Eighteen years later, the dress still evokes powerful recollections of the wonderful day she and her mother had, and reminds her of how magical she felt wearing it to her matric farewell.

Deseree rocking the Princess dress

The years passed and Kiran Coetzee’s CANSA Deb fundraiser in White River, Mpumalanga, was the perfect way to say goodbye to a dress that was so much more than a swirl of fabric to Deseree.   Kiran, an entrepreneurial fifteen year old CANSA Debutante at Uplands College saw an opportunity to recycle the once sparkling evening wear women store in the museum section of their wardrobes and simultaneously raise funds towards his ambitious target.  With great charm, he implored and wheedled 26 dresses and 25 tuxedo’s out of their owner’s cupboards and persuaded an intrigued audience to raise their hands for a good cause (CANSA) while upping their green credentials through buying lightly used eveningwear. 

Deseree thought that by donating her special dress to the auction, she was passing on and sharing the magic, but bidding fever caught hold of her when her dress appeared on stage – the fairy-tale gown remained irresistible and her hand shot up!

All the best enchanted tales include a prince and princess, and this one is no exception.  Prince Manqoba Dlamini of Swaziland lives in White River, and through his environmental leadership training programme, Ecolink, he has become friends with Kiran’s mother Kirsten.  She knew his philanthropic soul was an easy touch to buy a ticket for the fund raising dress auction, although he had no intention of buying a dress.  Much to his own surprise, when Deseree’s dress appeared on stage swishing around the model’s feet, he found his hand in the air.

Prince Manqoba had set his sights on winning this dress as a gift for a princess in Mbabane, his niece Princess Hlengiwe.  But it wasn’t an easy task – watching him bid on her fairytale, Deseree’s heart lurched and she bid energetically, determined to get her dress back.  Alas, the enchanting story ended happily for the Prince while Deseree watched her dress swish away.

Like Cinderella’s slipper, it fitted perfectly and the Princess adored it on sight.  Deseree’s sadness dissolved when she heard of the happily-ever-after ending, acknowledging that it couldn’t have passed on to a more perfect owner. 

Princess Hlengiwe gives a Royal touch to the dress

As for Kiran, his auction raised an impressive R11 430 after expenses, and brought out the best in the community audience.  Several dresses and suits were bought and donated to a rural debutante programme run by local resident Brenda Archdeacon, enabling fairy-tale dances for these matriculants as well. 

Meanwhile, Princess Hlengiwe is seen at functions in Swaziland wearing the dress that began its life off the rack as a garment befitting a princess and many years later was recycled into a gown adorning a real Princess. 

Who would have believed that an innovative fundraiser in a small Lowveld town could act as a match maker for a dress from Pretoria and a Swazi Princess?

A romantic and truly African spin on the classic Cinderella tale.

Eating Indian in Nairobi

Breakfast was hijacked by the grain and sugar corporations ages ago.  Cereal's only advantage over the classic English breaking of the fast - grilled tomato, bacon, sausage, egg and toast (variants thereof the addition of kidneys, kippers, oatmeal porridge or fried bread) is instant readiness and no grease.   

Light and pretty tasteless as it is, cereal also ends with the 11 o'clock blood sugar crash and the resultant over consumption of tea and cappuccino as a desperate measure to stretch out until it can be decently considered "lunch time".

My, how our eating habits are ruled by the clock.  It's acceptable to drink bubbly at breakfast (on weekends and special occasions, spoiled horribly  with orange juice) but not gin.  Why? If I need that one glass of sauvignon blanc at 9h30 on a Monday to focus my brain on a new week, how does that change my abilities and redefine me a socially unacceptable wino?  Any of an enormous range of chemical and sugar laden cancer causing refreshments are fine, but a single glass of an honest to goodness, additive free fermented grape juice is deplorable and may not be mentioned.  

OK, that was a sidebar, on with the reason for this post.  Indian cuisine.  One of my favourite favourites (was I a Maharani in a previous life?) and one rarely enjoyed.  The eating facilities in our town unfortunately don't include Asian and Him Outdoors has a fearful intolerance of spicy food - it slides through his system rapidly, causing much discomfort.

But Nairobi, oh, how I love you!  Indian cuisine, rather than love, is all around us. Hotel buffet breakfasts have a whole section of Indian food - yellow dahl, chapattis, chicken masala, vegetables - now THIS is a breakfast!  Luckily our time here is limited, or my complexion would be ochre tinged!

His beloved's beaming, happy, spice-replete face drew Him Outdoors to suggest we walk down the hill one evening and dine at Anghiti.  Lovely ambiance. Superb, friendly service and a three course menu for 1500 KSH per person - roughly ZAR150.  Excellent!

Taking matters into my own hands "I'll order for us darling, leave it to me", the Maharani trilled.  The poor, trusting lamb did just that.  Samuel the waiter was implored to ensure the chilli / spice level was low.  Very very low.  And, with that proviso, the meal was ordered.  Sheekh Kebab Lamb and Murghlai Chicken to start, Lamb Roganjosh and Palak Panneer following.  See how considerate I was - three meat and only one vegetarian dish.

The fragrant, mouth watering dishes began to arrive.  Him Outdoors plunged into the lamb, then halted, gasping for breath.  "Holy @#$! you've poisoned me!" 

Yes, it was a bit hot.  Actually, move beyond furnace and think centre of the earth hot.  Tears sprang down cheeks as the fork approached our mouths - it was absolutely divine Indian food.  

Give him his due, Him Outdoors tried.  Pushing aside the lamb and chicken, he dived into the Spinach Paneer in a vain effort to soothe his tonsils.  The waiters laughed, I didn't dare, politely waiting until he excused himself to go to the bathroom then putting my head down to weep tears of mirth.  It wasn't funny, but oh, it was!  And the best was yet to come - the long uphill walk back to the Pride Inn.

No sooner had we left the restaurant than he plunged to the kerb and doubled over, belching and groaning.  "I'm in agony" he wailed "the pain, the pain!" 

Unfortunately, he had no choice but to walk 800m to the hotel and it was indeed both the long road to freedom and a walk of shame.  Every few metres he dashed to the kerb, bent down and stuck his fingers down his throat in a desperate bulimic attempt to retrieve and evict the offending food.  "My insides are going to burst - the wind is intense" he howled, step by step.

Pity the poor lady walking home who visibly slowed her steps as she approached him, eventually having no choice but to pass the groaning, retching mzungu as he hung motionless in misery.  "Jambo" he croaked.  Ignoring him, she crossed the road and hastened her steps, no more comfortable with the other mzungu striding ahead in severe hysterics.  These white people are crazy, of that she had no doubt.  

Back at the Pride Inn, the fourth floor had never seemed so far away as it did that night to Him Outdoors, belching like a two stroke .  

And no, we haven't been back to Anghiti.  Which is a shame and if you are ever in Nairobi, please do eat there, the food and service are excellent.