The Keys to Creative Writing

Oddly, the title of my last blog, begun before I arrived at Old Joes on Friday, was about leaving my comfort zone.   And today's final writing exercise (a difficult one) was designed to teach us about comfort zones and being pushed out of them.

The scenario was drawn for us - 3 couples at a dinner party, too much booze, one woman revealing her desire to have sex with one of the men. Now write that scene, establishing the imbalance and then another later scene, resolving the conflict / imbalance. Or not.  We were given an hour to complete this. Phew. 

“Do we have to go?” Mark pleaded.  “Dinner parties at Hugh and Jane’s always involve too much wine and Hugh is far too smooth for my liking.”

Anna put her hairbrush down and rose from the dressing table, walking across the room to lay her head on his shoulder, running her manicured nails lightly down his back, an action which usually made him purr.

“Oh, please don’t be boring” she said.  “Roger and Lynda will be there as well and you should try and get on better with Hugh.  God knows you need another investor and he has the money lying around.  Maybe you should hone your own smooth skills on Hugh and see if you can charm a million or so out of him. Can you do up my dress please?  I can’t reach all the buttons.”

Mark looked down at her smooth head.  She was irresistible.  He was the luckiest guy he knew and he had to admit that no matter how anxious he was about his ailing business, showing Anna off always settled his ulcers and for a while, albeit brief, cheered him up.

As Mark had predicted, the wine overflowed until long after midnight.  His tongue was thick and the smile he aimed down the table towards his wife, sloppy.  She and Hugh leaned into each other, Hugh’s hand covering her slim fingers which were seductively sliding up and down the stem of her wineglass.

While Mark watched, Anna tipped her head back, revealing the curved line of her perfumed neck, peals of laughter rippling from her throat.  “Hugh, you’re impossible” she giggled.

Turning towards the other guests, she recklessly continued “Hugh says it’s absolutely true about men with big feet.  He’s offered to give me a guided tour of his…socks.  I've always wanted to tour Hugh so I’m game.”

Jane pursed her lips but said nothing.  Roger and Lynda shared a glance and as one, pushed their chairs back from the table.  “We should leave” Lynda said.  “Damien went out with his friends and we need to check that they got home safely.” 

Jane walked the couple to their car, leaving Mark, Anna and Hugh still sitting at the table.  Once Roger's tail lights had disappeared, she closed the front door and went into the guest bathroom.  She lay down on the marble floor, pressing her flushed cheek against the cool stone.  A minute.  She just needed a minute.

The dining room was empty.  The twelve seater table filled with the detritus of a long evening.  Napkins, stained and crunched, six empty bottles of Reynecke Cornerstone, odds and sods of cutlery, china and tall, delicate wine glasses glowed dully in the dying candlelight.  A newly opened bottle of Quoin Rock dessert wine stood on the sideboard, but there was no sign of Hugh, Mark or Anna.    

It was inevitable that her feet climbed heavily up the stairs to the master bedroom.  Hesitantly, Jane pushed it open. 

End of scene 1.   

Mark and Anna drove home in silence.  Suffused with shame, Mark stared through the windscreen.  He wished he was still drunk and could put aside any confrontation about what had happened until tomorrow.  But no.  He knew.  And it had to be dealt with.  “Anna,” he ventured. 

Anna lay back in the passenger seat, her make up smeared, her dress buttons awry.  She turned her head to look at Mark.  “I wanted to,” she said. "You didn't make me.  And he promised to seriously consider investing.  I’m sure he means it.  Anyway, I felt safe with you there, watching.” 

End of scene 2.

It's quite disturbing how easily these perverted marriages appeared on my laptop screen, rapid keystrokes sketching actions and thoughts.  The scenes practically wrote themselves with no planning  and little thought at all.

And yet as I drove the 80kms home I couldn't shake thoughts of the characters from my head.

Just to be clear, I don't know anyone who vaguely resembles in any way the characters, the marriages or the events described.  That stuff tumbled out of some dark corner of my mind, jiggled loose by two days of challenging writing work and listening to the work of fellow scribes.

Hugh is 2-dimensional.  He lacks integrity, is power hungry, arrogant and greedy.  As a protagonist, he's not interesting at all, just a figure easy to dislike. Too simple.

Mark - well, he's weak.  He's prepared to trade the greatest treasure he has, his wife, to save his business.  But afterwards, his guilt tears away at his softness.  

Jane is more of a mystery.  She knew what was going on, but deliberately chose to stay outside of it, allowing events to take their course.  Why?  Had Hugh sapped all backbone and pride from her?  Was she prepared to overlook anything Hugh did, in exchange for wealth, position and enjoying the reflection of Hugh's power?  Had he threatened her in some way, so that she felt she had no choice but to stay with him, no matter what?  Was fear or greed behind her inaction?

But for me, the arch protagonist is Anna. She loves her husband, but is attracted to Hugh's looks and power.  She sees a way to help Mark get what they both need, while indulging her fantasy of shagging Hugh.  A supreme manipulator, she achieves her goals and at the same time, makes Mark feel responsible.  Yet, sharp schemer that she is, her naivete peeps through.  Hugh will invest in Mark.  Won't he?

How did these imaginary figures, swiftly drawn and slapped down, continue to grow and fill out long after the session ended, plaguing my mind?

Could this be the true beginning of creative writing?  If so, I love it.

Out of my Comfort Zone

So.  The writing workshop begins and I'm standing in the doorway, gazing through at the assortment of strangers gathered around the bar.  My usual strategy when entering a collective of unknown people is to sidle in and position myself close to a group deep in conversation, avoiding eye contact with anyone, hoping to look as though I belong.  

Stepping into a room filled with bodies and the buzz of conversation is challenging.  I feel completely exposed, as though hundreds of eyes rip off my protective shell, revealing the tangled knot of insecurities and fears concealed beneath my chunky frame.

And this time is tougher than usual.  These people are writers.  They've written and published books.  I'm a latecomer, a fraud who somehow inveigled her way into the Royal box.  My sole experience of creative writing was humbling, a magazine short story competition which I entered only because of the prize - a writing course - which I really wanted to attend. 

Note the irony of having to be an accomplished writer to earn that prize.  Surely first and tenth prizes should have been reversed, and the winner receive the coffee mug?  Sam and I chortled heartily when I read the prize list aloud - a R10 000 writing course whittled down to a thermal coffee mug, via some really lovely pens and espresso machines.  But my attempt was so dismal, I didn't even earn a coffee mug.  Now I'm spending the weekend with experienced writers, completing exercises and reading my efforts aloud to the group.

I live and relive that experience, tossing and turning for most of the night before the workshop began.  Taking pity on my turmoil, the angels sent a Facebook message early the following morning (I have social media savvy angels) - a familiar face from my dorp (Afrikaans for small town) was also attending.  Relief stroked the butterflies and gently settled them, knowing that someone would be there to hold my hand.  

Still, it was awkward, tentatively stepping into the lounge, wondering which, if any, of the three people comfortably chatting around the blazing fire was my roomie.  Night one, share a room with a complete stranger.  Hope she doesn’t snore.  Or talk incessantly.

“Room 4?” I asked, dangling the heavy keychain.  The young blonde looked up “that’s me” she smiled.  After that, it was plain sailing as we introduced ourselves and got stuck into mining nuggets of information from each other.

Hours, many bottles of red wine and a four-course dinner later, 15 people heaved themselves out of their chairs and began moving off.  Tomorrow is day one and no one really knows what to expect.

Whatever skills we take away from the Keys to Creative Writing course, abstemiousness isn’t one of them.  Good heavens, Marion and Paul know how to feed their guests.  The food kept rolling in, course after course, meal after meal.  And when, groaning after a long day of talking, writing and eating, we declared enough was enough, Paul simply smiled and offered dessert wine.

Creative writing is a novel experience for me, and the published writers quickly displayed their skill, turning out lengthy, descriptive and inventive assignments rapidly.  Fifteen people turned in fifteen absolutely different angles to the same brief and the range and breadth of the imaginations was eye opening.

Being OCD and a natural Brigadier, I stomped in crisply, delivering exactly to brief, but showing none of the other’s creative flair.  And when my scenario exercise baffled the course leaders, leaving them grasping for words to comment on what I turned in, Commander Brooks read their brief back and challenged them to find fault.

Back home and gathering my thoughts about the weekend, it's clear that with Jo-Anne Richards and Richard Beynon's gentle crits and suggestions, the exercises have pulled some creative writing out of me.  There is no danger that Hilary Mantel or Jodi Picoult are about to face some new competition from Africa, but perhaps, a very faint perhaps, there's a chance a novelette or novella will emerge from this computer one fine day.  (And thanks to Angela Meadon for introducing me to those fine forms of story writing.)

Dedicated to LKB, who made this possible.  Her gentle and insistent hand on the small of my back, constantly pushing me to keep writing, is treasured more than she realises.

Madhams in Eden

(This was written in March 2013, just after the girls had opened their new emporium.  I'm delighted to report that Madhams and Mad Cows are both still going strong and, having taken Hoedspruit by storm, continue to surprise, enervate and innovate the town, it's residents and visitors.  Madhams is a must for a refreshment stop on your way through Hoedies.)

Better known for its game farms and luxury lodges, the safari bush haven of Hoedspruit in Limpopo is chewing up the funky food and quirky décor brought to town by the new cows in the Hoed! Tracy Brooks lassoed the lasses and reports back.

The story begins with a home and lodge decor business, MAD (Making A Difference) Cows, started in 2011 by creative and community conscious friends, Bianca Black and Clare Girardin.  

Bianca already had a furniture company TWAK (Trees with a Koncience), where she’d gained experience sourcing gifted community artists and craftspeople.  Further developing her skills to suit the market, TWAK exhibited at Design Indaba in Cape Town, sold items to the Anthropologie stores in London, and were also selected as one of the designers for the Boardmans ‘Welcome Home’ range.

The time came in late 2012 to set up a shop and the duo identified the farming town of Hoedspruit as being an ideal base from which to service the many luxury game farms and lodges in the area. 

And this is where it gets interesting!  According to Bianca, “ the word ‘No’ isn’t in Clare’s vocabulary,” so when coffee shop premises in the centre remained firmly untenanted, Clare seized the bull by the horns and decided that would be the MAD Cows next venture – Madhams, a distinctly unique and different coffee shop and deli! 

Clare’s experience in running Shiluvari Lakeside Lodge, one of the first properties in the world to achieve Fair Trade in Tourism accreditation, and setting up the Ribolla Arts Route in Venda positioned her perfectly to expand a community resourced decor business into a funky and trendy eatery.  In March, with the slogan ‘Mad about Good Food’ driving them, Madhams was calved, shaking up the safari vibe of a town better known for its air force base and game lodges than food and decor.

Another of Clare’s skills is the ability to find the best people for the job, and she roped in Lucy Blunt and Lisl Bennett to complete the energetic team.

Lucy,  a young chef making a name for herself in the ‘hoed as a tapas chef was delighted to be allowed to wear flat shoes in the kitchen and encouraged to demonstrate her quirky food ideas.   Lucy bought into the Madhams concept immediately and develops a new menu daily, depending on which fresh produce arrives at the door.  It was very amusing to see so many issues of Food & Home magazine neatly stacked on her table, used for menu inspiration and ideas!

Lisl Bennett, a local Naturopath, busies herself making her popular Green Juice; an alkalizing mix of spinach, celery, apples, lemon, ginger and cucumber, offering a powerful daily boost that regulars drop in especially for.  Lisl creates different daily juices and enthusiastically explains the benefits and ingredients in her Calcium Combo, or Stomach Soother.  “It’s important to get in as many vegetables as possible every day,” she says “I include three to four veges for every fruit, balancing the sugar.”

The passion for community involvement and upliftment, the driving force behind MAD Cows, carries through into Madhams.  In the brief time they’ve been open, Madhams has become one of Puro’s (a Fairtrade coffee company) biggest clients.  Cheeses and olives are sourced from local suppliers in Haenartsburg, and a farmer’s wife delivers an assortment of fresh breads daily.  Hlokomelo herb farm, a community income generator for a local AIDs initiative, supplies their herbs and is working closely with Madhams to extend the range of vegetables the farm grows and can sell to the shop. 

This is farming country, and the community has welcomed Madhams with open arms.  Boxes of pomegranates, organic lemons and avo’s arrive unexpectedly, freshly plucked off the tree.  The zany coffee shop seems to have spurred the farmers into an innovative barter system, so in return no more is asked for than a cappuccino or a request for their favourite items to be on the menu.

Ideas and future plans overflow from this lively, creative team.  A recent wine tasting was a smash hit and bookings for the next event, a Mozambican evening, with music, piri piri, prawns, pao, Portuguese wine and beer as well as entertainment for the kids, are rolling in.  Bianca is excited about hosting a coffee tasting and introducing their Fairtrade supplier, who’ll teach customers the difference between a cappuccino and a latte, and how to distinguish between a good cuppa and a bad one.

Ensure you take a little time out of your travels in this bushveld Eden to smell the coffee and herbs, listen to the soothing Cuban salsa and township jazz slipping from the sound system and after eating the delectable fresh and simple food, why not buy your recycled oak platter?  The perfect memento of an afternoon well spent!

www.htt.org.za

www.purocoffee.com

www.madcows.co.za

+27 15 001 7087

bianca@madcows.co.za / clare@madcows.co.za   

Both MAD Cows and Madhams are on Facebook

A Not-So-Mundane Munday

Never a dull minute around here, so if you are sitting in a trendy city coffee shop reading this on your state-of-the-art electronic gizmo, inhaling traffic fumes while the barista sings out silly names (really, why can't a black, sugarless cup of coffee be just that - what's with the hyped up 'luxe' way in which our favourite brew has to appear more exotic and exciting than it already is?  Sometimes I dither between espresso, cappuccino and regular black - now it seems I must learn bizarre new names which don't ring bells of recognition in my brain?!) and lightly sneering at the dull life in a small town, wipe that smugness right out of your soul, sister.

Take today, for instance.  Snug in the nook we grandly refer to as my 'office', a beady little eye peeped through the window pane.  Bushbaby  here smiled and greeted the teeny chap, thinking it was the lizard  I saw two days ago wiggling out of the hollow stem left after hectically  pruning back the tree fern's determined effort to climb through the window. 

Oh no.  With a disappointing lack of processing speed, BB's mind registered that Lizzy was not walking along the window frame, he was, well, slithering along slightly faster than my brain was working.  Journalistic instincts to the fore, I grabbed the S4 and snapped away, capturing him as he reared up, bent over, fell backwards and threw himself off the window with a  poise, grace and balance that would shame our national gymnastics team. Firing off a Whatsapp to Junior Son with a giant question mark attached, I soon wished I hadn't asked.  "A Boomslang.  Call a catcher.  Close the window.  Don't go near it. Second only to a Black Mamba for toxicity."

Before I could follow orders, the phone rang.  A desperate sounding friend from across the way in serious SOS mode - fearing the possibility a grumbling Iceland volcano would ground all flights in the northern hemisphere, she was changing her travel plans from two days hence to...two hours time.  Could I dash over and help her pack?  Sure, no problem. Shelving the serpent for another time, I raced over.

Picture this particular person, your classic Swan.  Eternally calm and measured, her serene exterior hides the inner machinations of all sorts of chaos .  Today ripped a few feathers off and revealed the working parts.  I was directed to pack this, secure that, hold onto the cell awaiting a call from the driver while she worked the landline organising flight changes with the travel agent,  I had to Google map an address in the inner bowels of Johannesburg (without my glasses, left idling on my desk) while we second guessed Google with a map book (remember those?) and reassure her that yes, she was doing the right thing - an impossible thing, but it was the right decision anyway.  I galloped away to fetch her sprog, who, oblivious to it all, wasn't where we wanted him to be and a precious 30 minutes was spent unearthing him.

Tipping Junior out of the car, we threw her bags into the little sedan and leapt in. Have I told you that this is the calmest woman you'll ever meet?  When I zoom into her kitchen, bristling with outrage about something or other and expecting her to leap onto my broomstick in support, she, in her measured, quiet tone, serenely points out the failings of my emotional non-logical thinking and damn it, she's always right.  Whereupon I fold up my crestfallen broom and slink out, deflated.  And Swan's the calmest, smoothest driver on the planet.  My dad, a very critical passenger, sings her praises - the finest driver he's ever come across and believe me, from an old-school Englishman who was a driving instructor in the '60's, that's the pinnacle of ability.

Here's where the feathers were ripped out.  As she hurdled the speed bumps in that poor little car, I asked what time her flight was, exactly. "You don't want to know" was the crisp answer, pointing at the clock and indicating 18 minutes time.  And we weren't even out of the estate yet.  Let that sink in, the flight LEFT in 18 minutes.  Not check-in closed, or boarding commenced.  Wings would flap and engines rev in 18 minutes.  I had no idea it was possible to enter a circle, drive around it the wrong way and exit without damage or injury to the other cars both in and entering the circle.  It was a brilliant piece of stunt driving.  Charmingly, she courteously indicated as she overtook traffic from every direction and lane imaginable, at great swoops of speed.

We called the agent, explaining we were minutes (ha!) away from the airport and the agent immediately got onto the airline.  Expecting her call back, we were surprised by the call from an Airlink ground staff member - exactly how far away were we? Boarding on the 15h40 flight had been completed but she could offer a seat on the later flight.  Too late to make the connection.  "Two minutes, no more than three" I lied.  The trusty little sedan screeched to a haphazard halt at the airport door about 6 minutes later.  15h36.  Grabbing her handbag and computer, Swan galloped through the door leaving lame duck to grapple with the enormous squashy bag on wheels which don't work at speed - it was easier to hoick it up and run.  

The impressive and unflappable Airlink staff are truly amazing.  They What'sapp'd the Pilot, who agreed to wait a little more and allow her on.  Swan clutched her boarding pass and the ground crew scooped up luggage and ran out to the plane with her.  Swan messaged to say she'd graciously (and gratefully) waved and smiled at the Captain as she hurtled up the stairs.  

That wasn't the end of the tale.  The driver who'd braved downtown Jozi to collect large boxes of luggage couldn't fit them in the car - entailing a double trip before he could get everything to her at OR Tambo airport.  And with all that behind her, Swan's ruffled feathers needed some cooling down.  Only when she got to the boarding gate did she realise that the premier reason for her having to get to the UK come hell or high water, a precious gift, had been left behind in the chemist when she bought some deo!  

All's well that ends well, however, and as I type she's safely on her way, everything in order.  She achieved the impossible with help from many kind people in the travel industry and everything will run smoothly from here.

As for Lizzy  Boomslang - an MMS to a local snake expert revealed that we could stand down from Defcon 1 - a harmless spotted bush snake had performed the window acrobatics.  

And just to round off  manic Monday, our Nia dance class this evening was watched (in some amusement - I saw him sniggering) and photographed by a reporter from the local press.  We love Nia because we get to wiggle our assets any which way and how, with no mirrors and absolutely no idea how silly we look.  Now, I fear, come Friday, the entire Lowveld will see us shaking our booty (and oh, how it shakes) in all it's glory.

Mundane?  Not likely.  Living in a small town is a roller coaster of adrenaline.

Nairobi’s Cutest Animals

Its official – elephant and giraffe infants are the most adorable of them all, and guess why?  They arrive in the world perfect miniature replicas of their parents.  Lion cubs are sweet, of course, but are by no means lion looking.  Even baby rhinos have to grow horns and grow into their ‘rhino-ness’.  And (perhaps fortunately) wildebeest calves look nothing like their adult selves.

From the minute the new born giraffe calf crashes six foot down onto the savannah, shaking her little head in confusion as she attempts to collect up and compose her legs, scattered all around her, into some semblance of order, she is a ‘mini-me’ giraffe.  Completely precious, her tufty mane, glorious patches and meltingly gorgeous eyes are ready to burst their seams and grow in leaps and bounds into a full size version.

Likewise the little ellie.  Fortunately, she doesn’t have the long drop to freedom; but in the same way women mutter that giving birth is like squeezing a watermelon through their bits, Mrs Jumbo shoots a VW Beetle out of her delicate end.  Small wonder the matriarch and assorted aunties surround the newly delivered cow – to protect the father.  And you thought it was sisterhood sympathy!

For me, Kenya is the wildlife capital of Africa.  The Kenyans have a way of incorporating ‘safari’ into everyday life, gently introducing and immersing the visitor in the wild in such a delightful non-zoo-like way it’s an absolute treat. 

Right next to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, one of the busiest in Africa, lies Kenya’s oldest reserve- Nairobi National Park. 7km’s from the city centre and covering 117km2 of savannah and riverine woodland, it’s quite remarkable how much game is visible to the excited passengers as the long haul flight comes in to land.  Truly, one’s safari begins before touching down.

The option of tourist attraction Dame Daphne Sheldrick’s Elephant Orphanage could appear, to us jaded South African’s, to be a saccharine, Disney Animal Kingdom.  Likewise the AFEW Giraffe Centre at Langata.  But we’d be so wrong to assume this.

The elephant orphanage is at Nairobi National Park’s Mbagathi gate, and the giraffe centre a few kilometres away at Langata, both within 15 minutes of downtown Nairobi.  Well, OK, assuming there’s no traffic, since Nairobi is one enormous carpark from dawn til dusk.  This city could do with a bunch more roads and freeways to ease the LA style congestion.

But on my visit to both facilities today I lost my heart to 21 orphaned elephants aged from 2 months to 3 years, and that was before their keeper told us the stories of poached mothers, mothers who died in childbirth, mothers attacked and killed by villagers and their starving, wounded infants left to die.

These pint sized tuskers played like puppies, the slightly older ones ‘sizing’ each other up and practising a little pushing around, the littlies joyfully romping in red dust the keepers shovelled over them, dropping to their knees and rolling over.

None of them have yet realised the potential for fun those giant ears offer, they just wrapped the offending items closely over the tops of their heads and kept them there.  However, they are well primed for the huge teated bottles of baby formula their keeper pours down their throats and it’s amazing to watch their personalities emerge.  Our first sighting of these adorable infants was their enthusiastic and comical charge down the hill towards the arena, going straight to their own keeper and grabbing the teat.  No ‘hello, nice to see you’ from these greedy pintsized suckers!

One little monster guzzled his lot very fast, then shoved his way between the other babes and their bottles, squealing indignantly when the keepers pushed him away.  He didn’t take no for an answer, trying his luck 20 times before racing over to grab a tasty branch from a smaller sibling.  A slightly older girl insisted on feeding herself, proudly holding her own bottle and draining it dry before receiving the next one.  So gender development differences are not confined to humans, then...

Go online to www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org to have a look for yourself.  USD50 a month gets you adoption papers of your very own baby, and monthly keeper's reports on how she / he is doing.  You can even, by appointment, visit your baby at 17h00 and put her to bed.  I’m not sure about teeth brushing, though.  They warned us not to put our hands into the sweet pink mouths - these babies have chompers and like all teething toddlers like to use them!

On the way out I sneaked into one of the stables to check out their sleeping facilities - each orphan has his/her own keeper who sleeps in the stable with their charge.  Their beds are safely high up on the wall, in case junior gets a bit playful in the middle of the night.

With a silly beam on my face and a very sloppy heart, it was off down the road to AFEW Giraffe Centre.  Like a Quality Street choice, giraffes are my favourite favourites of all the big mammals.  Gracious, elegant and aloof, the giraffe’s incongruous shape is classic Africa.

AFEW Giraffe Centre consists, besides a gift and tea shop, of a circular wooden building which is raised on stilts, enabling eye contact with several Rothschild’s giraffe while you feed them.  A breeding programme centre, they keep the giraffes in their care for three years before releasing them into the wild.  Visitors are given two handfuls of pony nuts which you pinch between 2 fingers and place individually on a verrry long, very black and extraordinarily agile tongue.

Fickle beast – they know who has the nuts, which hand they are kept in and as the last nut drops out of your hand onto their tongue, they're already turning away to find another food supply.  They have the velvet-iest noses and cheeks, eyes deep enough to drown in and eyelashes that shame Maybelline.  But affectionate - no.  They’re just there for the grub, and a warthog family on the ground several feet below are on their knees snarfing up the remnants.  Still, I can proudly say a giraffe drooled on my hand even if she did disdain a hug.

Interesting fact – us bush babies know that giraffe have black tongues, but do you know why?  Built in sun screen SPF!  Yup, their tongues spend so much time in the sun above the canopy that nature painted them black rather than pink to prevent sunburn!

Another day in Africa, another privileged peep into the workings of nature and the amazing work done by groups of dedicated people.

And yet another sign off with a huge grin on my face and watery eyes.  Nkosi si’kelele.

  

My Festival

The National Arts Festival (more commonly referred to as the Grahamstown Festival) celebrated its 40^th birthday this year, its life neatly straddling 20 years under the "apartheid regime”(loathe that regime word) and 20 years in the “new, democratic SA” (don’t like that reference either – a debate for another time).

A wine book club idea to break our virginity and finally visit this, the 3^rd largest festival of its kind in the world, was hatched late last year.

Googling the Festival unveiled a tsunami of 496000 sites.  And who knows how many articles have been published in print?  The Festival is well covered by veteran visitors and creative experts, offering seasoned and informed advice and opinion. 

Excited, we became slightly stressed when faced with the 306 page online festival programme, having been strongly advised to book a few shows before leaving home.

Dutifully starting at page 1 (well, actually page 26, bypassing the blah blah welcome letters which stretched on page after page) and scribbling down interesting sounding titles seemed like a practical idea, but was abandoned when I’d filled two A4 pages in my notebook with “must see’s”, and was only on page 37 of the programme.  So our initial show bookings were more of a stab in the dark, but at least we had 2 shows booked for arrival day and one per day thereafter.

Experienced Festival goers were generous with their advice and the heeding of it all made our Festival experience a richer, more comfortable one.  Thank you Bridget G and everyone else who chipped in with words of wisdom.  In fact, I’d strongly advise anyone visiting for the first time to tell people around you about your plans, you’d be surprised what gems of wisdom drop from complete stranger’s lips for which you are deeply thankful later.

I can’t add anything which hasn't been covered before, but we did learn and discover a few gems which are worth sharing for 2015 first time Festival goers.

1

 .   Common advice is to book accommodation early, and we echo that.  While staying in town has obvious benefits, we stayed at the Mariya uMama weThemba Monastery 3kms away.  Close to the 1820 Monument, it was a 5 min drive to the heart of the Festival, far from the madding crowd and late night noise, absolutely safe and extremely comfortable.  Think cosy rooms, excellent bathroom facilities, snug duvets and hot water bottles and cooked breakfast.  Each wing had a kettle and broad assortment of quality coffee and teas, sugar, milk etc.  There is a large, sunny lounge wrapped around a stone fireplace which we made good use of, enjoying bubbles and vinho tinto late into the night.  Bless Riana for braving the crisp early morning chill to run down, put together a large pot of plunger coffee and race back to our wing with 2 brimming mugs and a supply of fresh, homebaked crunchies.  Marion keeps the lounge coffee / tea station well stocked with biccies and hot drinks.  The only downside for me was my fantasy of grey stone buildings, cellars, monks in rough brown robes, their hair tonsured having a reality check…this monastery is nothing like that!

2.       Pull into the Monument box office on your way into GTown and pick up your pre-booked tickets there.  The queues are much shorter and if you paid by credit card, you can swipe the card and print them out in a jiffy.  Viva technology!

3.       Before you arrive, pick up a telephone directory sized programme from a Standard Bank branch. There’s a drop out planner inside which makes selecting and planning your shows immeasurably easy.  It lists the programme day by day under the starting times - use that in conjunction with the programme and you’ve cracked it.  We only worked this out on night two, when roasting in front of a warm fire, nibbling cheese and avocado, glugging red wine and wished we’d done this much earlier.

4.       Standard Bank customers rejoice – the bank has laid on feisty little tuk-tuks to buzz you around town at no charge.  When the wind is a’howling and you have to get from Victoria Hall to the Monument, you don’t hesitate!  There is also the Hopper service, 3 set routes that cost R5 a trip.  Hop on and off at will.

5.       The Long Table – what a find!  Tucked away down an alley off High Street near the Post Office is St George’s church hall.  Serving lunch and dinner daily and only set up at Festival time, this is an absolute ‘must do’.  Visualise Hogwarts dining hall (OK, the candles aren’t drifting mid-air, but placed on enormously tall heavy candelabra) and are the only light in this jolly, festive and somewhat romantic place.  It’s chaos at night – you queue, choose your meal off the chalkboard menu, pay and then are served delicious, homestyle meals with bread and salad on the side.  Think spinach lasagne, Thai chicken curry, beef stew and malva pudding…  The stage morphs into a bar surrounded by couches and easy chairs.  Once you’re clutching a plate and bottle of wine, find a spot on one of the four long tables, squeeze in and chat volubly to your neighbours.  Theatre folk haunt the place after their shows and you never know who you’ll be sitting next to.  It’s hard to believe that about 400 people laughing, singing, talking, eating and drinking, squeezed in like sardines, could make a church hall on a cold evening be a romantic, warm and the best place to be.  Perhaps it’s the faintly medieval feel to it – I could certainly imagine a knight of yore clanking in, throwing his helmet down with a crash and roaring for a cup of ale and a wench…

6.       Everyone is eager to share their favourite shows and recommend something to see, so lose your inhibitions and chat freely to those around you.  Having a couple of shows pre-booked was great, and we picked up tickets easily for others as we went along.  Even if a show is sold out, it’s worth heading up to the venue 30 mins before kick-off.  They do sell off some extra tickets at the door as they become available.

7.       Clothes – the common refrain before we went – “Oh, it’s so cold, take thermals, you’ll freeze” and so on.  This is the list that worked for me for 6 days – 1 long length coat, hat, gloves, buff, pashmina, 1 polo neck sweater, 1 fleece lined zip through hoody top, 3 pairs jeans, sneakers, heeled boots for travelling (vanity!) hiking boots (for warmth) warm pj’s, warm hiking socks, opaque tights to wear under my jeans, 6 long sleeved brushed interlock T shirts (which I layered).  We were apparently blessed with a very warm Festival (except that razor sharp and glacial wind which kicked up every now and then) so the layers came off as the day heated up.  I was plenty warm enough and the only thing I’d add would be a light raincoat, because if we’d had rain I’d have been miserable.  But we didn't.  And I wasn't.  Everything fitted into a carry on cabin bag.

8.       If this is your first visit to Grahamstown itself, add on another 2 days to do some non-Festival sightseeing. The town and surrounding area is rich in history and no trip would be complete without visiting nearby Bathurst, home to the oldest pub in SA and a darling little church of its own.

9. The Monument Foyer buzzes between 5 and 6pm every afternoon with 'teasers' performed by the artists.  This is an excellent opportunity to get an idea of what the shows are about.

They say everyone remembers their first time, and we will for sure.  My Festival memories are belly laughs and lumpy throats, intriguing plots and heated debates about humanity, polyglot audiences impossible to define or categorise, young performers passionately absorbed in their craft, chilly hands wrapped around hot coffee mugs, friendly chatter and wine, food and warmth, pop up soup and gluhwein stands on street corners and finally the way that everyone, absolutely everyone, was instantly friendly and opened up warmly to their neighbours.  I’m totally besotted with the Festival and its atmosphere, and already planning my next fix of ‘culture’!

Inventing Second Chances - A short story

I watch you.  I see you and you have no idea of my presence.  It’s impossible for you to see or hear me, but I see you with her.  Walking hand in hand, stopping to hold her close and bury your face in her smooth, glossy hair.

“We’re overdue another incarnation,” I pronounce at book club one evening.  Four startled pairs of eyes stare suspiciously back, warily, silently wondering what’s coming next.

 “OK, I’ll bite.  What are you on about now?”  Pam asks, swallowing a large glug of dry white, accompanied by a chorus of chirps from the others.

Placing my beer mug-sized wine glass down carefully, I breathe in deeply and surveying the curious expressions turned towards me, explain.

 “Remember the Get-a- Long Gang?  Newly divorced, young kids, no money and too old to hit the singles scene?” 

Dry chuckles and groans as Pam, Karen, Chris and Laura nod, recalling the name we had for ourselves.  Two Fridays a month we got the night off from full time single parenting and relishing the freedom, we glammed up and hit the town, eager to behave like the single young-ish people we thought we were.

Regretfully, our self images didn’t measure up to our birth certificates nor to the staggering number of wax-mannequin perfect, stiletto wearing clones barely covered by strips of stretch glitter lycra and spray on jeans.  Well, maybe calling them ‘jeans’ is stretching the word a little.  All they had in common with the sensible bootleg pants we wore was the varied shades of blue denim.  There was no disguising the word which described us -mumsy.  So after dancing with each other, buying our own drinks and leaving the pubs like middle aged Cinderella’s at midnight, taunts of “come back sugar mummies” ringing in our ears, we eventually gave up and grew up.

The Get-a-Long Gang turned into a bookclub.  Not a terribly well organised one at that – irregularly held meetings spent drinking and jaws clacking until they ached.  Actually, the book box didn’t even make the last meeting, having been left behind in Chris’s driveway.  Thankfully, it was only the books, not her wine.

“Look at us,” I say.  “We’re a ghost generation.  Our primary function is over; we’ve been discarded by offspring and husbands.  We need to reinvent ourselves and discover a new purpose, solely for ourselves.”

Standing in the doorway, I gaze inside the room, my eyes lingering on the neatly made bed.  My heart squeezes painfully and my eyes fill; the heavy emptiness too much to bear.

Laura, ever the cautious one, clears her throat, nudging her glasses further up her nose.  “We hear you, Caro.  But perhaps it’s time to acknowledge that we are not in our 20’s or 30’s anymore and just gracefully accept the stage we are actually in?”  Softly spoken Laura rarely says anything controversial or disagreeable socially.   Very different from the passionate and vocal eco tiger Laura becomes when organising protest marches and petitions for the Environmental Agency she runs.

The clamorous outcry that follows her statement has us gasping for breath and reaching for the corkscrew.  There’s nothing like indignation to dry throats and empty glasses.

“Nonsense,” roars Karen.  “Graham says younger women can’t hold a candle to us.  He’s never met anyone as on- form and enthusiastic in the sack as I am.  Not bad considering he’s 18 years younger than me.”

Mouths open, Laura, Chris, Pam and I catch each other’s eye, but leave the thoughts unsaid.  Karen, an artist, has never bothered with marriage or children.  Besotted with her Great Dane she spends her life travelling in places where running water and electricity are unheard of.  Jungle trekking in Vietnam – that’s her.  Sleeping rough on a tiny island off the West African coast – her too.  And those are the places she meets the endless string of boys barely old enough to shave that she tucks under her wing and dotes on.  When they move on, she books another plane ticket and heads out, hunting down the next one.

“Well,” Pam says, “we’ve got an unmarked canvas ahead of us.  What we had has gone.  We’re aging faster than we could have believed and my future is bursting with wrinkles, aching joints, hormones and my cats. So I’m up for anything to change that.”

“We’re completely ignored by songwriters and poets,” Chris remarks.  “And have they ever made a movie about menopausal women squelching out of bed in the middle of the night or sitting in meetings radiating heat like a boiling kettle?”

I bite my lip, cursing aloud as the nut on the pool weir refuses to budge. Hammering at it with the pliers, I feel the tears mounting behind my lashes.  This is your job; my hands aren’t strong enough to do this.  The soupy olive water reflects my distress.  I feel so alone.  When did I become so helpless?

The next day, Karen phones.  “I think you’re onto something,” she shrieks.  She’s always so loud and active; it’s exhausting to spend much time with her.

“We have to decide how to fill this canvas.  I think book club has run its course, and it’s time for us to grasp the nettle and go for it.  Time’s a’ticking, if we don’t do it now, then when?”

She’s right, of course, but what is the what?

“I’m emailing everyone today and setting up a meeting at the wine bar for Thursday week.  We all have to come armed with an idea for our personal growth project,” she continues.

It’s easier to agree than to argue so I do, leaving the anxiety for later.  What do I want to achieve?  What do I dream about?  Who am I anyway?  I fear it’s too late to discover myself. The glossies feature ‘inspirational’ stories about on-top-of-their-game women who seemingly without effort reinvent their lives and turn hobbies into successful businesses.   But I feel intimidated, not inspired by these women.  When cooking, gardening and DIY are never ending chores, how can they become a hobby?  Besides, my wonky cakes and tasty casseroles look more at home in the dog’s bowl than the food stylist’s photograph.  Culinary skills are not my path to fame and fortune, and do I really want to melt the rest of my life away cooking to order?

The tizzy spin Karen’s pronouncement puts my head into shows itself later.  A screaming match with my editor over photographs she hadn’t asked for and now insists on getting, followed by not one but three proofreading meltdowns - all for the same client - sends me home with my tail between my legs and eyes spilling over.  I can’t afford to lose this job, but something seems to be happening to my brain.  How could I read something so many times and miss the glaringly obvious typos? 

 “I’m ready to go into the witness protection programme and start a new life!” I sobbed over the phone to Pam.  “It’s all too much, everything is going wrong and I want a new life.  Someone else’s. Anyone else’s”

“Wait for me,” she said, “I’ll join you – I came within inches of slicing my boss’s head off today and it’s impossible to decide if it was due to having a bog standard idiot in charge or a freaking hormonal super storm.”  This is why we are friends – misery shared is misery halved.   Pam thrives in the pressure cooker world of a small advertising agency, where her calm, easy going nature achieves the impossible and keeps everyone on track.  But even she has her limits.

Thursday arrived and with confused head and heart I turned my car towards the wine bar.  Chris, Karen and Laura sit at a table near the door, heads flung back, roaring with laughter, wine level in their glasses already dangerously low.  Well, we may not solve many problems tonight but as usual, when we get together a good time is guaranteed.   

“Just wait til you hear this,” Karen hiccups, her face flushed pomegranate with glee.  “Chris discovered Cam’s stash of dope and has been stealing and smoking it!”

Speechless, I sit down heavily on the trendy and oh-so-uncomfortable seat, blindly reaching for the bottle as I gawk at Chris.

“Well why not?” she asks defensively.  “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about and last week when that deal fell through at work and Jonathan told me that Candi was pregnant the timing seemed perfect.”

“Your ex husband has got Barbie up the spout?  He’s spent the past 15 years dodging maintenance payments and now he starts another family with a teenager?”   For a minute, Chris’s mid life narcotic adventure took a step backwards as the news penetrated my muddled menopausal brain.

Exuding cigarette smoke and in her usual breathless way, Pam dropped into the seat next to me.  “What am I missing?” she asks “If your jaws drop any lower I could have parked my car inside one and saved the past 20 minutes trying to find something legal outside.”

Chris swiftly tells the story her ex-idiot had revealed on the phone.  “You know,” Laura comments, “it’s boastful and lame of him to call just to tell you that”

“Never mind” I interrupt,” let’s get back to the drug story.  What were you thinking, stealing your son’s supply?  You’re 48, not 18.  Is this some sort of midlife rebellion?  And who are you rebelling against?”

Lifting her chin, staring defiantly at us, Chris began to explain.  The words poured like a waterfall, flowing over her lips.  “I’m rebelling against me.  Smoking makes me feel lighter, unburdened, as if all the ropes tying me down have been released and I’m free to float at will.  I didn’t get the chance to do this at 18 – when you girls were clubbing all night, I was awake with a toddler and a new baby.”

We sit briefly in sympathy filled silence.  Then, like a whirlwind, Karen launches herself off her chair and hurtled across the room.  “Richard” she yells, leaping up at a startled man just entering the wine bar, wrapping her long and unfairly gorgeous legs around his waist.

“Sit, Karen,” Laura, veteran dog owner, commands.  “Put him down.”   Her firm voice brooks no argument and Karen reluctantly peels herself off the startled man and walks back to the table, pouting.

“I haven’t seen him in ages,” she whines.  “I’ve missed him and just wanted to say hello.”  Shaken and relieved at his escape, Richard clutches the bar, frantically signalling the barman for a drink. Richard, it turned out, was a client she’d seduced then dumped when she went gorilla trekking in Uganda.

“Right, who’s up first with their ideas for reinventing themselves?” Pam asks, refilling the glasses.

Surprisingly, it’s Laura who puts her drink down first.   “I’ll start,” she says “What I really want to do is to travel.  That costs money which I don’t have.  But I’ve always had a knack for foreign languages - I pick up the basics very quickly.  There’s an elderly Portuguese lady in my complex who’s agreed to teach me Portuguese two evenings a week.  She doesn’t want paying, just some company and I’ll help her with her shopping on Saturdays.  There are plenty of environmental jobs in Africa for someone bilingual.  It’s a long road ahead, but I’ve got time on my hands.”

We clap enthusiastically, and Karen whoops loudly.  “That’s great,” declares Pam.  “I’ve come up with something too.  I loathe cooking for one, so I’ve advertised ready-made home cooked meals on our office notice board.  I had no idea I worked with so many single people – the response has been great so this weekend is my big cook-up, first deliveries on Monday.  You can’t imagine how my heart sings with joy at being able to cook up a storm again.”

Wow, these girls rock, I think, still clueless as to where I’m heading.   “Me next.”  Karen announces.  “I’m helping out at the Hunky Munky backpackers in town.  They need someone to run reception and I can set up my computer in the office and work there when it’s quiet.  The pay isn’t great but the vibe is magic and with all the travelling I’ve done, I can offer experienced advice to the backpackers.”

“And,” mutters Laura sotto voce, “a supply of fresh meat on tap!” causing much snorting of wine up our noses.

Chris jumps in before Karen can summon up a response.  “I’m joining the hiking and birding clubs.  I need to be more active and this way I spend more time outdoors, get fitter, learn something and meet a new group of people.  I’ve bought a new camera and the guy at the shop has offered me some lessons, so I can take some cracking pics on the weekend jaunts.”

A babble of approving voices and smiles greet this news, and four faces turn expectantly to me.  What am I to say? “Err, well, I’ve been giving intense thought to so many ideas, it’s very difficult to select one.”

“Nonsense,” Pam glares fiercely.  “Cough up, this was your idea in the first place.”

My head swivels on my neck as I desperately stare around the wine bar, seeking inspiration.  Mirrors and brushed chrome coldly rebuff my mental plea for help.  As my eyes swing back to the group, they sweep over the chalkboard menu.  ‘Organic ingredients fresh from the earth!’  trumpets the heading.  Earth, I think.  I need grounding.

“Soil” I announce.  “I need to get my hands dirty and earth myself.  I’m turning my little patch of grass into a herb and veggie garden, there’s a nursery down the road that’ll help me get started.  I’ve avoided gardening because it’s so demanding, but it’ll keep me physically busy and occupy my mind.  And you lot can look forward to feasting off the sweat of my brow next spring!” 

As we raise our glasses in celebration, Chris asks “so will we still get together now we’ve fired book club?”

“Of course,” I reply. “We have a new club – Single, Menopausal, Empty-Nesters Union – SMENU.  Getting together to share food, wine, laughs, support and advice – just like book club but no pretending that we actually read anything.”

Clinking glasses, our beaming faces shine happily around our circle.  We’ve stared obsolescence and loneliness down, reached inside ourselves and rediscovered our dreams.  Sure, our children have fledged and moved on, but we are commencing our own voyage of discovery.

I watch you.  I see you and you have no idea of my presence.  It’s impossible for you to feel me tenderly stroke your hair, but I do so one last time.  I glow with pride as my mind watches you thriving at university, striding confidently towards your future.  I let you grow up and leave, my son, and turn to face my own future.   I see the horizon ahead and reach out eagerly.  Hungry for the dreams within me, and celebrating the freedom I have to nurture them.