Richard Stupart

Some weeks ago, I was at the Mampoerfees (Mampoer Festival) in Cullinan, just east of Pretoria. I wrote about the bizarre sense of alienation I felt as an English South African here, but realise in retrospect that I completely forgot to actually talk a little more about some of what I actually saw at the event. Which makes for a fascinating probe into at least one part of traditional Afrikaner culture. Trying to get a grip on the weirdness in order to write about it was also one of the initial reasons for going in the first place. So that story will be told now

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With this Tuesday being a holiday, any South African who has been paying even mild attention has realised that the country had more or less shut down on the Monday to make an extra long weekend out of the time available. A friend (who will go unnamed for her and her employer’s sake) managed to stitch together enough Mondays and Fridays with the public holidays in April/May to get off ten days of work in total and spend the time hard at work resting. The fact that South Africa is a country adept at padding holidays with leave, resulting in a work calendar with gaping holes is nothing new though. What is more educational today is what I managed to get up to with my allotted four days. Which is to say getting to burn stuff. A whole mountain in fact.

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The thing about living in a country is that you all too often fail to appreciate (or frequently even see) much of what makes it so interesting to the rest of the world. I think sometimes you just get stuck in the anecdotal rut and forget that there are people who travel halfway across the planet to see the sights that you are missing. Occasionally, when I remember this, it makes for a nice change to step out for a weekend and go and see the things that the travelers to my corner of the world get to see. I can report that it is a wholly satisfying experience.

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One of the blogs I follow like a labrador chasing a gross, partly chewed stick waiting for it to be thrown is Bearshapedsphere, written by an expat/traveler living in Santiago (go look and count how frequently you catch yourself giggling while reading many of the posts).  One of her recent pieces, about misadventures at airport security reminded me of my own drama some while ago in the Durban airport, South Africa, when catching a flight back to Johannesburg – which seems a tale worth adding to the collection which has sprung up around Eileen’s original story. For those who have not yet heard it, let me preface it by blaming my brother for at least half of what happened. It is important, if for no other reason than sibling score-tallying, that his role in my misadventure be properly represented.

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Churches, rubber ducks and the wide open skies of the Karoo. It’s been a fun few days and felt like it has been a lot longer than it really has. On a journey through the Kaga mountains through to the Owl House of Nieu Bethesda and many destinations besides, I am more convinced than ever of at least one thing. It really isn’t where we travel that counts. It’s the stories we fashion as we go that truly make a journey.

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Today saw a brief trip to the diminutive Karoo town of Bathurst.  Partly because it was there, but also because it was rumoured to possess a faster 3G signal for internet access (it didn’t). Like any good, though  (in this case) short lived excursion, it was not so much Bathurst which made for an interesting afternoon, but rather the occasional oddball sights which brought the car to a halt on a number of occasions.

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In lieu of a far more interesting post on travels in the Karoo, which will shortly (but not for a few days yet) be undertaken, I thought I would share some of the background excitement of the voyage. Since last week Thursday, I have been hanging out in Grahamstown, picturesque gem of the Eastern Cape and deliciously hot and hell-freezing-overly cold in equal, if unpredictable measure. Ostensibly, this was to attend Katherine’s (my by-far-better half) graduation and subsequent socials.  I will only be back in Johannesburg from May though, with the remaining days being spent predominantly in Grahamstown and surrounds, until an ending in Stellenbosch involving competitive debating and catching up with friends not seen in a despicably long time.

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I am starting to suspect that Bronkhorstspruit (of buddhist-temple-in-africa fame) may be haunting me.  It all started on Wednesday of this last week, you see, when Olina, our long suffering maid (given the sheer volume of mess that John and I can produce at times) had her father disappear. He had been sick for some days and the department of social services, in their infinite wisdom, had taken him to be looked after and nobody had seen him since. It was a mystery, one demanding to be solved with the utmost urgency. The only clue we had to start with was that he had been in Bronkhorstspruit at the time, and that the social worker who took him had said something about a Sizanani Hospital.

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The Chief is the Man

There are so many more intellectually, emotionally and creatively interesting things to blog about. And they will be blogged about in time. But like a red flag to a bull, so I am with advertising materials from the supernatural side of South African life. I had thought with the chronicles of the previous magical healers’ flyers that I had written, the matter was at an end. But nay. Yesterday in the traffic, a challenger has arrived on the magical healing and penis enlargement circuit. Yes, for some reason a large and performing penis is a magical thing. Makes you a regular unicorn to have one.

With the omission of being able to make demands of your friends using a mirror, Chief Al Qudra appears to be targeting a more niche clientèle.  His flyer did, however, contain a most glowing testimonial from Patrick Verwoed. Who, I am sure, bears no relation to the Verwoed of damning Apartheid policies fame. If for no other reason that I am sure he would sooner have named his son Tebogo than Patrick. But I digress.

If you need to unlock your life, need help with your court cases, bad luck or (cough) the size of your unicorn horn, then Chief Al Qudra is your man.

A Fu Dog. You can't take pictures of the Buddhas inside. :(

I have had a bad cough for the last few days. Something to do with an allergy apparently, but not much fun from my point of view. Loud coughing is not appreciated in polite company generally – but even less so in the Buddhist temple of Nan Hua in Bronkhorstspruit. Which was where I happened to find myself coughing this afternoon. I’m not really sure why I went back this weekend. Mostly a desire not to spend a weekend indoors I guess. That, and to see what I missed in the whirlwind tour with my brother a few weeks earlier.  Treading carefully over the polished wood of the main temple building, with the gaze of three titanic Buddhas over my head, I hated that cough.

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Seriously now. Hot on the heels of Professors Mamba and Wakho, Sheik Kasim came flying into my hands from an enthusiastic pamphlet distributor down the road from my house. Since I have assembled something of a collection of such interesting advertisements to date, it would be remiss of me not to add this to the set, for the viewing pleasure of the general internet community.

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