Hiding eggs…

A hint of despair creeps into CHRIS BENNETT’s voice.

FEW things in life are at once more useful and more trying than energetic supermarket managers. Like the honourable members of the legal and medical professions they can get in the way of life, but life would be a lot more threadbare without them.

Close to where I live is a small group of businesses and an admirable clinic, all offering the things one needs but does not necessarily want. The original name of the place was the Munster Trading Post, a name which has, sadly, vanished into the scant pages of our history.

The supermarket has recently undergone a sort of management reshuffle; that, of course, means we all start playing games like Find the Eggs and Guess where the Washing Powder is; maybe this manifestation of the new broom is a sort of exercise in keeping the customers on their toes.

Whether or not the customer wishes to be kept on her toes is another matter.

Supermarkets, and their colossal children, shopping malls, are an interesting phenomenon. During a recent visit to the Cape I stayed in Somerset West, a sprawling slice of suburbia ringed by the most breathtakingly beautiful mountains imaginable. If you know it you will be aware of the preposterous Somerset Mall. It is about the size of most small towns.

It is huge, but it is at least practical, down-to-earth and relatively unpretentious; unlike the V & A Waterfront in Cape Town, which always reminds me of a splendid comment by Raymond Mortimer (1895-1980), an English writer and literary critic, commenting on a Paris restaurant, a subject close to his heart, “The food is too rich and so are the customers”.

Familiarity breeds contempt, or so they say. I prefer the line from a play by the another English writer, the Jacobean playwright Shackerley Marmion, “Familiarity begets boldness”.

Familiarity is comforting and reassuring, and seldom more so than in the case of the supermarket. I like going there because it is a tiny slice of social interaction, a place where I know the names of the captain and some of his crew. Change things around and it makes me feel unwelcome, as though I were an intruder.

You may well laugh at me for taking supermarkets too seriously, and I rather hope that you do, but then at the same time I for one would not choose to live too far from all the boring necessities. Supermarkets are the smoothing irons of life.

As for the shopping malls, well they do at least control the weather. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, as another English writer said, and sometimes too wet.

Over the past weekend I read quite a lot about our new stadiums, or stadia if you prefer. The big question seems to be what to do with them after the football party is over. Well, how about putting a roof over them and converting them into shopping centres? At least that would pay for their keep, which, taking my cottage as a sort of yardstick (should that be metrestick?) cannot be inconsiderable. In fact I imagine it is alarming.

Just leave the eggs where they have always been, please.

Needles, columns and pillars…

CHRIS BENNETT has been rambling around books again.

A DISH of saltimbocca was the highlight of a week of highlights. Which I must admit makes a change.

I had a fair amount of business in and around the bank in Margate, the various interesting or gloomy offices of those kind people whose lot in life is to complete those aspects of the lives of others which usually end in tears; taxes, legalities and all the ramifications of trying to stay afloat with next to no income.

Lunch at La Capanina seemed like a good idea and I hadn’t been there for some time. The delightful Barbara has extended her beautiful view by adding yet more charm to the dreary wall facing some of her best tables. It is the wall of the next building, and Barbara has given it life and soul and turned it into the image of a small Tuscan townhouse. The effect is astonishing.

Research has been at the heart of most of the rest of the week, as it often is.

I came across an article on some aspect of life in Alexandria, Egypt, during the period of the Second World War. Some readers of this column may be familiar with both time and place, so I apologise in advance for any gaffes.

Lawrence Durrell, one of the great English (language – he considered himself cosmopolitan) writers of the last century came into the article and I immediately recalled passages from his writing. If I have ever learnt anything about writing it is from Durrell and his friend at the time in Alexandria, Elizabeth David, another great writer whose subject happened to be food.

There is an excellent page on Wikipedia which discusses the history and life of this extraordinary city. The Egyptian people are understandably proud of this ancient place, which was rebuilt in 330BC by Alexander the Great, who, quite rightly, named it after himself.

It was here that the great Library of Alexandria stood from about the 3^rd century; it was destroyed by fire several times, robbing humanity of possibly its most important antiquarian records. The recently opened Library of Alexandria (Bibliotheca Alexandrina, 2003) stands on the sight of the great library of 2000 years ago.

It was in Alexandria that Cleopatra’s Needles were found. At school we wondered what she was knitting at the time. There were two obelisks, one is now in New York and the other in London. It is fitting that these objects so vibrantly interwoven with western development should have a role in the lives of the world’s two greatest cities.

The Greek friezes known as the Elgin Marbles were taken from Athens by a British Archeologist (Lord Elgin) and have been a bone of contention ever since. Merlina Mercury, a Greek singer of some years back fought to have them returned.

The Greeks have, I fear, lost their marbles.

One of Alexandria’s most famous ruins is Pompey’s Pillar. Including its pedestal, is it 30 metres high. It is of polished red granite, 2.7 meters in diameter at the base, tapering to 2.4 meters at the top. The shaft is made out of a single piece of granite; this would be 132 cubic metres or approximately 396 tons. The pillar has nothing to do with the Roman Emperor Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, which comes as no great surprise. It was erected by Diocletian in 293 and we still don’t know how.

It is a column of great note.

We shall doubtless hear more about these things with the imminent arrival of the Egyptian and Greek football teams.

License my licence…

CHRIS BENNETT has spent a little time in the past.

I RECENTLY had one of those defining moments. Now I realise you are quite likely to ask, “What defining moments?”; and with good cause.

As the decade and a half since 1995 has unfolded, revealing to me the extraordinary genius of man’s ability to develop his most impressive invention, the computer, I have had a fair amount of fun keeping up with things. Well, I like to think of it as keeping up, anyway. My friend Shane thinks I am stuck somewhere between Guthenburg and the Imperial typewriter. He has a point

Personally, of course, I believe I have done quite well with the ups and downs of modern information technology. I use the internet every day, sometime for several hours a day, and I do my banking electronically.

My smart phone does everything a PA could possibly do, and it lets me play Freecell; and email is something that happens about four times a day.

I pay my accounts using EFT (electronic fund transfer) be they SANLAM, Standard Bank or the chemist on the corner, among the many.

However (and there is always ‘however’) there is a curious exception to the rule. My car licence.

Now in the old days, that is to say five years ago and backwards, I simply made out a cheque (remember cheques?) and put it, with the licensing form, in the envelope. I then licked a stamp (remember stamps?), stuck it on the envelope and all would be dropped in the slot of a conveniently sited post-box.

As I stood waiting my turn at the dingy little hall where one pays the licenses (lots of typewritten notices stuck all over the glass windows and off-beige walls, not one of them straight) I became absorbed in the harrowing tale of the woman at the counter (whose husband had apparently sold his trailer without insisting on it’s being reregistered, and the corresponding lofty indifference of the lady behind the glass. For some reason I was reminded of the Walrus and the Carpenter, and all the poor little oysters.

But enough already.

My turn arrived and I gave the clerk my money and the form. When she handed me my change I asked why I could not pay my licence by EFT. Her eyes momentarily glazed; she then said, “You can pay electronically at Port Shepstone.”

I took my handkerchief and felt another wave of oyster sadness sweep over me. I wondered, only momentarily, mind you, if I were moving gracelessly from senility into some sort of soft-furnished madness.

I resisted the temptation to explain that I wanted to pay it without having to get my car out and drive either to the post office or to the council office. I wanted to pay it, as they used to say in the adverts, from the comfort of my own home.

I accepted my defeat with good grace; which is more than can be said for R. Mugabe; G. Brown and A.J. Balfour, politicians all.

Tidal waives

I couldn't help thinking, this morning when I got up at about 6am (5amUK), about the thunderous sound of the waves coming down on the rocks below my cottage like falling buildings.

I had been reading the scarcely credible rigmarole about Gordon Brown and his refusal to let go the door to Number Ten. It was Mugabe all over again.

Why wasn't Dave in there like a herd of turtles within minutes of the results being known?

Does this mean, I wonder, tanks in the streets and in front of Whitehall?

License my licence…

CHRIS BENNETT has spent a little time in the past.

I RECENTLY had one of those defining moments. Now I realise you are quite likely to ask, “What defining moments?”; and with good cause.

As the decade and a half since 1995 has unfolded, revealing to me the extraordinary genius of man’s ability to develop his most impressive invention, the computer, I have had a fair amount of fun keeping up with things. Well, I like to think of it as keeping up, anyway. My friend Shane thinks I am stuck somewhere between Guthenburg and the Imperial typewriter. He has a point

Personally, of course, I believe I have done quite well with the ups and downs of modern information technology. I use the internet every day, sometime for several hours a day, and I do my banking electronically.

My smart phone does everything a PA could possibly do, and it lets me play Freecell; and email is something that happens about four times a day.

I pay my accounts using EFT (electronic fund transfer) be they SANLAM, Standard Bank or the chemist on the corner, among the many.

However (and there is always ‘however’) there is a curious exception to the rule. My car licence.

Now in the old days, that is to say five years ago and backwards, I simply made out a cheque (remember cheques?) and put it, with the licensing form, in the envelope. I then licked a stamp (remember stamps?), stuck it on the envelope and all would be dropped in the slot of a conveniently sited post-box.

As I stood waiting my turn at the dingy little hall where one pays the licenses (lots of typewritten notices stuck all over the glass windows and off-beige walls, not one of them straight) I became absorbed in the harrowing tale of the woman at the counter (whose husband had apparently sold his trailer without insisting on it’s being reregistered, and the corresponding lofty indifference of the lady behind the glass. For some reason I was reminded of the Walrus and the Carpenter, and all the poor little oysters.

But enough already.

My turn arrived and I gave the clerk my money and the form. When she handed me my change I asked why I could not pay my licence by EFT. Her eyes momentarily glazed; she then said, “You can pay electronically at Port Shepstone.”

I took my handkerchief and felt another wave of oyster sadness sweep over me. I wondered, only momentarily, mind you, if I were moving gracelessly from senility into some sort of soft-furnished madness.

I resisted the temptation to explain that I wanted to pay it without having to get my car out and drive either to the post office or to the council office. I wanted to pay it, as they used to say in the adverts, from the comfort of my own home.

I accepted my defeat with good grace; which is more than can be said for R. Mugabe; G. Brown and A.J. Balfour, politicians all.

Sunshine on the rocks…

CHRIS BENNETT spent much of the past weekend enjoying the sights and sounds of ski-boats.

SUNSHINE was the greatest blessing for the ski-boat festival at Port Edward last weekend.

This oddly quartered village, it has four centres, last year celebrated the 85^th anniversary of its founding in 1924.

The farmer who worked the land established a village there, named, rather immodestly, after himself, Kennington; his first name was Ken (Pringle). After the visit of the Prince of Wales it was renamed Port Edward, in honour of the man who enjoyed, if that is the word, the briefest of reigns as Edward VIII. His monarchy unravelled after his declaration of love for the benighted Boston socialite Wallis Warfield Simpson. She it was who allegedly once said, “You can’t be too rich or too thin”.

The milling crowds were in no danger of being too thin, judging from appearances on the promenade; neither were they all that poor, gauging from the astonishing line of boat trailers in the shade of Execution Hill (another story). I am told that something like 150 ski-boats from all over KwaZulu-Natal, and other parts less familiar, were launched at Silver Beach.

The memorial, in a rather sorry state last time I looked, tells the story of the wreck of the St John (in Portuguese São João), a merchantman considered the largest vessel afloat in its day. I can’t help wondering if the Chinese didn’t perhaps build bigger sailing ships, the great junks of oceanic capabilities.

Lack of maintenance and overcrowding, caused very likely by the greed of the owners, are considered to be the main causes of the unfortunate vessel, along with a violent storm that caused her to land on stricken rocks at Silver Beach in 1552, a hundred years before the Dutch established the all-important victualling station at the Cape. Diligent hunters are still finding fragments of her huge cargo of china (vases, plates and such) which she was carrying from the orient to Europe.

Last week for three days the rocks were once more stricken; this time by picnic hampers and swimmers, mums and dads, aunties and uncles of all appearances. They had a wonderful time. Well most of them did anyway. I heard tell of one man who missed the beach and hit the rocks with his ski-boat. It broke, of course.

The organisers of this great three-day festival deserve credit for considerable work they all put in. Not only did the occasion benefit the serious fishermen; their families and countless fun seekers attested to the success of the venture, which we shall no doubt enjoy again next year.

The town and its people will be the main beneficiaries, of course. There will be those Mother Grundys who will doubtless bemoan the exposure of the town to the harsh glare of publicity. That harsh glare also bounces from the shiny surface the coins of the realm. Let us not forget that without mo0ney there is no progress, and without progress there is no life.

Careering around …

CHRIS BENNETT has been lucky enough to visit the Cape again; he is now on his way home.

Driving around the country while air travellers are stuck in foreign parts makes for interest reflection

There is an old Arabic saying that the soul invariably travels at the speed of a camel. That might account for jet lag; waiting for the soul to catch up.

I prefer to travel by land because of the stimulation. I don’t think I have been bored for more than five seconds in my whole life, not even on a flight of many hours. But the rewards of travelling within a framework of normal time are great.

The philosopher, writer and recent writer-in-residence at Heathrow airport, Adrian de Botton wrote last week in the Telegraph: one of our key motives for travelling is to try to put the past behind us, then we often need something very large and time-consuming, like the experience of a month long journey across an ocean or a hike over a mountain range, to establish a sufficient sense of distance.

He might have added, “Or drive across the Great Karroo”.

My recent trip, peppered as it was with little slings and arrows; things like losing my driver’s license and my cellphone, lack nothing if not interest and the experience of some remarkable officers of the government.

For example, in Knysna a town of great charm, with officials to match, I was able to hold my temporary license in my hand in about ninety minutes. Everybody concerned was so very helpful. Similarly, the Standard Bank in Sea Point showed courtesy and efficiency the likes of which I never encountered before; and I have had an account with the bank for more than four decades. Things sometimes really do smile.

As the good de Botton wrote one of our key motives is to try to put the past behind us. I for one think it works.

The fine road between Cape Town and Beaufort West, that unsung hero of the Karroo, that noisy, dusty dorp that alone has the ability to slow down, and indeed stop, the appalling behemoths hurtling along the highway at speeds beyond belief. This is because the tone has no by-pass and has a circle, fiendishly confusing, at its entrance.

Incidentally the road has two delays while the other lane is being rebuilt. These are meticulously manned and controlled by cheerful souls who wave cheerful yellow flags and smiles that gleam in the glorious Karroo sunshine. The delay at these points is about ten minutes and is ideal for getting the circulation moving again. A large bouquet to the excellent roads department of the Western Cape.

A surprise came when I found the Formula 1 Hotel in Beaufort West had had an attack of common sense and introduced room tariffs for one, two or three people. I was on my own and it cost R219 a night.

The breathtaking exhilaration of the drive; a journey without destination; time without appointment. Dreams unfold under the blue, shining like brass, sky; cresting the Hex Pass; the astonishment as the great valley opens like a triumph of trumpets. The sheer magnitude of it all; this makes driving a privilege indeed.

Keeping the powder dry…

CHRIS BENNETT has been drifting around the Cape and its mountains.

I WAS driving through the delightful tangle that is the street network of Greenhart Village, where I live, when my passenger, Duncan Luthuli, a friend of some years, asked, “Who keeps all the streets so beautifully clean and everything so well maintained”. A revealing question, I thought.

“In a sense, we do, the residents,” I replied. I explained, to the best of my ability, how the share-block system worked and how the levies exacted of each shareholder enabled the management committee of the village to employ workers, some full time, and to prepare a budget.

The king of the roads is Kobus, whose day starts with the sunrise and ends with its setting. A road reconstruction programme has been in place for some months now and the results of this expensive exercise are not only good-looking and safe roads, but roads that help mother nature in those time when her heavens open and the water volume is quite spectacular.

Another reason for the very pretty appearance of the place is the daily sweeping of the roads and the general removal of the permanent detritus of the trees, most of I am told are indigenous, some endemic, and all of which are evergreen, that is they do not loose their leaves at any particular time of the year. They lose them every day.

The budget is the life blood of this increasingly popular and attractive village, as it is of any community. It is derived, as is usually the case, from the levy charged to each shareholder, a modest amount which includes electricity, water, refuse removal and other related chores.

My friend Duncan was rather taken aback. He asked if it meant that we do it all ourselves. I said yes; more or less.

One of the more attractive traits in most people is their readiness to understand the need for maintenance. Fixing something there (remember the old adage a stitch in time saves nine), a lick of paint here and all will be well. The paint, of course, has little to do with the beautification of the house, as some houses in Greenhart show only too clear. The paint preserves the fabric; the investment; the future.

I am writing this in the shadow of the Hottentots-Holland Mountains, my world full of wheeling seagulls, sunshine and the gentle waves of False Bay. Fingers of diaphanous cloud are falling over the great crevasses of this magnificent range, straight into the awaiting roots of what some day will grace our tables

Lunch yesterday at the harbour in Kleinmond in the pleasant company of old, and not so old, memories, reminded me that on the South Coast we enjoy whales; I gather from a local fishermen that they have more sense than to go into False Bay – unless the have to for some reason – but often are seen off the pretty town of Kleinmond.

The Resident Writer at Heathrow Airport (yes, there is such a charmed fellow; and his name is Allan de Botton) wrote: one of our key motives for travelling is to try to put the past behind us, then we often need something very large and time-consuming, like the experience of a month long journey across an ocean or a hike over a mountain range, to establish a sufficient sense of distance.

Golden Isle, golden word…

CHRIS BENNETT has had a delightful encounter with a word.

SERENDIPITY is a lovely, happy word; unfortunately opportunities to use it are few and far between.

I am writing this on the 12^th of April, my 68^th birthday, which I have the honour of sharing with one Jacob Zuma. Whether or not that can be viewed as serendipity is unclear.

As you may know, the Persian word for Sri Lanka (think cricket) was Serendip, a word itself taken from the Sanskrit Swarna Dweep (Golden Island).

It was the redoubtable Horace Walpole, renowned politician and man of letters of 18^th century England, who first came up with the bright idea of making the name into a noun – serendipity, meaning the unexpected appearance of something pleasant while looking for something else.

Through the ages many scientists have had cause to be grateful for the good Earl (Walpole was the Earl of Orford) because of the times when their research has produced something good and quite unexpected.

To quote Wikipedia: The amount of contribution of serendipitous discoveries varies extensively among the several scientific disciplines. Pharmacology and chemistry are probably the fields where serendipity is more common.

A recent chain of events has brought the word sharply to the forefront of my mind. I was waiting by the side of the main road between Margate and Port Edward for the arrival of a flatbed truck to take my car for some attention. I was attended by a friend.

After a quite short time a car pulled up on the opposite side of the road, from which emerged a very disconsolate couple. They, or their car at least, had a flat tyre. We watched proceedings with some interest.

A short while later a flatbed truck arrived; but not the one we were waiting for. It was a behemoth, a gigantic, snorting, bull horned thing the size of a small ship. It carried on its huge flatbed a front-end loader with a back actor. At least I think that is what it was.

In no time the men serving its every need had chains loosened and the thing started it agonising descent. We watched in astonishment.

A while later still, the flatbed for my car arrived and I was delighted that such a potentially boring wait had been transformed into pure theatre. There arose the word serendipity in my mind.

A few days later I was in Cape Town, enjoying coffee with a friend. I asked him if he knew the email address of an old colleague I wished to contact. “Yes”, he replied. “It is serendipity@...”

I was taken aback.

The following day I took friends to lunch at one of my favourite seafood restaurants in the beautiful Gordon’s Bay. The restaurant, in a development called Harbour Island, overlooks the fishing boat fleet. As we sat eating soles and sipping Boschendal Blanc de Blanc, my eye caught the name, writ large, on the side of one of the gleaming white vessels.

It was, of course, Serendipity.

Sources used in this column are: Encyclopedia of Biography and Wikipedia.