I.O.V

The landing strip lay in the sea. From the air it resembled little more than a slit in the ocean’s surface. To my surprise it didn’t increase much in size as we approached it from an easterly direction.  Once safely down and stepping into the arrivals hall at Cristoforo Colombo Airport in Genoa I was reminded of Mark Twain’s first visit to the city and his impression of it. Although the ocean at the city’s feet sparkled, the city struck me as rather grimy and perhaps a tad too industrial - but what else can you expect from one of the world’s oldest port cities?! Jumping into a car due west I didn’t get much of a chance to validate my misgivings.

My real destination was a sleepy seaside town halfway between Genoa and Monte Carlo called Borghetto Santo Spirito. I was on my way to visit my family who warned me that theirs was a town for old people and if that wasn’t enough, it was recently named the ugliest place in Italy. As you can imagine, I couldn’t wait to get there.

Now if you want a bit of beach action it would be advisable to rent a couple of deck chairs - if there are still any available at this time of year (the regulars rent them on an annual basis which makes things a little tricky for the outsider). In August the beaches here get so crowded that you can hardly turn on your side without forcing everyone else around you to do so at the same time. That said a great sense of community prevails and, if your Italian is up to scratch, you won’t be lonely for long although you might still be the only pale looking person around.

The sea here is surprisingly cold compared to just a little down the coast towards the Cinque Terre region, but still refreshing and pretty clean - especially in the early mornings. With plenty of lifeguards on hand swimming far out is easy and safe - depths range from around 5 meters pretty far out and there are always an array of buoys to hold on to should you get a cramp or the sudden idea that taking a rest might be a good idea.  

Like with most worthwhile beach towns there is preciously little to do during the day except sit back, sip on whatever it is you want to sip on and watch the world go by. Come the night however the town becomes alive with restaurants, bars and an array of nightspots to suit one and all. I was lucky enough to attend two separate food festivals called “Sagras”. The first Sagra I attended was held in little neighbouring town called Toirano of which the old centre had been cordoned off from traffic to create ample space from which to prepare and serve an astonishing selection of local (cheap but great tasting!) food and wine. The festival was separated into a vegetarian section as well as a meat section and, being an ardent yet slightly confused carnivore, I found myself stuck in the vegetarian section for most of the night. The second Sagra was held in a forest clearing high up on a neighbouring hill overlooking the bay. The wine and food here were even cheaper than the first time around and I certainly made up for not having had any meat by having one of the most delicious Tripe (lovely?!) dishes I had ever tasted. 

For those who can’t wait for such nightly festivities and who like to get a bit of retail therapy done while getting first degree burns and digging their toes into the sand the constant flow of beach peddlers, selling anything from beach towels down to the most expensive designer wares,  must seem like something sent from above. Almost all peddlers are immigrants from North African countries such as Morocco and Ghana (incidentally also the name of the local peddler “Godfather”). I am tempted to say most of these peddlers are the same illegal immigrants which the present rightist government of Silvio “Ill Duce” Berlusconi is trying to keep out of Italy. Curious as I am I decided, in all earnest, to try and steal a couple of shots of the peddlers in action. This turned out to be a mistake. Everything went fine for about an hour or so until one peddler caught me with my camera trained on him - mistaking me for Inspector Gadget. To merely say that he was a little upset would have been an understatement. Dropping his bag he briskly walked over to me, crouched down on both legs and demanded, in near perfect Italian, that I delete the picture I had taken of him (well I guess that’s what he said seeing as I don’t speak Italian..). I deleted the picture to appease the man - it had been a rubbish shot anyway. He eventually left mumbling something about how disgusting this and that.

The experience stayed with me for the remainder of my time along the “Italian Riviera”. I can understand the suspicion and fear. Some of these immigrants have gone through so much to reach these shores - the slightest threat (real or imagined) could seem like the end of the world to them; a world into which I had slipped into so effortlessly only a couple of days before; a world from which I eventually exited again as if I had never been there. To some extent this is what attracts me to Italy - every time you go there it feels just like the first time.

The bottle of Castle cost £3. By the time I forked out the money I was so homesick I would have gladly paid twice the amount. This was my first official Mandela Day - strange that it had to be at the British Museum in London, but still. Amongst a diverse selection of screenings the acclaimed film Feseka’s Voice captured some of the guts, spirit and determination so typical of Nelson Mandela and the nation he helped to build and inspire. Now there’s nothing wrong with screenings, but it wouldn’t have been Mandela Day without the magic of gumboots, the drumming, the Nzinga dancing, the San story telling, the BBQ (a sad lack of shebeens didn’t dampen our spirits) and the incessant marimba rhythms of Risenga Makondo and his band of Bush Technologists from the Gambia and Tanzania. The sensational baritone Njabula Madlala’s rendition of the late and great Miriam Makeba’s “Click Song” consolidated this as a day to not only remember, but in which to celebrate the life of a man who would become an icon for forgiveness and unification; a man who would become the father of our rainbow nation and the Madiba of the world.

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The sun was shining. The tables were covered with free drinks and food. The mood was relaxed and refreshing. And then we realised we were attending the wrong reception. Downstairs - quick! The SOAS lecture room in the basement was sparsely occupied and, when the DA Abroad Debate kicked off, perhaps just a little under-representative.

On first - Deon George, South African Shadow Minister of Finance. Despite the country’s colossal potential and the clear success of its hosting the 2010 FIFA Football World Cup, there are still a lot of things going wrong in South Africa. We all know about the high unemployment, HIV, endemic corruption, crime, the threat that nationalising key sectors of industry might turn South Africa into the next “Zimbabwe” of Julius Malema and his ANC Youth League. But what to do? Apart from playing the blame game, no one seems quite that sure.

In the areas governed by the DA, mainly the Western Cape, things seem to be going pretty well compared to much of the rest of South Africa where the ANC, despite its support, seems to be struggling to “COPE”. So how does the DA do it? According to Deon George it is due to their policy of an “Open Opportunity Society for All” that’s doing the trick. What does this mean? It means that every individual is equal, secure and free to improve his or her conditions through choice and opportunity. It means that every culture and language is equally respected and recognised. Sounds good - seems to be working to some extent at least.  

It was up to Viscount Thurso, British MP and longstanding Liberal Democrat, to offer up some more concrete advice on how to improve things. Play to your strengths he said. Look to what you are good at, at what you have to offer and sell that to investors instead of investors selling themselves to you for whatever gains they might perceive and which are usually more than just a little exploitative. Secondly, bring those with means together with those that have no means, on a grass roots, local level. Instil in people the realisation that they, through what they have and have achieved, can make a life changing difference to those around them who have never had the opportunity to do something for themselves. Think long term. Invest long term. Lasting change takes time to achieve and, according to Thurso, a Liberal Government which, according to George, will instead of might, be at the helm of South African politics much sooner than people expect.             

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You have to look straight into the lens. After they check through all your documents, make you pay for travel insurance if you don’t have any, give you a stamp you cannot find and take your picture, they let you pass through a door. You don’t know what’s behind the door until you’ve reached the other side.

We arrived at Jose Marti International at night. Our taxi sped through the semi-lit streets. The occasional horse and Cadillac confirmed my suspicions that we were indeed, finally, in Cuba. How the taxi driver managed to find our Casa Particular I have no idea - all crumbling buildings look the same to me to be honest. It was unbearably humid; the prospect filled me with dread seeing as I had only packed two pairs of shorts. The pavements outside our casa were crammed full of people lounging in armchairs, playing dominoes and drinking Rum while trying to outsmart their own sweat. We had to climb over some kids to get to the door and then up an imaginary ladder to reach the doorbell. Staying (and eating) with a local family not only works out fairly cheap, it also gives you an exceptional insight into the everyday lives and strife of the local people. I have rarely been made to feel more at home in someone else’s house.

If you can stand the heat Havana is a great city to explore on foot. You’ll even pick up a stray dog on the way. The furthest you’ll probably have to walk is the Plaza Revolucion which is easily reached via the local street market on Avenue Salvador Allende. The Plaza, despite being overshadowed by the towering memorial to the national hero Jose Marti and hung with the effigies of both Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos kind of disappoints in terms of shock and awe. Was this indeed the same Plaza where Commandante en Jeffe, Fidel Castro, used to regularly bore his people into submission?

Havana, especially the run down parts in the old colonial areas, is one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. The Malecon, half overlooked by the Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro on the one side and the infamous Hotel Nacional on the other, is especially magical in the late afternoon/early evening when it’s lined by locals who’ve either gathered there for the gossip, to drink Rum, to fish, to drink Rum and fish or to swim in the often questionably clean waters of the bay. Although parts of the Havana Vieja area have been superbly restored to its original lustre and colour, it lacks the vibrancy and seduction of those parts of the city still in much need of repair. The area around the Paseo del Prado and the Parque Central (where you can jump on the T3 bus to the excellent Playas Del Este nearby), including the Capitolio and the beautiful Gran Teatro, down the Avenue de loas Misiones, house many fine museums, including the memorial to the famous Granma on which Fidel and his group of 20 odd men reached the coast of Cuba from Mexico to kick start the revolution. The area sadly suffers from an over eager army of Jineteros who try and hassle you out of your money at any given opportunity. The best thing to do is to politely, but firmly refuse their advances. Cubans, even Jineteros, are exceptionally friendly and rarely make a nuisance of themselves for prolonged periods. Although Cuba as a whole is pretty safe, hold your valuables close at hand. We had our passports stolen four hours before we had to catch our return flight. We did get them back again within an hour though, but still. Better to play safe than dead.  

Intriguing as it is, Cuba does not revolve around Havana alone. We took a Transtur bus down south-east to the still-stuck-back-in-1514 town of Trinidad and the beaches of the Peninsula Ancon, which is an easy Cocotaxi/bicycle ride away from the Plaza Central. Trinidad itself is a visual feast. With its cobbled streets and multitude of horse drawn carts (and continual clatter of hooves) it does indeed feel a little like stepping back in time. Make sure to sample the local seafood and the musical delights of the Casa Musica which remains open until the early hours.   

Leaving Trinidad behind we made the mistake of taking a minibus to the Pinar del Rio region west of Havana and a little town called Vinales. We were promised a much faster journey at the same price as the bus. Hurtling past the Cuban country side I have never been so scared in my life. Take the bus is my advice. It takes the same time, it’s the same price or maybe even cheaper and you’ll arrive without having had a stroke.

The town of Vinales itself is so small you can walk from one end to the other in less than 10 minutes. There is a lot to see in the beautiful surrounding valley including tobacco farms and cigar factories, a multitude of caves (one has a waterfall inside) and the two nearby islands of Cayo Jutia (more for the locals) and Cayo Levisa. Levisa is an uninhabited island (apart from a few bungalows) within easy reach of town by bus and then by ferry (you can get an all inclusive ticket for both with a light snack thrown in). The island is made up of mangroves and boasts a spectacular stretch of white sandy beach which you can explore at leisure. Make sure you don’t miss the last ferry back to the mainland at 5pm.  

You can see a lot in 10 days, but don’t expect to understand much of what you see. Instead of Rum, Salsa and Hemingway I discovered a landscape infinitely more complex and at times painfully dysfunctional. As an outsider it is extremely difficult to ignore the incentive-less conditions in which Cubans need to play out their lives. It is a tired country; a country of no political debate, no freedom of information. People are not allowed to own new cars. The population is dependent on rations. It’s true that hospitals and education is free, but what are you supposed to do with free education if there are no opportunities?! Some say things are changing in Cuba, but I think it’s going to take much more than the propaganda lining the highways and byways alone to reignite the fire of this magical and confusing place.

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It was a miracle that we touched down at Berlin Schonefeld at all. I say this not because of the way the plane danced around in the sky just before landing, but because of a certain volcano that nearly scuppered my good intentions. I was taking my wife to Berlin for her birthday. I am generally bad with the whole birthday present thing and this year I thought I had struck gold for once, only to be told by those in official positions that despite my genial efforts there was a strong possibility that most airports in Europe would be shut on the day of our departure which would have meant, and I quote George Clooney here, “no tequila, no party.” 

The train from the airport brought us to the city centre in no time. As per usual we decided to decline booking accommodation in advance and after a bit of rummaging we came across the highly recommendable St. Christopher’s Hostel on Rosa Luxembourgstrasse. The hostel is conveniently situated across from the metro station, extremely clean, comes with breakfast included and has a Belushi’s on the ground floor. It nestles in the heart of the intriguing East Berlin district of Mitte which is one of the most cosmopolitan, vibrant and architecturally intriguing parts of the city.

The streets in Mitte are lined with an array of designer boutiques, cafes, local, specifically Asian and international restaurants and bars. For live music the Bang Bang Club is a must while for the more adventurous Bar 25 might be just the ticket. For the more laid back the Cinema Cafe with its dark, candle lit interior takes you back to the bohemian side of the last century. It feels like the kind of place where revolutionaries once met over a glass of Weiss beer which is, incidentally, served dirt cheap. If you find yourself strolling down the Oranienburgerstrasse at night be sure to look out for a little door with a sign above it reading “X-Terrain”. This cosy little basement bar is a truly rare find and light years removed from its more commercially orientated neighbours. It’s in this same street that you’ll find the old Jewish Synagogue destroyed by the Nazis on the infamous Kristalnacht. A little further on you’ll come across the famous Kunsthaus Tacheles which, although still extremely interesting and well worth a visit, seems to lack the convincing appeal of its heyday.

From here Friedrichstrasse leads down towards the river Spree alongside which it is a short and very pleasant walk towards the colossal, bullet ridden Bundestag. Entrance to the spiralling dome on top is free, but you have to be prepared to queue for at least 30mins to get in. The views are well worth the wait however. A paved line along the ground, which demarcates the original position of the Berlin Wall, leads you to the imposing Brandenburg Gate which once formed the most western border of the old city and of the former East Berlin. Further west from here lies the sprawling mass of the Tiergarten which is Berlin’s largest park. On its furthest borders lies the presidential Bellevue Palace, the City Zoo and the shopping district of  Kurfurstendam which sadly lacks the atmosphere of the Eastern part of the city. The Charlottenburg Palace lies on the outskirts of the city and is a must see for those so inclined.         

Coming back along the southern side of the park you’ll pass through the tranquil diplomatic quarter before reaching the Potsdamer Platz which used to be the largest building site in the world and along and across which the Berlin Wall cut its lethal lines. It has only recently been redeveloped and the Film Museum, although dealing mostly in German films, is definitely one of the highlights of the area.

The Check Point Charlie Museum is only a stone’s throw from here and easily reached on foot. It gives by far the most compelling, in depth and complete account of life in divided Berlin and is well worth every penny. Make sure you pass through the Topographie des Terror on your way to Check Point Charlie, not only to see one of the last remaining parts of the Berlin Wall in situ, but to savour the almost eerie atmosphere of the area in which most of the former Nazi headquarters were based. Most of the buildings have been torn down although the basements of the former SS headquarters are still in tack and open to visitors. In the middle of a housing estate, built on the site of the former Reichs Chancellery, all that remains of the bunker in which Hitler killed himself is a tourist information board.   

Walking back towards the Brandenburg Gate you pass by the Holocaust Memorial. I was surprised to find a memorial built on this scale so devoid of people until I realised that the further you walk into it the more it swallows you up. Some of the massive concrete blocks all but tower over you. It is a place to pause for a moment. If only to remember the suffering that people have gone through in the past and the suffering through which they still go. Turning east through the famous gate you step unto Unter Den Linden, the boulevard alongside which most of the old city originated. Today it still hosts the French, British, American and imposing Russian embassies as well as the world famous Albion Hotel. A little further down you pass along the Humbolt University and the old Opera house surrounded by its old palaces. Before re-crossing the Spree you are reminded of the Berliner Schloss which once stood on its opposite banks before being destroyed and which the authorities are now thinking of rebuilding. Next to the site the Berliner Kirche is a marvel of religious architecture. The church is almost entirely surrounded by some of the most fascinating museums in the city and one ticket, at a set price, will get you into all of them.        

There is a lot to see in Berlin and it will take you quite a while to see it all, but it is more than worth the effort. It is a strange city. In many ways still divided it has the feeling of a city still caught up in the past; still trying to deal with its heritage and decipher its identity. I arrived here thinking I’d find a city on the cuffs of modernity. Instead I found a city still in the process of rebuilding itself. Berlin takes a while to get used to, but once it bites you, it doesn’t let go.

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A solitary white cross lay face down on the pavement.  The steel barriers outside the South African embassy stood silent and empty. To my bewilderment I searched hither and dither for someone in a red shirt, but to no avail. I could do very little else but to accept my predicament – contrary to expectations the march had lasted less than two hours – and I had missed it.

Green Park lay a couple of minutes walk away; as far as I knew people had planned to meet there after the march and I decided to try and hunt them down. It didn’t take me long to spot the little red circle in the grass and the two South African flags hanging from branches nearby. I stole a couple of sneak shots from far off before approaching a couple of stragglers drinking Guinness on the fringes. They welcomed me with smiles and offered me a beer. Everyone seemed very eager to talk about the march. One of the organisers told me in no uncertain terms that people had come together to march against crime that affected not only white farmers, but everyone in South Africa. Sure, he seemed sincere about what he was saying. But what I couldn’t quite understand however was the fact that, if this was a march against crime affecting everyone, why the march hadn’t been more racially diverse. Surely crime in South Africa can only be fought in unity if it’s to be truly defeated? Are people, on both sides, still too preoccupied with the concept of “us” and “them”?

There were fears that AWB flags might disrupt proceedings. This did not happen; the only flags in sight where those of the new South Africa. People even did their best to sing the new national anthem although most only knew the words to Die Stem. By all accounts the march had been a success, but what spoilt it for me, apart from missing most of it, was the disturbing fact that some of those who had been carrying white crosses a little earlier, where now referring to their fellow South Africans as baboons, kaffers and “houtkoppe” in my conversation with them.

It would seem that despite the good hearted intentions of some, the old habits of others die hard and that, without any solidarity, the people of South Africa will continue to suffer at the hands of one another until our beautiful country lies irrevocably in ruins.

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I didn’t know what to expect when I pressed play. A few minutes into the first track, just as the vocals kicked in, my face broke into an involuntary smile. The music had a strange effect on me. Sitting in a London office it made me miss home, but more importantly, I felt like I’d stumbled across something that I hadn’t realized I’d been looking for. Something I needed, but that I didn’t know where to find.

There are few places in the world that can sport the same kind of rich cultural diversity that you find in the townships surrounding Johannesburg. This is the pot from which the South African house scene has sprung and from which it is regularly spooned by an army of battle ready DJ’s and producers. It all started off with DJ’s playing Chicago house in the 80s and selling mixes out of the trunks of their cars. Since these early days local groups such as Revolution and BOP have helped trail blaze a road for younger generations to come to the fore front. House music in South Africa has seen a massive surge alongside the decline of once popular Kwaito and the rebirth of black culture following the demise of the apartheid government. People have a new identity which they are eager to explore and what better way to do this than via music. House music in South Africa is uniquely localized, drawing on a wide range of influences including, amongst others, already mentioned Kwaito, Zulu Mbaqanga basslines and Hugh Masekela mixed in with Zulu, Xhosa and broken township English which MC’s utilize in order to paint a street picture of everyday life in a bustling metropolis.

The Ayobaness album is an outstanding compilation of modern South African house. It’s exciting, smooth, subtle, strangely minimalist and a 100% African. There are quite a number of stand out tracks on the album including “Ungazocala‘ by DJ Steavy from Nelspruit, ‘Just in Time’ by Aero Manyelo from Midrand, ‘Ayobaness‘ by Pastor Mbhobho and “Mugwanti“ by internationally acclaimed DJ Mujava from suburban Pretoria. Personally I think you’d be hard pressed to find the same kind of vibes anywhere else on the continent and now that everyone seems to be heading to South Africa for the world cup, it will be these vibes that let loose the party.

I am glad I pressed play. And I will do it again gladly.  

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The first couple of bars sounded something like Grrrr. It was the first time I ever saw Arno Carstens writhe behind a microphone. It was a sweaty summer’s night amidst the mountains of Stellenbosch. Beer festivals were still held in abandoned fields back then. Bands still played from the back of trucks.

All I remember is the earth shaking.     

Arno’s come a long way from his seminal roots in the mighty Springbok Nude Girls. His instrumental voice quickly helped assure the band’s rock god status amongst its cult of fans. The SNG raked up award after award, toured with some of the biggest names in music including the Smashing Pumpkins and INXS while regularly selling out the Shepherd’s Bush Empire and the historic London Astoria.  

Following an extended hiatus Arno decided to try his hand at flying solo. At the time he was faced with two choices, go heavier or strip it down. Arno and his A-list of collaborators decided to follow the latter path. His first two solo albums, Another Universe and The Hello Goodbye Boys, went platinum and gold respectively. Both albums won SAMA awards, adding to Arno’s already full shelf of accolades. Arno spent quite a bit of time touring with The Rolling Stones, Paul Weller and the The Police amongst others as well as on the festival circuit before being signed to Sony Music UK and heading back into the studio to record his third solo album Wonderful Wild with legendary producer Youth (The Verve’s Urban Hymns) who alongside the likes of Giles Martin, James Walsh (Starsailor) and Jim Duguid (Paolo Nutini) also contributed to the song writing process.

Wonderful Wild showcases a clearly matured and a strangely more vulnerable Arno Carstens. The music reminds me of the cinematic. It’s a straightforward, cut to the chase pop album with a little something for everyone that promises nothing but a big impact upon its international release at the end of April. The first single off the album Heartbreak Monday (co-written with Paolo Nutini) has already reached into the top spheres of the BBC Radio music charts and promises to be the first of many off the album to do so. Wonderful Wild has the potential to sky rocket Arno Carstens from local rock god to international pop icon. Quoted in a recent interview he sums up his thoughts about the future, “I have the bassist from Killing Joke playing on my album - how much better can things get?” 

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I was only seven years old when Robert Davies shot Saturday Nigh At The Palace with a next to nothing budget and an eight man crew. In 1987 I was far too young to understand the full significance of the South African political scene or the impact a film such as this could have, never mind the consequences of making it.

Based on the play by Paul Slabolepszy the film stars Paul Slabolepszy himself alongside Bill Flynn who both portray two frustrated working class white males, Vince and Forsie. On their way home from a party they end up at a roadside diner run by John Kani who stars as September. Tension quickly leads to arguments which in turn lead to racial humiliation and inevitable tragedy.

The film does well to underline the tensions of the time. It reveals a system that let both sides down.

Watching the film at the BFI, who decided to give the film its first screening in over twenty years, I find myself amazed at the fact that a film like this ever saw the light of day to begin with. It was made during a time when the apartheid government of P.W. Botha still stood at the helm of its power and getting permission for a project like this would certainly never have been given the green light. As the director explains in the Q&A session after the screening, himself and the crew took significant risks in shooting without any official permit, sometimes only meters away from patrolling security police who could have made things pretty ugly for everyone involved. One of the crew members did get beaten up at one of the first screenings of the film. The director says he is unsure if this was a spur of the moment scuffle or a planned political attack. Asked why the film wasn’t banned in the same way many others of the time had been he came up with an interesting answer. According to him the government would have inadvertently created a monster by banning the film. It would have created headlines which the government of the time could ill afford. The officials instead decided to let he film die its own slow death which it did ironically end up doing. The film enjoyed only a very brief stint in the public eye before it got assigned to memory. The lack of adequate backing and the loss of the film’s original negatives eventually helped seal the lid on this ambitious, brave and ground breaking project.

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