Un point c’est tout

It was my first summer in London and I couldn’t wait to go travelling in Europe. But – where would I go? How would I get there? And... who would come with me?

With eight of us sharing a small three-bedroom flat in West London, there always seemed to be a copy of The Evening Standard scattered around the lounge room, with someone searching through the classifieds for a new job, another perhaps for a new flat, another for what was on in London and yet another for the latest travel deals. And the offer that caught my eye was the coach over to Paris... and because he also wanted to go travelling, and because sharing a room would be cheaper, one of my flatmates decided he’d come too.

‘Sorted!’ I thought.

But it was disastrous. Before we’d even arrived in Paris, we’d run out of things to talk about. We arrived with completely different itineraries in mind: his was more of a checklist that included the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Elysees; mine (I guess because I’d been to Paris before) was much more haphazard, and included visiting some of the museums I hadn’t been to and much wandering through the narrow hilly streets of Montmartre where our hotel was. By our second day there, we were going our separate ways during the day – only stuck with each other in the evenings when I would sit on our tiny balcony, writing letters and postcards, and he would lie inside watching cartoons, complaining that they were in French. He wasn’t enjoying Paris and neither of us was enjoying the other’s company.

On the evening of our last day in Paris, we joined the long queue at the coach station and I made a decision. I turned to him and said, ‘I’m not going back with you – I’m staying.’

Un point, c’est tout.

I just couldn’t bear another seven or eight – or more – hours of his surly silence on the coach. And, more importantly, I didn’t have to be back at work for another few days, so... why not? I hadn’t booked a room for that night but I knew my way back to our hotel, had my guidebook, my phone and enough money to stay another night or two. What could go wrong?

Well, the hotel we’d stayed in was fully booked. But the concierge suggested a few other hotels in Montmartre I could try and, a little later that evening, I found a youth hostel nearby where I could share a dorm room. It was pretty full so I met quite a few more travellers, saw a bit more of the city (although the rain set in so I didn’t stay on as long as I thought I might) and discovered I could quite easily, and dreamily, find my way around Paris and back to London again on my own.

The Eiffel Tower at the turn of the millennium

The view from my balcony (You can see the raindrops on the railing...)

Scrambling up and up

A week ago I climbed up Table Mountain with friends. We took the India Venster route as it’s not as well known – or as crowded – as the route up through Platteklip Gorge. The path runs up under the cableway most of the way up, then passes around the mountain above Camps Bay and finally ends at the top of Platteklip Gorge.

The ravine through which the route runs apparently looks like the shape of India when viewed from below – though I couldn’t see any resemblance myself..! And the venster (‘window’ in Afrikaans) is formed by some of the rocks in the ravine and frames a great view of the surrounding mountains.

It was an exciting climb but far more strenuous than I was expecting. I suppose I’ve always viewed Table Mountain pretty much as a postcard – or a dramatic backdrop. Until now...

I soon discovered that setting off on no more than a cup of coffee was not a good start..! Although we began climbing by 8.30, it was very hot by then already and quite still on the lower slopes. I think my blood sugar level must have been too low because I’d only been climbing about twenty minutes when I felt so dizzy that I crumpled into a little heap on the steps leading up from the lower cableway station. Those last steps I could only do munching on my apple – and that, incredibly, got me most of the way up..! (Well, an apple, plenty of water and a whole lot of stubborn determination not to miss out on any of it...).

We made it up in about three hours, stopping just below the upper cableway station to eat our sandwiches and watch the cable cars whizzing by overhead.

Taking the cable car back down felt far too easy but, as a very inexperienced rock climber, I wouldn’t climb down India Venster (this can be dangerous if you don’t know the route) – I have far too much respect for the mountain to attempt that – just yet.

Slogging up those steps...

Beginning to climb

Scrambling up

Hanging on

Cape Town and Table Bay in the distance

At India Venster

Through the venster

A glimpse of Devil's Peak

A cable car whizzing by overhead

Going around the mountain

Naomi and I very nearly, almost, there...

(Thanks, Brahm, for the great climbing photos!)

Rambling over the mountain

When my mom was here on holiday earlier this month, she decided she wanted to go up Table Mountain – by cable car, not on foot! She’d never been up and the last time I’d gone up was years ago so we set off.

The cable car I’d been in was the Seventies design (– the cableway itself was opened in 1929 –) which was of course very much smaller and slower than the current cable cars which are circular and have rotating floors so that everyone gets a 360 degree view of Cape Town and Table Bay. The ride does seem far too short though..!

It wasn’t a perfectly clear day but we enjoyed taking our time – and plenty of photos of the surrounding mountains, the rocks and trails, the wildlife and fynbos – along the path that leads to Maclear’s Beacon. As the wind grew stronger and the clouds began blowing up, we had to head back to the upper cableway station and never quite made it to the highest point on the mountain.

Maclear’s Beacon was built in 1844 by Sir Thomas Maclear who was Astronomer Royal at the Cape. The 3 m cairn marks the highest point at 1086 m – though it could also be 1087 m, 1085 m or possibly even 1084.6 m! (There seem to be conflicting records out there...)

We were up on the mountain about three hours and did a lot more walking than we thought we would. There was also a section that was a bit steeper and I took some fun shots of my mom tackling the ascent, getting down low to take them so that it appeared all the more difficult..!

I didn’t know then I’d be scrambling up the mountain myself a few weeks later – but more about that in a later post...

At the lower cableway station

On the way up to the upper cableway station

Table Bay and the city down below

Lion's Head

Rambling paths

That steep bit...

Looking down at the city

On the way down – and the steps I’d soon enough be slogging up...

Owlish

In many parts of the world, owls have been – and may still be – associated with all kinds of dark and dreadful fears – of death, spirits both protective and sinister, witches and wizards, thunder and lightning, shipwreck and robbery, drunkenness, blindness, idiocy, whooping-cough, hair loss..! There’re just too many to mention.

But owls have also symbolised wisdom and knowledge – which is perhaps why a group of owls is called a parliament (– though I’m not convinced that all parliamentarians are wise and knowledgeable..!).

In South Africa too owls have been feared.

I grew up with an African scops owl in our garden. It used to perch in a big tree outside my brother’s window and we’d sometimes sit and watch it before it got dark. Scops owls are small, agile and solitary, and only have a single type of call – kind of a ‘prrrp’ every five seconds or so. It’s almost monotonous and not at all urgent, but it became such a comforting sound to fall asleep to. You can listen to it here: http://www.owlpages.com/sounds/Otus-senegalensis-1.mp3

Scops owls use their sharp beaks and powerful claws to kill their prey (mainly mice and rats) which they tear and swallow, regurgitating the indigestible parts (like bones and fur) afterwards. We used to find these pellets beneath the tree – they were quite dry and odourless, the tiny bones intact and easily identified.


These owls I sketched were, unfortunately, on display in the Albany Museum in Grahamstown. I tried to capture something of their fascination and beauty anyway.

A barn owl

A slightly squint owl

A startled owl?

And for everything about owls: http://www.owlpages.com (And of course Wikipedia!)

Skin

This collage came out of an argument I’d had with a friend. I’d been disappointed at how stereotypical her favourite female fantasy characters appeared. They looked to me, despite their weapons and armour, like yet more Disney princesses: all big boobs and big hair – and very tiny waists. Princess Fiona they won’t..!

I was also critical of just how much more sexualised these women characters were than the men – and that she couldn’t (or perhaps didn’t want to) see that. Of course it’s not just the poses and pouts, and sidelong looks – it’s how much skin they’re showing. Unnecessarily, since I am sure that it’s safer, despite their vast knowledge and powers, to armour their midriffs when wreaking havoc or whatnot...

But, I wondered, am I spoiling all the fun – and perhaps fighting a losing battle? Maybe I am... After all, women’s nude or semi-nude bodies are all over the internet, right? Or are they?

Well, I thought I’d take a look... I did a Google image search of ‘skin’ and found plenty of anatomical diagrams of the skin – and plenty of young, perfectly make-upped, clean and clear, fair and female faces. And almost as many images of diseased skin!

On the internet (as in life?), skin seems to be perfect or problematic – good or bad! Or perhaps even ‘celebrity’... But, on the internet, skin is overwhelmingly one type.

I really had to search to find photographs of wrinkled skin, men’s skin, babies’ and children’s skin, skin of different colours and shades, skin on other parts of our bodies than our faces, and of different textures. Looking at this collage again, I realised I still hadn’t included any freckles and moles – of which I have many myself!

‘So what?’ you might be thinking. Well, I’d like to think the internet can be a whole lot more diverse and dynamic than that. And that there’ll still be a place on the internet for art that shows some skin, and meaningful conversations and arguments about it, in years to come...

So, here is a synthesis of a whole lot of skin on the internet – I’ve pilfered from so many people’s photographs but (in some kind of apology!) each has been edited so much as to be pretty unidentifiable (other than those of the tattoos of course).

A celebration of the largest organ of the body: the skin

And my last word in the above mentioned argument:

Women can be super and sexy, but many women around the world are still fighting all kinds of sexism to be the best – and sexiest – selves they can be.


And on that, I think, we can agree.