I have freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom from discrimination and freedom to love.

I know I am lucky. I know that the freedoms I enjoy were hard earned.

I know that for many, freedom is still just a dream.

On Sunday, May 6th, 2007 I took a ferry to Robben Island.

From the Robben Island Museum website:

“For nearly 400 years, Robben Island, 12 kilometres from Cape Town, was a place of banishment, exile, isolation and imprisonment. It was here that rulers sent those they regarded as political troublemakers, social outcasts and the unwanted of society.

During the apartheid years Robben Island became internationally known for its institutional brutality. The duty of those who ran the Island and its prison was to isolate opponents of apartheid and to crush their morale. Some freedom fighters spent more than a quarter of a century in prison for their beliefs.

Those imprisoned on the Island succeeded on a psychological and political level in turning a prison ‘hell-hole’ into a symbol of freedom and personal liberation. Robben Island came to symbolise, not only for South Africa and the African continent, but also for the entire world, the triumph of the human spirit over enormous hardship and adversity.”

I crossed a glittering bay under bright skies in a boat crowded with people. I was engulfed in the boisterous camaraderie of fellow Americans. The Americans turned out to be practically neighbors; they were from a town about 35 miles from where I live. Further evidence of our shrinking world. We delighted in the sight of a dolphin pod – evidence of our shared humanity.

Much has been written about Robben Island. Here are my impressions, my thoughts.

Laverne, Shirley and I are on a ferry, heading towards Robben Island. Robben Island whose most famous prisoner was Nelson Mandela. The trip takes perhaps 40 minutes and the boat is packed. Once ashore, we have to get onto buses, which will take us on tour of the island’s perimeter.

Our tour guide is a student, who delivers an impassioned description of the island along with it’s history and his feelings at breakneck speed. We stop at various locations.

We peer from the comfort of the bus at rows of outdoor cells, solitary confinement I believe. A church, buildings, a boat wreck are pointed out. We take photos.

The bus stops at one of the most affecting sights on the island: the limestone quarry. Here is where the prisoners labored. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the glare of the sun reflected off the walls, the intense heat, and the humiliation of having to defecate in a cave, the same cave where you ate your meals.

The bus drops us off near some buildings where we will wait for the second part of the tour – that of one of the prison buildings.

Our tour guide is a former prisoner. I wondered at his thoughts, wouldn’t it feel surreal to be giving tours of the place where you were beaten and tortured? Our guide only mentioned his hardship; he did not go into any details.

My eyes raise towards the guard towers, the stretched out lengths of concertina wire.

I see the barred windows.

Our guide shows us one of the communal cells.

Until a relief organization provided the bunk beds, the prisoners slept on thin pads on the cement floor.

I see the barred windows.

Our guide holds up a placard. The placard shows the differences between B and C diets. B diets were for Coloureds and Asiatics and C diets were for Bantus. The placard showed that the Bantus received less food. Bantus was the term used to describe Black South Africans during apartheid.

We walk through the walled courtyards, passing through rusting metal doors. Our guide describes how the prisoners would pass messages from one compound to the other using the kitchen as a post office, messages with a meal.

Sometimes tennis was used to communicate – a message would be hidden inside a tennis ball and would “accidentally” volley over the wall into an adjacent courtyard.

Our guide leads us into another building.

More antiseptic, peeling corridors, more bars, more signs of ways to erode the spirit.

He points to a sign: the Censors Office. The office employed people who could read any of the African languages.

Finally our guide leads us to the building that holds the cell of the Robben Island’s most famous prisoner: Nelson Mandela.

He points to a window, “His cell is that one, fourth from the left.”

We enter the building, walk down another corridor and cluster round the cell.

“Take your time,” our guide tells us.

I look at the wool pad on the cement floor, the bed. The simple metal plate and cup for meals.

The barred window.

Nelson Mandela spent most of his 27 years in prison in this cell.

Twenty-seven years.

As we board the ferry, we head back to Cape Town into the setting sun.

I am standing on the top deck, leaning against a rail; jacket zipped up against the chill ocean wind.

I feel as if I could weep: the sea is liquid mercury, the skies are softly fading into night, and I am infinitesimal, floating in a drop of the universe. Such suffering and such hope.

I journeyed across the waters in the early afternoon.
Free.

I returned with the wind in my face.
Free.

I returned, squinting my eyes at the slanting rays of the setting sun.
Free.

“While we will not forget the brutality of apartheid, we will not want Robben Island to be a monument to our hardship and suffering. We would want Robben Island to be a monument…reflecting the triumph of the human spirit against the forces of evil.” – Ahmed Kathrada (sentenced to Robben Island in June 1964)

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Even if you don’t care about what I did there, you’re probably thinking that there are several Airport Restrooms that I had to use on the trip back home AND most likely, Ms. Q being Ms. Q, she braved a raised eyebrow or sideways glance in order to take photos.

You would be correct.

For you airport restroom afficionados, you’ll just have to wait. And I’m not promising nothing, either. Let’s return to South Africa …

[Saturday May 5, 2007]

My morning started with a run along the beach. I had injured myself last year and couldn’t run for 6 months. If you’re a runner, not being able to run is …a big bummer. Walking just doesn’t cut it. I was slowly regaining my strength and conditioning and being able to run has been wonderful. My runs along the beaches of the Western Cape contained moments of pure joy.

Since my arrival in Cape Town, Laverne, Shirley and I had managed to deplete the stockpile of “kitchen wine” (inexpensive everyday wine) and had begun making inroads into the Laverne’s luscious “cellared” (pricey) wines.

We needed to make a winery run. We needed to Load Up.

Our plan was to make a quick run to several nearby wineries, some new, some unfamiliar.

We were on a mission.

We went to Bloemendal but they didn’t have the Cabernet we wanted so we were outta there.

We zipped off to Eikendal Vineyards where I purchased 3 bottles of the 2003 Classique and 1 bottle of the 2002 Cabernet.

I donated 2 of the Classiques to Laverne’s Cellar and planned to take the Classique and the Cab to London with me.

We decided to stop at Spiers for lunch and maybe to purchase some wine.

The last time I was at Spiers was in 1997 and it had just a few buildings, a large dusty lot and a home for cheetahs. It was geared towards tourists providing picnic baskets, a path around a lake, and a gift shop.

The place is now a Tourist Destination with multiple restaurants, tented shops and open-air craft stalls.

I heard that Japanese tourists are dropped off by the busload.

I realize that busload is redundant.

Spiers is breathtaking in its commercialism and neatly organized parking lot.

The power was out in the area, which ruled out lunch. We didn’t linger. Shirley referred to one of her many wine route guides and directed Laverne to Kleinze Zalze. It was there we loaded up and we loaded up BIG. They had a wonderfully affordable Pinotage – 2005 vintage priced at 35 Rand. That’s about 6 bucks US. I purchased 4 bottles for “the kitchen” and I can’t even recall how many Laverne purchased.

It was now around 4pm, we’d missed out on lunch and we had a 7pm show to go to. What to do, what to do.

We needed to pack a picnic basket for the show and we needed something to eat soon! We decided to head for a mall. Ooooh. Mall. I looooves malls.

The search for parking.
The dazzle. The shine. The allure.
These shoes, that cologne, those throw pillows…will change your life.
Live the dream. Live the dream we’re selling.
But I digress.

We end up eating at a local chain restaurant and then head to Woolworths Foods for picnic-basket worthy food.

Laverne and Shirley had purchased tickets for a very special show. We were going to see Daniele Pascal sing at her home, Villa Pascal. You may you recall, we’d eaten at her restaurant, Pascal’s Bistro on our road trip through the Overberg.

I had never heard of Daniele Pascal. Shirley explained that Daniele was a French chanteuse, well known in South Africa, and sang in the manner of Edith Piaf. Good thing I had heard about Edith Piaf so I had some idea of what to expect.

We park on the street and go through an iron gate to enter Villa Pascal. It’s a charming home – the walls are covered with art, the colors warm and inviting. The living room is filled with small tables.

People are already gathered round them with glasses of wine. The lights are low; everyone is leaning forward over their tables, relaxed, laughing. There are tea lights and candles everywhere, casting a shadowy intimacy.

The stage is nothing more than an open area at the back of the room. Spotlights hang from the high wooden beams and heavy drapes covering the windows act as a backdrop. There is an upright piano off to the side.

We’re seated near the stage and we pour ourselves glasses of wine and spread out the snacks from the picnic basket. I hadn’t been to any kind of live performance in years and nothing like this, so I was filled with happy anticipation.

A young man dressed in black sits at the piano and Daniele walks through the living room to the stage. She has short dark hair, heavy lidded eyes and je ne sais quoi – the sensuality of a French woman of a certain age.

Daniele speaks to us as if we’re all old friends and preludes each song with a little story. It is only her voice and the piano.

Most of her songs are in French and just a few in English. I had one semester of French and was once fluent in Spanish. None of this helped me to understand what she was singing about. Which was fine. I let her voice create the mood and my imagination filled in the song.

With only her voice and the piano I saw:

Tangled white sheets…a woman alone, looking out a window over a quiet city street…slender legs in sheer dark stockings, crossing and uncrossing under a table…

With only her voice and the piano I felt:

Longing…lost love…sweet and bittersweet memories…self-deprecation…joy..love found…regret

The intimate setting and the simplicity of the performance were wonderful.
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When I need to center myself, when I need to release my fears and feelings of edgy uncertainty, when I feel sad, this is one of the meditations I created for myself.

I created it from the feelings of peace and connectedness I felt in a place half a world away yet is as close as my heart.

I hope you enjoy your time there.

My Beach Meditation

You’re standing at the entrance to a grassy path. The path will lead you to a beach.

You’re dressed in almost weightless clothing and your feet are bare.

You step onto the path and the grass is cool and damp beneath your feet.

The air is soft and a light breeze caresses your skin.

You take a deep breath.

[breath]

You smell the clean ocean air.

As you walk along, you hear the soft sound of the surf, rolling against the shore.

Your body feels loose and easy, the grass soft underfoot.

Your breathing eases and you feel your chest expand.

You take a deep breath [breath]

and let it out slowly.

You hear the song of the shorebirds. You feel the warmth of the sun on your skin.

You walk along the path and with each step you become more and more relaxed.

You feel more and more at ease.

The sound of the waves becomes louder and the grass beneath your feet is merging into soft white sand.

You’re now at the entrance to the beach and you see before you soft drifts of sand that lead to a shimmering shoreline.

The shoreline goes on forever, and endless unfurling of the sea, blue upon blue.

You step onto the sand and walk towards the ocean.

The wind is dancing around you, cool and soothing. The breeze is whispering in your ear.

You feel almost weightless, as if you and the wind are one.

You walk towards the water and the sand become firm underfoot as you reach the shoreline.

You walk to the water’s edge and curl your toes in the wet sand.

The surf rolls over your feet and splashes against your legs.

As the cool water of the ocean, rolls over and past your legs, you feel incredibly connected to the earth.

You, the ocean, the earth, all are one.

The ocean seems to merge into the sky.

The skies are filled with golden light and the sun is warm on your skin

You feel as if the light is entering you and filling you.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, drawing in the light. The light is love and it’s filling you, warming you, cradling you.

You are filled with love and you feel yourself expand. You feel your love joining, merging, and expanding within the unconditional love of the Universal Spirit.

You feel love and loved.

You feel at peace.

Would you like to listen to the Beach Meditation?

[May 2 - May 4, 2007]

I didn’t have a care in the world.

Isn’t that the core of what a vacation should do?

Some may forget their cares in a carefully scheduled 10-countries-in-10 days tour of Europe.

Some may find hiking through a rainforest their escape.

Some may want to stay home and garden.

What it all comes down to is letting go.

For me, letting go is having no expectations and allowing life to unfold. I feel connected, at peace, stilled.

Laverne and Shirley had to work and all I had to do was hang out at their home.

I ran on the beach.

I played fetch with Nebe.

I wrote.

One afternoon, Shirley took me to her office in Malmesbury so I could see more of the area. I wrote in an empty office while she worked. It was quiet. I felt at peace.

On the way back home, she took a route through the town of Atlantis. The road through Atlantis was evocative as it sounds – a seemingly endless corridor of sun-gilded eucalyptus – a road only seen in dreams.

The scent in the air was more earthbound. Oddly familiar. It reminded me of cooking and I asked Shirley, “What is that smell? It’s like…burnt toast.”

Shirley sniffed delicately and thought about it a moment. “Oh. Bokomo has a Weet-Bix factory here.”

Breakfast cereal and beauty: Sustenance for the body, sustenance for the soul.

Runs on the beach.

Playing fetch with a dog.

Writing with passion.

Being aware of the beauty all around me.

Surrounded by love.

Sustenance for my soul.

I was saying “Yes” to life.

I’m saying Yes right now.

I have been going through a difficult time but I know that I will feel joy again. Each day I affirm all that is good in my life and I have been having more moments of peace.

Yesterday Laverne told me that a friend of hers had committed suicide. It’s sad to realize that the moody, angry and sensitive man I had met almost 10 years ago had too much pain to go on living.

If you’re in pain, believe in life, reach out and allow it to hold you. Reach out to others and ask to be held. We all need to be eased now and then.

I found it very nurturing to be able to help prepare our meals and it made me realize how much I used to enjoy cooking.

We’d sip our wine. I might be chopping onions (Shirley’s eyes tear up horribly), Laverne might be preparing the fire for the braai, Shirley might be stirring something on the stove – it was very homey and loving.

Nebe, the golden retriever, would mope around attempting to look like she’d just trekked across the Kalahari Desert in order to return home and was desperate for well, anything edible: Carrot top, cracker, wonder-of-wonders, piece of chicken.

Nebe worked hard on projecting an image of rib-showing starvation but none of us were falling for it. Jackie, the creaky, elderly terrier mix would watch Nebe’s starvation routine with distain.

One night, as we sipped our wine and pondered second helpings, our conversation turned to relationships and love. I know what you’re thinking: Get women together and all they want to do is discuss relationships!

Laverne said, “Speaking about marriage and love, do you still keep in contact with The Philosopher?”

I replied that while I hadn’t seen him in a while, we still exchanged emails.

The Philosopher is a friend and former co-worker. We began our friendship when we both went to South Africa on assignment, which led to my friendship with Laverne.

Laverne continues, “I really liked what he said to me one time. He was talking about his wife and how she worried about her weight and was always on some diet and losing and then gaining weight.”

She pauses. “I asked him if he liked it when she was fat or when she was thin.”

Shirley and I lean in to hear.

“He said that he likes it when she’s happy.”