This group meets on the 4th Friday of the month in the Oak Room at Parklands at 13:30.

The Temptation of Eve

by Sobhna Poona

Eve lives in the village of Eden. It basks in the sight, smells and decibels of spring. Flowers flirt with bursting colour and fragrances waft into the air. Eve enjoys the symphony of sounds as she picks delicate buds and fragrant herbs, and places them in her basket. Suddenly she hears a deep voice. “Hello Eve, my dear.” Eve spins around. There’s nobody there.

“Hello Eve,” the voice repeats. Eve moves towards the sound of the voice. Still, she sees no one. Then she hears a slithering sound. “SSSSSSS.” She looks up. There curled along a tree branch lies a snake with its head held high, its eyes darting from side to side. Eve is entranced. The snake smiles, its tongue licks the air in sensuous flicks as it eyes the low lying fruit. “Are you hungry Eve?” the snake asks.

Eve sees the apples that hang temptingly low from her neighbour’s tree, their rosy skins glisten in the sunlight. “Take one Eve. Take one my dear,” the snake repeats. Eve loves apples. She relishes the thought of spicy steamed apples and baked apple crumble. Her tummy gurgles. She is hungry. She quickly grabs the delicious treasure, stuffs it in her basket and hurries back indoors. She delights in the thought of having a delicious treat fresh from the garden.

Its dinner time so Eve concocts a new recipe as she prepares her pot. The water begins to bubble. Eve adds a dash of dark soy sauce, lots of fresh ginger, a pinch of black fungus, crushed star anise and finely chopped lemongrass. The aroma is enticing. She adds the sliced snake and stirs the pot. This recipe needs no apples.

THE END

******

Foiled Again

by Sobhna Poona

It was Xmas eve, and Farmer Jane was carefully folding something large in a sheet of aluminum foil. Her fingers twisted both ends of the parcel, sealing in the contents. Then she ran her palm over the top of the mound before placing the tray in the hot oven.  Outside the kitchen window, Tom, a robust turkey, pressed his beak against the windowpane.  He swallowed hard as he watched the scene unfold. Then pacing back and forth, his periscope head scanned the environment, alert to every colour and movement.  Several hens arrived with a few noisy poults in tow. “Shhhh,” Tom said, as he quietened the crowd. They were all burdened by the same terrifying question. Who was going to be plucked next?

Tom was the oldest gobbler on the farm and in his own words “had avoided being carved, sliced and drizzled with sauce, one too many times”. “Now, now...settle down,” he said, as the hens clucked and chirped. “We must not be confused with our distant and stupid cousins the domesticated turkey commonly found in freezers. We are smart, wild turkeys, birds of superior intelligence and unpredictability. If we use our heads, we can all get through this unscathed.”  The colour of Tom’s head changed from white to blue to red as his emotions intensified.

“Kee-kee, kee-kee!” chorused the hens as they peered through the window.

At that moment, Farmer Jane leaned towards the oven, lifted the tray with gloved hands and set it on a large trivet. The hens gasped as she slowly unfurled the tin foil, allowing steam to puff into the air. The foil wrapping shimmered and rustled then fell open, revealing heaps of baby potatoes, chunks of pumpkin and butternut, a smattering of colourful pimentos, sliced red onions, chopped purple carrots and plump zucchinis. Aromas of cinnamon, butter and herbs wafted across the yard.

 “Foiled again!” Tom sighed in relief. Then he fluffed up his feathers, flew into the air, circled the crowd and landed again on his powerful legs. He enjoyed the attention; strutting about, raising his beak and displaying his long snood for all the hens to admire. The hens purred and yelped, clamouring for Tom’s attention. 

What are we thankful for?” Tom shouted jubilantly, strutting and gobbling.

“Vegetarians!” The happy hens chirped in chorus. “Vegetarians!”

THE END

******

Railway Rani

By Sobhna Poona

The railway station rouses to a restless hum. Scores of platform dwellers pack up their shelters and queue for free tea and sandwiches at a kiosk adjacent to the tracks. A sign above the kiosk reads Rani’s Railway Kitchen. Two hours later, the bustling station is busier than usual. Crowds jostle along the bulging platforms, craning their necks in the direction of the incoming carriages. A special passenger is on board the nine am train. The locals call her Railway Rani, queen of the rail. Ranika looks out the first-class carriage window as the train chugs towards the city. The wheels clang, stirring her memories of

the first time she arrived in Durban, cold, wet and hungry.

She was only eleven years old when her alcoholic father sold her to a fifty-nine-year-old sailor. “It’s time for her to go,” he grunted, gulping a mouthful of cheap brandy. Her mother sobbed loudly as she packed Ranika’s belongings into a small suitcase. “What you wasting time for woman, let the girl do that herself. And what you doing with the uniform?”

“At least she can go to school until....” Her mother was bereft. She could not imagine her little girl sailing into the unknown with a stranger. Ranika remembers that tannic cold morning when she left home for school but didn’t board the school bus. Instead, she hopped on a train bound for Durban, a foreign place that had captured her imagination and stolen her youth. Her textured memory, in quotidian detail, folds her cardboard bed and stuffs her tattered blankets into a large potato sack, a ritual she mastered during the tough times living on the railway platform. She tilts her head backwards, thrusting her thoughts to the five days she spent in jail for shoplifting, and the one night in detention for stealing two loaves of bread from the delivery truck. She chuckles as she remembers kicking the angry driver when he tried to apprehend her. She ran fast and had gobbled almost half the loaf before he caught her.

As the train rolls in towards the station, it passes the red shed. It’s weathered but still sturdy after so many decades. “It must have been repaired many times,” Ranika smiles. “Broken and fixed, just like me. It just needed a little TLC to survive the storms.” Her eyes tear up as her memories crawl into a foetal darkness. She was cloaked in shame when the railway master found her hiding in that shed, battered, bruised and traumatised. He carried Ranika home to his wife where she found kindness and care. The childless couple were the best parents any child could ever want, and Ranika grew to love them, calling them aunty and uncle. She returned to school and went on to university, graduating with a Phd in social science. But Ranika did not forget the communities who lived on the periphery of a society that shunned them.

Ranika held dear the memories of kindness that had transformed her life. She dedicated her free time to the runaways and destitute, earning the name Railway Rani. Many people still recalled the winter’s morning, when a solitary figure in a sari appeared like an angel on the railway platform. “Railway Rani is here,” a voice whispered.

“Did she bring food and blankets?” another asked, unwrapping themselves from the plastic covers.

“And roti and milk,” an old voice murmured, as more bodies tumbled out of their makeshift beds. And so, the legend of Railway Rani spread across the city, and a permanent food kiosk providing hot meals was soon set up. She also established two permanent shelters where learning and teaching thrived, creating artists and poets whose voices were previously denied.  As the years passed, she watched runaways grow into homeless adults and adults grow old, get sick and die in their cardboard cribs.

The train slows down as it pulls into the station. Ranika imbibes the sumptuous sights and smells of celebration as her eyes meet the sea of smiles along the festooned platform. The mayor stands under a large board that reads: “Happy Birthday Ranika - 83 today”. The mayor will honour her with a key to the city. Ranika’s heart is light, with gratitude for a life well lived, and forgiveness for her mother and father.

THE END

******

Lindiwe’s Story

By Sobhna Poona

Lindiwe shuffled along the queue, pulling her cabin luggage to the boarding gate. The looming overhead screen flashed. Her flight was going to be delayed by two hours. She exited the queue and nudged her tired body into the closest seat. It was cold, hard, and uncomfortable. The whirr of voices made her head spin, dragging her anxious mind to places she didn’t want to go. She breathed in deeply and exhaled, her thoughts pushing into her past, meandering to the farm where she grew up.

Those were happy times. They were poor. Her parents struggled to feed two children, her, and her twin sister, but they were happy. Things changed after her sister’s funeral, and the day she would never forget. The day she and her sister were playing hide and seek near the dam. She had searched for her sister, finally giving up, shouting, and giggling, “you win, you win, I give up”.  But there was no reply. “C’mon. Come out. Show yourself.  I give up.” She began shouting, then screaming for her sister, calling out her name.

A blur of faces quickly gathered at the dam.  Her sister’s body was found in the water. Lindiwe collapsed in her mother’s arms. Her father said she was reckless, irresponsible. She should have looked after her sister, his favourite of the two. Then her mother fell ill and died suddenly. Her father blamed Lindiwe for all the tragedy. He grieved, spoke less and less and soon the house sank into silence.  Twelve-year-old Lindiwe was shunted to relatives and later bundled onto a bus bound for Durban.

The bustling station frightened her. Lindiwe had never been to the city or seen so many people in one place. The cacophony overwhelmed her. It all seemed like a bad dream. She waited for hours, but nobody came to collect her. Tired and hungry, she dozed off behind the bus shelter. That was the night her life changed forever. A night she had plunged in the void of her subconsciousness. Now the memories rose like a sickening fog – dark, hazy, terrifying. The tears swelled her eyes.

A voice blared over the loudspeakers. “Flight SA 104 to East London now boarding at gate 8.” Lindiwe wiped her eyes. Her trembling hand grabbed her suitcase, and she slowly walked towards the boarding gate.

By the time Lindiwe arrived at the farm, daylight was dipping, and the sky, boasting hues of pink and purple, reminded her of halcyon days. She stood at the crumbling gate for a long time, closing her eyes, inhaling the scents and sounds, searching for familiarity. It all looked different, yet it all felt familiar. The trees were taller, the smells less intense, but it was so much quieter than she remembered. The gate creaked lazily as the polished wheels of her suitcase grazed the parched earth. Lindiwe stopped at the front door. Her father had fixed the old shack. It stood strong, a brick-and-mortar home she did not recognise but admired.

She left her bags at the door and followed the sound of music to the back yard. An old transistor radio, balanced on a rotting tree stump, belted out old jazz tunes. Suddenly she saw an image of her parents dancing across the jazz filled yard, their feet raising dust as they crooned and laughed together. Happier days, she thought as she turned down the volume.

Then she saw him, a frail figure kneeling in the vegetable patch, his one hand tugging at a stubborn weed. She edged closer. “Hello Papa,” she said, not sure if they were her thoughts or words spoken out loud. The man did not move. Suddenly a dog came running towards him, licked his face and then turned towards Lindiwe with a friendly bark. The man grabbed a gnarled stick and rose slowly to his feet, squinting as he turned to face her. She moved closer towards him, searching his wrinkled face for any signs of recognition, hope, maybe even love. But he just stared blankly at her. He did not know who she was.

Lindiwe felt the lump tighten in her throat. Any words she may have had suddenly slipped under the weight of thirty lost years and disappeared into an abyss of tangled emotion. So, it was true what her cousin had said in the email. Her father was demented and going deaf. Nonetheless, she had decided to come home, perhaps to see for herself or perhaps to find forgiveness, peace, maybe even rekindle the bonds that had frayed over so many tumultuous years. But the painful truth hung restlessly between them, father, and daughter so close yet so distanced by time, space, and memory. And as the sky wrapped the last glimmer of light, Lindiwe rushed towards her father, threw her arms around his bony shoulders, held him tightly and cried.

THE END

******

Fowl Play

by Sobhna Poona

 Aunty Gugu laughs as she tells her story. Her cheeks bulge into a mischievous smile and her eyes widen and dance like a happy child. We sit around a comforting fire. It crackles and bursts with a splintering light as the logs tumble and crumble under the pot, balanced over an improvised cooking pit. “Eish! I will neva try that one again,” Aunty Gugu giggles, shaking her head as she lifts the heavy lid off the three legged cooking pot.

“Ooh!” we exclaim in chorus, leaning in to anticipate the rest of her story.

I poke my nose closer to the bubbling pot. The aromas make my tummy gurgle. “So Aunty, tell us what happened.”

“Hai! You know that Chakalaka Chauke? Ya. He promised to keep me two nkuku for Christmas. Only two chickens, I ask for. But when I get to his spaza shop...  Ha! ...the fridge... it’s empty! So I say, hey Chauke, Iphi  nkuku? Where’s my two chickens? He babbles something. Says he sold out early in the morning. I know he sold to his cash customers. Didn’t want to sell to me on credit. Hai! I was so angry, and he knew it.”

Aunty Gugu places the lid back on the pot. The herbs and spices invigorate the air. My mouth waters. I can’t wait to tuck into that chicken. I lick my lips then sip on the liquid in my glass. “Well,” Aunty Gugu continues. On my way home I passed Mr Peri-Peri Pakistani’s shop. There were many people queuing in the shop. So I went in and rushed to the fridges at the back. And that’s when I saw Rosy. She was carrying four beeg chickens in a see-through plastic bag. Molo Rosy, I shouted. Everybody was cackling and pushing and shoving, so I don’t even know if she heard me. Hey! Then I saw it. The last one! Only one chicken was left thawing in the fridge. And it was a beeg one too. Hey! I wished for some Christmas magic to happen. But... Nothing! So...I made my own magic. I leaned forward, grabbed the wet bag and... Abracadabra, I shoved it under my blouse. Then I wriggled, adjusted the belt on my skirt and nestled the wet bird.” Aunty Gugu pauses. She pokes at the flames. The heat reflects in her eyes. We laugh, enthralled by her animated story telling.

“And then what?” I ask impatiently.

“I looked around the busy shop, picked up a small juice and made my way to the till. The queue was long and the chicken was cold and wet. I was almost at the till when I suddenly felt the chicken slipping down my skirt. I pressed my arms against my belly to hold it in place. And then ...” Aunty Gugu pauses, takes a breath and continues. “I felt water dripping down my legs. Seconds passed. Then a voice shouts.  ‘Her water broke. Call an ambulance’. I started to sweat. The shop started to spin, and then, I fainted.”

The fire crackles loudly as we sit in silence. “The next thing I remember, I’m in an ambulance. Whee whah! whee whaa! The siren was so loud, my head hurt. Then I hear a soft voice. ‘How you feeling Aunty Gugu?’ Sjoe! What a surprise! It’s Aggie, Rosy’s daughter. She’s a paramedic. Aggie! I exclaim, my hands immediately searching over my belly.

‘Sshh!’ Aggie puts her finger over her lips, leans forward and whispers into my ear. ‘No baby Aunty, but the chicken? It’s very healthy. She was cold, so I wrapped her in a blanket.’ Then she places the bundle in my arms. ‘Merry Christmas Aunty,’ she says with a soft chuckle and kisses me on my cheek.

When we arrived at the hospital, Agnes put me in a taxi with my bundle safely in my arms. And here she is.” Aunty Gugu chortles loudly, pointing to the pot in a dramatic gesture. She lifts the lid, releasing a zest of aromatic spices. Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.  All thoughts of enjoying THAT chicken have disappeared.

THE END

******

The Housewives’ Tale

By Noreen Burton

Sunlight streams in through the open patio doors, flooding the dining room with early summer light. A tall flower arrangement sits on the sideboard, and a huge artwork dominates the wall above a white leather sofa. The view from the room is magnificent, a 270-degree vista over Knysna, the lagoon, and Featherbed Nature Reserve. This is, undoubtedly, one of the most magnificent homes on The Heads.

A large yellowwood dining table dominates the centre of the room. On display is fresh fruit salad and a platter of finely sliced smoked salmon with silver dishes of capers and hollandaise sauce. Cut-glass flutes fizz with French champagne and the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee wraps the scene in enticing perfection.

It’s Monica’s turn to host the neighbouring housewives, and she's decked out in the latest fashion. Monica surveys the room, turns on the music, filling the room with soft African sounds. Perfect!

The ladies arrive together, each beautifully dressed, bejewelled, and coiffed. Phindiwe enters first, wearing an outfit a size too small. She will never admit she has a weight problem. “Hello, Darling,” she oozes, extending a beautifully manicured hand. Then sweeping her eyes around the room, continues, “This looks and smells divine, Darling.”

Jane and Sophie enter together. Plump Sophie is dressed in a traditional outfit that, judging by the intricate beadwork, must have cost a fortune. She is wearing long hair, obviously a real hair wig. Jane, on the other hand, thin as a rake, has chosen a sleek designer suit in bold black and white checks, with a matching turban extending her diminutive stature by some 20cms. Her fleshy red lips stand out like a blob of blood against her pale make up. “Welcome. Please help yourselves to champagne,” gushes Monica.

Charlotte, tottering in on the highest heels Monica has seen on a woman of Charlotte’s size and age, gives Monica a hug, nearly asphyxiating her with expensive perfume. “Do you mind if I remove these?” she says, pointing to her shoes, “They are killing me!”

“Please do… and help yourself to champagne.”  Charlotte smiles her thanks, flashing her overly long eyelashes.

Last, but obviously intending to make a grande entrée, comes Flora, draped in masses of green chiffon, floating into the room like a large seaweed. “Let’s get started, darlings.” she announces, ever being the bossy-brooks of the group. Monica leads her guests to the table and the feasting begins. 

“Darling, this salmon is divine,” gushes Sophie as she rolls a large mouthful around her mouth as though to extract the last molecule of umami. Conversation grows more animated as the champagne takes effect. 

Flora taps her glass. “Ladies,” she begins, “Have you heard that the husband in Number 8 was caught in bed with the wife from Number 6?” They all gasp, quietly suspecting something was going on.

“That’s my glass.” Phindiwe says loudly, removing her full glass from Jane’s hand. 

“Hai, that was a mistake,” giggles Jane, grabbing her empty glass. Jane is known to enjoy a tipple in the morning. 

With appetites satiated, there is a lull in the conversation. Flora taps her glass. “Ladies, let’s thank Monica for a splendid party, and let’s drink a toast to ‘The Real Housewives of Knysna Heads’. The ladies laugh at the reference to the TV show and raise their glasses. “To the real housewives of Knysna Heads”.

At that precise moment Julia Langdon-Botha walks in and is shocked to find the maids from the cul-de-sac sitting at her breakfast table. “Monica! What is going on? Good god, you’re wearing my clothes!”

Monica bursts into tears as the maids hastily depart in their borrowed madams’ outfits. “Oh, Madam,” Monica says. “You go out every Tuesday morning until lunch. We couldn’t resist the temptation to enjoy some of your lifestyle.” 

The Hike 

by Nookie Middleton 

The hike was uneventful until after summiting Mount Elbrus. On our descent, the weather changed in minutes as it was wont to do on any mountain, but especially on this one. I thought I would be blown off the top. The temperature dropped to minus 5 degrees and the sky turned from a pleasant blue to a thunderous black in moments. We picked up our pace and scurried down, all tied together by rope, slipping on the icy surface and then falling into deep snow. 

I doubt I have ever been so cold and wet and exhausted. Despite four pairs of socks and wearing two pairs of hiking boots, my feet felt like blocks of ice.  

At last, we saw the barrels. Yes, we stayed in large barrels, eight people to a barrel and ten barrels in total.  Our base camp!  

We fell down in gratitude and thankful prayer. By the grace of God, we had survived. Forty-four people on average die on this mountain each year so we had every reason to be grateful. 

oooOooo

The Accident 

by Noreen Burton

The loud, frantic banging on the front door woke Angie with a start. Bewildered, heart racing, she looked at her phone. It was seven minutes past midnight. She must have fallen asleep. Angie was married to the love of her life, Pat. They were a fun-loving, sociable couple with plenty of friends.  They had been married for just over a year and were really enjoying each other’s company. Pat was a teaser and Angie almost always fell for the trick. As she grew to know him better, she learned to give as good as she got and so their marriage was always fun. Angie was deliriously happy. 

On this evening Pat was to attend the AGM of the society to which he belonged. He was sure that he was going to be elected as chairperson for the upcoming year. Angie was excited for him so instead of going to bed she had come downstairs after her shower to wait for his return. He should be home around 9pm, although he had intimated that, if he was elected, he and the guys might go out for a celebratory drink after the meeting. So, Angie had snuggled up in her favourite armchair to watch the news and a documentary. 

She tightened her dressing gown around her and slipping on her slippers, she stumbled to the front door.  Looking through the spyhole she saw two police officers, a man and a woman. Angie felt her blood run cold and fear gripped her heart as she opened the door. 

“Good evening, ma’am. Is your husband home?” 

“No,” replied Angie, hugging her dressing gown to her body as though it was a shield to protect her from what she knew must be coming. “I was expecting him around nine. I fell asleep in front of the TV waiting for him.” 

“Then I think you had better let us come in, Ma’am,” said the policewoman. There has been an accident.” 

Angie stepped aside and followed the officers into the lounge. She switched off the TV and slumped down on the edge of her chair waiting for the dreaded news. The police woman explained that while on patrol, they had come across a man under attack in a street. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a man’s watch. 

“Do you recognise this watch?” 

“Yes, it’s Pat’s.” 

“Your husband is okay,” said the policewoman, kindly.  “He is being attended to at Casualty.”  

Just then there was the sound of a key in the front door, and a few seconds later Pat walked in grinning like a Cheshire cat. “April Fool, darling!” Angie stared at him blankly. “It’s April the 1st. I got you good, didn’t I?” 

“It’s not funny, Pat. I got a terrible scare.”  

But then she thought about it. She had been expecting an April Fool’s prank from Pat, and she had fallen for an obvious trick. Police officers don’t normally come to tell the wife that her husband is in Casualty. She should have guessed. But who would, when they had been woken from a sleep? 

Pat explained that he had been elected Chairperson and he and some friends had gone to a pub to celebrate. There they had met up with other friends (the two police officers) and so the prank had been planned. These friends were actors and had borrowed the uniforms from the theatre where they were currently employed.  

Everyone enjoyed a good laugh over a late-night, or rather early morning whiskey. Angie asked if she could take some photos and they parted on good terms. Pat and Angie finally retired to bed, but Angie couldn’t sleep. 

The next morning the two actors were rudely awoken by two police officers and arrested for impersonating a police officer. They were taken to the police station and\ interviewed. They told their story to the detective who sent officers to arrest Pat and all three were remanded in custody. Pat used his phone call to phone Angie who hurried to the police station. 

Accompanied by the detective and the two arresting officers she visited the three friends in the cells. “April Fool, darling! Some of us have friends who are real police officers.” It was seven minutes to noon. 

oooOooo

One Day in Provence 

by Denise Fielding 

One day in Provence I asked a question of a young woman. Her unwavering response as she alighted from the bus we had travelled on as far as The Vieux Port, Marseille – the year, 1993 – was, “I am a Musselman”.  

I felt embarrassed by my question! With heart swelling, suffused in anguished knowledge of our conflicting histories, I, in that moment, reached out and said, “Please may I take you to tea if you will not accept money for your kindness.” She smiled and agreed. 

Marseille was an unknown place to me. She walked with me until I found what I was looking for - a lovely French non touristy restaurant. The room was tastefully decorated; waiters, waitresses, impeccably dressed in black with white aprons and head coverings; tables well laid, white linen cloths and napkins, silver and glass, bone China tea plates and cups. My little khaki skin-toned guest whose name I did not yet know, held back. I realised her hesitation could have been uncertainty about her reception. I had unwittingly taken her into an unaccustomed experience.  Although we did not have a booking we were shown to a delightful table. We ordered tea, coffee and gateaux.  Her appreciation was sincere. She was on her way to work and I would still have time to catch a ferry.  

I heard her story delivered quietly in broken English - acquired because her sister had made a home in London and often visited. She said that for ten years she had lived and worked in Marseille. In what capacity I do not know. And in passing, almost lightly, she told me that she had been a refugee from war torn Lebanon.  She sighed and cast her lids down over warm brown eyes, glittering a little now as she looked deeply within, to the place of her own privacy. How did two strangers from widely disparate backgrounds come to sit so happily and communicate effectively through her tentatively offered phrases in my language? It was due to an act of unprecedented kindness extended toward me by this other foreigner. 

Earlier on that sizzling day, I clambered aboard a long-awaited bus at the Port du Prophète. Without map or knowledge of Marseille, its surroundings or distances, I, with great insouciance, had set out from my accommodation. My intention was to link up with a bus route and catch one that would drop me off at the Vieux Port. There I would board a ferry bound for the ile d’if.  Little did I realise how great the distance my accommodation was from a bus route. I walked a few blocks, and continued along the curve of that wonderful bay. Then I walked and walked and … The sun was high and ablaze. It was hot, very hot. Eventually, at the end of the bay, near a rocky outcrop above a small inlet, I found shade offered by a bus shelter. I plonked down to wait and wait and … wonder whether the ferry ride would happen that day!  

Relief surged as a bus arrived. I hurriedly scuttled aboard on tired feet and handed a franc note to the driver. He immediately gave me a firm rebuff and with a wave of his hand toward the exit made his meaning perfectly clear. I tried again. He seemed exasperated. I understood nothing he said. The bus was full. Everyone stared at me, aware of his problem but it was totally incomprehensible to me. He gesticulated with great firmness. I must get off. I was horrified. There was no sign of a shop or public phone in sight! I had not anticipated being in desperate need of water either. In absolute shock I stood rooted to the spot. We locked eyes. Getting off was unthinkable but he insisted, waving me away. It began to occur to me he was either unwilling or unable to give me change!  

A stir of impatience from among the passengers further raised his temperature. Then a movement happened at the rear of the bus. A small female figure dislodged herself and walked forward. She handed the driver a coin. He accepted it and drove on. I lurched into the nearest seat, turning to see the little person who, without a word, paid my fare, then re-seated herself. Everyone else seemed hunched down, completely silenced. 

We arrived at the Vieux Port. I disembarked quickly and waited for my rescuer to give her the franc note and express my gratitude. She refused to accept it. I said, “Well please let me get change”. Again, she shook her head. Feeling helpless but realising she understood English, I blurted out, “That was a wonderfully kind thing you did for me. Are you a Christian?” 

I have already told her answer. 

Decades passed. When in Dublin again one year, I was invited by someone prominent from The Church of Ireland to attend a Conference at Trinity College. A group of academics, all of international repute, were due in the next few days to read papers on subjects of interest to me. It was an unexpected privilege! An opportunity to listen to specialists, including recent archaeological finds at a Roman town built about four miles from Nazareth, with dating indicating a very pertinent period which could change much previous presumption. Of course, I accepted.  

But on reflection, the reason I think I was really there was to notice the approach of a couple dressed very differently from everyone else. A man and woman, two Musselmans, who seemed caught in cross currents of embarrassment as they looked towards those already gathered in groups. All in the reception area appeared to be “western”. As they reached the top step, they paused, looking uncertain if not ill at ease. It was my privilege, being closest at hand, to first reach out in welcome.  

On the coach that evening, among invited guests and delegates going to a social function, the wife of this (as I later was told) very prestigious man I had greeted in welcome, moved from her allotted seat to sit beside me.  She then, rather unexpectedly, confided a recurring dream she’d experienced. She stressed it was a repeated experience. I was amazed. It held an answer so simple. An answer, if acted upon by those identified, could alter much in our divided world! 

I was glad I had not forgotten the lesson learned in 1993 from a young Musselman at the Port du Prophète bus-stop in Provence. Our rooms in life have no ceilings if we are willing to see there is no ceiling. A lesson often forgotten but taught in the parable of the Good Samaritan as I had been reminded by the action in 1993 of that kindly refugee lady from war torn Lebanon. 

oooOooo

Summit Walk 

by Nookie Middleton 

It was minus 25 degrees and pitch dark, but when the wake-up call came at one am there were no moans or groans. Instantly awake and ready, we jumped up. This was the climax to three years of planning, training, disappointment and now, finally, the summit attempt.  The team: Thomas Alexander, Cape Town, Matthew Boucher, Namibia, uncle to Shawn, Ronald Bergh, Cape Town, father to Shawn, Shawn Berg, Cape town, Hillary Horne, Cape Town, Fredeline (Freddy) Hartnick, Cape town and friend of Hillary, Clinton Parker, Brechta Kopke, Angela Labuschagne, and myself, Nookie Middleton, East London. We had all grown close during our journey and many days of training on the mountain.  Mount Elbrus is the highest mountain in Russia, at 5642m. It is one of the seven summits – that is, the highest mountain on each of the seven continents.  Today we would attempt to summit this giant.  

We began our climb at three am. The only light was the light from one’s headlamp, a small glow in the stygian blackness. We had two extra guides in addition to our main guide, Vladimir. It was pitch dark and freezing cold as we began. As the sun rose in the sky, the world changed and became wonderfully beautiful as the sun painted the snow and ice and the mountain tops with red, orange and gold. Sometimes we zig-zagged and sometimes, on the narrow ledges, we put one foot in front of the other, or we walked with feet splayed out like ducks. Slowly, slowly, slowly. At this altitude, you go at snail’s pace. Sometimes you feel as if you cannot take another step. Your breath seems to cut into your lungs like a knife, but you keep on going, even when some of the team turn back.  

We kept strictly behind Vladimir. No one wanted to fall into a crevasse. The majestic mountains all around us seemed to hold us in their wonder and power. 

After the Pastukhova Rocks came the Diagonal.  Valdimir had warned us that this would seem to be never-ending and he was not wrong. When it seemed that I could not take another step, we reached the Saddle and had a short break before we began the ascent to the summit. It looked tantalizingly closely but took another two hours that seemed endless. The mountain reduced to a narrow peak, with hardly enough room for all of us. Although bitterly cold, nothing seemed to matter. We had reached the summit. All the exhaustion, the agony, the cold – nothing could stop the euphoria we felt. It is difficult to describe the emotion you feel when you get to the top of one of these awesome giants. The views are unimaginable. You are in love with everyone and everything. You feel as light and as free as a bird. You hug and hug everyone. You can’t stop grinning.  

It was too cold to stay for long. Suddenly, as happens on these mountains, the weather rapidly changed.  Ominous clouds started rolling in at incredible speed as we began our descent. Because of the weather, our descent was even more difficult than the ascent as is often the case. 

And so, we come to the end of this mountain walk. The beauty of these mountains blows you away. The silence, the starkness and their antiquity overwhelm you. We never conquer mountains. I feel very privileged to have been able to have done this. 

Espionage at Dinner 

by Linda Smith 

It was so small, certainly no bigger than a single tomato seed. Who would notice it? What would it mean to a layman, even if he saw it? There were only three of us involved in the project and even we were relatively uninformed of the overall design and functionality of the product, having, as we did, different areas of expertise: microelectronics, chemistry and immunology. What we lacked, and I say this with hindsight, was a minister of religion, or perhaps a philosopher with a bent for ethics. 

Now, I know this will sound like something from the pen of Ian Fleming (and it would be straining things even for him), but what we had designed was a micro-, no, nano spy chip with a threefold purpose: recording information, administering a miniscule but lethal dose of a neurotoxin and protecting the wearer in the case of similar exposure. One must always anticipate that the enemy may be developing a similar product and may be just that smidgeon faster than we in succeeding. 

There were, of course, several criteria besides size that had to be met, the most important being that the device be permanently attached to the subject. That was where the comparison to the size of a tomato seed came in handy. “How about making it look like a tomato seed?”  suggested Leonardo, one of my younger colleagues.  “We know from our information files that the subject is a bit of a health freak – regular exercise, careful diet and all that, has to have fresh salad with every meal. How about a special tomato seed in his salad at the embassy dinner? If one of our biologists can design a way to keep the device in his stomach rather than passing through the digestive tract we could have a lifelong source of information.” 

After several months of working on protecting the device from gastric enzymes and devising a screening function to allow only vocal sounds to be transmitted to our receiving equipment – you have no idea how loud a “tummy rumble” is when heard close up – our “seed” was finally ready for deployment. 

The embassy dinner was, as always, a quietly lavish affair: one wants to impress without appearing to do so.  Our cutlery was, of course, carefully tailored to prevent any item from being used as a weapon: no pointed tips to knives, fork tines not too sharp, et cetera, and that practice proved to be the downfall of our project. As General Tretyakov attempted to spear his “baby tomato” with his slightly blunted salad fork, the harder-than tomato edge of the device skidded away off his plate, over the table edge and onto the floor, just in the path of our solidly-built waiter. Only a lifetime of discipline kept us blandly smiling as two years of development and millions in funding crunched quietly in our ears. 

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