Find the Pearl

Better late than never has rather become the theme for these posts. And so I shall now delve into my memory and revisit places thousands of miles away…

Before crossing the channel I inevitably had several pit stops that took me all over England. The first was to my Great Aunt (capitalised for it is deserved- anyone who can fill seven rolls of film forever engenders my respect!) to meet Peggy (reigniting my plight to persuade my parents to get a dog) and acquaint myself properly with my heritage. There is something so reaffirming about your own identity when you learn of those who have come before you. I also indulged in the watching of Upstairs/Downstairs (I will admit that I almost become hooked to any storyline, but this one hooked me such that several subsequent days were spent on Wikipedia discovering the fates of the characters after the Great War!). To Great Aunt Jude thank you so much for welcoming into your home, the community you have is truly enviable and I’m such the council is all the better for your appointment!

My next stop was to visit some old compatriots of old 1066 country! Brighton was also on the cards and this town certainly made its mark on my memory. Rather a colourful and Bohemian centre Brighton boasts old records and classic posters of the 1950s and 1960s and encourages the unique, the obscure and fun-loving. Brighton’s populace is definitely an interesting bunch (interesting perhaps is not the best adjective to describe the rather forward stranger who made a move for my hot chips before my eyes glared in his direction!). Thanks to my Hastings friends because nowhere else in the country could I have bobotie that good!

I journeyed northwards to visit a special little boy who was turning five… Katka and Andrew thank you so much for that day, it truly was so special seeing all the children and finally having another special family occasion immortalised in my memory (for living on the other side of the world there aren’t many opportunities for them). My apologies however for first of all the atrocious icing of those cupcakes (I think I managed to get more icing on my fingers than on the cupcakes!) and the wandering rocket (that I may have directed to wander a little off course).

Again heading northwards the trains led me to Stamford and the home of my godmother and her family. Relaxation trying new things was the name of the game and thus I went to my first yoga session. Therapeutic is all I can say! We also managed to grace the halls of Burghley House, that great tribute to the long forgotten British estate. It was also a place of interest to me having been the location of films including Pride and Prejudice (2005), The Da Vinci Code (2006) and Elizabeth: The Golden Age (2007). Such was my anticipation that it made it all the more anticlimactic to find the current film on location was a Bollywood film. Clearly I cannot escape India! Thank you to my dear Godmother for expanding my comfort, welcoming me so wholeheartedly and opening my eyes to the wide world of workplace psychology!

A long train trip ensued back to Dorset where I spent the next few days with my dear grandparents indulging in Frasier and fish and chips! Dear Gran and Paps, I cannot say how much the time we spent together meant to me and I can only hope that the memory of it will suffice till we meet again soon!

But alas my time in the UK had to come to an end when I met April and headed across the channel to “the Continent”…

For two weeks our trip was to be divided between France and Italy with four stops: Argentan in Normandy, Paris, Manarola (Cinque Terre) and Rome.

ARGENTAN: After braving the seas of the channel via ferry (strangely despite it being one of the smoothest crossings I’ve ever made, nausea always seemed on the brink) we arrived in Caen and met Sylvette, perhaps one of the most generous friends my grandparents have ever made. In the course of our two whole days in Normandy we managed to swing by Mont St. Michel, Domfront, Bagnoles de l’Orne, La Ferté-Macé, Bayeux, Honfleur and Deauville. Each of these places held some special fascination for me whether it was the stunning location of Mont St. Michel, the characteristically medieval Domfront, Sylvette’s personal connection to La Ferté-Macé, my grandparents’ fancy of Bagnoles de l’Orne, the pouring rain and glorious chapels overlooking Honfleur, the queue and tapestry of Bayeux (as well as its odd butchery restaurant) and naturally the glamour of Deauville. My dear Paps has bequeathed to me a love of war history and such does Normandy almost become the epicentre of this love. Intertwined with the beautiful, sunflower-bedecked countryside, Normandy offers the unparalleled patisserie, whiffs of history that are simply undeniable and people whose generosity simply cannot be comprehended. (Cuisine highlight: the meal at Mont St. Michel, lamb that literally melted with tenderness, cidre de Normandie and tarte aux pommes- heavenly…!)

PARIS: Our trip to Paris was rather opportune such that it began a day before the renowned Bastille Day. Thus was the colour set for the rest of our Parisian sojourn. Bastille Day itself was hectic to say the least as the entire city converged on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Being the lover of planes that I am, the display of France’s air force was rather spectacular- somehow I don’t think that the RAAF could quite keep up. It was rather surreal to see for hours after the main parade random military vehicles heading in different directions, with their waving personnel particularly pleased to accommodate their adoring fans. I would be the first to admit that I am a pacifist but I cannot help but feel that trying to integrate the military for one day in the calendar with a nation’s public is perhaps one of the best PR techniques I’ve ever seen. Children were continuously clambering up to sit in the turret of tanks, hold a real machine gun or simply smile next to a ‘real life’ soldier. We continued our epic day on to the fair held at the Tuileries Garden. This was an especially informative visit as I finally learned the delectable taste and origin of the famed ‘churro’. Though the day was truly capped off by the fireworks display at the Eiffel Tower, which was well within our sight from our awesome and generous host’s apartment.

Any Parisian adventure would be incomplete however without the necessary cultural stops to the dozens of museums dotted throughout the city. Our first stop on the Museum Express was Musée National du Moyen Âge  with its claim to fame being their exhibit of tapestries depicting the Lady and the Unicorn. Remnants of these dark years came into stark contrast when we continued on to the sunlit Luxembourg Gardens. The flowers seemed to beg for a picture to be taken to immortalise their vibrant colour. And of course the obligatory baguette was at hand to truly mark the ‘tourist’ experience. Musée d’Orsay rounded off our only-too-short visit to the museums. I found it quite surreal to be viewing paintings by the great impressionists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. I was flabbergasted at viewing Van Gogh, staggered that I was actually looking at a genuine Monet or Manet, Degas, Renoir, Gauguin or Cézanne. Our last day in Paris was coloured by a trip to the notorious Catacombs. We were rather determined to see the remains of cemeteries of Paris as evident by the fact that we waited two hours in the rain with South Africans, Russians and other tourists. Experiences like that always seem to bring a smile to my face as they signify the shared traveller experience as we each bet when the next person would give up the wait in favour of a warm meal and dry assurance of a ceiling.

Alas then our sojourn came to an end as we then endeavoured to continue our journey on the overnight train to Milan, arriving at the civilised hour of 5am.

MANAROLA: Manarola is the fourth town part of Cinque Terre, the renowned holiday towns on the Italian Riviera. Perhaps after the hectic couple of days in Paris our lackadaisical time in Manarola seemed to balance the scales. From being woken up in the mornings by the clanging church bells next door, the experience of adjusting to whims of a small Italian town seemed inherent in our time there. From lazing on the beach in Monterosso to hiking between the towns to eating gelato upwards of three times a day, becoming in tune with nature and our appetites was the order of the day while in Manarola. These towns being a hotspot for tourists the globe over led to us meeting several other travellers from our hostel and roundabouts, from the two Americans living the European lifestyle, to the Malaysian student studying dentistry in Cork to two eager hiking Germans to a Canadian family, generous enough to try and save us from a hundred euro fine for not validating our train tickets. Once again our interconnectedness became apparent despite us harking from such diverse backgrounds. (Cuisine highlights: the mozzarella served at our hostel- oh so scrumptious, the sighting of Milka Chocolate-inspired Philadelphia Cream Cheese, right and proper Paninis and traditional Tirimisu)

ROME: For the first time in my life the classic cliché became a reality for I was really in Roma. This is one of the only cities that I’ve ever been to that a traveller can simply spend hours walking around being entranced by the happenings around them (the other city being Jaipur). The colours, the architecture, the shop fronts, the buskers who sometimes delve into space art, the numerous stalls with clothes and Vatican memorabilia run by, as we found out, very friendly Bangladeshis. I’m finding it rather difficult to write this because every other sentence that comes to mind seems to be a quote from a film or the classic clichés. I find it quite interesting now looking back on our walking tours that took us to Piazza del Republica, the Trevi Fountain, Piazza Popolo, Piazza Navona, the Colosseum and the Palatine, and the Spanish Steps, as since our July trip so many of these sites have been desecrated by passing tourists (my belief in the Rome police force is seriously waning after watching this video: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-14783744). One of the incredible bargains we managed to rat out of this city was their value for money breakfasts- when we handed over €1.50, we were rewarded with a generously-sized cappuccino and a pastry, baked that very morning- if that isn’t efficient budgeting, I don’t know what is. The ultimate test of my integrity came when I discovered to my delight that I passed the ultimate lie detector, forget the technology of crime investigation units, La Bocca della Verità is my preferred choice of jury. Despite Rome’s various claims to fame however, the highlight of my trip surprised perhaps even myself. It was indeed the Ferrari store…what have I become. No, I only joke with you, but I am nearly certain that this would have been the response of my dear beloved brother. My highlight (perhaps the best indicator of our vast differences) was the Shelley and Keats museum which hides just to the right of the Spanish Steps. Once again the experience was additionally brightened by the fact that I left the museum with a bulging bag full of quills and poetry and all good things!

Unfortunately my gallivanting was destined to come to end at this point in the trip and so now a dedication to April- you are a lifesaver (in more ways than one), you brought smiles and perseverance up hills and Irish accents and insistence on scaling dark tunnels to discover the ultimate in the beach experience and incredible tolerance to toxic mustard and because of these things you created for me a trip that I am not to forget any time soon, a trip that cemented our friendship like nothing else.

Journey’s End…

My journey concluded on 31st of July this year and perhaps as it has taken me this long for that fact to truly penetrate my mind, I find it so odd to be writing this. I’ve had a spider web of experiences filled with the unexpected that ultimately have crowded my memory bank with joy. I would be lying if I said that I’ve come back with insightful truths of our existence or any revelations that my very being has been rejuvenated by the experience, but more than anything for the first time I’ve been able to explore with the added label of being an independent traveller. I could rage on for hours about the details I’ve skimmed over in this blog (even now, two months after my trip ended, Dad commented to me, “You didn’t tell me that before, I’m sure there’s more that I’m missing”- well, perhaps that is the way it should be!) but I’ve got my own memories that no one else can claim their own, experiences with people that astound me beyond belief. But that is perhaps is the best thing about travel, being surprised by others, places and perhaps more significantly by yourself.

Thank you and good night…

Meg

Just a quick note from me this post. Our farewells for my Great, Great Aunt Jo yesterday heralded too, the end of an era. The last of her generation, she symbolised a generation now long forgotten but always cherished through history. A female trooper, a woman who simultaneously defined and defied the archetypal woman of the period, Jo often went where no one would dare. For that spirit and blunt attitude that often reduced me to a silent entity when I was younger, I am thankful. For I hope in my lifetime, if for nothing else, than to emulate some of the determined bravado that was so intimidatingly Jo.

Off to ‘The Continent’ tomorrow, so I may well be off the radar for some time, but no doubt the next post shall have a diverse range of experiences to report back on as I make my way to the country all Brits detest…France

Au revoir,

Meg

May 18th. The day of my last post (excuse that these posts reach you rather sporadically). The day of local elections in South Africa. Perhaps a turning point in South Africa as the Democratic Alliance gained some ground in a one party dominated nation. Generally speaking, the vast majority of travellers the world over will agree that politics will be at the back of their minds while emptying their pockets to travel to distant shores. Perhaps I am an anomaly therefore that should not be attempted to be understood when I say that the particular politics we encounter on our travels is the very thing that we need, to understand the people we meet and share so very much with. Don’t misunderstand me when I clarify that the politics I speak of is in the broad sense, not simply the rhetoric of overpaid politicians, but rather the family and social politics that ultimately we circumnavigate to discover our own niche and identity.

Let me return to my travels however before I become completely sidetracked however (Being sidetracked has become my forte since returning to a Bingham household where discussion seems endless and meals are oft adjourned in favour of a deliberation on the unmentionables: sex, religion and politics!). I had a further two and a half weeks left in Cape Town before again sampling the delights of the globe’s airports (Note: At this point in the year I had passed through a record total of seventeen airports). In theory my weekdays were to be spent working at two preschools in Masiphumelele and Ocean View (my haunts on my previous 09 trip to SA). As always though, theory inevitably clashes with reality…

After the elections I happily returned to my first week of volunteering at Masakhane preschool in Masiphumelele and Green Curtains in Ocean View. Standing in front of a class of thirty odd primary school pupils for five hours a day for five weeks had definitely taught me a lot in India, such that I felt better prepared to tackle the challenge of tiny tots of these two communities. Working again with many of the children who I remembered as toddlers, was definitely a pleasure. Especially considering that their opportunities in life were so instrumentally improved thanks to early childhood learning when compared to their unemployed neighbours in their respective communities. The enthusiasm of these children as they soon cottoned on, that while lovely to be hugged by the entire class simultaneously it hindered the progress of their lessons, brought a smile to me each day I visited them.

My weekend directly after the election was spent circumnavigating the coastal roads down to the whale-watching town of Hermanus with my adventurous grandmother to visit old friends, the Brooke-Sumners. While the weather at the time did not exactly brighten our days it certainly provided a dramatic backdrop to the ocean and mountains. Revisiting their farm was also a treat as I indulged in my fanciful imagination the romanticised thought of myself becoming a farmer. This may astonish some but I soon came to the apt conclusion that while described by some as ‘formidable’ I perhaps lack the stamina to endure anything remotely resembling the difficulties that tough farmers face on a day-to-day basis.

Resuming preschool again the next week, my mind was rather otherwise engaged as my talk with the Peers Village Travel Club rapidly approached. While no true orator, my obscure experiences of the past five months warranted a place in the travel club’s agenda and so on 24th May I spoke to the Peers Village clan of my meanderings. The bustling travel that I’m used to often doesn’t allow time to reminisce, but this year was supposed to be just that and this talk particularly required me to put down in words the spectrum of feelings I had had not simply about the places I had been to but the ever-changing paradigm I was creating for myself. Such do I return to politics, or rather an investigation into the interrelationships that we share with one another, which in turn serves as a model for our individual sense of identity. Experiencing the homes of different cultures of different family members, left me to feel a sense that we are a part of something bigger than the immediate surroundings we find ourselves thrust into by the paradox of fate, that we are irrevocably connected by our unique experiences of humanity. I am merely a wanderer seeing things as only I can and hope to ever see through. Ignoring all this pontificating, it gave me a rather interesting opportunity to learn what I felt I had gained with travelling. The talk itself went relatively smoothly though I must reiterate my inadequacy at speaking, for naturally two minutes into my speech I was halted as a rather persistent call from the front row asked me to, “Speak up, gel!” (I may be paraphrasing here!).

Then of course my health felt it necessary to intervene with my travels as a week of laryngitis (take two for the year!) knocked out most of my plans. Fortunately I was able to attend two further days of preschool before packing up again and traversing the length of Africa to reach Heathrow. At this point I should like to thank my grandmother for hosting a personage who was at times a rather annoying house guest, pestering about the washing up and dishwasher and the table! To the rest of my Cape family thank you for the various get togethers and outings, all of which mean terribly much to me, and sorry for not expounding upon them further here, but my delicacy (or rather my powers of laziness and procrastination) prevents it.

After another ten hours cramped on a plane, I heartily rediscovered my dislike for air travel (save of course the films, which I always enjoy, recommendation from this viewing, Killing Bono). Returning to Tulbagh, the house that knocked me out completely in 2008 (such that I had to be escorted off the premises with medical assistance!) indeed felt like returning to my third home (not sure if my grandparents will agree with this, but I’ll challenge their generosity and patience, as I have so often done in the past!). Outings since returning to Dorset have included to Monkey World (a favourite highlight for my beloved grandmother who I should have dearly liked to have shared the experience with), the necessary visit to Dorchester and that monstrous project Poundberry (not so very monstrous really, rather the contrary, surprising to find it a project of the Prince of Wales), Maiden Castle (fail to see how castle could possibly describe it, but I’m willing to forgive this considering the stunning panoramas on offer at its highest point), Kingston Lacy and those dashing gardens (gardens which were thoroughly positively inspected by a certain puffing grandfather), the house in which Thomas Hardy was born, Cloudy Hills (the house of the elusively brilliant T.E. Lawrence), Milton Abbas and Bingham’s Melcombe (I shall claim it rather hastily now as our family seat as you should take no notice that apart from name little else connects us with, “that great estate”). Dorset as always is serene in its modest beauty and as has been mentioned by certain parties is the “best country in Europe, and so I suppose the whole world”. I have readjusted to drinking tea at least three times a day (no arguments made against this however instead I would rather prescribe it for any aspiring Anglophile) and now settling into the season of tennis as Wimbledon gets underway (naturally the avid Arsenal fan visits the UK in the one month of the year when it is decidedly the off season- claps for Megan).

My two weeks in Dorset have been rather pleasantly interrupted by a week’s dash up to the north of England, namely Sheffield, and Scotland (taking things in my stride I managed to stretch the breadth of Scotland, from Lochgilphead in Argyll to Edinburgh within five days!). Visiting the Binghams heralding from Sheffield in what I affectionately term, “the Castle House” was a treat as it brought back long repressed memories from Cape Town when dear Ken and Phyllis visited Glen Afric. It is this pair who I have to thank for any memory whatsoever in my childhood in Cape Town as my negligent parents failed to visually record perhaps some of my most poignant years- I mean, Daddy, “Can’t I [ever] have a chance”! My addiction to my iPod was renewed as a pair of ‘decent’ headphones were very generously donated to the ‘Gap Year Fund’ from COMET after numerous failed attempts at buying headphones in Cape Town failed (I suppose there is a lesson to be learnt when you buy an appliance for $3 and they repeatedly fail you!).

I then traversed the border between the Motherland and that offshoot, Scotland, on the trains that were to become my preferred mode of travel in the UK. Heading to the home of my intrepid aunt, who tackled the tumultuous seas from Cape Town to Scotland (feel ashamed that I only travelled on an aeroplane!) and meeting cousins embedded in my memory, thanks to seven years separated by an ocean was great to see not only how they’d changed but also offered another opportunity for self-reflection on how yours truly too had altered. While beforehand a tad oblivious to where I was going it soon became apparent how imbued with history the lands of Argyll truly are as the beauty and aura of a neolithic age seep into the landscapes around you. Seeing of course the boat of some repute, the BOLTHOLE was also awe-inspiring as that sense of adventure and striking ground on the unknown was reawakened in me.

And so toward that unknown I headed, the capital of Scotland, the mystical birthplace of Harry Potter, the triumphant resounding city that booms with the Military Tattoo, the strange home of a food that advertises itself as ‘rock’ and set to be the city of Zara Phillip’s wedding later this year. I can only say I was smitten. Architecture to be admired in every corner (perhaps of course with one exception- Scottish Parliament- which leaves much to be desired, but will ironically forever be a memorable site for me as it was here that I met some friends from far away- rather unexpectedly actually and I mean really, what were the odds!) and everything within walking distance, Edinburgh is a city that would make the ideal university haunt. Visiting Helen was the primary joy of the visit and tasting those exquisite salads elicited again delightful memories of meals that tantalised the taste buds of a little girl often spoilt!

A mammoth eight hour train trip ensued by which I returned to Tulbagh and the philosophy of the Bingham psyche all round the breakfast table. The family politics of every household could be argued indefinitely, but what I’ve come to enjoy this year as I’ve been so privileged to share in the lives of so many families is that it is in these differences that we are inevitably the same. The different ways that we make a sandwich, the utensils or lack thereof we use at mealtimes, the phrases each household repeat with those ‘family jokes’ all serve to highlight the simplest of choices that we make day to day, that create the politics that our lives abound in, to create our own sense of identity, to make us realise the freedom that we enjoy and tragically take for granted.

Meg

P.S. While watching Jelena Dokic make her first round exit from Wimbledon yesterday I came to notice that I did indeed, “hear the thunder” as I roared in her support. I am irrevocably an Aussie.