Dancing on knots of dust

The Khoisan people of Southern Africa perform an ancient dance called the Riel Dans. They often wear red leather shoes and strange hats as they shuffle their feet through the dust in an impressive rhythmic display as old as time. The Khoisan are part of a group of Ancient inhabitants of Southern Africa that predate Europeans or the Nguni tribes that arrived millenia later. They had been making their own 'violins' out of wooden boxes, tin oil cans and bits of wood since time immemorial. Their families do not teach the youngsters how to play or construct the instruments and each child has to find their own way to musical brilliance. Some violins have one string and others up to three. The chords are tuned to their own particular style, from knyp en pluk (pinch and pluck) to the one handed strum. Nothing else in the world comes close to these sounds and it is to these violins that the Riel dancers twist and turn as they kick the dust and move their bodies in a mesmerising individualistic style. David Kramer has gone in search of the invisible musicians of the Karoo and here I am, half a world away, enjoying every moment of remembering. We would drive through the Karoo on our way from Zululand to Cape Town and witness the locals and their often impromptu parties. Tweede Nuwejaar (2nd January) was when they came to the city and joined in the carnival atmosphere of Cape Town. If I close my eyes I can hear the voices calling out and the colours and sounds of their enjoyment. They were poor as Church mice and their ribs would stick out in alarming ways, and yet they smiled. Toothless smiles. Many a person had more fingers on their hands than they had teeth in their heads. Where they went at the end of the day is anyone's guess. Perhaps they fell asleep on the doorsteps of BoKaap homes or Woodstock empty lots? I recently researched a woman who had been disowned for marrying across the colour bar. She came from a stiff upper lip British army family. First she married her childhood sweetheart, but when a daughter died, they started blaming each other and violence ensued. R ran away to England with her surviving daughter and later returned to South Africa and her family. But they did not welcome her with open arms. Alone and scared she found solace in the insular culture of the Muslim quarter. She found lodging in Woodstock, a suburb of Cape Town mainly inhabited by people of colour. Perhaps it was a place her husband would not think to look for her? Anyhow, she fell in love with Walter and sadly his skin colour and the fact that she had divorced her 'so called' acceptable husband, meant she was disowned. They were very happy, R and Walter. She embraced Walter's culture and when her parents died, she was not invited to the funeral ... or featured in the will. Her European family were not actually from the creme of British society and they had started life as sheep farmers and labourers in Ireland. To them she was taking a step back to a time where they too had fewer teeth than fingers. Where they too had ribs that resembled the bars of a cage. She reminded them of their origins and that was not allowed. Only one sister, Marilyn, kept up a relationship with her sister and here is hoping that R and Marilyn had many happy meetings over the years and had a few dances of their own.

Did you notice the simple coffin that Desmond Tutu was laid in at St George's Cathedral in Cape Town? Pine box and rope handles, a single floral arrangement? His wishes were followed to the letter. And instead of burial or cremation he chose Alkaline Hydrolysis. Basically the body is placed in warm water and heated until all that is left are the bones. The residual water is used to water plants and recycled into the earth. There is an Alkaline Hydrolysis unit at the Pat Roberts Hall in Kansas State University, and for those of you that know my maiden name was Pat Roberts, no, it was not named after myself. But wouldn't that be an interesting accolade to my life? The bones are so soft that they can be crushed in the hand and are often returned to the family in an urn. Okay, why am I fascinated by this process? Ecologically it is a great option for the planet. But I am strange when it comes to death and ecology. I spend most of my spare time researching dead people and they hold a weird place in my heart.

I went to the movies with a friend this week to see 'A boy called Christmas', yes, it is meant for children. No, I am not in my second childhood and yes, I did thoroughly enjoy it. During the silly season of Christmas and the end of the year, with too many deaths and too little joy in some communities, I appreciate the escapism of movies. I watched 'Encanto' and 'Witcher' and 'Hawkeye' and lots of silly foreign movies dubbed into English. My son often comes out of his area of the house to ask what language is the flavour of the day? I have enjoyed Spanish and French, Portuguese and Turkish. And who cares if the dubbing is slightly off. The stories are great. I don't even have to engage my brain to enjoy them. Switch on and Switch off. Christmas day with the family was lovely. No stressors, no dramas, just plain food, fun and peace on Earth. Well, not really all the Earth, but in my corner of it was nice. The grandkids ran around shooting each other with water pistols and the rest of us watched too full from lunch to join in. I held a water pistol in my hands and if any unsuspecting child wandered near, they were subjected to my attack from the safety of a deck chair. The weather was very warm and we all dried off quite quickly. I asked my children what memories they enjoyed from their childhood and was shocked to hear that what my husband and I had tried to do to make it a special time, was not appreciated. Christmas carols in my sister's hotel dining room were always the highlight for me, but not for my kids. Wow. I planned a Christmas story theme each year with the tacit acceptance of the rest of my family. Only my father commented once that he enjoyed them. The rest of the family, not so much. The cultural highlight for my kids was the mud fight or the swim in the dam ... the huge breakfast and the call to arms to help in the hotel kitchen when staff didn't arrive. Culture is a difficult thing to encourage and obviously I failed miserably. My culture is not theirs. Oh well, time will tell how our parenting has influenced our children. Culture is difficult to pin down when you live in a multicultural country like South Africa. I hear a turtle dove and it transports me to Cape Town, or the sound of Qapela music and I am walking the streets of Zululand with a penny whistle calling through the cacophony of noises.

The carols of Christmas remind me of times we went with our parents around town to sing, off key, to our neighbours. The stories behind the songs told to me by my father. How Silent Night was sung in Austria in 1818 when the Church organ failed and Hans Gruber and the priest, Joseph Mohr wrote the hymn on the spur of the moment. How the people loved it and spread it abroad. I remember my father talking about Henry Wadsworth Longfellowmuch. His first wife, MaryPotter died in childbirth. He later married Frances Appleton. Who gave him 6 children after making him wait 7 years to marry her. One day Frances was sealing locks of her children's hair into envelopes and somehow her dress caught fire. Henry tried desperately to save her and was badly burned himself, while she died the day after the inferno from her injuries. Then his son went off to war during the American Civil war and was shot. He came home a semi-crippled young man and his father felt like the world was a sad and awful world. Longfellow was severely depressed and almost gave up on his faith. But one day he sat down and wrote the carol that has become so famous and haunting. My Dad loved to sing at Church on a Sunday and especially the carols. I suppose music is my culture. Music and memories. My gran talking about her father playing the fiddle. Vera Lynn with stories of the War. Saucy songs my parents kept hidden in their bedroom cupboard that we would listen to when they were out. And the greatest memory of all was singing at the top of our voices as Aunty Joyce and Aunty Gloria egged us on to keep us entertained in the back of the Landrover on the way to some obscure beach along the Zululand coast. 'My eyes are dim I cannot see ....' 'My Bonny lies over the ocean ....' 'She'll be coming round the mountain ....' 'Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag ...'

Have you ever heard about the knitting spies of war? Women and men would knit socks, hats and jerseys as they sat at windows or in hospital beds. Each stitch could be interpreted as a Morse code symbol. Dots and dashes became knit or pearl. Madame Levengle sat upstairs and tapped the floor so that her children could then write the secret messages into their school books. Goodness the patience of that woman who taught her children this skill all while hosting a German Marshall in their home. He never suspected that the family were spying on the troop movements right under his nose. Some people wove threads into their knitting that had knots in the fabric that told a story. (Kathryn Attwood 'Women heroes of the World war 1') But, this practice has a historical background too. The women who knitted during the French Revolution, knitting the names of those beheaded as they watched the slaughter. It is thanks to them that many of the dead could be identified. Not that I am saying those women knitted at the guillotine were Royalist sympathisers. No, they even knitted their predictions of who would be next. I really need to take more notice of knots in macrame, maybe they are telling me stories I have not heard yet? Andean, Chinese, Tibetan cultures use Quipu, which was developed about 2,000 to 3,000 years ago and some incidents of 5,000 year old knotted strings have been found. I suppose the modern variant is binary code used in computers? In 5,000 years will our computers stand up to the test of time? Will an archaeologist like Ruth Shady from Peru, shake her head and say 'This is from the Pre-Covid era and is a simplistic form of language and mathematics.' Or will someone in the far future discard our mother boards as frivolous nonsense? And how many of us used an abacus at school? The click of beads on a wire brings back sweat inducing anxiety as I struggle with mathematical problems that I was never able to solve. Mr Brick would peer over his glasses at me and tut away with a mumbled comment 'Your sister, Jane would have been finished by now and even your mother would have no problem with this simple problem.' Yes, Mr Brick did teach my siblings and my parents at some stage of their lives and sad to admit it, but he taught my children too. That moment when you felt the weight of your DNA pressing down on you is indescribable. So, I won't try to describe it. Perhaps I should have asked for a piece of string to play with? When I would attend my children's prize givings through the years, my programme would often resemble an origami disaster zone of angles and curves. Should I have asked Mr Brick for a piece of card? Or would those eyes have rolled at my stupidity? Okay, they did roll on occasion. His wife, Mrs Brick was kinder when I switched from Maths to Typing (keyboard skills) but I did induce an eye roll or two at my skill level with the typewriter. Oh good grief, I could go on and list all my eye rolling teachers through the ages. But I won't.

May the year ahead be filled with memories and songs and joy and music of the soul. Dance and knot and discover new things every day. It keeps you young and we all need that.