Smart casual in South Africa and a portable chapel

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While researching for an essay about STEVE BIKO, I consulted the diary I kept when I visited South Africa in August 2003. We spent a night in an old-fashioned hotel in the heart of the bleak Karoo. Here is what I wrote about it:

After the village of De Doorns, the Karoo begins: the countryside becomes emptier and emptier, trees become scarce, the ground is covered patchily with small round bushes. The country is desert-like, wild and also hilly.

After about an hour of driving through this empty, though very beautiful, landscape, we spotted the tiny settlement called Matjiesfontein. 

This place, in the middle of nowhere, consists of one street, a 19th century grand hotel, the “Lord Milner”, a few cottages, other buildings, and a railway station on the main line from Cape Town to Jo’burg.  When we arrived, we were fortunate to be there whilst the famous, luxury “Blue Train” was making a halt. It stops there for a couple of hours three times a week. To travel on this train, a sort of luxury liner on rails, one needs to part with R10, 000 (£880, about) per person. The train takes 3 days and 2 nights to get from Cape Town to Pretoria.

A building along the platform at Matjiesfontein station contains the Rawden Museum that contains a jumble of assorted items extending back to Victorian times.  This includes a good selection of bedpans as well as a portable field toilet, housed in a mahogany case, complete with porcelain bowl and a flushing mechanism – an essential item for winning a war (i.e. the Anglo-Boer War).  A particularly intriguing item was a portable chapel: it was like a suitcase, which opened up to reveal a folding crucifix, a lectern and a special space to keep a Bible. There were also a great number of Victorian clothes in various states of disintegration. 

Near the Hotel there is a “Museum of Transport”, containing a collection of cars, some of which I remember as being new models in the 1960s. There is also some old railway rolling stock that can be entered by visitors.

We ate dinner in the Hotel’s dining room for which the dress code rule is ‘smart casual’. I took this to mean that a blazer would be required, Far from it, in South Africa, smart casual simply means: no shorts or sandals. In fact as the temperature was so low (near freezing point outside) many of the diners ate without removing their outer coats. The food, for which the hotel used to be well known, was indifferent but the wine was good.

After dinner we were shown around the private rooms, filled with antique furniture, of Lord Logan, who founded the Hotel. We slept in a cottage, which was, we were told, where the writer Olive Schreiner(1855-1920) used to stay when she visited Matjiesfontein.

Parabolic swathes of cloth in a church in London

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The ceiling of the nave of St Cyprian’s church in London’s Clarence Gate is almost 50 feet above the floor. Three swathes of indigo dyed cotton are suspended from it, forming three, parallel, giant, parabolic loops. Each piece of cloth is 88.6 feet in length and together the three strips are 8.4 feet wide, each one separated from the other by a narrow gap.

St Cyprian’s is a gothic revival church built between 1901 and 1903. It was designed by Ninian Comper (1864–1960). It is a perfect example of Perpendicular Gothic architecture, and has a beautiful, intricately constructed, gilded rood screen.

The indigo dyed parabolic swathes of cloth are made with ‘gedog’, a cotton cloth made in Indonesia with cotton grown there and spun by women in East Java. Onto these loops, the Mongolian multidisciplinary artist and silversmith Nomin Zezegmaa (born in Berlin in 1992) has created circular white coloured batik patterns, which relate to, as a handout explained: “… the cosmology of the Javanese world and Mongolian shamanism.” Additionally, the swathes of cloth contain networks of embroidery, which is almost the same deep blue colour as the loops.

The artist commissioned other artworks that can be seen on both sides of the impressive cloth parabolas. These include mask-like copper sculptures created by a craftsman called Erdenebileg Byambatsogt, who also made 108 tiny bells arranged on thin threads that are, like the masks and the loops, suspended from the ceiling. On the floor of the church, there were several cloth mattresses filled with Mongolian wool.

I have described what can be seen of Zezegmaa’s artistic installation, The church is filled with the recorded sounds of Mongolian musicians and singers. Although it was difficult to hear them on the opening night of the exhibition because of visitors chatting, the artist’s idea was to create a Mongolian soundscape, In her introductory speech, she explained that in Mongolia, songs like those being heard in the church are used traditionally to communicate messages over long distances. However, as she pointed out, these songs are usually sung and heard in the wide, open spaces of Mongolia, but she found it interesting to hear them in the enclosed space of a church, whose acoustics are completely different to those of the great Mongolian outdoors. I hope to return to the church to hear the sounds on a day when there will be fewer visitors than on the opening evening.

Although the parabolic, cotton swathes are themselves intrinsically interesting from both visual and intellectual points of view, it is their setting in the beautiful space of St Cyprian’s church that transforms them from being merely attractive to becoming spectacular. Just as the church enhances the artwork, the artwork, in particular the indigo parabolas add to the viewer’s appreciation of Ninian Comper’s superb edifice.

The show “You Who Sing Into Existence”, which is sponsored by the Bagri Foundation, continues until 24 October 2026.

Apart from seeing work by a Mongolian artist, visiting her show brought home to me the fact that in addition to the inherent beauty of an artwork, one’s experience and appreciation of it can be influenced by its surroundings – the environment it which it is viewed.

A savoury snack that can be risky to eat

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Bhel is a savoury snack that originated as a refreshment which was (and still is) sold on the beaches of Bombay. It consists of ingredients always including puffed rice, raw vegetables (such as chopped onions and tomatoes), coriander, at least two chutneys (one sweet and another sour). Other ingredients are often added. These might include crushed puris or sev (thin crispy noodles), chillies, and chopped boiled potatoes. There are many variations of this dish which is both sweet and sour and always fresh tasting. All the ingredients are mixed, often stirred by the preparer’s hands. Because of this and the presence of raw vegetables, it is essential that bhel is prepared in a hygienic kitchen.

The bhel which I ate at the Ananda Bhavan in Pondicherry (south India) was prepared in its spotlessly clean kitchen, which can be seen by customers in the restaurant. It did not cause me to suffer any ill-effects.

A week or two later, when sitting in Kamat’s restaurant in Bangalore’s Commercial Street district, I spotted bhel on the menu, and could not resist ordering it. The kitchen at this place, where we have eaten often, always ordering freshly cooked dishes, is not visible to customers. As I was ordering the bhel, I began to wonder whether I had made a mistake. Nevertheless, I did not change my mind. I felt like a driver in a car without brakes heading towards the edge of a cliff at high speed. I imagined that it had been a mistake to order bhel in this restaurant, but when it came, I could not resist eating it. It was a very poor tasting version of this dish that I usually enjoy, and I should not have finished it. I spent the next couple of days consuming pills to treat diarrhoea.

Two drivers from Afghanistan

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Before relating this true story, the reader needs to know what I mean by a ‘minicab’. Long before Uber and similar companies began operating in London, minicabs came into existence. Despite their name, these cars are not usually small. They are, in effect, taxis that can be hired in advance by telephone, or, now, via the Internet, but not hailed on the street. Unlike regular taxis, whose fares are determined by a meter, minicab fares are usually agreed before the ride. Now for my story …

One evening some years ago, we wanted to travel from our home in Kensington to an address in northwest London. We hired a minicab from an office that used to exist near our home, but unusually we did not check the price before the journey.

The car had a radio/cassette player. I noticed that the music playing sounded as if it was popular music from Eastern Europe. I asked the driver about what was playing. He told me that it was music from Russia. I told him that I liked it.

After a few minutes, I asked him where he was from originally. He answered “Afghanistan”, but he said that he had lived in Russia for a few years before coming to London. He mentioned that he drove his minicab most evenings, and in the day time he ran his own shoe shop.

After about half an hour, we arrived at our destination, and parked outside their home. I said to the driver:

“How much do we owe you?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “You are my friend.”

“But, we must pay for the ride,” I said.

“No, nothing, my friend.”

Both my wife and I wondered what to do. We knew that the fare was usually £10. After about a minute, I had an idea. I turned to the drive, next to whom I was sitting, and, holding a £10 note, I said:

“Take this for your family. Buy your children a treat.”

He accepted the cash, and we bid him farewell.

After dinner, we rang the same minicab company, and ordered a cab to take us home. Once again, no fare was quoted. The driver of the cab who came to fetch us was also from Afghanistan. He was not as chatty as the first driver. When we reached our home, I asked him:

“What do we owe you?”

He answered:

“The same as you paid earlier.”

Now, as far as I am aware, he had no idea what we had paid earlier, but he was happy with the £10 I gave him.

These minicab trips occurred soon after I had finished reading an excellent book about Afghanistan, “An Unexpected Light” by Jason Elliot (published in 2007). In it, he described making purchases in rural Afghanistan. He wrote that prices are not displayed, and the purchaser must make an offer. If the offer is too low or to high, the customer gets laughed or otherwise subtly criticised. Remembering this, I felt that what both of our Afghan drivers were doing about the fare is what they would have done back in their country of origin, Afghanistan.

Did the patients hear the nightingale sing in Berkeley Square?

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I have often walked past number 27 Berkeley Square in London’s Mayfair. I am usually on my way to or from the Gagosian Gallery just north of the square. Today, on my way to view some paintings by René Magritte on display at the Gagosian until 12 December 2026, I spotted something I had not noticed before. It was a commemorative plaque attached to number 27, which was constructed between 1821 and 1823.

The plaque commemorates the fact that number 27 Berkeley Square was once used as a hospital. A website that details former hospitals (https://ezitis.myzen.co.uk/27berkeleysq.html) provided plenty of information about this building that served as a hospital between 1916 and 1918.

On 1 March 1916, Mrs FW Salisbury-Jones opened an auxiliary hospital for convalescent officers in her home at 27 Berkeley Square.  It was connected with Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital at Millbank and had 18 beds.

The website related:

“Mrs Salisbury-Jones was the Commandant and the nursing staff consisted of 2 trained nurses, and 12 full-time and 9 part-time members of a Voluntary Aid Detachment. The War Office later requested that accommodation be increased; the Hospital then had 22 beds.”

Mrs Salisbury-Jones’s neighbour, Mrs Asher, who lived at number 30:

“… allowed the two nurses to lodge in her house for the duration of the war, and even lent her butler to work as an orderly at the Hospital.”

The hospital closed in May 1919. By then, it had admitted 496 patients, of whom only one died.

The commemorative plaque reproduces the words on a certificate of gratitude issued by the War Office and is signed by Winston S Churchill.

Currently, the former hospital is privately owned and contains offices. If as the song goes, a nightingale sung in Berkeley Square, I wonder how many of the patients in the short-lived hospital heard it.

They fled from Trieste to Rome

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We met this lady quite by chance at a bookshop in Trieste, Italy.

At the end of WW2, there was conflict over who was to own Trieste – Yugoslavia or Italy or an independent state. During thus troubled period, many Italians fled from Trieste because life there was dangerous. Many Italians were killed by Yugoslav partisans.

This lady, then a small child, fled with her mother to Rome, and was one of the first refugees to arrive there.

The book she is holding is about that era, and she is the small child on the front cover.

The naked truth in Yugoslavia and Albania

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Naturism used to be popular in the former Yugoslavia – a country I visited frequently during the 1970s and 1980s. In those years, I had many friends in Belgrade. In summer, many of them migrated to the Adriatic coast, particularly to Dubrovnik. I used to join them.

During one visit to Dubrovnik, my friends and I took a ferry to the island of Lokrum, which is less than a mile south of the centre of the historic part of the city.

After disembarking and climbing a short slope, we stopped at a direction sign with two panels, each pointing towards a different path. One bore the words “Ne nudismo”, and the other had only one word “nudismo”.

We followed the path indicated by the ‘nudismo’ sign. The path wound gently downhill through a shady forest, and reached a sandy beach in a small cove. We were about to spend some time bathing nude. My friend, who must have understood my apprehension, reassured me by saying:

“Don’t worry, Adam, there is always someone on the beach who looks uglier than you.”

Though a novelty, I enjoyed bathing without the encumbrance of swimming trunks and so on.

Another year, we spent a pleasant few days on the island of Mljet, which is about 38 miles northwest of Dubrovnik. In those days, the 1980s, no motor vehicles were allowed in the northern part of the island around the port of Polace, where we stayed. Mljet has a lake within it, and within the lake there is an island. Every day, we spent much time wandering around the lake, taking occasional dips, and hiring rowing boats. And all of this activity was carried out without clothes apart from sunglasses and sun hats.

In May 1984, I joined a tour to visit the People’s Socialist Republic of Albania, which was then highly secretive and completely repressed, under the control of its dictator Enver Hoxha, an admirer of Josef Stalin.  We flew from London to Belgrade, and then changed ‘plane to fly from Yugoslavia’s capital to Titograd (now Podgorica) in Montenegro. We spent the night in a comfortable, modern hotel that overlooked a fast-flowing river. In each bedroom, the Montenegro tourist office had placed several coloured brochures that extolled the virtues of visiting that part of Yugoslavia.

One of the brochures contained a grainy coloured photograph of people on a beach – Montenegro has a long Adriatic coastline. If one examined this photograph carefully, it could be seen that it was a ‘nudismo’ beach. None of the holidaymakers were wearing any form of clothing. As the brochures did not interest me, I did not bother to keep them, but most of the others on the tour did.

The next morning, after a brief tour of Titograd in a Yugoslav coach, we were driven to the nearby border that separates Yugoslavia from Albania. The border post is next to Lake Scutari (Skadarsko Jezero/Liqeni i Shkodrës). We were asked to disembark as the coach could not enter Albania. Carrying our luggage we walked a short distance, and passed an Albanian soldier standing stock still, looking like a statue, and holding a gun.

Then we entered the Albanian frontier post, a spacious building containing comfortable armchairs, each with a lacy anti-macassar, and we were invited to sit down. On one wall, were the words in English that read:

“Even if we have to go without bread, we Albanians do not violate principles. We will not betray Marxism – Leninism.”

It was written in capitals using faded red letters that looked like those used to advertise films on the canopies above the entrances to cinemas.  All of the letters were firmly attached to the wall except one. This was detachable as it had been glued onto a removable hatch cover, which must have provided access to services – plumbing or wiring – hidden within the wall.

We sat down, and then filled in the detailed custom declaration form that needed to know whether we would be importing, amongst a variety of other items, any ‘magnétophones’ or ‘frigidaires’. As I filled in my form, I wondered who, apart from diplomats, visited the country laden with goods such as these.  Two by two, we were summoned up to be interviewed by the customs officers standing behind tables.

The customs officials were not particularly thorough, but there was one thing that they wanted to see, and confiscate. That thing was the brochure with the picture of a nudist beach in Montenegro. It was this poorly reproduced image that the Albanian officials were seeking in their attempt to prevent pornographic material from entering the Motherland. Whenever they found one, they confiscated it, but not before labelling it with its owner’s name.

When our tour of Albania reached its end, we returned to the same border post. To my surprise, each of the confiscated Montenegrin tourist brochures was returned to the person whose name was on it.

Sadly, Yugoslavia no longer exists, and happily, Enver Hoxha’s repressive regime that made Albania and the Albanians at least as isolated from the rest of the world as is North Korea today. As for nudist beaches, I have not been to one since my visit to Mljet in the 1980s. This is not because I am averse to nudism and naturism, but I do not enjoy spending time in the sun on beaches.

 

In Germany we only eat …

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About twenty years ago, we decided to fly with the German Lufthansa airline from London to Bangalore. A short flight from London took us to Frankfurt am Main, where we had to embark on another ‘plane for the long flight between Frankfurt and Bangalore.

We travelled as ‘economy’ class passengers, although the cost of the flight was far from economical. Soon after boarding the second flight, the lengthy one between Germany and India, we were served an acceptable meal, which included non-veg items. It contained meat.

After some time, when we were nearing our destination, we were served another meal. This time it was pure vegetarian. Now, I have nothing against vegetarian food, but, if it is available, I like a bit of fish or meat with my meal. Feeling rather ‘bolshie’, I summoned the fight attendant, and told her, not entirely truthfully:

“I cannot eat vegetarian food. I can’t eat this. I must have some meat.”

She replied:

“Ah. In Germany, we only eat meat once a day.”

I looked at her, and said truthfully:

“I have visited Germany many times, and each time I have seen Germans eating meat several times a day.”

She did not dispute this. I continued:

“Speak to the purser. See if you can get me some non-veg food.”

She walked away, and after a few minutes, emerged from the business-class and first-class cabin area. She was carrying a tray, which she placed in front of me. It had a wonderful selection of seafood.

Evidently, even thousands of feet above the ground, a German airline was happy to serve non-veg food more than once a day … providing one had paid for a business or first-class seat.

 

Viewing sculptures in a park in London

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TAKE A LOOK AT THIS:

“The sculpture reimagines the palm tree as a meditation on movement, ecology and the industrialized nature of urban environments. Rather than mimicking the setting’s vegetation, Black Palm engages with The Regent’s Park’s curated landscape, drawing attention to the systems of labour and global trade that influence public spaces. By using discarded rubber to depict once-thriving palms, the piece reflects on colonial exploitation and its impact on tropical beauty, where Europe’s fascination with the exotic depleted its natural resources by transforming rubber into a global commodity.”

And now try this:

“Shawcross continues to explore themes such as the Big Bang and the origins of time through geometry. His installations evoke the ancient mysteries of the cosmos and challenge conventional temporal boundaries through continuously shifting forms. By merging cosmic geometry with dynamic light patterns, the artist transforms our interpretation of cosmic events into a tangible, immersive experience.”

I did not write these two quotes. They are extracts from the labels next to two of the sculptures on display at the Frieze Sculpture 2026 outdoor exhibition in London’s Regents Park. The show is held annually. The exhibits are provided by commercial art galleries. This year’s show is marginally more interesting than last year’s, but none of this year’s works particularly excited me. In some ways, the curatorial notes accompanying each exhibit, two of which I have quoted from above, were more intriguing than the sculptures they described.

I enjoy viewing sculpture in the open-air. And the great thing about Regents Park is that it provides a delightful backdrop for the artworks. In fact, placing these sculptures in such beautiful surroundings puts them at a disadvantage because nature’s creations, trees, plants, and so on, are so much more superior to the artists’ often mediocre products.

Frieze Sculpture 2026 continues until 1 November 2026.

Thank you McDonald’s for introducing me to a new taste

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I was an unadventurous eater when I was a child. So, I never tried any of the pickled gherkins, a food which my father enjoyed eating. A visit to McDonald’s changed my approach to these pickled cucumbers …

Believe it or not, there was a political aspect to my father’s consumption of pickled gherkins. My parents did all they could to avoid supporting dictatorial regimes. They would not visit Franco’s Spain or any of the Communist countries behind the so-called ‘Iron Curtain’. Many good, pickled gherkins were, and are still, produced in countries that were once dominated by the USSR. My parents were against buying these because they felt that with each purchase, they would be contributing a little money that might be used to finance a Russian nuclear weapon that might be used to attack ‘The West’. Therefore, the only gherkins my father ate prior to 1990 were those manufactured in Holland and West Germany. During my childhood and teenage years, I became fascinated by the countries in the Soviet Bloc, and wished my parents would have purchased gherkins from these places. If they had, I might possibly have tried one, but they stuck to their purchasing principles.

When McDonald’s came to England in 1974, I was, for some now forgotten reason, against entering one of the company’s restaurants. It was only later in the 1970s when I first entered a McDonald’s – the one in London’s Haymarket – with a group of friends. I ordered a Big Mac, and it was love at first bite.

In case you did not know, the Big Mac contains a slice of pickled gherkin. While eating my first one, I noticed the slice, and tasted it separately from the rest of the burger. The gherkin’s taste appealed to me, and I wondered why I had avoided sampling one for so many years. Now, I am not exactly addicted to pickled gherkins, but I cannot resist eating them often.

Since I began visiting India in the 1990s, I have discovered that although they are not on most Indians’ menus, pickled gherkins are manufactured in India – and very good ones they are. For example, there is a company called Unpick, which has been producing them since 1994 – the first year I visited India. Based near Bangalore, they export their gherkins to over 56 countries. Some of their gherkins are produced under the supervision of Orthodox Jewish food inspectors, and are certified as being Kosher.

Currently, when at home in England, we prefer to buy the gherkins produced by the Polish company Krakus. They supply a variety of different types of gherkins. Of these, our favourites are the Kashubian style, which are bottled along with strips of red bell pepper, white onion slices, dill, and whole spices including: mustard seeds, allspice, and bay leaves.

To conclude, thanks to McDonald’s, I now count pickled gherkins amongst my favourite food items. And other pickled vegetables are also very much to my taste.