Those who still say David Livingstone discovered Victoria Falls are counting on the slightly tongue-twisty name ‘Mosi-oa-Tunya’ given by the local Kololo tribe who lived there forever. It means ‘smoke that thunders’ – how straight-from-the-heart-beautiful! But tribe members and other locals who still reside near the park, working as rangers and guides, bear no grudge, just mildly irked at the use of ‘discovered’. Here was the world’s largest sheet of falling water, how long would it have remained undiscovered! My guide looked up at the statue of Livingstone by the
Once a kolam Extraordinary experiences make one a raconteur. Gopi sat in our midst, narrating tales animatedly but unhurriedly from his outings as a kolam, theyyam performer. Elaborate, gilt-laden headgear, sharp gleaming nails, metallic bulbous eyes, jangling anklets, all came out one by one from an ancient box unopened for many years. Most of it was a legacy handed down from his father. His own son, a schoolteacher, evidently proud of what his dad was, showed us time-stained photographs of a focused looking youngster with heavily kohled eyes, sporting a
All around me was dark. I think it has been kept that way – midday outside but a kind of gloaming inside – probably the closest a visitor can be made to feel what went on in these narrow corridors and dungeons. The wall plaster is peeling in most places and remains of corroded iron hooks from where chains were once clamped can be seen. Lanterns hung from low ceilings looking like cages purpose-built to make even light struggle to do its work. An array of narrow chambers into which
Tripping across the imagined barrier, from director calling the shots, to actor and audience. A truism yes, but one of the most alluring aspects about mortality should be the enthusiasm with which we take on new things. I never say no to anything extraordinary that comes my way; heck, I even go out of the way to grab something – or someone – if rare and unusual. It is up to us whether to live out our lives siloed derps, or live up, a sensory rigadoon. When the opportunity came
I prayed and offered my soul to God. Then I took Susan’s hand and held it tight. She was crying. I told her it was good that we are together – if we are to die, we will die in each other’s arms. Of course, not that it stopped her from crying. Bob On my part, I was going over the photographs I took taking off from Dubai and imagining the best possible ways to crash land – and hoping the pilot share my plan. I almost always do, take
Vincent came running. “I was in that house cleaning their swimming pool,” he said pointing and with a broad smile I had gotten used to in Africa by now. “The rain and the wind had mucked it up,” he added, swole in damp clothes and wiping off drizzle from his face. The woollen cap was left on. This was my third visit to the Namibian capital, Windhoek, and I had passed through the ‘art island’ – as I referred to the area in the carrefour near a parking lot where
The setting Swakopmund would be a ‘living movie set’ kind of township if there was one. Bright timber gables, solid color tapering steeples, pastel-hued facades, stark lintels and turrets, pavements tessellated into patterns, neatly trimmed median gardens, shiny classic vehicles, all make you feel like that. The people here, as sparse as they come, could be extras whiling away between shots – the bonhomie is not exactly contagious but there is an appealing cordiality. A natural familiarity. Millpond miens till the call for ‘action’. By day three you are familiar
The devoir of a good son is to break the news of surviving a near-fatal miss to his mother softly. Fortune is on his side as it is dusk preventing her from seeing the numerous bandages stuck to his limbs and jaw, torn jeans flapping and a second chin from stitching together the long cut that neatly cleaved the existing one into two. “Mom, I couldn’t finish my trip.” “What happened?” “My motorcycle got jammed.” “Oh, some engine trouble?” “Yeah, kind of.” Revelation gets progressively tough as my jammed motorcycle
A life cannot be reduced to words, but we still do it because we are yet to find ways to keep our dear ones from dying. Memories penned down become something else altogether but we keep at it whether it is love, loyalty or a sense of legacy. Soon after I got the news I started on my motorcycle. Those who gave me the news as well as those who were privy to it when I got it – I was on a work call with colleagues from two different
“I am Nabira,” she said gesturing towards me to take a seat. Adjusting the flowy chiffon drape of her habesha kemis she sat down at the center of the ceremonial table. “I am your hostess for Bona Tetu, welcome.” Curt courtesies. One usually has to be invited to this highly personal Ethiopian tradition meaning ‘drink coffee’ but as somebody passing through, I had to make do with the only available option – a T20 take on a lengthy ceremony rife with symbolism. Once the ritual comes to an end, nobody
