Monthly Archives: March 2012

Being Inventive

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Slackbacking is South Africa’s answer to hiking-lite; everything is organized by an enterprising company for you from the moment you fill in your personal details online and enter your credit card number. From then on in, there is a guide at hand to assist, firing emails, brochures and other information and doing all the planning and logistics. An itinerary is thoughtfully and meticulously worked out for you, with full board accommodation arranged and other little treats. All you need to do is bring your own day pack and fill it with a packed lunch each day that you hand pick, after tanking up on a sumptuous breakfast.

I just returned from a long weekend of slackbacking, traversing 28 kilometers of the Western Cape coastline, taking in a large number of pristine bays, each quite different from the last; whiter, wider, windier, sandier, sloppier, stickier. Some covered in discarded shells, others big boulders and others strewn with giant tentacles of desiccated kelp. We trekked from Paternoster to Jacobsbaai in picture perfect weather, lapping up eternal sun, sea and surf. Blue skies, white sands and blue and white waves, all stretching far into the horizon. Each new vista being more gob-smacking and mind-blowing than the last.

For most of our hike, we barely saw anyone else walking; the few other people we did see were dotted along edges of the camping beaches, surrounded by tents, and lots of camping gear. It was out of season, being the start of winter, and yet, paradoxically, a perfect weekend for being outdoors. Ideal weather – not too hot, windy, or humid. Those who had ventured out were a mix of retired folks, families and friends, hanging out, fishing, cooking and simply being. What struck me was the time, effort and ingenuity they had mustered in creating their makeshift homes.

My hiking companions told me how ‘being inventive’ was part of being South African, and their way of thinking out of the box. I could see their point as they described the details of the nomadic homes, with makeshift loos, power showers, brimming fridges and coolers charged by chugging generators. One we poked our noses in (the owners were only too pleased to show us around and demo their array of tight fitting gadgets) was a 4×4 tent, that had a double kitchen sink with running hot water, a fold away shower snucked on the side of the 4×4 (also with hot water), 150 litres of water stashed away underneath in an enormous tank, all the electrics you needed to light up the sky and even a well hidden drinks cabinet, with bottles of spirits all neatly lined up. We were all mightily impressed with its cleverness, compactness and neatness.

Contrasting with mankind’s ingenuity, was Mother Nature’s sculptures, huge boulders and rocks carved individually by wind, sea and storm, protruding and jutting from the sand. Many of these extraordinary rock formations were coated and stained in vivid reds and tangerine oranges. After a while, we began to see them, not just as abstract-shaped beauties, but as transmogrified camels, toes, snails, elephants, human faces and other body parts. Perhaps we had been primed since our lunch destination on day 2 was ‘tietiesbaai’ – a name given to a rock that stands out like a breast on the hill behind the sheltered beach. After that, it was impossible not to have evocative Dali-esque moments.

On our way home from a restaurant in the small town we were staying at, we looked into the local hotel that was a melting pot of locals and tourists. At the back we discovered a pokey darkened bar, adorned with rash moments of frivolity. Hanging from the ceiling and the walls was a dense canopy of underwear, of every color, shape and size, many stenciled by their former owners. This room full of cheeky curios is officially called the Panty Bar. It has been in existence for nearly 40 years ever since the former owner, Johan Carosini, started a collection of ‘honeymoon panties’. Our minds boggled.

There is something very weird about these kinds of small Twin Peak towns and their surroundings. Not only do the blistering boulders make you see the world strangely, but so, too, do the local’s antics – letting their hair down or setting up camp – make you imagine being inventive differently.

Feeding Security

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In the suburb I am staying in – along with many others like it in South Africa – a fleet of security company cars is ever present, slowly driving around the leafy streets. You can easily spot them as they are covered in their company logos – like those in the Tour de France – only they are not there as back-ups for the cyclists but are there for all and sundry to see, keeping an eye on the comings and goings in the neighborhoods, by monitoring their company’s burglar alarm systems. It is all part of the dedicated armed response service, 24 hours a day; a very visible deterrent against crime.

Security is serious business here; it is one of the largest in the world. Every house is alarmed, has automatically locked imposing gates, barbed wired, high fenced walls and burglar bars on all the windows and doors. The security companies also adorn the walls of the houses they service with signs that match those on their armed response cars, letting them (and any potential intruders) know who they are protecting. Dotted around the streets are homely little wooden, sentry-like huts, with protruding CCTV cameras next to them atop long poles, providing bases for the guards. The ultimate in security are the gated communities that offer a 5 star security service, including permanently manned huts.

But it is not just about being as safe as houses. As soon as you start to drive your car, it knows, and automatically locks all the doors for you with a resounding and reassuring, orchestrated 4-slam ktchung. And in some of the outside restaurants, you can even find rock-climbing carabiners that have been secured to the underside of each table, repurposed as locks for the diner’s bag.

Security is a lucrative industry and it makes the people who live here and the tourists who visit feel safe; white, coloured and black. According to Wikipedia there are over 7000 private security companies employing 400,000 private security officers. That is a lot of eyes on the look out for a country of 49 million people. It is part of the price that was paid, so it seems, for getting rid of apartheid.

I was struck the other day by how security can mean quite different things, depending on the word that precedes it. I was having lunch with some architects last week when the topic of ‘food security’ came up. Food and security when combined are very distinct from private and security when conjoined. Instead of being about protecting people from intruders, the term is about enabling everyone at all times to have access to enough food that is affordable, healthy, culturally acceptable, produced in ways that are environmentally sound, socially just, and so on. In other words, it is about opening up rather than locking up. The security is in the food – making it safe to eat. But the real meaning of food security lies in its absence; where the worry is about insecurity in the system, and there not being enough food to go round all year round.

And then there is the ‘security blanket’. Both private security and food security are miles apart from the bedraggled piece of cloth children often hold onto for dear life – that gives them much comfort as they navigate their way through an alien adult world.

Think Inside

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It has become increasingly popular for people to aspire to a new form of creativity that entails thinking ‘outside the box’. The idea is to think differently, unconventionally and blue-sky. The hope is that innovation and vision will come forth. Indeed, it is a phrase I sometimes resort to when explaining what I am trying to achieve on my dream fellowship. But it got me wondering, what is wrong with ‘inside the box’ thinking? What is the difference between inside and outside thinking? Is one more conformist and the other more free-spirited? And why should one way of thinking result in a more desired outcome than another? Maybe constraining one’s thinking can be just as good for the big picture as being let lose outside of the box.

Last week, whilst visiting the Indaba Expo in Cape Town, we spotted three large boxes suspended from the ceiling that an architectural company had placed, with only their name appearing on the brown cardboard. They afforded stepping inside; one’s gaze was immediately drawn to the headless people who were already standing inside them, making you wonder what they could see that you could not. The more you looked the more your curiosity was sparked. I waited patiently for a box to empty and then I stepped under to see what was hidden from the outsider’s view.

It was a very clever bit of marketing. Once inside the box the four sides immediately grabbed your attention, being so close. In my one, I found myself swivelling around and being face to face with images of buildings and people, promoting the firm’s work with examples of case studies. If you want people’s complete attention for a few minutes away from the competing crowd this is the way to do it.

The other night, I watched G and G’s kids horsing around inside a very large cardboard box, which their new stove had arrived in. They’d made a couple of eye slits in the side to see out from and opened up a seam at the back so it could easily be placed over their heads. Like the architectural firm, there is something delightful about restricting how one can see and move. The kids got enormous pleasure, giggling infectiously, not knowing quite where they were going as they propelled themselves box-bound through the garden.

Just as there is a desire to break free from routine and predictability in life – by stepping outside the box – there is, equally, pleasure and possibility for new thinking to be gained when stepping inside the box. The trick is to know how to do both, dovetailing between them, in order to see from above and below, inside and out, and within and beyond.

My PhD student, Stefan, just pointed me to this video by Joseph Pelling called ‘outside the box’ that won an award for best animation. It is very funny.

outside the box from joseph Pelling on Vimeo.

Indaba Reality

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Design Indaba is a big exhibition held every year in Cape Town showing the best of South African design. This year, over 300 designers, from architects to coke tin sculptors, gathered for the weekend to show off their homemade wares, exhibiting an amazing diversity of skills. Jewellery, fashion, ceramics, furniture, décor, craft, candles, toys, lamps, knick-knacks and much more; everywhere you looked was an abundance of vintage and modern, sustainable and forward- thinking design. Now in its 9th year, the organizers claim in their brochure “that creativity can create livelihoods, transform communities and contribute to the country’s economy.” Judging by the thronging crowds at the event, it would seem all is well and thriving.

What struck me most was the reworking and repurposing of stuff. There were seats made of champagne corks, lampshades made of crocheted wool, marmite jars made of beads, and flowers made of recycled tin. I love it when an artifact makes you look twice. It seemed that one entrepreneurial lady had turned the art of beading into a must have artform. All the cool pieces on her stall, including household groceries and VW camper vans had red dots on their price tags. Snapped up by shrewd buyers. And as Sabelo, a local bead artist points out: “In our culture, beads tell stories about who people are, how old they are. The amount of beads you wear indicates your age, and the older you are, the more you’re respected because of the wisdom you have”. I like that idea but I like more the way these bead designers had intricately woven their beaded washing powder box and custard tins to be precise facsimilies.

In the middle of the hall, was a very large public electronic display, which projected a live video of the audience standing in front of it, mainly children. They seemed totally engrossed with their mirror image, dancing, waving and gesturing at themselves. At first it seemed just like a live feed from a video camera focused on them from above the screen. However, after a few moments of looking, I suddenly noticed animated cartoon characters appearing from nowhere onto the screen and then, after a few seconds of performing, disappearing. First a dolphin splashed around, then a spaceman floated by, then a leopard prowled by and then some larger than life dinosaurs waltzed on. I was reminded of the early 90s Smirnoff vodka ads, when an innocent cat turns into a panther as the camera panned across the glass bottle. Likewise, there was something seamless and surreal about the way the animated animals mingled with the virtual kids and the real kids played with the virtual animals.

The company that makes this interactive public display – Live Augmented Reality – has paired up with National Geographic. The set up now tours in public settings, such as shopping malls and Expos, and is a wonderful crowd stopper.

The kids happily joined in the make-believe, squealing with delight as the dolphin jumped and splashed around them. One 5 year-old boy, who was quite a dancer, started moving his hand as if to stroke the leopard, as it appeared to brush besides him – even though it was high up on the screen and he a few feet away from it standing on the floor. He was perfectly positioned to make it appear as if he really was touching it. The merging was a magical design.

The finale was a storm – lashings of animated rain, lightening and thunder descended upon the children. They loved holding their arms up to feel the virtual raindrops splashing on them and clapping their ears as the thunder boomed.

I watched the little dancing boy for a while; he was completely engrossed, repeating his slinky repertoire of dancing, stroking and cowering, as the short cycle of augmented cameo characters, returned again and again. The augmented reality illusion, created by the public display technology was a big hit with Cape Towners. Whilst self-conscious fashion models pranced the catwalk and famous chefs constructively talked the creative walk, the kids hyper-played – without an ounce of self-consciousness.

Pairing 101

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It is increasingly trendy for gastronomy restaurants to pair a wine with a course, matching the notes, flavours and textures of one with another. You read the list of ingredients in a dish and then the type of wine they think matches it. Trouble is it is difficult to imagine the effect of the pairing just from the words, and by the 4th dish one begins to start drowning in the adjectives and labels, and start to lose the plot. And, if the tasting menu is 5 courses or more then that amounts to tasting 5 or more different wines. One’s eyes start to swim a bit. But maybe that is all part of the experience.

The basic idea of pairing, which has been around for centuries, is to enhance the dining experience; the elements of one are meant to bring out the elements in the other, resulting in an accentuation of tastes. The texture, smell, sugar, acidity, etc., in both food and wine are assumed to react differently in each other’s company. The trick is to make sure they are compatible in the matching.

There are numerous websites, books and guidance to help the amateur select the right type and taste of wine to match the kind of dish and its way of cooking. For example, Natalie has an online tool that even lets you select a food type (e.g. pasta), a dish made of it (e.g. gnocchi with brown butter and sage) and then when you press the button, it selects the type of wine you should serve up with it (e.g. Pino Blanc).

It is a bit obvious but reassuring for those who are just learning pairing 101. There are some basic ground rules about matching, such as white with white meats and red with red meats. A fundamental aspect is to understand the balance between the ‘weight’ of the food and the ‘body’ of the wine. For example, one would not mix a Cab with a light fish and, conversely, a Pino Grigio with a hearty, venison stew. But when it gets to deciding on a vintage and its terroir and matching these with the complex set of flavours that a good chef creates, you are joining a different league. Only highly trained sommeliers seem privy to the chef’s thinking behind the complex dishes. Then, just like the beautiful game, it can be a pleasure to score, but you need to understand the rules of their game, and they can seem quite elusive at the highest level.

Yesterday we went to a restaurant in Cape Town called Planet that served 5 course menus – both regular and fully vegan – with matching wines selected by the very knowledgeable and brimming with enthusiasm, Carl Heinz Habel. We ordered two regular and one vegan. The pressure to choose the right wine to match the balance of the ingredients in the meal was offloaded into his hands and I, for one, was grateful for this. He seemed so jolly, attentive and knew his onions.

As we sat down on very comfortable chairs in the rather grandiose Nelson hotel, the ladies were tucked in and immediately provided with a handbag stand to place their bits on – rather like the portable stools creaky folk carry around with them to sit on during long trips to art galleries. We were tickled pink by this detail – we could only assume its function was for the ladies to keep an eye on their purse when wanting to do a bit of fixing and fussing without having to grope around on the floor or the back of the chair for it. I kept thinking how some old biddies might have popped their pooch or feline friend in their bag for company. It was the perfect shape and size for nestling a well manicured spoilt pet in.

Our sommelier, Carl, had done all his homework before. He’d gone to great lengths to chose five different wines that matched each of the dishes – and it turns out they were different for the regular and vegan menus. Whereas I had First Sighting Pinot Noir 2009 with my starter of marinated mushroom terrine, G had de Grendel PIno Gris 2010 to match her quail terrine, rooibos cranberry jelly, and smoked corn samoosa. Normal wines use animal products for purification, vegetarian use egg-white and vegan some unheard of chemicals…I was convinced that they were inferior.

We decided to keep the menu as our extended cognition companion, and placed it at the empty place at the table – it proved to be indispensible by the second course, as we could not remember what we had ordered or the wine that was to accompany it!

We straight away tasted each other’s wines. For some, that might seem like defeating the object of pairing but sharing and comparing is such a natural part of the dining experience. My fear was confirmed; I felt short-changed bar one wine. Somehow, G’s wines always seemed more colourful, leggy, full bodied, long noted, punchy, and enhancing. We were completely bowled over by one of her wines, in particular, forgetting all about the food momentarily and just concentrating on savouring her wine – a local Semillion from the Cape. It just sung to us a complex and rich melody – irrespective of the dish we were eating. And we wanted it to keep playing. Sadly, the glass emptied all too quickly and the waiter did not seem to want to replenish it. Instead, the next one arrived, which turned out to be a real anti-climax.

I am sure there is an art to how one tastes a wine, takes a mouthful of it and combines the lingering and ensuing notes – just as there is an art to tasting dishes. However, I always get caught up in the conversation and forget to drink the wine, after an initial tasting. Then before you know it, the waiter is standing next to you, ready to pour the next pairing wine. I either have to leave the old one standing or slug the remainder quickly. Neither approach is satisfactory. I can’t seem to get the talking, wine sipping and food sampling mix sorted.

Knowing how often to sip, at what point during the eating and how much to leave at the end to maximize the balance of grape and grub, seems a step too far for me. And sometimes one can be mightily disappointed with a wine and not know what to do, especially if your fellow diners are enjoying theirs much more. One of my vegan wines had no taste at all. It simply vanished in the mouth and left me wondering where had it gone. When I explained this experience to the sommelier, he was rather taken aback; presumably it being rare for a diner to dare question his selection. He swiftly took my barely touched glass away and returned, saying that there was nothing wrong with the wine – insinuating, perhaps, that it was my palette that was at fault. As a gesture, he replaced it with a big fat bulbous glass filled to the brim with a big, shouty Chardonnay. I was not sure how to react to his brashness and so took a tiny sip, heard it scream “tourist” at me and so left it equally untouched until the next more lively glass of Pino Noir arrived.

I am sure pairing can be lots of fun; breaking down and matching up the elements that chef and sommelier have brought together but, on reflection, perhaps we’d have been better off slowly sharing, at our leisure, the same bottle of fine wine, that we all liked the sound of rather than being paced by the courses.

And finally, as noted by wine expert Mark Oldman, “Food and Wine pairing can be like sex and pizza: even when it’s bad, it can still be pretty good”. But a very dry wine with a very sweet food is, in his words, “the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard” (Wikipedia). On another day, I am sure my vegan wines would have enhanced the dishes, but on this occasion, the more powerful and potent opulent atmosphere of the place and the wit and charm of my dining companions, overshadowed the potential pleasure of the subtle pairings on offer. But much merriment was had by all.