shaunism

Sunday, 26 February 2017

[The Life of Shaun #547] Mama Berry

Mama Berry died sometime Wednesday night into Thursday morning. She had a heart attack in her sleep after a day of laughing and joking with Papa Berry and listening to a singer who had come to the care home to perform for the residents in the evening. Laughing and singing were two of the things Mama Berry was best at. All those who had Mama Berry in their lives knew her as a proud Hawaiian and a woman of love who managed to live joyously, despite enduring tragedies that had no business darkening the life of a woman of her character.

At the end of my Junior year of high school, my parents decided to leave the neon flash of the Strip for the prairie lands of their youths, where riverboat gaming was just starting up. I moved with them, visions of Chicago and its possibilities dancing in my head. Once I was there, the realities of the exurbs and the limited opportunities of a semi-rural high school became plain, and I wanted nothing more than to return for my senior year as a Sundevil to be with my friends, choir and band. On one of my frequent calls with my friend and choirmate, Mike Berry (aka Kawika), he put the phone down and asked his parents if I could come live with them. I'm sure some responsible arrangements were made between my parents and his, but I don't remember them, and a few days later, I was on a plane back to Sin City.

The Berrys' oldest son, Hoku, had just moved out, so I was put up in my own room, given use of Mama Berry's blue Honda and taken in as a member of the family. Every morning she woke up two bleary-eyed teenage boys, and made us fried egg sandwiches while we got ready. A lover of music and the arts, Mama Berry was heavily involved with and fully supportive of Kawika's and my participation in Dr. Jensen's choirs, my clarinetting in Mitta Fu's bands, Kawika's roles in the school theatre, and all their many, many commitments. She never missed a performance, and she opened her arms and heart to everyone, especially the outcasts. She was good people through and through.

Not many years after I moved out, Hoku died of a ruptured brain aneurysm at around the age of 30, leaving behind a young grandchild. A few years later, Mama Berry had a stroke which took away her ability to speak and much of the use of the left side of her body. It was heartbreaking to see such a big personality silenced and stilled, requiring 24/7 care rather than giving it herself. For several years, it seemed like she had acquiesced to this lot in life, but in recent years she had become more active, going to church again and on outings with Papa Berry. The last time I visited, when I introduced the Berrys to Sushil, we met up at a Hawaiian restaurant, and it was so good to see her out of the care home. She looked healthier, happier and more tuned into the world around her. Her face lit up when we were reminiscing, and I was telling the story of Sushil and me, and she gave me a long, tight bearhug when we said goodbye.

It's very sad that she's gone so soon after her life seemed to be trending up again. But I am glad that she had happier last years with Papa Barry than could have been, and so grateful that she went in her sleep. After all the hardships she endured, she deserved at least that.

Mama Berry loved her church and singing in its choir. In lieu of flowers, I have chosen to make a donation in her honour. If you would like to do the same, the address is:

St. James the Apostle Roman Catholic Church

1920 N. Martin Luther King Blvd.

Las Vegas, NV 89106

Thank you for letting me be part of your life and family, Mama Berry. I love you and will miss you dearly.

Haole Boy

Shaun H. Coley ~ Shadwell ~ Tower Hamlets ~ London E1 ~ UK ~ shaunism.blogspot.co.uk

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Tuesday, 7 February 2017

[The Life of Shaun #546] Remember the Cheeto!

This is the last dying breath of the America that was. All we have to do is sit tight, watch the show, and live through it to see the America that will be. It's a demographic certainty.

2016 was a wrenching year. And as the shambles of Trump's first weeks roll into the disaster of triggering Article 50 next month, my soon-to-be-demoted British (soon-to-be English?) passport cannot save me from the madness of 2017. All I can do is hope that we, and the world, come out of the other side of these next four years more understanding and contemplative than damaged. The well-trodden alternative is ugly.

I josh and daydream about backup Brexit plans - Dublin, Calgary, Wellington, Cape Town - but in all honesty, I don't want to leave London. I have no desire to leave my global city, my friends and my life to rebuild again. So I pray we find our way as a lonely, little island in a big, competitive world, that I continue to be gainfully employed and London doesn't turn into Birmingham-on-Thames.

I keep positive by thinking about the long game. Ever since humans stopped hunter-gathering and began putting down roots, they have been on an inexorable journey towards a global world. From small villages to towns to cities to nations to international economic and political unions, look past the wobbles and the trend is clear.

Dissect the 51.9% who voted for Brexit and see that 73% of 18-24 year-olds voted to remain. By the time article 50 is triggered, about 300,000 leave voters will have died, replaced by about 365,000 new remainers, bringing that margin of victory down to 50.4%. Remainers aren't going to suddenly turn xenophobic and insular. And there's a whole slew of UK-born children of EU-immigrant parents nearing voting age; they won't be forgetting the ties that bind.

Look at the details of Trump's 2.9m vote loss to Hillary Clinton and see the crumbling white-haired, white-skinned wall that even America's rural-skewed electoral system can't hold up much longer. Since 2015, more non-white babies have been born in America than white. America's biggest states are already at or approaching being minority-majority, and by 2045, whites will be in the minority nationwide. The leaders of tomorrow will have no option but to be open and inclusive if they want to have a political future.

My friend, PD, has fittingly taken to calling Trump "the Cheeto". With every erratic, base-pleasing order coming out of the Oval Office, with each passing alternative fact, fabricated massacre and Brexit lie, I think about the generations that are just becoming politically aware. I think about how they will look at Farage, his mechanic May, and Trump and reject them and the regressive parties they represent for years and years to come. Like the Alamo, I hope these collective memories will outlast those who were actually around to bear witness to the disaster, and we'll long hear yelled out the (figurative, ballot-box) battle cry:

"Remember the Cheeto!"

Shaun H. Coley ~ Shadwell ~ Tower Hamlets ~ London E1 ~ UK ~ shaunism.blogspot.co.uk

Tuesday, 10 January 2017

The Life of Shaun #546] The Mother City

The final destination on our honeymoon was Cape Town - and what an absolute joy it was. We were there for a full week, and I could have easily stayed longer. I can't remember the last city I went to where that was the case; normally a long weekend is enough just about anywhere. Cape Town is not a cerebral city - it lacks the historic depth and economic heft of Johannesburg - but it drips with beauty, charm, ease, and, for whites and tourists at least, levensvreugde.

Like Rio de Janeiro, San Francisco and Sydney, Cape Town's natural setting seems almost too perfect to be happenstance. The city sits in a bowl, nestled between the Atlantic Ocean, jaunty peaks and the lofty expanse of Table Mountain. To the South lies the majestic Cape Peninsula, to the East lies wine country, and the climate is temperate.

If it sounds like I am gushing, it's because I am. Cape Town has its problems: it's got plenty of poverty, sprawl, inadequate infrastructure and crime that's high by European standards. But it's less segregated than Johannesburg, safer than many American cities, and is reasonably well run by the opposition Democratic Alliance, free from the cronyism and corruption and plagues what's become of Nelson Mandela's ANC.

We stayed at a fabulous gay guest house, which serves breakfast until a very respectable hour. We had perfect weather the first day, so took up the opportunity to go up Table Mountain and do a city tour, getting all the rigorous touristing out of the way on day one. Then each day we slept in late, lingered at the breakfast table talking to other gushing tourists from around the world, and then headed out on another exploration: the waterfront, Robben Island, Camp's Bay, the Cape of Good Hope, Bo-Kaap, Stellenbosch - usually capped off with a drink in Cape Town's diminutive, but enjoyable, gay scene. Not the stuff of haughty drama, but one fantastic day followed by another. Amazing.

I knew I would like Cape Town. I've never heard a bad word said of it. But I didn't realise how I would love it. There's something understated about it, despite its natural beauty; it's a bit player on the global stage, and even plays second fiddle on its home turf to brash Johannesburg. It seems eager to please, but not like it's trying to show off; it knows it's in a sketchy neighbourhood, but it also knows what it's got. It's simply lovely. I can't wait to go back.

Sala kakuhle,

Shaun

Table Mountain from our room.

Sushil the Redeemer.

Sushil had been bugging me about taking a helicopter ride for months. In Cape Town, I finally relented.

Camps Bay, which felt like it should be painfully over-touristy, but was really great. We went a couple of times, including for a brilliant extended parting lunch at Mezepoli.

The CBD, with Table Mountain behind. Much of the modern downtown was water until it was filled in during the 1940s.

Older

downtown.

Urban edge in Woodstock, perfect for galleries and hipsters.

District Six, just Southeast of downtown, was a residential neighbourhood within the main bowl of central Cape Town. Its 60k+ residents were removed in the 1970s by the Apartheid government and the neighbourhood razed to make room for new whites-only developments. Some of the area was redeveloped, but most of it still lies barren due to a combination of protests, legal manœuvres, and the economic reality of international sanctions. The area is now in a turf war between those who want to leave it as is to serve as a memorial, those whose historic rights of relocation have been recognised, and developers salivating over a large tract of prime real estate in a city on the up.

Cape Town and Table Mountain, seen from the boat heading out to Robben Island

the prison where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 18 of his 27 years behind bars.

The quarry where Mandella and other prisoners were made break rocks, and stack and restack them.

Mandela's

cell

block.

Downtown Stellenbosch, the charming heart of South Africa's wine country.

They take their trees very seriously in Stellenbosch.

City Hall, with a Mandela sculpture that's immediately apparent in the camera lens, but hard to discern with the naked eye.

We decided to take the Bites & Sites tour, which combined a bit of history while walking around downtown sampling artisanal bread, locally-grown organic vegetables and, of course, wine, before heading out to the vineyards. It was a great choice - a good balance between town and country, and gave a lot more colour to this localvore foodie haven than a full day of cellar tours could have.

No, this...this...this is the one we want! @Simonsig

Hout Bay, a suburb of Cape Town on the Cape Peninsula.

Boulders Beach on the Cape is home to a large penguin colony.

And wine!

Don't forget about the wine!

We made it!

And celebrated with a bottle at lunch. Cheers!

Shaun H. Coley ~ Shadwell ~ Tower Hamlets ~ London E1 ~ UK ~ shaunism.blogspot.co.uk

Tuesday, 3 January 2017

[The Life of Shaun #544] The Myth of Mugabe

I recently started reading Sapiens, a fascinating book on the history of humankind. In the opening chapters, it discusses the myths around which Homo Sapiens have built their world: law, human rights, nations, money. These exist only because people believe they do, as opposed to the laws and forces of nature, such as gravity and radioactivity; you can abandon all belief in either, but they'll both kill you nonetheless. This is not to say myths aren't important or don't impact our world - they do immensely, and the widespread loss of faith in these beliefs can be disastrous.

Riding high on the myths of empire, land ownership and the value of the local currency, the British colony of Southern Rhodesia was amongst the richest and most advanced nations in the developing world. The breadbasket of Africa exported all manner of crops, earning hard currency and supporting a vast network of farmworkers and dependents. Several decades later, the rebranded Zimbabwe has endured a complete loss of faith in the government that runs the country and the currency that facilitates its economy, becoming one of the most dysfunctional and destitute countries on the planet. It's a stark warning about how quickly a nation can fall apart, and how much damage one man can do.

Having followed the fall of Zimbabwe against the rise of its inflation (as high as 79,600,000,000%), I was keen to see what had become of its capital, Harare (née Salisbury), since abandoning the ZimDollar for the US Dollar in 2009. The country is still poor and misruled, but at least there is a measure of financial stability. Surprisingly, central Harare, with its neat street grid, parks and slightly shabby towers, appeared cleaner, safer and more prosperous than Johannesburg, Africa's wealthiest city. But a telling sign of the despotic, paranoid rule of Robert Mugabe was that we had to register with and get permission from a military post downtown before we were allowed to walk its streets. We were also requested not to take too many photos of the CBD, as that could be taken as an attempt at espionage.

Despite its interesting recent history, Harare was quite lacking in local diversions. Other than the local markets, shopping centre (in the surprisingly large white section of town) and universally friendly residents, there is not a whole lot to recommend the non-business visitor. Quickly realising this, Sushil and I rebooked our outbound flight to the next evening and rode out our 26 hours in the capital with a city tour, cheap local beer and mediocre Ethiopian food.

A reasurring sign welcomes you on arrival to Harare International Airport.

From a nearby hillside, Harare could pass for a mid-sized American city.

Worshipers spill out into the courtyards in Zimbabwe...

...and into the fields.

The Parliament of Zimbabwe was surprisingly understated, especially compared with the presidential compound (where pictures are not allowed).

Africa Unity Square, at the centre of Harare.

The Old Mutual building downtown.

"As hyperinflation accelerated, the value of the Zimbabwe dollar declined fast against other currencies, yet official exchange rates published by the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe were infrequently updated; this made it impossible to tell from an official source how much the Zimbabwe dollar was really worth against other currencies on a particular day, which in turn disrupted international business transactions involving Zimbabwe dollars. Staff from WM/Reuters devised an indirect means of measurement that was termed the Old Mutual Implied Rate (OMIR). This took the daily price of shares in the insurance company Old Mutual that traded in the London and Harare stockmarkets and derived from it a notional daily exchange rate between the Zimbabwe dollar and the pound. Shares had much less strict capital controls than through the Zimbabwe banking system, so the shares were used as a vehicle for moving capital between currencies by buying stock in either London or Harare and then selling in the other location. The Old Mutual Implied rate was widely adopted benchmark rate for unofficial currency exchange until intervention by the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe in May 2008 to prohibit the transfer of shares in Old Mutual, ABC and Kingdom Meikles Africa out of the country, therefore stopping their fungibility."

A child standing next to a rather unique newspaper headline.

Sushil and I at Sam Levy's Village, the main shopping centre in the white section of town. Our guide stressed to us several times that people from all over the world mix there.

The markets in the black sections were a bit more up-and-coming.

Well-decorated social housing.

Indeed, this is where we started our party!

A mobile DJ stage with Afro-techno music kept the party going on the streets.

The most famous of the Chiremba Balancing Rocks, made so by its appearance on the ZimDollar, including the Z$100 trillion note.

The outskirts of Harare are literally built on and amongst the rocks at the edge of the park.

A headline announcing the introduction of bond notes, a parallel currency being introduced to mitigate the shortage of USD.

A newspaper insert explaining how bond notes would work...what could possibly go wrong?!

The lack of USD was apparent in the condition of the bills that were in circulation.

ZimDollars, worth more as souvenirs than they ever were as currency.

Nondiscrimination laws are not quite up to Western standards.

A rather appropriately named intersection.

Shaun H. Coley ~ Shadwell ~ Tower Hamlets ~ London E1 ~ UK ~ shaunism.blogspot.co.uk

Tuesday, 27 December 2016

[The Life of Shaun #543] Four out of five ain't bad

Requisite on a trip of any length to South Africa is a safari. Sushil didn't get to do one on his first visit to Cape Town, so we added it to our itinerary. But first it was a quick overnight in South Africa's administrative capital, Pretoria.

Unlike most countries, South Africa has three capital cities. This is a result of "negotiations between the British Empire and the defeated Boer republics that ended the second Anglo-Boer war [creating] the Union of South Africa...Parliament meets in Cape Town, the former capital of the British Cape Province. The administration is based in Pretoria, the capital of the Boer republic of Transvaal, and the judiciary is based in Bloemfontein, the capital of the other Boer republic–the Orange Free State". However, since 1995, South Africa's highest court, the Constitutional Court, has been located in Johannesburg, adding another layer of complexity to the bureaucracy. Most embassies are located in Pretoria, and it is often considered the de facto capital.

However you slice it, as Johannesburg boomed, it merged with Pretoria into a single megalopolis, and many of its residents commute down ten-lane highways into Johannesburg's business districts to pay the mortgages on their leafy suburban homes. Dominated outside the modest downtown grid by large roads and ho-hum shopping centres, I would charitably call Pretoria one of those cities that is better to live in than to visit; it is pleasant, orderly, clean, green and prosperous, but like Stein's Oakland, there's just no there there.

The Voortrekker Monument towers above the city to commemorate the Dutch colonists' successful great trek from Cape Town into the interior.

This panel inside sensitively depicts the slaughter of 12,000 Zulus by the Voortrekkers.

Pretoria, from the monument.

A large complex of flats in the city centre has sat unfinished for many years as the developer and city council are unable to resolve differences on who should own them post-completion.

Pretoria was merged with several adjacent municipalities, called the City of Tshwane Metropolitan Municipality, after the pre-colonial name for the area. A bill was recently passed to officially rename the city itself to Tshwane as well. Not totally unjustified, but much like with India's scrubbing of colonial names from the map, often not considered by the renamed locals to be their most pressing unmet need.

Mama Sharifa: coming soon to a red state near you.

Church Square, Pretoria's heart.

At its centre, the statue of Paul Kruger, the first President of the Union of South Africa, has been gated off to protect it from the protests of 2015, aimed at removing reminders of and monuments to white, colonial and Apartheid leaders.

Nelson Mandela in front of the Union Buildings.

At our Pretoria hotel, they take South Africa's creation of a post-racial society very seriously.

From Pretoria, it was about a five-hour ride to Kruger National Park, where we stayed for two nights for our safaris. The implicit goal of most people on safari is to see the Big Five, a name given by hunters to the five largest and most dangerous African mammals: elephant, rhinoceros, buffalo, lion and leopard. In the private game reserves bordering Kruger, it can be easier to see all five as the populations are not totally left alone to fend for themselves, but in Kruger, it's all a matter of luck -- luck which we were somewhat thin on. The people who went out the day before us saw all the big five at least twice. But when our turn came, it ended up being the hottest day of the week, which meant the animals weren't moving around much, so we were much less likely to see them about. We managed to see all but the leopard, our sightings providing gleeful moments of relief on the hot, windy drive along the park's roads. Quite exciting at first, by the start of the evening Sushil and I were ready to be back in camp for a cold beer, a cool shower, and a good night's sleep before heading back to civilisation in the morning.