Easter 2020

It’s Palm Sunday today, marking the beginning of Holy Week. Easter is just around the corner, and most people will be celebrating it at home during these troubled times.

Between 1987 and 1992 I created some paintings of the 14 Stations of the Cross (the Catholic devotion that commemorates Jesus Christ's last day on Earth). 

The paintings were installed in the lovely round stone church of the All Souls Mission in Mutoko, a rural district of Zimbabwe, in 1992, and before putting them up took these photos of them. Each painting stands at 1m x 1.5m high. 
I’m happy to report that all the paintings are still there, in very good condition too, for the doctor now in charge - Dr Massimo Migani - kindly took some photographs of them this very day.

I painted another piece, this time of the Ascension, in 1998.  It took six weeks to complete. It is 3m x 2m and now hangs just behind the altar in the Chapel of Nazareth House, a lovely care home for the elderly, on Enterprise Road in Harare. 

I hope this post brings hope and inspiration to everyone.

The Ascension

All Souls Mission church (photos by Dr Massimo Migani)

 

Inside the church today 

Zimbabwe in August

Joan & Richard awaiting the sunset

Although I now live in Johannesburg with my eldest son Anthony and his wife Pia, I like to come to Zimbabwe in August every year to pay a visit to my second son Richard and his wife Fiona.

I spent many, many happy years in Zimbabwe and love this country.

Msasa trees

The msasa trees are out and this year are dark red. Then the jacaranda trees will change the scene with their magnificent purple blooms, along with the flamboyant with their bright red umbrellas. 

It is all so magical and here at Peterhouse School where Richard and Fiona live, the beautifully green sports fields lined by trees and magnificent sunsets create a picture of harmony, peace and beauty.

In the small town of Marondera there seem to be hordes of unhappy and even desperate people trying to earn a bit of money any way that they can, selling second-hand clothes or a few vegetables. Hands reach out and faces look at you pleadingly through the windows of your car as you stop to fill gas cylinders or shop. 

Electricity is not at all consistent; sometimes you have it and many times it is suddenly gone. There is no pattern to the power cuts, and I believe in some areas it is off all day, forcing people to do their work at night. 

Money matters are extremely difficult – the shops seem to have most supplies but everything is very, very expensive. If you ask questions no-one seems absolutely sure of what is going on and I expect this applies to the government too!

Mutare visit

We paid a visit to Mutare and my granddaughter Claire attended a wedding there at Leopard Rock Hotel which is still looking magnificent. So is the White Horse Inn in the lower Vumba, although I believe some hotels in Nyanga are closed.

It is all still so beautiful. Nothing can change the beauty of the mountains, the balancing shapes of the granite rocks, the skies which go forever upwards in vivid

Msasas

blue hues.

We cannot visit Harare too often as fuel is short and queues can be long, but we did pay a visit there last week and the suburbs we visited seemed well cared for although roads are pitted with potholes, so much so that the driver sometimes has to go to the right of the road or sometimes to the left giving an effect of drunkenness.

Bob met his maker

The old man Robert Gabriel Mugabe has died in Singapore and will be flown back for burial here in Zimbabwe this week. He has, like all of us have to, gone to meet his maker, leaving behind a country struggling to survive.

My feeling is that in the years to come it will survive due to the resilience and nature of the people who continue to live here with hope and humour.

I think of Alan Paton’s book Cry the Beloved Country and so hope that it will recover and move forward and see a return of crops growing once again in fertile but unused soil.

        Love to you all,

        Joan 

Senses of sound

In the frenzy of Johannesburg I live in the suburbs of Douglasdale in a spacious home and a beautiful garden belonging to my eldest son Anthony and his wife Pia.

 Across the front of the house there is a long verandah where I love to sit and listen to the sounds of the garden. I have come to rely more on sound rather than eyesight which is failing.

Near the verandah is a swimming pool made of natural looking rock with a waterfall. Here the birds gather for a drink and a splash about. 

The doves have a rhythmic, deep-throated call while the hadedas  - much bigger ungainly birds - stomp about probing the lawn with their long beaks and sending up cries of anguish as they land or take off. Some wit told me this is because they don’t like flying and are afraid to land. Their cry is loud and unmistakable – a sort of aww soooo call.

One poor hadeda was lying dead on the lawn one morning and the other  hadedas flew in from everywhere and sang a song of grief as they looked down upon their unfortunate mate. I am beginning to believe that these birds have stronger feelings than the smaller birds with their more high pitched notes.

Myna

An Indian myna sits outside the kitchen window and sings a wonderful song of joy every morning. Anthony tells me they are “not very nice” birds as they throw other birds out of their nests. 

But one can’t fault their singing in the early mornings and in the evenings, the happy tweets and bird calls seem to usher the day in and wish great things come the evening shutdown.

Weaver nests

Pia is irritated by a little weaver bird couple that live in a palm tree next to the pool. Papa weaver bird takes enormous pains to build a nest only to have mama weaver reject his workmanship by destroying the nest which lands in the swimming pool.

As the day moves on the domestic sounds seem to intrude – the whirr of the washing machine and dish washer and then the scream of the vacuum cleaner which Memory wields with triumphant energy. 

Energetic Memory

The kettle goes on; the kettle goes off. A toaster pops. TV is on, V is off; news on Brexit, news on Trump, interspersed by weather reports and local news etc etc.

I often escape and listen to tapes, which I love. I have listened to some fascinating stories recently –

Joan at another favourite Johannesburg haunt

Sir Richard 
Attenborough’s autobiography; the start and development of the air rescue service in South Africa which has now extended to the north; a study of political ups and downs in South Africa and to our north by a journalist.

The background sounds of Johannesburg intrude every now and again. These start with the build-up of traffic coming into Johannesburg from as early as 2 am, reaching a crescendo between eight and nine and building again in the evenings until about 11 pm when there seems to be a few hours of quiet.

Galloway Avenue where Anthony lives has two bumps in the road and motor bikes speed up and down. I hear them at the first bump with a bang and then they speed up before hitting the second with an even bigger bang. Very often after the second bump there is no further sound of the motor bike and I imagine the driver pushing his way with a battered bike to the nearest garage.

Every afternoon I go for a walk around the tennis court. The two dogs, Amber (a fox terrier cross Labrador) and Stewart (fox terrier), take a walk with me. They rush to the wall of the neighbour’s grounds and incite a bark-out with the Scottie dogs next door. They return to the house looking weary but self-satisfied – as I do.

In the afternoons the noise of overhead aeroplanes seems to build up as air traffic appears to increase. I am trying to define whether a plane is coming into Johannesburg or flying away. It seems planes coming in to land have a more interrupted sound while those going out have a greater roar and sometimes a whine. Helicopters fly over quite often, whirring and with a business-like roar, watching out perhaps for mischief -makers somewhere.

I would like to communicate better with my grandchildren but they seem to be addicted to the clamour of their cell phones. I think they could be missing out on all the amazing sounds of what is around us as well as the interaction of good human communication. Then there’s the chant of crickets, harmonious songs of frogs, the clap of thunder, the trees in the wind, the rain on the roof.

Human interaction must depend too on the expressions on the listeners faces and the eye contact interchange, things I especially value and can no longer see.

The Boy with the Donkey

At night, travelling on the road to Beitbridge you often come across groups of donkeys, very difficult to see in the darkness as they have no reflectors behind the retina so their eyes do not glow in the dark when car headlights fall across them. 

As we know, donkeys have always been beasts of burden.

Also on the road to Beitbridge, before the Lion and Elephant Hotel (a good overnight stop), was a farm owned by a grandmother who lived with her grandson. Lions invaded her farm and were killing some of the animals, so two lion hunters were asked to come and get rid of them. They brought an old blind donkey with them to use as bait.

The grandson fell in love with the old donkey. 

He looked after his new found friend, sat on his back, walked with him and talked to him. One of the hunters came to collect the donkey and the boy pleaded with him not to take the donkey away. The hunter said that he would leave it and the boy was delighted and relieved.

A few days later the second hunter, an older man, arrived not knowing about the previous conversations and he had come to take the donkey away.

Once again the boy pleaded with him to please leave it. “Please, please, please!” The boy’s grandmother joined in with his pleas and explained that the boy loved the donkey as a friend and would be heartbroken. Eventually the hunter gave in and said that he would leave the donkey.

Not long after that, the grandmother and her grandson were ordered to leave the farm. They were given 3 months to get off the farm. They had to move the donkey in a specially secured truck to their new home. When they were resettled, the boy acquired two more donkeys so his little group of donkeys expanded. The old blind donkey lived happily for quite some time in his new surroundings and eventually died peacefully.

The grandmother wants to make a donkey sanctuary as a donkey reserve has now been started in Zimbabwe.

*****

The Donkey – by G.K Chesterton

When fishes flew and forests walked

And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry

And ears like errant wings,

The devils walking parody

On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

Of ancient crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me; I am dumb,

I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

And palms before my feet.

Spring in Zimbabwe

Pic by Pauline Battigelli 

When I reached Zimbabwe in August this year, I timed my visit so that the Msasa trees would be in early leaf. I had to wait a few weeks and suddenly from their dry branches sprang soft new leaves. This year a glowing burnt sienna was reflecting the colour of the ground from which the tree had grown.

The new leaves are very tender and a knowledgeable botanist told me that the colour of the new leaf does not attract animals which could be drawn to munching up such a delicate scrap. The colour of the new Msasa leaves are in fact a protection against hungry animals much as a thorn protects a thorn bush.

After a few weeks the chlorophyll in the leaves builds up and changes bronze colours to green.

In the evenings, my son Richard and I would take a walk through the grounds of Peterhouse School to greet the spring colour and watch the sunsets across the green playing fields. All quite, quite breath taking. Some evenings a piper and teacher at the school would walk down onto the field and play his bagpipes, giving an added contribution to the extravaganza.

The Msasa colours last only a few weeks until the leaves strengthen and turn green.

Spring in Zimbabwe- there is nothing like it. After the colourful display of the Msasas, the next blossoming are the Jacaranda’s with their purple trumpet-like flowers and then the fiery spread of the Flamboyant trees.

Jacaranda trees

I returned to Johannesburg on the 5^th of November and the next week Zimbabwe itself was having a change for the better. We hope and pray with the retirement of Robert Gabriel Mugabe that this will be a new spring for Zimbabwe, as beautiful, colourful and rich as the blossom of the trees that grow there.

"Msasas"  - Pauline Battigelli

 Travelling in Zimbabwe

The police in Zimbabwe are continually stopping cars and inspecting every inch of them with a long list of specific requirements that need to be visible in every vehicle. These road blocks cause delays and obstructions to moving traffic. Heavy fines are demanded if anything is out of alignment or not visible. In the meantime, on the streets and roads there is a high rate of serious accidents. The police always manage to find something not quite right and issue the drivers with a $US20 fine, which they will drop to $US10 if you look pathetic enough.

We had an experience driving into Harare. We were stopped for driving 70km/h in a 60km zone. This was perfectly correct as Richard did not see the speed sign. A policeman came to my window and said that we would have to pay a speeding fine of $US20. He took one look at my face and said kindly, “Ah, but you are too old. We will make it $US10,” for which I thanked him for the compliment. He then sent a young police woman of generous proportions to the window and she was paid the $US10.

My daughter-in-law asked politely for a receipt. The police woman stomped off and came back with one which she pushed through the window. I expected Richard to take the receipt and hold it for a few moments but he didn’t and neither did I as I do not see well. Impatiently she threw the receipt in my face and once again stomped off! We wondered why she was irritated at having to give us a receipt…

We hope with the new change in Zimbabwe, there will be a different attitude adopted by the police.

The Beekeeper

I am presently living with my eldest son Anthony and his wife Pia in Johannesburg.

The garden is spacious, peaceful and well-treed, offering sweet smelling Syringa blossom in the spring and a wonderful habitat for birds and bees.

The bees formed a huge hive under part of the roof over the main bedroom and bathroom. During the night, attracted by light, some of the bees would somehow climb down into the bedroom and lie doggo on a pillow or the carpet resulting in some fierce stings when pressurized by a cheek or a foot.

Pia, who is allergic to bee stings, seemed to bear the brunt of this.

After a particularly painful sting on the foot she said to Anthony: “Either I go, or the bees go!” 

He asked her where she would go to and unthinkingly she said: “.. to a B&B”.

At long last Anthony decided he would have to have the bees removed, much to Pia’s relief. He found a beekeeper who arrived in a truck with a long ladder tied to the roof with a bit of rope. He was dressed in a white protection suit and he swiftly removed and set up his ladder to inspect the hive with bare hands and no protection on his face.

a  bee smoking device

He carried with him a bee smoker device, used to make the bees dozy. It was a small mug with a lid and a long spout carrying straw.

Bee careful

Unfortunately he mislaid his lighter and got stung on the cheek. He hurried down the ladder, donned a protective headgear, borrowed a lighter from Ant and up he climbed into the roof once more. He told Anthony that when one bee stings you others follow suit. His bare hands were stung many times but he did not seem to worry about that and simply removed the stings and went on with his work.

"I was full of admiration" 

I watched the beekeeper happily going on with his work of dismantling a huge swarm which had been living there for years. I was full of admiration. 

He removed the darkest comb first with the many, many little black baby bees which he placed with their Queen in a cardboard box on the top of his truck.

Bees followed their Queen in clouds and buzzed in confusion around the box, whereupon another swarm from some neighbouring garden invaded the situation and in no time a sort of bee war went on with complete bee fury!

We were all safely inside behind closed windows with the dogs and watched with fascination.

Eventually the cardboard box was put into the truck and the beekeeper left at great speed down the drive, pursued by a swarm.

Evidently the bees have some extra sensory perception or antennae which warn them of flying over 35 kms an hour so many flew into the box after the Queen while others I suppose must have just dispersed. 

The honey comb had been put into buckets; the beekeeper would then settle the bees in a new hive.

In an hour or so the beekeeper arrived back for the mop up operations and to put tiles back on the roof. He went to collect payment from Anthony who asked him his name and email address. “Ant 4 B” said the beekeeper.

“I am called Ant too!” said Anthony. “What is your second name?”

“Lawrence,” replied the beekeeper.

“That’s odd,” said Anthony, “My second name is Lawrence too, spelled the same way as yours.”

I was sent for to establish if they were at all related, and I said that the Lawrence family were indeed relatives of ours. They were engineers and shipbuilders from a farm in Scotland called “Tillygthills” and had settled many years ago in the Kimberley area where my mother was born.

We will have to sort out the full history of our relationship at a later date but I do know that the Lawrence family of Kimberley with James and Alexander Lawrence as our forefathers were famous in their day for building churches and bridges in South Africa.

“I knew you were special Anthony Lawrence,” I told the beekeeper. 

“When I watched you handling those bees!”