Tony Hall barefoot and John Hall

Dad and Grandpa John. Notice the bare feet.

Do you really understand what you are looking at? Unless you are South African. Unless you can feel the texture of life in Pretoria in the late 40s and 50s, then I doubt it. Writing has to be a victory of the inotic over the exotic. If you write well then the reader will know what it was like to be that boy and cease to catch at the look.

I can't do that here and now, but I can say that we always went barefoot in South Africa and Kenya and Tanzania, my brothers and I. But when I married Teresa she used to tell my children they couldn't go barefoot because if they did they would get a cold.

'Why on earth do you say they will get a cold? That's ridiculous.'

'Because of the difference in temperature between their feet and their heads.'

'You are joking.'

'No. And when you go barefoot you have to wet you head to equalise the temperature and that way you don't catch a cold.'

'Does everyone think this, or is it just you and your family?'

'No, most people in Mexico believe this to be true.'

'Well they're nuts.' I said, intolerantly.

Later on, after deciding that I would integrate into Mexican life, in the overwhelming wash of a vast Catholic upper middle class Mexican family I began to lose my identity.

'I feel like I am losing my culture.' I told my wife. I give advice to my children and everyone countermands it. My children are almost all Mexican. I want them to have something of my culture too.' (bleat, whimper, whimper).

'When we got married we made a deal. I agreed that our children would be Catholics, but on the condition that they were free-thinking socialist Catholics. That was the deal. I put up with this Catholic lark and you allow them to be free thinking socialists.'

'Yes, yes, I suppose.' said my wife impatiently.

'Look.' said my wife, who for a while was convinced I had adult attention deficit disorder, 'with your life and all your travels and your background, I don't think you have a culture.'

'The truth,' is I said, 'I have too much culture. I have culture coming out of my ears. I have culture from all these places and people. I am overflowing with it. My cup brimmeth over with the bloody stuff. I have so much culture I don't know what to do with it. I could sell it at a peso to the pound on every street corner.'

'Nonsense.' she said. 'What possible culture can a South African have. You aren't even an Afrikaner white. You are just the detritus of empire.'

'We do have a strong culture.' I said. 'Remember when my cousin went to visit your sister and it was a complete disaster. Well, why was it a disaster? Because my cousin was South African and your sister and brother are prissy Europeans. Don't get me wrong. I adore your sister and her family but they don't get us. Douglas comes from the most wonderful generous family in the world. When you go there you will see. My uncle John and aunt Linda are really the most generous people I know - have ever known. They have brought Douglas up to be like that - to be open. To take and to give. We never make appointments. We have no hang ups about sharing and we are relaxed and normal. A lot more normal than Europeans living on top of one another, so careful not to break the rules, with their heads full of crappy complexes.'

'Look.' She said. 'I'm sorry, but I don't believe South Africans have that much of a culture. You can't convince me. Name one thing that characterises you as a South African.'

'Right. One thing.' I thought and thought and then said.

'We like going barefoot. We like the feel of stone and grass and dust and earth and water on the soles of our feet. We even go barefoot in malls and airports and we aren't afriad of chiggers'

'Nonsense.' she said. 'I don't believe you. You're making it up. I know you.'


But a few months later, when we landed in OR Tambo airport which was Jan Smuts then, one of the first things we saw was a father walking barefoot across the concourse, his son high on his shoulders grabbing his ears and a daughter next to him, barefoot in a summer dress, holding onto his ring finger, at the end of a long hairy arm. The South African wore shorts, of course.

'You see.' I said, triumphantly. 'I do have a culture.'

She said nothing. But she didn't seem very impressed.

Later we visited John and Linda at their house in Johannesburg and they put on a banquet in the garden for everyone, a brai: John cooking barefoot, the rich warm sound of South African dialect, everyone free and easy.   Now it was Tere's turn to feel a little beleaguered. I have quite a big family in South Africa and the diaspora hadn't started yet. Surrounded by a 60 relatives it was her turn.