Donkeyshott & Xuitlacoche

Jelena Let me preface this blog by saying that it is self-serving. Reliable sources say it evidences unacceptable traces of misogyny and that it is a travesty of 'the truth'. It is not what 'really' happened. People were harmed in the making of this blog and that is just not right. However, it also an extract from a magikal diary. A magical diary is a way of linking up events, many seemingly unrelated, into a coherant web of meaning so that the writer understands how he or she creates their own reality. It is an attempt at producing an accurate map of that magical reality. This is part of what is called 'the Great Work.' There is nothing more sacred a human can do. It is a way of entering into conversation with a higher self. The Holy Guardian Angel (HGA). In fact an angel, a real one, does appear in this text. Memory and images and the imagination are the absolute woof of a magical diary. This blog, therefore, is only meant to be t

Dorney Lake She said.  'If you really cared then you would know where we were going and how to get the ticket.'   'But you know this.'  I said,  'so just tell me where we're going and we'll be on our way.' 'Dad is like that.'  said Carmen,  'There's nothing you can do about it, so calm down and deal with it.'   I had to take my daughter to a rowing competition at Eton yesterday and  she  was harrying me into leaving on time. I only had a vague notion of where we were going: Windsor and Eton Riverside.  'Well then we should go to Twickenham and change there.' 'No. We're going to Clapham Junction and changing there.'  said Eve, who is almost 15. Everything went like clockwork, but it was an expensive journey because of the Taxi we had to take in Windsor. I hadn't seen Eton before. It was Sunday, but a few of the older boys were about and they were dressed in their coat and tails with their bow tie

Drugs confiscated in Mexico, some of it was destined for the appreciative nostrils of the chattering classes. There are demonstrations by political opportunists on the left and drug baron-financed protesters against the war on the drugs trade in Mexico, and suddenly articles pop up in western newspapers in support of these demonstrations. Predictably, they criticise Mexico's failure to tackle the drug trade. One could legitimately ask if these journalists have not actually been paid off. A bank transfer would do it, taking only a few seconds. The drug traffickers don't just buy off locals. They buy off officials and journalists and politicians in any country where it suits them to do so. Applying 'international pressure' in the media would be one effective tactic drug traffickers could use against the measures being taken against them. They could plant stories. Mexico's war against the drug traffickers is the US's war. If Mexico has failed to defeat the

Dearest Eve, Accept my sincere greetings for the coming year, may it usher in a new era in the progress of our struggle, I am convinced there must be a great change, we are moving to our goal, despite grievous obstacles. Incidentally, I must apologise for my very long silence again, you must get used to me now, everything has changed, I am no longer that efficient correspondent; with more problems on my head, at times I feel I am starting to have a breakdown, my transfer to Lusaka has, contrary to expectations, aggravated the situation. I have become more unproductive, if ever I was. Can you imagine not having an office, above all being a perpetual boarder, I can't determine my way of life. I am hoping, at least, that the latter will be soon solved, the comrades of MPLA gave us their house, which I will occupy as soon as it is cleaned, but I went away for two weeks and came back and they still hadn't cleaned it. I was attending a meeting of the NEC in Morogoro , I am le

Bagamoyo beach, in 1971 it was pristine Mr and Mrs R Steinhardt 4, Rue Ronsard 92 Meudon - La Foret France November 1971 Dear Granny and Grandpa how are you? We have been doing a lot and going everywhere. The school has many activities in the afternoon. We are practically always occupied with something or another and we have lots of colourful posters. It's about 90 degrees, a cool day for Dar-es-salaam . The people in this flat we live in are very friendly and we often borrow things from them like knives and forks. We have barbecues over a charcoal grill. Food here is cheap (the barbecue costing 8 shillings). Every Saturday we go with Pam and Ilundi , her daughter, or Marga and Tana, her daughter, to  Karioco market, where you can buy every imagineable kind of fish, ladies fingers, red chillies, artichokes and all manner of seafood is there on sale like shrimp, sea urchins, Tuna, Kingfish, Rabbit fish. There are also lots of live fowl, beef and lamb, but

Karen on her trip to South Africa: 'Emblazoned' in her memory Sydney, Karen and Marie Phillips I was in Matumi and looking through some old photo albums and saw pictures of a family member I had never met. She must have been about the same age as me at the time, a bit younger perhaps. She was pretty, with long wavy hair and a sweet smile and I wondered what the connection was: Karen Dear Philip, I am the second and youngest daughter of Nola's brother Sydney Cecil Phillips and Marie Phillips , and was looking on the Internet for my South African relatives and extended family. I rather spontaneously plugged in "Nola Hall" into Google this morning, and came up with your wonderful website about your parents Tony and Eve Hall . I can remember our getting letters from them when I was a child, and hearing about their travels and I remember hearing about them being in India. I grew up overseas in Belgium and Turkey, and only came to South Africa once when

Hi Philip - how lovely to read these memories (from John and Wanda Patten and Glenys and Howard Harisson ) of our youth at Wits , though it wasn't altogether a lovely time. I remember the march to the City Hall pretty vivdly; I think i was carrying a banner saying "Kenis is kleurblind" - (knowledge is colour blind). And the women of the Black Sash were there, lined up and solemn and brave with their sashes on. And those hot steps we all sat on endlessly, talking, talking. Or outside the library on the weedy lawn (kikuyu grass is not soft to sit on) in front of the Nissen huts they never took down after the war where we wrote exams, hot as Hades with sweating palms you had to wipe on your skirt so your pen didn't slip from your sweaty palm as you wrote.  And I remember Michael Laschenger, and Mike Colenso, and others, and Michael Picardie who got arrested one day in the big round-up, and there was a typical cock-up about the wrong set of emer