Peetsa
Unreal, lookalike pizza

I had been working hard all week cleaning my new apartment, so I decided (at the spur of the moment) to give myself a little treat for breakfast yesterday. I used whatever was at hand to create a (mock) vegan pizza, which I call "peetsa". (The photo is of a regular one, which I got off the internet.)

What I did was so simple that I can't even call it a recipe, so (for the lack of a better word) I'll call it an UNrecipe. Here's what I did.

I used a flatbread ("khubs" in local parlance) but any flatbread (e.g. pita) would do. I spread some Marmite (which I had brought back from South Africa with me) on it, followed by hummus and tomato paste. I arranged slivers of olive on top and drizzled olive oil over it, popped it in the microwave to warm it slightly and, voila, my creation was complete and ready to be consumed. I did dice a fresh tomato (skin-on) but didn't use it for the topping; I had it on the side instead.

There are endless ways in which you could tweak the basic idea. You could lightly toast the flatbread, replace the hummus with grated or spreadable (vegan) cheese, replace the olives with pickles (e.g. lemon) etc. The sky is the limit.

As far as cheese goes, I dislike the oiliness and gooeyness of melted nonvegan hard cheese that gives pizza its signature look. I will experiment with meltable vegan hard cheese in due course.

Cutting the peetsa into slices proved messy. You really need a pizza cutter for that (which I didn't have but will get).

Peetsa
Unreal, lookalike pizza

I had been working hard all week cleaning my new apartment, so I decided (at the spur of the moment) to give myself a little treat for breakfast yesterday. I used whatever was at hand to create a (mock) vegan pizza, which I call "peetsa". (The photo is of a regular one, which I got off the internet.)

What I did was so simple that I can't even call it a recipe, so (for the lack of a better word) I'll call it an UNrecipe. Here's what I did.

I used a flatbread ("khubs" in local parlance) but any flatbread (e.g. pita) would do. I spread some Marmite (which I had brought back from South Africa with me) on it, followed by hummus and tomato paste. I arranged slivers of olive on top and drizzled olive oil over it, popped it in the microwave to warm it slightly and, voila, my creation was complete and ready to be consumed. I did dice a fresh tomato (skin-on) but didn't use it for the topping; I had it on the side instead.

There are endless ways in which you could tweak the basic idea. You could lightly toast the flatbread, replace the hummus with grated or spreadable (vegan) cheese, replace the olives with pickles (e.g. lemon) etc. The sky is the limit.

As far as cheese goes, I dislike the oiliness and gooeyness of melted nonvegan hard cheese that gives pizza its signature look. I will experiment with meltable vegan hard cheese in due course.

Cutting the peetsa into slices proved messy. You really need a pizza cutter for that (which I didn't have but will get).

ESIO TROT
Movie based on the eponymous children's book by Roald Dahl

We watched this the other night. It was utterly charming.

The lead characters are played by screen legends Dustin Hoffman and Judi Dench. The story deals with two elderly neighbors, Mr. Hoppy (Hoffman) and Mrs. Silver (Dench) who fall in love but are unaware of the mutual feelings and don't have the courage to declare their love for each other. Instead, Mrs. Silver gets herself a tortoise to lavish all her love and affection on, while Mr. Hoppy devises a plan to make the tortoise appear to grow bigger rapidly to impress Mrs. Silver in the hopes that she will reciprocate his feelings for her. Part of the plan is a so-called ancient magic spell, which uses English words in its formula back-to-front (for example, esio trot = tortoise).

It is a children's story, so the plot is not realistic, but it is sweet and has a happy ending. In true Roald Dahl style, the character of an adult, Mr. Pringle, is portrayed as a complete and insufferable idiot. It's not only the viewer who thinks Mr. Pringle is an idiot - Mrs. Silver also thinks that way, though it is only revealed toward the end of the story, but in very colorful language and imagery.

The story is not the kind that children appreciate at one level, and adults on another because of all kinds of subtleties and deep meanings cleverly tucked away - it is altogether a story for children, told by someone who deeply understood their minds and could fully enter their worlds.

DEPARTURES
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see / You haste away so soon (Robert Herrick)

When I arrived in South Africa two months ago I knew the chunk of time ahead seemed considerable but would be exhausted in the blink of an eye. I was right. It is almost time to leave, and a few words of thanks are in order.

First and foremost, thank you to my sister for hosting me and being considerate, sweet and lovely, as is her nature. She is the perfect companion, and I have written a poem about our connection, which could apply to any siblings who have a similar bond. It is followed by short notes on the poem.

I was very happy to have experienced the spring in Pretoria. I had only ever experienced the cold here - and cold severely inhibits me. Pretoria was beautiful even during winter, but now it is fragrantly beautiful, decked out in blossoms and blooms.

I feasted on the avocados while I was here. The creamy and buttery avocados alone are sufficient reason to retain South African citizenship - seriously.

I had the run of my sister's kitchen, and cooked to my heart's content. A life without cooking is no life at all. A life WITH cooking, on the other hand, in the Kingdom of Kitchen, is the ultimate good life.

Thank you to all who were happy to see and have me, and to the Country of my Skull (as author Antjie Krog puts it) that is in my blood and sinews and DNA, even though I am ashamed of it at times, with good reason.

Here is the poem.


unter den linden
for L.

siblings can be sublings
or manipulative superlings
many non-equal binaries besides

but not us

siblings from the same rootstock
sometimes emerge divergent 
different species 

but not us

we provide mutual shelter along the way 
fertile soil ... and syllables to make
our human growth habit
more bear-able

we prefix and suffix each other
organically
unter-linden-ally


NOTES:

The idea of oneness/separation is central to the poem, introduced in the opening stanza by "sub-", "super-", "non-equal" and "binaries", and reinforced later by "divergent" and "different".

There are two well-known German titles referencing linden (lime) trees. The older one, Unter der Linden (Under the lime tree {singular}; "der", with an -r), is the title of a love poem by Walther von der Vogelweide (circa 1170- 1230). The more recent one, Unter den Linden (Under the lime trees {plural}; "den", with an -n) refers to the most famous boulevard in Berlin. In the divided Berlin it was on the east side. This connotation of former division fits in with the meaning of the poem. My sister's name being "Linde" looks very similar to "Linden", so that ties together the dedicatee, title and vegetation metaphor (see next paragraph).

Two images are used in the poem: vegetation ("rootstock", "species", "soil", "growth habit", "organic"), as well as linguistics ("syllables", "prefix", "suffix"). They are later fused by using words such as "bear-able" (hyphen intentional; plants bear fruit, and humans bear burdens) and a creation such as "unter-linden-ally", which incorporates all of the following: the idea of unity/separation ("unter"), the title ("linden"), the vegetation metaphor (Linden = lime trees), and the linguistics metaphor ("ally").

40 YEARS ON
Meeting up with an old school friend
or: The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I met up with an old school friend yesterday after 40 years. We were in high school together, in the same class, for five years. Andre says he saw me once while I was in the military but I have no recollection of that whatsoever, so I will have to stick with the 40 years.

Meeting up with Andre reminded me of why I liked him back then. In a way it was as if no time had elapsed, and nothing had changed. Andre, having met several other classmates since we left school, believes that people essentially don't change: that they're still - deep inside - exactly what they were then.

We talked about other classmates whom we had, and hadn't, seen since we left school, about our teachers, and about our own lives and attitudes. It was a very natural and relaxed interaction, not the compulsive, jovial and semi-hysterical "do you still remember so-and-so and what he/she did ..." kind of exchange that happened at the one solitary school reunion (a general, not year-based, one) I ever attended - and promptly vowed never to allow myself to be talked into attending again.

I sometimes wonder how my classmates experienced me when I was at school. Something I do regret is that I didn't really notice some students and never bothered getting to know them better, people I now (with hindsight) realize were interesting, independent thinkers who didn't buy into the rhetoric of the time. Because I was a musician - the only student in the entire school who did music as a school subject (granted, it was a very small school), allowances were made for me, as are done for artists, who are generally regarded as "different". I know one student - a very rebellious and outspoken one during a very conservative time - did recognize something in me that he identified with. I have to mention here that my sister played an essential part in my progressive "enlightenment": she was studying literature at university during my high school years and got to read books that were banned due to the political agenda in South Africa. She freely shared her ideas were me, which I internalized and in turn used in my school essays, which must have shocked (or at least startled) my teachers.

Andre asked me if I would have recognized him if I hadn't known who he was. I said I might not have recognized him if I had passed him casually on the street, BUT I certainly would have recognized him if he had been in a line-up and I was asked to identify him. It is fascinating how one can recognize the old in the new, or new in the old, depending on how you look at it.

An anecdote involving Andre: in our first year of high school, on the last day of the initiation process (which was outlawed by the subsequent headmaster), we had to report early as per the instructions of the seniors. Andre and I were there early. We were directed to the football field, given a matchstick each, and told to measure the circumference of the field using our matchsticks. After we had measured a few yards, we were told to get up and run around the field x number of times. But just as we were about to start, the senior student who had just given the instruction suddenly remembered that Andre was asthmatic, so he let him off. He then turned to me and asked: Do you have asthma too? Of course I said yes - even though I had no such condition. (I was very chubby at the time, but not asthmatic.) I was let off too as a result. Andre had definitely saved the day.

For me, the whole point of meeting up again after decades is not to reminisce endlessly, or compare acquisitions and accomplishments (the latter didn't even enter into the conversation or our minds when Andre and I met yesterday), but to reflect on things, to reevaluate and redefine, to meet as if for the first time without the prejudices and mental filters we had back then. I have always been in a "circle" of my own, not buying into things that I seem to be expected to at the deepest level, but not making an issue of it either. It's the way I was living my life then, and it's the way I've been living my life ever since.

Andre and I will stay in touch from now on, having rekindled our friendship. Actually, "rekindle" might not be the correct word; we will simply continue where we left off, and it doesn't even feel (to me) like we ever did leave off.

WALLANDER
British TV detective series

My sister has been talking about Wallender for a long time and I finally got to watch a few episodes last week. I was hooked immediately.

The TV series is adapted from Swedish novelist Henning Mankell's Kurt Wallander novels. It is set in Sweden, particularly in the town of Ystad in the southern county of Skåne. Prior to the British production a Swedish version was made. The author of the novels subsequently approached British companies with a view to making a British version. One Swedish critic regarded the British version as superior to the Swedish one.

The BBC has produced four seasons in the series, each comprising 3 (long, 90-minute) episodes: in 2008, 2010, 2012 and 2016 respectively.

The series has received great critical acclaim and is clearly in a class all of its own. It is very European in sensibility; more than that, it is very Scandinavian. The series could never have emanated from North America, for example - the sensibility is simply too different.

One of the many interesting facts about the BBC series is that it led to an upsurge in tourism from the UK to the region of Sweden where the novels are set. Traditionally, the main tourists to Sweden had been Germans, the British regarding Sweden as cold and expensive.

The plots (of the episodes I've seen) are slow-moving but meticulously and very cleverly crafted. The episodes are complete in themselves and don't follow on from previous ones. The story lines are rather grim, so the series is not suitable for what my sister calls "binge-watching". I will continue and finish watching the remainder of the seasons the next time I'm in South Africa, but I will space the episodes and seasons out.

ALL MY LOVED ONES
1999 Czech movie with English subtitles

My sister's coworker Frik told us about this, which he had seen on DVD courtesy of the Unisa library. We promptly borrowed the disk and watched it last night.

The (factual) story is set against the backdrop of the events leading up to the Jewish holocaust, and features the removal of a boy from the Silberstein family in Czechoslovakia to safety in England through the Kindertransport arranged by a relatively little-known Englishman, Nicholas Winton (1909-2015). The rest of the Silberstein family was unable to get out and perished in the holocaust. Nicholas Winton rescued a total of 669 children, most of them Jewish.

One invariably thinks of Oskar Schindler when it comes to the mass rescue of Jews from the holocaust, but there are less celebrated ones who contributed to humanity no less than Schindler did - someone like Nicholas Winton.

The movie tells the story outlined above, but that's virtually all it does. It doesn't engage, or move, or haunt the viewer. In the hands of a good filmmaker it could have been heart-wrenching and soul-searing to watch. It SHOULD have been heart-wrenching and soul-searing - but it isn't.

Still, it's worth watching as it seems to be the only movie that deals with this particular part of history. A story however imperfectly told is better than one not told at all - especially this one.

For the record, my sister's appraisal of the movie is somewhat (possibly considerably) more positive than mine.

SPIRITUAL HOME
Queenswood, Pretoria, South Africa

Even though my spirituality is inclusive, and my sacred "space" is primarily inside my own head, I do feel the need for brick and mortar, ritual and synergy sometimes. Since I have a special, umbilical-cord-like bond with the Catholic Church, I went to Mass at Christ the King Catholic Church during my two-month visit, and it felt like a home-coming.

The parish priest, Father Chris Townsend, struck me as both a good priest AND a good parish priest (the two don't always go hand-in-hand). Here are some of the things I particularly liked about him. * He speaks clearly and naturally, reads fluently and reflectively, projects well, and has a good sense of both timing and humor. * He obviously has loads of common sense. There is every indication that he is running the parish intelligently and transparently. The parishioners are very lucky indeed to have him.

The music was good - mostly folksy, but attractive, featuring instruments such as the guitar and trumpet along with the organ. One of the guitarists proved to be very proficient at his craft, embellishing melodies rather than just playing chords, which transported me away from the humdrum strum. I was reminded of how well brass instruments support congregational singing.

An anecdote deserves being shared. They use an electronic notice board in church to project the lyrics of songs as well as the spoken parts of the mass. One day there was some confusion as to whether the Gloria would be spoken or sung. No words were appearing on the electronic board, and the musicians were silent. The priest (I seem to recall it was a visiting one, while the regular priest was in Poland for an international youth conference) started reciting it, and the congregation followed suit. However, after the first few lines everyone got stuck, and had a good giggle about it. The musicians were then galvanized into action, and the lyrics appeared onscreen. Back in the day, before the advent of electronic notice boards, everyone without exception knew all the spoken parts off by heart. Nowadays, with information available at the touch of a button, people don't need (or care) to remember things anymore. I think memory spans have shrunk along with attention spans.

I will treasure the memory of my time spent there. Initially the big interior space of the building was very cold (for me), but as spring sprung it became progressively less frigid. I was happy to make this transition. Even though it was cold at times, at one level, it was always warm and welcoming, at another.

REQUIEM FOR THE LIVING
Music concert, Pretoria, South Africa
28 August 2016

We attended the second performance of the world premiere of this work yesterday afternoon, in the ZK Matthews Hall at Unisa. The composer was Rexleigh Bunyard, who was a fellow undergraduate music student with me many years ago. We were never personal friends and didn't keep in touch through the years. My sister learned about the concert and the name Rexleigh Bunyard rang a bell.

I didn't quite know what to expect of the work - I hadn't even known that Rexleigh composed - so I was expecting the unexpected. It turned out to be a richly rewarding experience.

Just some background: a Requiem Mass is a Mass for the Dead in the Roman Rite of the Christian church. It is the first word of the entrance antiphon: Rest eternal grant unto them, o Lord (requiem = rest). Rexleigh's requiem is not for the dead, however, but for the living. This is evidenced in numerous ways throughout the work, one of them the simple reversal of the usual order of the Mass, for example the fact that the final item in the usual requiem, the Libera me (Liberate me) becomes the first item in this one.

It is a rich and multi-layered work, one that would require several viewings and listenings to fully appreciate. Here are just some thoughts after a single hearing.

Actually, "hearing" is not the appropriate word. The Requiem is a kind of "Gesamtkunst", a visual drama abounding in sensory clues and impressions. Without the visual element, much is lost.

Rexleigh's Requiem is a mature work, by which I mean it emanated from  a mature mind. The musical sensibility that comes across is confident and well-rounded. I'm not sure how many prior works she has written, but it seems unlikely to me that anyone could start out with a work like this. Rather, this must be the culmination of an ongoing creative output.

I was struck by how deeply intelligent the work was, how much meticulous thought had gone into it; how effective and creative yet not-for-effect the effects were - how natural and organic they were, in fact, in spite of some of them being quite novel at a certain level.

The work is at the same time religious (because it references religious texts), secular (because it draws on the essence of the texts but moves far beyond them), multicultural and uniquely South African. To me, it is a perfect blend of all those elements, perfectly integrated in a wonderfully perceptive and unselfconscious way. If I did have any prior misgivings, these were that this requiem would be a(nother) self-conscious attempt (in the South African context) at inculturation, but it was anything but.

My sister pointed out that the work seemed to work with "sound blocks", and that, once she had figured that out, she could relax and just sit back and enjoy the music. She had intuitively hit the nail on the head.

The work was vibrant and bustling and colorful. There were some poignant and conventionally beautiful moments too. I personally found the Lacrymosa/Kyrie eleison deeply moving.

I found Requiem for the Living totally engaging and very uplifting, and would have bought a CD recording of it, had it been available. A DVD (incorporating visuals) would be better than just the audio, but even that would be a poor substitute for a live performance, guaranteed to sweep you up by its sheer energy, and dwarf you by the magnitude of the scale and concepts.

The above thoughts just scratch the surface (or maybe they capture the essence, who knows).

I would have liked to have program notes before the concert. It was printed on the program that the full program notes could be downloaded from the website at www.reqliving.org (this website is an excellent resource, by the way), but we had to turn our mobiles off at the start of the concert, so how were we to benefit from the program notes when it mattered the most?

Rexleigh came on stage at the end of the concert. I wouldn't have recognized her after all the years without knowing who she was, but I could see the youthful Rexleigh in the mature version: still with the perkiness and vivacity of a little bird, but now very sophisticated.

As an aside, my sister spotted the famed South African opera singer Mimi Coertse, first in the lobby before the concert, then in the audience as we were leaving at the end of the concert. I only saw the back of her, and she struck me as shorter in stature than I had imagined.

I was thinking of the huge amount of effort that must have gone into producing something like this: first the countless hours of planning and creative endeavor, then getting funding for the project; the logistics of getting musicians to rehearse the work and finding rehearsal and performance venues; the years of prior training of the musicians themselves ... the list goes on almost endlessly. The conclusion: you cannot put a price tag on this kind of endeavor and experience. It is ultimately a labor of love, one that needs sponsoring to see the light of day; a startling, miraculous happening not recognized by many, but enriching the lives and minds of those who do in unimagined ways.

Thank you, Rexleigh, and all the sung and unsung heroes who helped make all of this possible.

BRUNCH WITH ELLEN
Hartbeespoort, Northwest Province, South Africa

We had brunch with Ellen in Hartbeespoort yesterday. Ellen is a dear friend and coworker of my sister's, and is now a friend of mine as well. Hartbeespoort is in the adjacent Northwest Province, about an hour's drive from Pretoria. It is situated at a very scenic lake, and the surrounding scenery is quite breathtaking.

Ellen's house is breathtaking, too. It would be the ideal material for a feature (several features, in fact) in a lifestyle magazine, but there is something that sets it apart from the usual designer homes and interiors: the obvious love and utmost care that went into every single detail, and is still going into every single detail. Ellen and her house are a rare combination and manifestation of exquisite beauty, an expansive mind, a savvy intellect, good judgement, impeccable taste, a total lack of ostentation, a heartfelt warmth, a generosity that knows no bounds - and something that lies beyond words, that can only be intuited, that I would simply have to call "the X factor".

I took loads of photos of her house, mostly of the exquisite garden that is food and balm for the soul and mind and senses. One would need several days to explore the interior, which is indescribably beautiful. One would also need a proper camera to do justice to it, which I don't have. Besides that, I wouldn't want to intrude. Suffice it to say that the interior is a perfect match for the exterior.

After meeting at Ellen's house first, drinking in the sights and sounds, and absorbing the love that is evidenced by, and emanated by, everything, Ellen took us out for brunch. We went to Vovo Telo bakery and restaurant nearby. Vovo Telo's is unique in many ways, with an ambiance we love, and a very creative and interesting menu. The food for the body we chose perfectly complemented the soul food we had just had.

We dropped our friend itoff at her house before being on our way back to Pretoria for a music concert at 3 p.m., feeling energized and uplifted from being in the presence of tangible and concentrated love and care in the person of Ellen.

LIGHT LUNCH #2, WITH ERIKA AND SYLVIA

Pretoria, South Africa

We had a light (vegetarian) lunch with my sister's neighbor Erika and Erika's sister Sylvia yesterday. I did the cooking - my last "big cook" before I leave. It was a perfect spring day, so lunch was had in the garden. I was very happy with the final result of everything I made, and so were (by all accounts) my audience.

On the menu:

* freshly baked bread

* asparagus quiche
* roly-poly (= baked jam roll) with custard

I had planned the menu (and bought the necessary ingredients) a few days in advance but changed it sometime in the early hours of the morning. I had intended making a zucchini (known over here as "baby marrow") bake and passion fruit cake, but changed the passion fruit cake to roly-poly and the zucchini bake to asparagus quiche as I realized these would be more appropriate for the intended audience. The changes meant that I needed more ingredients. My sister kindly offered to make a quick trip to the supermarket to get what I needed, setting me free to start preparations right after breakfast.

Erika asked me some time ago: how does it feel not to eat the food you cook yourself? Some background before I tell you what I told her. Even though I myself am vegan, I cook vegetarian for other people (a position strict vegans would find totally untenable). This means I don't get to taste much of what I'm cooking; I don't even lick a spoon containing non-vegan ingredients but wipe it clean. I go by smell and appearance instead, as well as honest feedback from those who consume what I produce (and yes, they are honest; some are forthright, some are not, but in the latter case I know from what is politely NOT being said what they really think). My answer to Erika's question: it feels perfectly normal not to taste the food I cook. My mom (who was an excellent cook, from whom I got my love of cooking, and who is still my role model) never tasted 99% of what she cooked or baked, for decades (no exaggeration here). She must have baked hundreds, if not thousands, of sweet and savory dishes, none of which she ever tasted. I was an omnivore at the time, so I had the pleasure and privilege of tasting all of her cooking and baking. I can attest to the fact that it was really, really good. Super tasty. All of it.

Back to yesterday's lunch. I decorated the table with some azalea flowers from my sister's garden, as well as two "new generation" candles with wax shells and LED lights. I love these candles - they're so much more practical (not to mention healthier) than conventional petroleum-based ones.

This time I remembered to take "before" photos, but the table was in the shade, and I was out in the sun when taking the photos, with considerable glare on my mobile phone screen, so I kind of guessed at what I was photographing. Some of those guesses turned out OK. The photos feature:

* My sister and Sylvia at the dining table

* Sylvia and Erika

* One of Erika's two cats. Both paid us a visit.

LIGHT LUNCH WITH LISETTA
Pretoria, South Africa

We had a light lunch with my sister's coworker Lisetta today, in my sister's garden. It was a gorgeous spring day out. I had the pleasure of doing the cooking.

The menu featured:
1. homemade bread [baked by me] with butter and three different kinds of jams: grape, apricot and pineapple [jams homemade, but not by me]
2. quiche (spinach with three different cheeses: Cheddar, Parmesan and Feta) [quiche made by me]
3. cake with custard [both made by me]
4. coffee

Everything was freshly made. By the time the two ladies sat down to lunch, both the bread and quiche were still warm. The top of the quiche was still crispy, so was the crust of the bread.

We gave Lisetta a bouquet of fresh cut flowers, as well as a "PS" chocolate bar. In South Africa, PS is made by Cadbury's, and each  wrapper features one of several slogans/messages, such as "Thank you" or "I'm sorry". The one we gave Lisetta had "I love you" on it, but we had changed the "I" to "We".

Lisetta asked if she could have some of the left-over food to take home with her to enjoy for dinner, and I gladly obliged by packing most of it as a "hamper" (what we call a "doggie bag" over here).

Before Lisetta and my sister's arrival (both were at work this morning), and behind the scenes, I had planned out the morning meticulously: what to do in what order, which dishes could be baked at the same time etc. It included a quick run to the supermarket to get the fresh spinach, cut flowers and chocolate bar. Everything worked out very well. I was running slightly late, and Lisetta and my sister were slightly later than expected, so the timing turned out to be perfect.

I am on an incredible high right now. Lisetta is gone, the dishes are done, and my sister is taking a nap. I'm a little tired, but all pumped up. Cooking focuses me 200%. When I'm in the Kingdom of Kitchen, I'm in a different mental space altogether, and I forget about all else. I can quite understand why some people, when they're frustrated or angry or unhappy, find refuge in the kitchen and simply cook their sorrows away. Cooking  can transform any negative mood into a positive one, and turn an already positive one into an amazing one.

As usual, I forgot to take "before" photos, so the dining table isn't picture perfect.

I will give the recipes, one at a time, in separate blog posts.

EXCLUSIVE BOOKS WAREHOUSE SALE
Johannesburg, South Africa
25 August 2016

This annual sale started at 8 a.m. yesterday and runs until 4 p.m. on Sunday August 28th. We went there on the opening day together with my sister's neighbor and coworker Erika, in Erika's car.

Details about the sale hadn't been that easy to come by, and specific details only emerged relatively late. Book lovers weren't put off, or out, however; once they smell a trail they are expert at tracking down whatever they're after - in this case books at bargain prices.

On our way to the sale we had refreshments at Vita Italiana (an Italian restaurant) in Melrose Arch, like we did last year. We made this stop first as we wanted the initial rush at the warehouse to subside so we wouldn't need to wait in line to get in.

Business was brisk when we got there, with book lovers numbering in their dozens, a steady stream arriving and departing all the time. Those "caught in the act" were frenziedly browsing through what was on offer, displayed on several tables groaning under their respective loads. This year books cost R35 apiece regardless of size or whether it's hardcover or paperback (last year it was R20 apiece). (One of the books I bought was a hardcover biography, with photos, comprising 752 pages. At R35 it was a steal.) Books were being added from boxes continuously by very efficient staff members. Books were also being rearranged by staff continuously as the browsers quickly reduced neat piles and rows to friendly chaos.

Erika and my sister bought 19 books each, and I bought 7. One of the advantages of going with people who know your tastes, and whose tastes you know, is that you spot titles they don't, and vice versa. For example, Erika saw a book she knew I would want a copy of (David Crystal: Just a phrase I'm going through - my life in language). My sister drew my attention to the biography I mentioned in the previous paragraph. I, in turn, saw a book on the Congo I knew my sister would find useful as she is doing research on the Congo.

There is nothing that beats the smell and feel of good old paper books. When I read, I do so with a pencil in hand, marking words and sentences and paragraphs. An electronic reader doesn't "do it" for me, despite its many advantages. I engage with a book fully; I want to touch and feel and smell it, and physically turn the pages.

The way I read has changed over the years. When I was much younger I would buy any title I was remotely interested in - and end up reading very few of them. These days I know what I'm interested in sufficiently to want to read about it in depth, rather than just a blurb or article. Also, I don't read exclusively for content ("what") anymore: I also read for style ("how"). It's a little like the way I listen to music nowadays: I can appreciate music I don't particularly like, provided it's well put together and well performed. Similarly, I can derive great benefit from a book whose content doesn't exactly fire my pistons if it is really well written. Usually - and luckily - the two things go together for me most of the time.

Being with fellow book and word lovers is a truly uplifting experience. The collective energy is exhilarating, making one lose track of time (you end up spending hours on your feet). Everyone's entire focus is on the books. Nothing else really matters at that moment.

In a way having your nose in a book (literally and figuratively) is a revolutionary act, an act of faith: faith in books, in the power of the (written) word, in the power of ideas. I'm totally sold on that kind of faith. Without it life wouldn't be worth living, and I would summarily and unceremoniously shrivel up and die.