Over the 4th of July weekend, I flew down to Oakland/Berkeley to be with my son Zac for a short road trip. I would see, on this 4-day visit, Zac’s wife Vicky, my sister Laurie and husband Robie, and cousins Peter and Janie Jaffe, Shirley and Dan Lee, and Debbie and Grant Michels. But it was just Zac and me for the whole road trip, making our way back and forth from an overnight stay at Asilomar State Beach and Conference Center Grounds.
I recalled that my mother had attended some kind of social work conference at Asilomar 30-plus years previously, and the site has an epic history as a place where great and/or powerful minds have gathered.
Zac also found accommodations there to be reasonably priced. It is, after all, a state park.
Speaking of Mom, she was renowned for striking up conversation with strangers. On a bus. At a ball game. Anywhere she could. Her approach was to ask people questions, and then explore with additional questions what they had to say about their lives.
As a teenager, being with her during her various social encounters was an eye-rolling experience. I interpreted her inquiries as “social working” her way through chance encounters. It was a means for Mom to intrude into others’ psyches. But as my sister Laurie has pointed out to me on multiple occasions, such intrusions have become my norm as well. She has also noted that people love to be asked about their lives, and so few of us get such an audience. So attentive inquiries usually start interesting conversations.
On this road trip, Zac witnessed this behavior of mine more than once. As a journalist, he is a professional observer and documentarian. But as a son, he had to deal with my conversations in a mixture of wonder and annoyance.
We knew we would pass through Gilroy on our way to Asilomar, so we decided to do SOMETHING related to garlic – after all, the town boasts itself as the garlic capital of the world.
Zac saw various web links to garlic retail establishments, but also found a curious reference to a black garlic outlet. https://www.gilroyblackgarlic.com/
As we approached the address, it quickly became clear that this was no ordinary garlic shop. Turned out, it was the location where the black garlic was manufactured. It had the outward-facing presence of an industrial strip mall. When we came to the front door, we were the only car in the parking lot. It all looked deserted on a late Sunday morning, but the sign on the door was insistent. “Will Return Shortly. Please call us! The phone number was then listed.
Gilroy Black Garlic Storefront
Zac made that call, a man answered and said he’d be there in just a couple of minutes. And he was good to his word. Two minutes later, a car pulls up with a friendly middle-aged man ushering us to come in. 30 minutes later, we learned a lot about black garlic. How it is made. How the owner – who was the one who greeted us – learned the blackening recipe from his abuelo (grandfather) in Mexico. How this was the most authentic, best quality black garlic in the world. How the taste of the product changes dramatically from the 30 – 60-day version, 60 – 90-day version, and the 90 – 120-day version. (Yes… we got taste tests to prove it.) And… we left with lots of black garlic. Suitable for gifts to our friends!
After settling into our room at Asilomar, we decided to go out to eat at a fish restaurant in Pacific Grove. It was called, Passionfish (https://www.passionfish.net/).
The waiter provided us menus and then said that the special that evening was Alaskan King Salmon. Now, I would not normally want to make a big deal about the sourcing of food in restaurants, but Passionfish was making an elevated claim about their environmental sensitivity. Both the menu and the waiter referenced that all fish was from sustainable fisheries and whenever possible local waters. After having just spent a month on San Juan Island, hearing about the Southern Resident Killer Whales on the verge of starving to death because their prime food source – King Salmon – was being fished out, I mentioned this to our waiter. I suggested that he pass this info on to the cooks. We then began to look at our menu, getting ready to order (but not the King Salmon).
To my surprise, a couple of minutes later, a woman came by our table. Turns out she was the restaurant’s owner.
“I understand you have some questions about our menu,” she politely stated. And our conversation proceeded from there.
For about 15 minutes we went back and forth about King Salmon. I described the impacts of overfishing on orcas. She was part of a sustainable fisheries group down in California and was under the impression that Alaskan salmon was not in danger of overfishing. I suggested otherwise and gave her references to check out fisheries conditions. The 15 minutes moved to 30, as she began to evolve the conversation to other topics, and Zac and I were in pure listening mode. But we had yet to actually order the food. (This is where Zac’s annoyance was understandable). But the owner was clearly passionate (hence the name) about the topic, knowledgeable about California fisheries, and enjoying the opportunity to talk with someone who cared about the topic.
Eventually, we ordered the food, and it was super tasty.
Other, shorter conversations with strangers followed the rest of our stay. But you get the point. For some of us – me – it is the human stories that can shine the brightest when in travel mode. With the settings, just the settings.
Daniel Ellsberg led me down to his couch-filled Kensington daylight basement. The view out west on that bright, color-drenched spring day was toward Mt. Tam and San Francisco Bay, but we were headed eastward, into a large, dimly lit storage room filled with boxes. My task, as he described it, was pretty simple. Riffle through the boxes, organize the contents of each chronologically, and then label every box with the appropriate date range.
“What are these papers?” I asked him quite non-innocently.
“They’re the Pentagon Papers,” was his reply, a wry smile on his face. “I finally received the documents from my FOIA (Freedom of Information Act) request.”
The year was 1979. Six years after the federal case against him had been thrown out due to government misconduct and illegal evidence gathering. He had been prepared to face the consequences of a guilty verdict in an Espionage Act violation – an almost certain life sentence – but instead now found himself a free man, living a blessed life in the East Bay, with a beautiful heiress wife, Patricia Marx Ellsberg, and a lifelong mission to oppose and expose government lies. Ellsberg had become a hero to many, including me. But my connection with him was laughably incidental to his fame and purpose.
See if you can follow this.
A week before my box-riffling job, I had just started living with Alice Edwards, a widowed, retired librarian who owned a beautiful North Berkeley home. Alice was a friend and co-congregant at the Berkeley Unitarian Universalist Church with Margaret and Everett Hunting. Everett was the grandfather of a college friend of mine, Martha, who had given me his contact info because I had told her I was hoping to go to UC Berkeley in the fall. When I contacted the elder Huntings, I asked whether they knew of a place I could stay for a couple of weeks. I told them I would be happy to pay a bit of rent and/or do yard and minor house repair work while waiting for the university to get back to me. (I was number 10 on their waiting list and was told I would likely make the cut.) They contacted Alice who in turn agreed to take me in for a while – rent free.
(While it is not particularly relevant to the Ellsberg story, since this is a name-dropping blog entry, I will point out that this was Margaret and Everett’s second marriage. Margaret’s nom-de-plume was Margaret Sutton, the author of the Judy Bolton mystery series. At one point, that series was the second most popular of its genre, trailing only the Nancy Drew books!)
One morning, as I was eating breakfast, I overheard Alice talking with a friend on the phone. Her friend was exasperated and complaining. She had just quit working for some guy, because he couldn’t make a solid commitment for ongoing work. After Alice hung the phone up, I asked her, “What’s the story? Is there work available?”
“Well, apparently Daniel Ellsberg is a rather odd duck. My friend quit working for him yesterday.”
“I like ducks,” was my response.
Upon my encouragement, Alice called her friend back. Yes, indeed, she had Ellsberg’s phone number. Yes, she’d give it to me and I could call to see if he still needed help. Yes, I did. And yes, he said to come on over the next day. He gave me his address. The bus ride would turn out to be short and pretty direct.
My tenure as an employee for Daniel and Patricia Marx Ellsberg would prove quite short. The riffling part took about a week. But they also asked if I could help out with party preparations. “Sure,” I said.
There are only a few incidents and artifacts of my time with the Ellsbergs that I remember, but for a young man hanging with his hero, it was ego-stoking fun. During the party I drove the Ellsberg’s sports car to fetch ice cream at a local Kensington creamery when supplies were running low. I served guests hors d’oeuvres. And then there was the hot tub.
Patricia said I should just relax and enjoy myself, and that included stripping down and joining her, her husband and others in their hot tub. Daniel Ellsberg’s political and scientific interests at that time incorporated commercial nuclear energy with analysis of nuclear weaponry, and the hot tub attendees included top nuclear scientists at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratories. “The China Syndrome” movie had recently come out, and the Three Mile Island nuclear accident was in the news.
“Do you think that commercial nuclear energy is just too dangerous to ever be used?“, I asked the group. I was surprised to hear that several of them believed that the technology had yet to mature, and that in the future, nuclear could be reasonably safe. The waste processing and storage problem was resolvable. Ellsberg was connecting with government and business skeptics, yet ones whose sober assessment of technology was ultimately optimistic.
At a personal level, my interactions with Dr. Daniel Ellsberg were almost comically droll. He came across as a classic “absent-minded professor.” His thoughts meandered here and there, forgetting the simple things – like ice cream – and focusing on the more theoretical. A few days after the party, at the end of my time in his employ, he gave me a copy of his first book, “Papers on the War,” and we had a brief parting chat.
“I’ll tell you something that I haven’t made public,” he said almost in a whisper. “Henry Kissinger tried to have me killed.”
Years later, attempts on Ellsberg’s life became more commonly known. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Ellsberg) The fateful incompetency and amoral lunacy of Nixon’s “Plumbers Unit” which went after Ellsberg, was the immediate precursor of Watergate, and a touchstone lesson on government malfeasance that would be a transformational moment in American political life. So Ellsberg’s revelation about Kissinger went into the shocking-not-surprising category for me; a twenty-something political liberal about to enter grad school.
Over the ensuing decades I have often thought about my brief employment with Daniel Ellsberg. I never did see him again after the riffling work was done, but so often, his name came up in the news, usually in juxtaposition to other whistle blowers and government secrecy revelations. Unlike Edward Snowden, Ellsberg turned himself in to authorities, stayed in America, and was prepared to take the consequences of his actions. Unlike Donald Trump, the revelations of state secrets were for the cause of peace and the lives of millions, not personal ego-enrichment.
And what a delicious way he chose to leave this mortal coil. He announced his terminal illness a few months before his passing. In the end, surrounded by loved ones, he was said to joke, “If I had known dying would be like this, I would have done it sooner.”
Pass the ice cream. Cheers for a consequential life well lived!
“What was that?” I thought to myself. I was on all fours, doing my regular morning blackberry lopping task.
“Whooshhhhhhh!” again I heard.
“I know what that is. I’m sure of it,” as I leapt to my feet, hopped over bramble, and made my way to the whale watch overlook. And sure enough, there they were. Two orcas, bobbing to the top to exhale and inhale through their blowholes. Probably 300 feet away, but the sight thrilled. It thrilled.
In 1994, early in my State Parks career, I led a planning process to build a small campground at Lime Kiln Point State Park. Already internationally known as the best place to see orca from shore, LKPSP was a day-use-only park. We were trying to provide access for the hoi palloi. The great unwashed. The everyday folks who couldn’t afford fancy B&Bs or luxury hotels to visit San Juan Island and see some orcas. The bottom line for the project and for me was abject failure. We ran a perfect public planning process. We proposed a small, low-impact campground. We went up half a dozen times to meet with neighbors and officials. And… the County Board of Adjustment turned us down flat. And I never saw an orca!
A couple years later, I did manage the contract for an interpretive sign project at the park. Still didn’t see an orca.
One of the interpretive signs I helped put together in the 1990’s is still present at the park. The restored lime kiln is in the background. I’m most proud that I also facilitated a land exchange that brought that kiln inside the park boundaries.
More than 25 years later, I asked Park staff if Jean and I could take our Rpod travel trailer up to serve as State Parks hosts for a month. Camp Hosts and Park Hosts are nothing new for State Parks. Without them, the system simply wouldn’t work. But securing a plum site like Lime Kiln Point was a treat. And this last May, we got our chance.
Welcome to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island
Here we are, in full park host regalia.
The Seven Tasks (of which Jean had Three)
Generally, Park Hosts function to assist visitors in a variety of ways. They aren’t supposed to do work that would otherwise be done by park staff – the union has a thing or two to say about that – but they can do those “nice to haves” that aren’t seen as essential to keep the park operating. This includes greeting visitors, helping them buy Discover Passes, and perhaps giving tours of the park. I had a few other things I wanted to do so I contacted the park manager, Dylan McElhaney, in advance to see if he was open to them. What emerged from our discussions were the following seven tasks I would eventually take on as a Park Host:
Setting up the Interpretive Center
A few years after my interpretive signage project was completed in the 1990’s, park staff converted a small garage into an interpretive center. A few years later, during a budget cut, Erin Corra, the Parks Interpretive Ranger was laid off. But there was such support for her work, that a non-profit friends group called Friends of Lime Kiln Society (FOLKS) ( https://folkssji.org/ ) was formed with her as its first – and still only – Executive Director. FOLKS would be in charge of operating the LKPSP Interpretive Center (Called affectionately the IC). The IC currently has some excellent introductory materials about the key resources and attractions of the park and a plethora of “bling” to sell, which raises money for FOLKS and the park.
The “IC” – Note wheelbarrow full of Himalayan Blackberry cuttings
The IC would open fully for Memorial Day weekend, but we were told that FOLKS could use help in getting it ready. Jean and I were tasked with that effort. It was fun! Especially in getting to know Erin; a relationship that would pay dividends in later experiences. We also came to know Paul Rudd – no not that one – who manages the main park concession. It’s called “The Blowhole: Snacks with a Porpoise.” Paul was the absolutely sweetest most wonderful man, who constantly expressed appreciation for our volunteer work and we expressed appreciation for his delicious hot dogs and cream sodas. https://the-blowhole-snacks-with-a-porpoise.business.site/?utm_source=gmb&utm_medium=referral
Walking Around and Greeting Visitors
Our next assignment was to simply walk around the park wearing our park vests and hats and engaging with park visitors. A friendly “how you doing?” or “can I answer any question you have?” was all that was necessary to engage with people. I was surprised at how the officialdom of the uniform broke down any barriers and people easily opened up with questions.
As Jean and I learned more and more about the park over the month’s period of time, we were able to respond to their questions with more depth. And that, in turn, could prompt more clever inquiries on our behalf. I began to lean into interpretation with those who were ready. “Do you know what you are looking at?”, I would ask, as many people had no idea that across Haro Strait was Vancouver Island. “Do you know why orca some so close to shore here?” “Do you know why Haro Strait is a central part of an international dispute that brought close to 1000 American and British soldiers to San Juan Island for over a dozen years in a standoff that eventually was solved without violence?” “Do you know who started the Pig War and what he had to do with naming the park Lime Kiln Point?” Most people ate that stuff up!
Lyman Cutlar’s pig victim, potato in mouth, shown at the National Park Service’s American Camp. The scene of a 12-year “Pig War” between the Brits and the Yanks… no one shot but the pig.
Himalayan Blackberries
When I got to the park, I was saddened to see so much of the main trail to the whale watch overlook and the overlook itself taken over by the vicious and invasive Himalayan blackberry species (Rubus armeniacus [aka R. discolor, R. procerus, R. fruticosa]). I asked Dylan if I could take on the task of lopping off as much of the evil vine as I could. He was fine with that, and showed me to the wheel barrel, lopping instruments, and gloves (which were helpful but not fully protective!) I’d need to go to war on the thorny nemesis.
My approach was to work 1.5 to 2 hours a day, every other day, and get the trail and views from the trail clear of any vines or leaves. And I pulled it off! Even went all the way to the lighthouse and a few hundred feet towards Deadman Bay along the shoreline trail.
Will the vines come back? Of course. But even an occasional effort by staff or volunteers could continue to give the native vegetation a fighting chance. Dylan told me as we departed he’d be on that. Fingers crossed.
One morning’s wake up work, with the lopping implement of choice.
Before
After. Ok… not exactly the same spot as the before, but you get the point. I swear you couldn’t even see the glistening Oregon grape before I lopped off the blackberry vines.
Lighthouse Tours
Dylan asked whether Jean and I would be interested in opening up the lighthouse for visitors and monitoring as they walked up the steep steep circular stairwell to the top. We said yes! Jean stayed below and regulated the stairwell entry such that no more than six people could be on top at any one time. I sat up above, handing folks binoculars, answering questions, and offering the opportunity for learning.
When asked, “do you have any questions?” some people would say no. But most would take the binocs look around in awe of the majesty of it all and ask a few questions. Usually they would ask “when do the whales come by?” to which we would always answer, “there is no guarantee. We saw them xxx days ago. They might come back any time.”
Others were more curious. When offering to inform one visitor, he said, “tell me something fascinating.”
I proceeded to tell a bit of the tale of the Pig War and its connection to Haro Strait. I then asked him, “was that fascinating enough?”
“Oh yes, quite fascinating enough.”
“You want more?” I asked.
“Absolutely!” was his reply.
So, I linked up old Lyman Cutlar’s Pig War and Lime Kiln connection and he smiled brightly and told me I met the “fascinating” threshold.
When authorized to provide the lighthouse tours, I threw together the above sign, and placed it in strategic places at the park.
The view from the top of the lighthouse.
Our job included a chance to show a wedding party and their guests the top of the lighthouse. Lime Kiln Point State Park is a very popular site for weddings.
Lime Industry – Interpretive Guided Tour
When I made my initial inquiry about park hosting at Lime Kiln Point, I had a very specific goal in mind. I wanted to focus some of my energies on researching and creating an interpretive guided talk and walk focused not on orcas, but on the park’s namesake – the lime industry. Thankfully, I received a carte blanche approval to do my best and put something together. If it wasn’t good, park staff must have reasoned, there was no requirement to use my product. But perhaps it could be useful.
I loved doing the project. There was plenty of research opportunities and resources, and I had great conversations with local experts in the history of the lime industry (including Boyd Pratt who has just published an update to his book on the lime industry in the San Juan Islands).
Fortune had it that on the Memorial Day weekend, the San Juan County Park and Recreation Department had already arranged with park interpretive staff a guided tour of the lime kilns and limestone quarry. However, at the last minute, the park interpretive staff person became ill and was not available to deliver the talk. “Would I be interested in covering for him?”, Dylan, the Park Manager, asked me.
“Of course!” was my obvious response.
There were about a dozen folks from the community who took part – including the retired NPS Superintendent of Olympic National Park! She told me that I did pretty well, especially for doing it for the first time. I’ll take that compliment and broadcast it all over this blog post! There. Done it.
The old lime quarry and surrounding lands adjacent to Lime Kiln Point State Park have been purchased by the San Juan County Land Bank and converted into a public recreational access and resource preservation area. The Land Bank’s properties have increased the public ownership at the formerly lime industrial site from 42 acres in the original state park to now close to 300 acres overall. Preservation of the lime industrial remnants, recreational access to the site and protection of natural vegetation are ongoing management challenges. But as of now, the trails, views and extant lime industrial relics are fascinating and beautiful.
Park Administrative Housing Improvements – The “O-34”
Dylan had an idea for an expanded and improved administrative residential area for seasonal park aides and volunteers. I offered to provide him with a draft park project proposal (in the proper State Parks O-34 form no less). My crude drawing skills, notwithstanding, the narrative was pretty good!
The basic thrust of the argument was that given the extraordinarily high housing prices on San Juan Island and the seasonal nature of park aide and park host work, in order to lure staff and volunteers, some rudimentary housing needed to be provided for them at the park. I worked with park staff and county officials to determine the regulatory and financial hurdles present to make that vision a reality. It turned out that the county regulations would be the least of the difficulties to overcome. State archaeological and cultural reviews, and internal State Parks budget and staffing limitations would prove the greater burden
Traffic Cones
Then there was the simple stuff. Dylan asked me if I could put out traffic cones at 9am, and bring them back in at 12:30 pm a couple of days a week. This would meet the needs of bike groups that had contracted for space in the parking lot. “Sure” I said, “I can do that.” And did.
Other Miscellaneous Fun Stuff
But life for Jean and me on San Juan Island was not all about work. Our State Parks commitment was 28 hours per week – which we met – but that left us plenty of time for exploring the island, entertaining visitors and even… leaving for a couple of days of international romance.
In the month we were on the island, we entertained 17 visitors. A brother and sister-in-law and a sister and brother-in-law. Friends from Olympia and Seattle. And friends from Camano and Center Islands. Even a surprise visit from a son and his partner. We played games, took hikes, and ate fantastic meals. Here are some varied pictures that tell some of the stories:
Jean enjoying her French bread, soaked in olive oil, butter and balsamic vinegar at McMillan’s Restaurant in Roche Harbor.
We ate out at some fancy restaurants, including a special Mother’s Day and Daniel’s birthday celebration at the restaurant “Duck Soup” with Alex and partner Casey. We had a delightful surprise gift from son Zac and daughter-in-law Vicky when we arrived at the table. They had provided us oysters on the half-shell and champagne as a celebratory surprise. When our middle-aged waitress arrived, I greeted her with a hearty “Hail Fredonia” but she had no idea what I was referring to. Apparently, the place doesn’t require viewing the Marx Bros movie by the same name before the hiring decision.
My friend, David Sokal, walking out into the water to remove a tennis ball that had become jetsam (or is it flotsam?). Not shown… later, he made a perfect 40-foot throw to me, caught with ease in my right hand.
Below are scenes from the Sculpture Garden at Roche Harbor. It is operated by a non-profit organization of local artists.
Poetry and prose throughout the garden, and a few acknowledgments.
David Halpern, the Park Ranger 1 at Lime Kiln Point is also an artist. He created this piece, which includes lambs you can sit on! An extraordinarily inventive guy, he has several other pieces at the sculpture park and has been involved in its administration.
Can’t escape the orcas when on San Juan Island. A magnificent obsession.
There were plenty of wonderful trails to walk through in and around the State Park.
The biggest Madrona (Arbutus menziesii) I’ve ever seen!
We visited the San Juan Islands Art Museum, Friday Harbor.
Hum bow anyone?
There was always much whale watching, and waiting.
Whale Watching on the rocks at Lime Kiln Point State Park.
As a kind of campy experience, that seemed somehow powerful and sweet at the same time, they still do a trooping of the colors every evening at Roche Harbor.
Sister Laurie and Brother Robie atop Young Hill, at English Camp National Historic Park
How about some paella? Available to watch cooking and eating at Friday Harbor’s Saturday Farmer’s Market.
Paella at the Saturday Farmers’ Market in Friday Harbor – we need to go back for a portion of that!
For those aware of the impressively growing Canoe Journey in the Salish Sea, there are also smaller versions of the same, as tribal groups gather for the big event. One such gathering happened in San Juan Island while we were there. We got to help lift and bring the canoes ashore.
Welcoming the tribal canoe families.
Jean and I honeymooned in Victoria and have come back most years for our anniversary. It was crazy tempting to swim the nine miles across Haro Strait as we looked across from Lime Kiln Point to Vancouver Island. The decrepit and underfunded Washington State Ferry System had just announced that they would not be resuming the link between Friday Harbor, U.S.A. and Sidney, B.C. until at least 2030. But to the rescue, it was announced in our last week on the island that Kenmore Air would be starting up a 15-minute hop-over flight to Victoria International Airport on the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend. That was good enough for us, and that Sunday, we climbed aboard a Cessna 10-seater, with two pilots and one other passenger, and we celebrated our anniversary a month earlier than usual.
Two pilots per three passengers… nice odds.
San Juan Island from above.
Once on the ground in Victoria, we filled our time with eating and walking and gardens and Munro’s Book Store and Murchie’s Tea & Coffee and it all felt so familiar and, compared to life in the Rpod, luxurious.
Fantastic Indian – French fusion fish restaurant – recommended by sister Laurie. Shown, Red Shred Salad… with harissa vinaigrette.
High Tea at Abkhazi Gardens… much more my cup of tea than the hoity-toity Empress.
Victoria really isn’t only about food for us. Honestly. Yet… one has to go to Chocolats Favoris (a Montreal-based ice cream joint) when one has a chance.
Other than food, we walked and walked and walked. Here is some art along the way.
With playful fun at Beacon Hill Park.
And on our last full day at Lime Kiln, J-Pod returned for a show!
Back and forth, back and forth they went. Ten orcas exploring the inland sea for food. Coming closer and closer to shore. Locals called it “The Westside Shuffle” as we spent the day watching Jpod swim and dive and yes… breech 100 ft away. It’s very hard to capture the moments of their appearances with the simple cell phone camera. And I quickly realized that the true experience was not looking through a lens, but sitting, searching, waiting, and then finding the briefest of exultations as the orcas let themselves be seen.
Sitting next to Erin Corra, the Executive Director of FOLKS (Friends of Lime Kiln Society), as we waited and watched on a flat stoop – her “perch” – between the shore and the lighthouse, I felt that her enthusiasm for the moments of sightings had not ebbed in the 10-plus years of her engagement at the park. Along with Jeannie, the Whale Museum staff person who regularly joined Jean and I at the lighthouse, Will, the engineer repairing the hydrophone system for the Center for Whale Research, and the over 30 governmental and non-profit organizations that were focused on the protection of the SRKW population, the thrill of seeing these magnificent beings never dimmed.
The most studied orcas in the world: SRKW – the Southern Resident Killer Whales. Dr. Bob Otis has been coming to LKPSP for about 30 years. During our stay, people kept asking, “Is Bob coming back this year?” He is in his late 80’s. We didn’t see him during our stay, but perhaps by now, he has returned.
I have no idea how this picture reversed directions of the type, but it is pretty cool!
Orcinus orca, the Latin name for orca, translates as “belonging to Orcus” who was the Roman god of the netherworld. This relates no doubt to the species common name of “killer whales,” as they are the top of their food chain. The big kahunas of the seas. They are “apex predators” without peers. They are also, spectacular to watch, and worth for many, the hours and days of waiting. On our last full day at the park, the Jpod came to say goodbye.
Life in the Rpod was tight. Space limited. Height marginal. We made it through 30 plus days. By far our longest stretch. But by the end, we were ready to go home to our comfortable bed, ample kitchen, and room to move around.
A cribbage game was never far away. And it turned out that Erin was a pretty good Rummikub player too!
The sun sets on Lime Kiln Point. Closing of a month of beauty and tranquility.
The Israeli leg of the trip was clearly about reconnecting with people and places. Mostly I wanted the opportunity to spend some time with my cousin Danny in Ra’anana and his wife Shirly. But also see my cousins Hemy and Anat up north in the Hula Valley, Danny’s mother Adele and stepdaughter Liat, and other cousins in Kiryat Yearim and Bet Shemesh. I also wanted to be able to provide an opportunity for Danny and Shirly to get out to meet relatives and to see some key sights in Jerusalem. In all the above, the trip was successful.
But the context for these familial connections was a country in political turmoil. During my stay, the talk of civil war was not only in the air but coming out of the mouths of both the country’s president Isaac Herzog, and Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. The streets were filled regularly with Israeli flag-waving protesters, opposed to “judicial reforms” proposed by the current coalition government. The lead governmental parties maintained the reforms were necessary to rebalance the rights of the majority of voters with an elite, self-selecting judiciary that had usurped democratic power undo themselves. The protesters saw the government’s proposals as quite the opposite – the initial tolling of the end of democracy, protection for the ruling parties’ criminal members, and the dashing of minority civil rights. When I was there, compromise seemed impossible, though after I left, there was at least a temporary back off by the governing parties to allow for negotiations.
Upon my initial arrival at Ben Gurion Airport, I was also very much feeling at the end of the road energy-wise. I was exhausted from about 16 hours of getting to and from South African, Turkish, and Israeli airports. My 6 ft 4 in frame struggled to sleep or find comfort in cramped quarters.
My friends, David Sokal and Janet Woodward, who just happened to be visiting Israel at the same time as I, picked me up at the airport and drove me to Danny and Shirly’s in Ra’anana. The five of us stopped to chat a bit and drop of some of my luggage. Then they drove me to cousin Hemy and Anat’s beautiful valley home in Bet Hilel. In a delightful coincidence, David’s family Kibbutz, that he had spent a year working in as a young man, was less than five miles from my cousin’s home in the northern reaches of the Hula Valley.
After a brief chat amongst my friends and cousins, David and Janet took off. I was not to see them the rest of the trip, even though we had talked about getting together later that evening and the next day. Why? Because I let Hemy know that I needed to take a bit of rest… and 14 hours later, I groggily awoke. I had hit the limit. Even though I wore a mask on the plane, almost no one else did. I had spent innumerable hours in close quarters with folks who were coughing and doing their thing and I must have caught something.
So, my two nights, one full day visit with Hemy and Anat turned into a convalescent opportunity. They were so kind just to put me up and let me rest. I ate Anat’s delicious food (she is an amazing cook!), took a brief tour of the countryside with Hemy, and had a chance to catch up on the status of other cousins and a bit about their take on the politics of the country. Hemy said he felt guilty that he had not yet participated in the protests.
Hemy and Anat watching protests on TV.
Clearly, they had his and Anat’s sympathies, based on our conversation. Hemy, and several others from his side of the family, were leaders in Israel’s technology sector. Hemy is a hardware engineer and was instrumental in development of the smart card (you know… those stripes that are read on your credit card).
President Isaac Herzog solemnly addresses the nation on TV, warning that it is at the precipice of civil war and urging the government to halt its process of judicial reform legislation and negotiate with the opposition.
The next day, Hemy drops me off at the bus station. He stays with me until the correct bus arrives then talks to the bus driver to make sure he knows were to drop me off (it will be in Herzliya, where I will need to transfer to a bus bound for Ra’anana).
On the bus, I took in the familiar as well as the startlingly new sights of the Israeli countryside. The people on the bus and those ready to board were endlessly fascinating.
A nap on the bus before shabbat.
It is common for IDF soldiers, always well-armed, to take public buses on their way back home from bases to family homes on shabbat. The buses are free for their use.
Then there were the dramatic increases – even in the last four years since my last view – of the number of enormous skyscrapers that appeared to be popping up everywhere in the heart of the country’s urban area along the Mediterranean Coast. The filling out of an intercity rail network. The completion of a desalinized water processing and distribution system. Again, I’m awed by Israeli public infrastructure.
20 + story apartment buildings, completed and under construction seemingly everywhere. Road widening as well.
Closer to Tel Aviv…. the skyscrapers keep soaring.
While Jerusalem is by far the largest city in the country, from Haifa on the north to Ashkelon on the south, the coast and about 10 kilometers inland is where most Israelis live. Tel Aviv is the key center of this urbanization, with Ra’anana about 20 kilometers north of its downtown core. It’s a tiny country, similar in size and population to the state of New Jersey.
Waiting for me in Ra’anana is a shabbat dinner with Danny and Shirly and Liat. Liat, nearly 21, is in the last month of her IDF duty, as she arrived in uniform and then changed into her civies.
Shirly, Liat and I play a hot game of Rummikub (invented in Israel and enjoyed with relish by my wife Jean and daughter-in-law Vicky).
Most of the next day, during shabbat, would be spend with Megose Solomon. My connection with Megose needs some explanation.
When I was previously in Israel, I participated in a program called “Skilled Volunteers for Israel.” As part of the program, I volunteered for an Israeli urban planning non-profit called Bimkom. (To read more about that experience, you can go back to my blog in the spring of 2019.) Well, when the Covid pandemic hit, there was exactly zero opportunities to continue this kind of personal volunteering work. So the organization shifted gears and offered online (through Zoom) English language tutoring between Ethiopian Israelis and Jews throughout the world. I signed up for that program. Megose became my second tutee, and we have been zooming with each other for about two years. Getting together for the first time in Israel became a priority for me.
Megose in Old Yafo
As quickly became apparent in our zoom sessions, Megose’s English vocabulary was actually quite good. So, we would usually just end up in conversation. From time to time, I’d introduce a new English word or term and call it good. But really, Megose is quite English fluent. He’s an industrial systems engineer with a broad range of interests and entrepreneurial aspirations.
Me in Old Yafo
For our time together, he had planned a trip to Old Yafo (Jaffa), an historically Arab city where finding something open on Shabbat would not be a problem. I’ve been to Old Yafo several times and have happy memories of attending a jazz concert featuring my friend Shlomi Goldenberg (unfortunately, I was not able to see Shlomi on this trip), and walking the waterfront port filled with marvelous restaurants and maritime scenic flavors.
Beautiful warrens of Old Yafo – Creative District
Pointing to an Old Yafo Theatre
Describing the Old Yafo Theatre.
Both Megose and I had upset stomachs, so all we mustered on this voyage to food heaven was drinking a few colas. How frustrating! But it was fun to spend time in person with a guy who I’d been seeing only in a box weekly for two years.
The Wishing Bridge is a famous tourist site.
And here are the famous tourists!
A view of Tel Aviv from an Old Yafo promontory.
The Old Yafo (Jaffa) waterfront. The Port of Jaffa has been around, in one way or another, for well over two thousand years. One of the earliest centers of civilization.
Another center of early civilization, and the once and future destination for my trip.
Typical Jaffa waterfront meal. I had one of these with family about 10 years ago.
This time Megose and I could only look at the food. Last time 4 years ago, my friend Len Madsen and I had delicious fish and chips.
Megose dropped me off at Danny and Shirly’s. But that evening, I heard sounds of chanting outside the apartment walls. I said I wanted to go out and see what was happening. Danny said he’s join me, Shirly as well. We walked over to the main street and saw many people carrying large Israeli flags all walking in the same direction. We followed them to a town square and saw – participated from the outside – what had become a standard post-shabbat ritual: massive protests to the government’s proposed judicial reforms.
Joining the protest marchers on the way to the town square.
A sea of flags, demanding democracy.
I viewed the crowd as neither angry nor celebratory. There was this feeling of determination, conviction, and yes, patriotism. It was easy to be inspired by this display of civic power and purpose.
The next morning, I took a taxi to the airport and picked up a rental car. The process took FOR EVER… but I finally made it back in the late morning to Danny and Shirly’s. From there, we drove over to see Danny’s mom Adele. Then on to the archaeologically significant, and current entertainment center, of Caesarea.
One incident worthy of comment. As I was picking up a cola at a beachfront stand, a woman comes up to me and asks if I’m American. She then starts up on the political events in Israel. “The extreme left is full of hate,” she said. “They hate this country and hate Zionism.“ She went on to tell me that she was a nurse by profession, and had helped Arabs who were ill in hospital. But that they just hated her, and she learned that they were just animals.
“You sound like you have some feelings of hate, also,” I suggested.
“Oh no, I don’t hate anyone. It’s the Arabs and extreme left who hate.”
Roman ruins at Caesarea.
Shirly at Caesarea.
Danny at Caesarea.His heart-shaped pin literally says “Free love.” He wanted to put it on before walking out to the Ra’anana protest. I think it could be best translated into English as “Let love out freely.”
We ate a late lunch in Caesarea and went home to rest up a bit before driving to Kiryat Yearim for a dinner with our cousins Janine and Brian Benjamin.
The Benjamins were both born in South Africa. Brian was an accountant and Janine described herself as a hippy in her youth. Together, they decided to live a fully Jewish life, according to halachic (Orthodox Jewish Law) principles. They made Aliyah to Israel and fulfilled their dreams. Brian spends his days studying Torah and Talmud. Janine had worked in schools but is now retired. They have nine children and 49 grandchildren. Since my last visit with them, they were able to move to a more modern, larger apartment in the same (religious) community.
Danny had not visited with them in many years and this was the first time Shirly had seen them. We were all treated to a delicious meal, and our hosts could not be more gracious. I had brought some kosher dried peaches from South Africa (at the suggestion of the Benjamin’s daughter Tamar) and Danny brought wine. As we departed both couples looked forward to sharing shabbat together sometime in the near future. Perhaps even getting together for the upcoming Passover holiday. It was a lovely evening.
The next day, our plan was to visit Jerusalem, including my old haunts near The German Colony (Emek Refaim), and Danny’s old haunts at Hebrew University on Mt. Scopus. Shirly had never been to either place.
Four years previously, we had an ongoing joke that if one wanted Japanese -style sushi, one went to a restaurant called Japanika. The word for panic in Hebrew is pronounced panika. “Lo” means “no” in Hebrew. So, I would say, “Lo panika, Japanika!” and off we’d go for sushi. But as it turned out, Japanika had recently closed down. So I now said, “Panika, lo Japanika!”
Lo panika. Sushi!
But we solved that problem, with a delicious sushi meal at another restaurant on Emek Refaim. On the way there, we stopped off at “First Station” which is food and entertainment center created from Jerusalem’s original train station. I always walked past First Station on my way to school in the morning from my apartment. A converted pedestrian and bicycle rail-trail also went past the station and we took it to walk to our sushi engagement. From there we drove over to my old apartment, to a nearby park that overlooks the Old City, and then up to Mount Scopus. Danny went to university there and also worked in one of the restaurants near the campus. It was there that I first met him.
In front of my previous apartment building.
After Mount Scopus, we wound through the busy streets of Jerusalem to make our way down to the city of Bet Shemesh, our dinnertime destination with David and Lauren Port and their three children, Orly, Elisha and Ezra. I previously referenced them in the Beyond the Pale blog of a few weeks ago. It was a delightful and energetic change of pace to be with three lively young folks for sure. It was also fascinating to me to see the change in venue for the family.
When last I saw them, they were in a modest apartment in a historic Jerusalem neighborhood. Their new flat was in a high rise apartment, part of a massive and unfinished apartment complex, 30 kilometers to the west of Jerusalem. David described the move as a question of finance. Jerusalem housing prices were outrageous, during the pandemic he and Lauren found it difficult to work, and their parents had a flat in Bet Shemesh. So they moved in there temporarily (her parents were back in England at the time) and they found that they could buy their place in Bet Shemesh for a much more reasonable price.
Massive apartment complexes under construction in Bet Shemesh adjacent to David and Lauren Port’s flat.
As mentioned before, the pace of housing construction in Israel appears to be extraordinarily fast. Yet, high housing prices continue to be one of the main domestic issues. I was wanting to understand why, in a nation with very high housing prices, there was so little visible homelessness compared to the United States. In particular, homelessness is such a massive problem in the higher priced coastal areas of our country. So, I did a bit research.
Turns out that the latest homelessness count in Israel is about 3500 people. That compares to over 600,000 people in the US (some estimates are much higher). Even accounting for population differences, you are 10 times more likely to be homeless in our country than in Israel. Probably more so if you live on the coastal states. Why is that?
I have my theories.
No doubt, a factor is that Israeli culture tends to be intensively family-oriented. The thought that one generation would let another be on the streets would be less acceptable. Another factor is that Israeli social services, including mental health services, is commonly accepted to be must more comprehensive and generous than in the US. My sense is also that the “lifestyle choice” of homelessness is simply not accepted/permitted as legitimate. In the US, there are some legal protections for that choice which may not exist in Israel.
OK… those are mostly speculations on my part, but the reality is powerful, nonetheless. In my 3-month previous stay in Jerusalem and along this trip, I never once saw a homeless person sleeping on the street or in a tent.
Kadima (onwards)…
My last full day in Ra’anana and Israel was one mostly of rest. Danny and I went shopping for Judaica that I had promised to bring home. I purchased a hanukkiah, and several versions of Hamsa. We played a little Rummikub, looked at old photo albums that Danny had put together from a previous trip with his mother to the US, as well as more recent wedding albums and other memorabilia.
Shopping day in Ra’anana. I don’t know why I think its funny to have a dance studio above a pet shop, but I do.
Danny had gone to pastry school years ago. He made an amazing cheesecake – with ginger – and I had bought some babka from… what else… a babka shop.
Beneficent babkas!
From a photo album Liat put together for her mother.
Photo album pictures of a younger Adele, Danny’s mother and my mother’s first cousin. When I met her as a kid, I called her “Miss South Africa” because she apparently won a “best legs” contest.. as well as a typing speed test.
Good thing that I needed to get to the airport early in the morning. About an hour after I deposited my rental car, protesters had blocked all incoming traffic, trying to stop Netanyahu from flying out. But make it to the plane I did.
We left Ben Gurion a bit late. I had to walk briskly through what felt like miles of concourses in Istanbul to make it – barely – to my plane to Seattle. But make that I did too.
I had returned to South Africa. I had returned to Israel. And now, I have returned to Olympia and the welcoming arms of my wife Jean. There is no doubt that upon those returns, some of the places I visited were troubled. Turkey, SA and Israel all appeared to be confronting some existential questions of democratic self-rule. And for some of the people I saw, aging had left them in a much more frail condition. But overall, there was much happiness I experienced in seeing the positive unfolding of my cousins’ lives.
I’m left with a grateful sense of shehecheyanu. This is a Jewish expression which literally means “that we are alive”. It is a statement, and common prayer, that recognizes time and appreciates that we are alive in this moment.
Before this blog heads to an Israel at the brink of civil war (Oh…you think I’m exaggerating? Well, President Isaac Herzog and Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu just used that term in the last 10 days.), it’s worth spending a few minutes thinking about the relationship between South Africa and Israel over the last 75 years, and the role of the Jewish Community in South Africa in that relationship, and frankly, in the history of the world.
Here’s a coincidence if not an irony. In the same year, 1948, that Israel became an Internationally recognized independent nation, South Africa’s Nationalist Party won an election which ushered in the Apartheid era. During the post World War II era, many countries throughout the world, and especially in Africa, gained their independence. What a travesty that South Africa would use this de-colonializing era to institutionalize its own racially based caste system of oppression.
As the 1950s moved along toward the 1970s and 80s, the relationship between Israel and South Africa took on a strange and deeply disappointing turn. The two nations, which were increasingly spurned internationally, grew a bond of convenience. The pariahs found in each other some shared emotional ties and economic interests.
Meanwhile, the small South African Jewish Community, found itself under mixed pressures. Some Jews with business interests, propped up the economy. But most – from my understanding the vast majority – were appalled by Apartheid and saw it as inconsistent with Jewish values. Many South African Jews – including those in my family – fled the country because they couldn’t abide this new political-economic system. As citizen-members of the British Commonwealth, some went to England, Canada or Australia. As Jews, some went to Israel.
The role of those Jews who remained in South Africa during the Apartheid era was a fundamentally positive one for advancing social and economic justice. Some of the most famous and effective non-Black anti-Apartheid activists were from the Jewish community. Helen Suzman, Nadine Gordimer and many others were fearless international figures in the law, politics and literature.
Exhibit at the Cape Town Jewish Museum, showing scenes from the famous Rivonia Trial of Nelson Mandela and other Anti-Apartheid activists.
Upon Apartheid’s fall, with the incoming Mandela administration, there was a strong awareness by the government of the importance of their Jewish allies in the liberation struggle. But there was also a stark understanding of the previous government’s alignment with fellow pariah Israel. Israel’s victory in the 1967 Six Day War left it in military control of much land that had previously been within Egypt, Jordan and Syria. Over the ensuing decades, Israel’s occupation of these lands, settlement patterns of these lands, and demarcation of land as designated for either Arabs (Palestinians) or Jews, began to be seen by many in South Africa as a new kind of Apartheid.
A 2001 UN conference on “Racism, Racial Discrimination, Xenophobia and Related Intolerance” held in Durban, South Africa, became a focal point for not only challenging Israeli occupation as Apartheid, but a mixing and meshing of anti-Israel and anti-Semitic rhetoric and physical and emotional attacks on Jewish attendees. In the 20 years since that conference, the official relations between the nations of South Africa and Israel have pretty much been on a downward trend. Yet, even amidst some rise in anti-Semitism, there is still a reservoir of respect and appreciation for the Jewish contributions to ending South African Apartheid.
In this last visit to South Africa, I had an opportunity to personalize some of this history and witness the ongoing efforts of the Jewish community to advance justice.
After my street-cred improving conquest of the poker table (see the previous blog entry), Elana’s husband Grant asked me whether I had any interest in touring a Cape Town area township. “Of course,” I replied. Blog readers will note that this continuing trip theme of “yes” has served me well so far.
Turns out, Grant is on the Board of Directors of a long-established non-profit called Ikamva Labantu. which manages various anti-poverty programs in South African townships. He made a quick call and arranged for me to take a tour the next day of the organization’s programs in the nearby township of Khayelitsha.
Khayelitsha, one of the largest slums in the world, with beautiful Table Mountain in the background.
Ikamva Labantu is commemorating 60 years of its existence this year. It was founded, and still run, by a courageous woman from the Cape Town Jewish Community named Helen Lieberman. Cousin Sybil is quite familiar with Helen, her dedicated works, and the centrality of her Jewish background to the cause she has devoted her life to advancing. More on the Jewish connection in a moment.
Townships, by definition, were those areas under Apartheid that were set aside exclusively for Blacks. 30 plus years after the end of those race-based legal restrictions, townships are still essentially racial enclaves of the poor. And as we have already found, the inequalities of income, wealth, health outcomes, and education between the townships and the principally white middle and upper middle-class neighborhoods has grown larger post-Apartheid. Khayelitsha is the largest township in the Cape Town area, containing approximately 500,000 people and now rapidly growing. Please click on the above link to read more about this township.
On the Khayelitsha tour with me was the son (Michael) of one of the true heroes of the anti-Apartheid political movement, Harry Schwartz. I encourage readers to take a look at the extensive Wikipedia entry on him. But briefly, he was a South African Jewish immigrant from Nazi Germany in 1934, getting out just in the nick of time. Growing up in poverty, he excelled in education and became a leading figure in the anti-Apartheid movement, first as an attorney and then a politician. Somehow, he was able to gain respect across the political spectrum as an intellectual and moral giant. By 1990, to legitimize the country’s commitment to part from Apartheid, he was appointed Ambassador to the United States.
I noticed on the Ikamva Labantu headquarterswall a picture of Helen Lieberman and Bill Clinton. “Yeah,” Helen responded. “That was at the Clinton Global Initiative meeting. He was worthless. Gave me an award, we got a picture, and then he provided zero money.”
Michael Schwartz and his wife Tammy, who is an American emergency room physician, now lead a foundation established by his parents and they were touring Khayelitsha to determine how best of support the program. The three of us met with Helen, who told us of her relationship with Harry and his brave and brilliant wife, Annette, and their joint efforts in the anti-Apartheid struggle. I became a fortunate observer of Michael, Tammy and Helen’s interactions. Also in that initial meeting at Ikamva’s Cape Town headquarters was Helen’s niece, Janine Glantz, the finance director of Ikamva. It was Janine who would take us in her car on the township program tour, as Helen needed to return home that day.
Janine took us to three sites of the Ikamva program. The first was a training center for pre-school educators. We met with the program director who explained its goals for improving the quality of pre-school education in the township and the successes and challenges of the program over the years. The site was a well-constructed building with a large central gathering spot and multiple classrooms. While we were there, we saw not only instruction of the student teachers, but also active pre-school classes broken up by age groupings. The place felt like a happy and safe place for the very young.
Next we went to the after-school program for pre-teens. At that time, some of the children were in the process of receiving school uniforms and school supplies.
Showing off the new uniforms.
Finally, we sat in on a senior’s program. It was just wrapping up, and they ended their session in song. Please click on the following link to listen and watch the seniors say so long to each other. https://photos.app.goo.gl/jxsnu7kS1J3iWgZAA
Non-profit programs like Ikamva are no effective substitute for broadly inclusive and adequately funding public programs in education, infrastructure and social and economic justice. They are no substitute for the kind of massive and equitable private investment which is necessary for community development. But they make a huge difference in the lives of many. As the expression from the Pirkei Avot goes, “Whoever saves a single life has saved the whole world.”
We live in a shattering and wondrous world. Fair enough. But I am aware that some of you, dear loyal blog readers, may be asking why I’m so fixated on the shattering part and not the wondrous. “Did he really just fly halfway around the world only to kvetch about the anxieties and traumas of three potentially failing states?” I hear you judging. “What about beauty? What about pleasure?”
With Cousin Gary in the lead, but the whole Castle clan in participation mode, let’s talk about and show some exciting, gorgeous and fun episodes of my stay in Cape Town and vicinity.
A Family Gathers
Early in my visit, the entire Castle family contingent gathered at Gary and Janine’s home for a big Braai Vleis (BBQ). Sybil, the matriarch, was there with all three of her children and almost all her grandchildren. Two of Gary and Janine’s kids, Brandon and Anna, were there, but their oldest Samuel was in the USA. David and Debbie’s two girls, Rachel and Ella, were there. And with a rare stroke of good luck, Elana and Grant were there from New York with their two young children, Jonah and Leah. Arnold’s brother Eddie and sister-in-law Moonyeen were also there. Janine’s father was in hospital, but got out a few days later and I was able to meet him then too. It was all a whole bunch of fun energy in one place, and I felt so welcomed!
Sybil’s three children, plus a few grands, outside the garage at Gary and Janine’s.
Table Mountain
The morning weather included some strong winds as Gary and I set off to climb Table Mountain. During such windy episodes, the cableway shuts down. The plan was for us to hike up to the top and take the cableway down. When we got to the trailhead, the cableway was indeed unopen. So, we just started up the mountain and planned to cut across midway to take a loop route back to the car.
The route ahead.
Good thing I didn’t have to go all the way up, because it was incredibly steep and rocky and would have been a very difficult challenge.
Our route would rise to the sharp ridge, then traverse right.
As we took the shortcut, we saw that the cableway was in fact now running, but we had already committing to the easier – but not easy – route. The views were… incredible!
Looking toward downtown and the South Atlantic.
Yep, I was there.
And so was Gary.
Just as well we didn’t take the cableway. The height would have freaked me out.
Cape Point
Gary and I headed the next day out toward Cape Point. Here’s something I didn’t know. The Cape of Good Hope is not actually the furthest southern reach of Africa. It isn’t even the furthest southern portion of the peninsula that juts south from Cape Town. That would be Cape Point. The honor of being the southern tip of Africa belongs to a place called Cape Aguilas which is about 150 kilometers to the east of Cape Point.
All this matters a lot. For when Gary and I were halfway down to Cape Point, and we met up with Elana and Grant and the kids swimming at Boulders Beach, all the Castle women when asked – and I asked them – said we were swimming in the Indian Ocean. The Castle men all said it was the South Atlantic. The women would prove their point by noting how warm the water was at Boulders and the men would argue about the whole Aguilas thing.
Turns out, basically, the women were right if you buy this web site’s take on the issue. What is indisputable, though, was that the water was warm and the penguins very cute.
Me and the penguin. I’m the one with the hat.
Just prior to the swimming episode, Gary and I grabbed a bite to eat in Simon’s Town, and visited an artifact-filled South African Naval Museum.
At the South African Naval Museum. Plenty of ammo.
After Simon’s Town, Gary and I trekked south to Cape Point. Spectacular!
Me and a baboon at Cape Point Visitor’s Center. I’m still the one with the hat.
Viewing areas at Cape Point.
Stellenbosch and Wine Country
The Cape Town area has a southern latitude – and corresponding climate – similar to the Mediterranean in the northern latitudes. North of the city is an agricultural district which produces cheese, meat, textiles, produce and wines. Gary took me out to the area, where we stopped at a couple of wineries, met up with Elana, Grant and the kids for a delicious and relaxing lunch, and then visited with Rachel, who was in her first month as an incoming freshman at Stellenbosch University.
Sure, why not take a perfect tourist kitschy snap shot at a Wine Country vineyard center.
Elana and me basking in Wine Country.
Rachel and me at Stellenbosch University.
Mount Nelson Hotel
Elana has a professional background as both an architect and a writer (and a few other things thrown in). She got a job to do an evaluation of Cape Town’s Mount Nelson Hotel, providing a recommendation as to whether the hotel met criteria for inclusion into some list of elite world hotels. The gig included an overnight for her whole family, meals at the restaurant, and apparently, the right for her mother and American cousin to come by and hang out during the day.
Sasquatch-sized socks are proof positive that Yankees can relax when given the chance.
It was a sumptuous, neo-colonial experience. Pool. Exquisite grounds. Ornate architecture. Tasty food and no doubt a full assortment of alcoholic beverages (though I didn’t imbibe).
On this sunny summer day near downtown Cape Town at the foot of Table Mountain, a good time was had by all. Oh yes… and Nelson didn’t refer to Nelson Mandela. It was Lord Nelson of Trafalgar Square fame.
Poker Night at the Castles and out on the Town
Sybil’s creative and accomplished husband Arnold, who passed just before the 2020 pandemic hit, had a regular poker game at this house. He passed on that tradition to his three children, and one evening, after all the sushi we could eat, David, Gary, Elana, Grant and their friend Stanley and I played a few rounds of poker till it was time to go shut eye.
Poker night in Seapoint.
For most of the night I was losing badly. Stanley, in particular, tried to do me in. Well then, that was that. I got lucky, wiped Stanley out – how satisfying! – with a pair of 7’s to his pair of 6’s, and ended up the big winner of the evening. I was up about 100 rand… or $5.50 in “real” money. (The exchange rate between rands and dollars was at one point par, but now it’s about 18.5 rand to the dollar. Crushing for South Africans but makes everything in the country incredibly cheap for Yanks.)
After my stunning victory – I had no idea how to play in the beginning and said so – they all thought I was some kind of clever ringer, and their respect for me multiplied. As a follow up, just the men went out to this huge casino the next night. But by that time, I was tired and through with gambling. We had a dinner at the casino, with the Castles getting steaks, but I left before the stakes got too high.
Hanging out with Sybil
A lot of the joy in the trip was just spending time with Cousin Sybil. After a few nights stay with Gary and Janine, I stayed with Sybil’s neighbor Muriel while Elana, Grant and the kids were still in town. Then I moved in with Sybil for the rest of the South African stay.
Muriel was a gracious host. She and Sybil, apparently, have traded off hosting each other’s guests when the other’s space would temporarily fill up. Once I was ensconced at Sybils, the three of us had a lovely shabbat meal together.
A hearty shabbat shalom with Muriel and Sybil.
Sybil lives in the Seapoint neighborhood, across the street from the South Atlantic Ocean. It was fun to look out the window and see the parade of people passing by on the promenade, or playing in the grand public pool down the block.
Now THAT’S what I call a public accommodation! A grand pool by the ocean at Seapoint.
A lot of what we did together was just tell tales and check in about our lives. But there were several events and sojourns that kept us busy. Sybil has an international Yiddish group that she helps lead. Our Lithuanian Cousin Ela comes on occasion, and this was one of the occasions. It was very fun to participate in that; an opportunity which I can not easily avail myself of at home, due to time zone differences (I don’t learn well at 3am!).
We visited the Jewish Museum and the abutting Holocaust Center. There, we met up with Sybil’s friend Pearl with whom I had such happy 15 year old memories and was pleased we’d have a chance to reconnect, for however brief a time it was.
At the Jewish Museum, Cape Town.
Sybil took me to what she called “the urban park.” It was in fact named Green Point Park and I judge it one of the most wonderful city parks I’ve ever seen. Built as part of preparations for the 2010 FIFA World Cup held in South Africa (who can forget the vuvuzelas! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKCIFXqhLzo ), the park had more than a little bit of so much. Multiple playground areas for kids of varying ages. Broad open play areas. A variety of eating establishments, facility types, and vistas for picnicking. Habitat restoration areas. Cultural recreations and historic and prehistoric interpretive areas. Water features, also for all ages, including ponds, walkable streams, and fountains. And everywhere were people of diverse skin colors and ages, playing and laughing and eating together.
Picnicking at Green Point. (Click the above to see the video.)
A pleasant summer day at Green Point Park.
Everyone plays together at Green Point Park.
Stream play.
Sybil and I ran into a couple of older men at the park, one of whom she knew. We stopped to talk. The other one, who quickly behaved in a way which demonstrated that he was a racist jerk, was quickly and sternly admonished by Sybil. We scampered away soon thereafter.
Intergenerational Revenge
Just because Samuel beat me in ping pong in Seattle, doesn’t mean that it was important that I beat his dad, Gary, in Cape Town. Yeah, it really means that it was VITAL that I beat him in Cape Town. On the next to last day of my stay, Gary did the only thing he could as a gracious host. He let me pulverize him. I wasn’t going to drag my Mark V bat 15,000 kilometers and not use it. Right?
Anna likes her maize. One last take out dinner from Nandos, which specializes in fried chicken. Then on to the table tennis game!
A Last Day of Nature
As I previously said, the Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden was a must re-visit for me, and Sybil drove us there the last day.
Along the canopy trail: Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden.
But before that, Cousin Debbie wanted to meet us for some tea at The Vineyard, a beautiful private resort. It had overnight accommodations, a restaurant, swimming pool, spa, and walkable gardens along the Liesbeek River that ran through the property.
The pool at the Vineyard.
Paths along the Liesbeek River.
It is nice to see a landscape architect get explicit recognition.
We arrived before Debbie made it, so Sybil let me stroll the grounds. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I was just relaxed and happy. But the walk along and across the stream, and though winding trails, in the valley beneath Table Mountain, was the most beautiful walk I’ve ever experienced.
The Vineyard resort, in the middle of Cape Town, but you’d never know it looking up at Table Mountain.
Eventually, the three of us sat in an outside table near the stream and it all felt so perfect. A fitting finish to a varied South African experience, with family taking care of me to the very end.
In preparation for 10 days in Cape Town, Cousin Gary wanted to know what I’d like to see and do. He was, amazingly enough, prepared to take off a couple of days from work during the week – and both weekends – to tour me where I wanted to tour.
I threw together a list of highlights, with a few priorities and sent it to Gary before I left. I knew I wanted to climb Table Mountain, or at least a good part of it. I wanted to go the Cape of Good Hope, which was also part of Table Mountain National Park. I wanted to go back to the wine country and back to Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden . And I wanted to get a healthy – and maybe beyond healthy – load of traditional South African food.
To my astonishment, when Gary picked me up at the airport and drove me back to his home, he had already put together an elaborate set of options for everything I wanted to do and more and a strategic itinerary to maximize my experiences. And he would be the volunteer driver to show me the way.
In the next blog post, you’ll see pictures and hear stories of these various adventures, but first… with the help of Rachel and Ella and Anna Castle and random adults floating in and out of the conversation, you will be introduced to a lexicon of South African delectables and other SA words of wonder and weirdness.
Snoek – A white fish, kind of like cod
Snoek pate – This the SA equivalent to white fish salad
Biltong – This is a kind of softish meat jerky. Mostly you can find it in beef, nowadays, but you can also get it from a wide range of animals including various boks (bucks like Springbok), or even ostrich.
Black Cat Peanut Butter – This is the best darn version in the world.
Chuckles – a chocolate malted milk ball with a great kid-friendly name
Rusk – a hard scone-like tooth shattering crusty pastry which people keep in their backpacks for long treks… or for dunking at the table.
Braai – is equivalent to BBQ. Braai is the verb form; “let’s braai it”
Braai Vleis – this is the noun form of BBQ (Vleis is pronounced flais- similar to Yiddish flesh). I’m going to a Braai Vleis
Snoekkies – This is probably Cape Town’s most famous fish and chip place. Gary took me to the one in Haut Bay
Boerewors (Wors) – These are sausages that you have when you Braai. They have dried coriander seasoning, We had these at Gary and Janine’s when there was a huge gathering of all three of Sybil’s children, spouses and available children.
Pap – This is like the national side dish of SA. A lot like cornmeal grits in the US.
Bobotie –Minced meat is simmered with spices, usually curry powder, herbs and dried fruit, then topped with a mixture of egg and milk and baked until set.
Melktert – Similar to the British custard tart or Portuguese pasteis de nata, melktert consists of a pastry case filled with milk, eggs and sugar, which is usually thickened with flour. The finished tart is traditionally dusted with cinnamon.
Monkey Gland sauce – if you have to ask…. No, don’t worry, it’s not really what it sounds like. It’s a red chili based salsa.
Naartjie – a Clementine tangerine
Miellie – corn
Nandos – A very popular fried chicken fast food restaurant throughout the country and recently spread to England.
OK… then the girls wanted to add some South African terms that had nothing to do with food but that would give me a real sense of the local patois, the influence of Afrikaans on local English, and… well.. the best ways to swear.
Lappie – A cleaning cloth/rag
Doos – An idiot
Voetsak – go away
Eina – ouch
Dagga – marijuana
Jou ma se poes – (From the Urban Dictionary) “Your mother’s cunt. A derogatory Afrikaans phrase used throughout South Africa. Can be highly insulting to a stranger, but oddly endearing among friends.”
Poes – Defined by the girls as “a very rude word”
Vok – Well, this one is too easy. In English its .. well… replace the V with an F and it gets pretty obvious.
Gatvol – extremely fed up
Do they allow nasty words on blogs? Hmm… we’ll find out.
In 2007, during Jean and my first and previous trip to South Africa, Cousin Ruth took us on safari to a midsized national park northwest of Johannesburg – Pilanesberg. The three of us got a jeep tour from a knowledgeable and personable guide, and we were thrilled to see giraffes, wildebeests, lions, hippos, black rhinos, impalas, elephants and plenty of zebras. Along the way there, Ruth also brought us to the Maropeng Visitor Centre – Cradle of Humankind, which was a fantastic museum and interpretive center telling the primatological story of human’s emergence and divergence from hominids and apes.
As an aside – and this is my blog, so no one can effectively tell me not to indulge myself in asides from time to time – primatology was a key to my intellectual development. I had been a mediocre high school student and a failed college freshman, when I quit school to take a series of crummy jobs. Upon return to school a year later, at Bellevue Community College, I took a “Physical Anthropology” course that first quarter back. Absolutely loved it and excelled and for the first time realized, “Hey, I might be pretty good at school after all.” So yes, Ruth hit the hosting gig jackpot by suggesting Maropeng.
Perhaps she was remembering my love of Maropeng when she and Joy suggested a trip to The Origins Centre on the campus of the University of Witwatersrand (Wits). There was definite subject overlap between the two sites. But there was also some distinctly different subject matter, with Origins spending considerable time and space for – and protecting magnificent artifacts of – the San People of southern Africa. A now discredited and archaic term for the San People are “Bushmen.”
The San People, principally hunter-gatherers, were described in the exhibits as descended from the original modern humans. Perhaps their biology and culture are the oldest examples of homo sapiens sapiens. That’s our species… all of us (including the San). They still live in several countries in Southern Africa, including South Africa and Namibia, but most principally in Botswana.
Early paleolithic stone tools displayed at The Origins Centre
The Origins Centre, part archaeological research program of Wits, part artifact storage repository, part archaeological museum, part modern art museum, and part traveling exhibit center, had a new exhibit which had drawn the interest of Joy and Ruth. It was labeled “EXHIBITING! THE EMPIRE EXHIBITION: JOHANNESBURG, 1936.” Here is its self-description:
The 1936 Empire Exhibition was the first representative exhibition to be held outside the United Kingdom, and the first international exhibition ever staged in the Union of South Africa. It was considered a monument to the progressiveness and prosperity of South Africa. It was held on what is now the University of the Witwatersrand’s West Campus and was an important part of Wits’ history. The show was a triumphant spectacle aimed at promoting Johannesburg and the Union of South Africa, established 1910, but the political policies of segregation and discrimination along racial lines were underway.
When we toured the Empire Exhibition, I was struck by a poster which displayed a cage where San people were locked inside. Visitors would throw food, watching them fetch like animals. As I was staring at the cage poster, stunned, a black staff person walked past me. I caught her eye and began to reference the poster’s depiction of inhumanity. She quickly changed the subject to reference the positive aspects of The Empire Exhibition. My take on her thoughts: “Yeah, yeah, it was horrific… big deal, our whole racial history is. So, focus on the other pride-enhancing aspects of the empire event.”
Humans in Cages as an Empire’s Display
After our visit to Origins, we drove back to Joy’s home, picked up Swami, and all went for a meal and stroll at the Johannesburg Country Club in Auckland Park. The club was an enormous and lush oasis in the middle of the city. It had tennis and paddle courts (the paddle court size was the same as our pickleball, but the striping was all off. Apparently these paddle courts are a recent hit – pun intended – like pickleball, but Africanized in some fashion). It had sumptuous gardens and broad lawns for kids free play. Indeed, it had a colonial feel, yet in this post-Apartheid era, it also had children of mixed races playing together. Black, brown and white were all served yummy food.
Joy and Swami at Johannesburg Country Club
Our mealtime discussion turned to the San People, and to all of our own interests and life quests. Joy had an idea. She turned to me and asked, “Would you be interested in a bone throwing reading from my friend Archaela?”
“Yes, absolutely,” was my response. Because, as you have read throughout this blog, this is the trip of “yes.” But dear readers, this bone throwing needs some explanation.
Swami was not the only child of the Stein family who was a searcher and seeker into the world of spiritual enlightenment. Joy too has had such abiding interests, and, among other explorations, I seem to recall from 15 years previous, her desire to become a life coach. Currently, and for many years, she has been studying the Jewish mystical tradition of Kabbalah. Archaela, Joy’s friend, is also studying Kabbalah in the same study group.
As Joy described her to me, Archaela was to be seen, among other identities, as a seer, a mystical prognosticator. And she had an amazing background. She was born and grew up in Portugal in an ostensibly Catholic home. As a young woman, she began to explore her roots and determined that she was in fact a Converso. These were Jews (and for that matter also Moslems) at the time of the Spanish Inquisition (1478 and onward) who were told that they either must convert to Catholicism, or face prosecution – and sometimes death – as heretics.
This recognition of her historic identity led Archaela to dive deeply into Judaism. At some such time, my chronology is incomplete, Archaela then moved to South Africa and married a San man. There is a San religious tradition of mystical seers and healers who would throw bones to deliver life recommendations or to heal a client/patient. Archaela learned to incorporate this method of divination into her practice of healing and prognostication.
Joy called and asked Archaela whether she had time to see me. She said she would have time the next day, identified the price for her services, but said that she wouldn’t throw bones. She would use other modalities with me. I said I was fine with that, and we agreed to the next day’s session timing. She never exactly told me why she wouldn’t throw bones with me, but I got the impression that it was because I’m Jewish. Perhaps she thought it would be inappropriate to use a non-Jewish modality.
The next day’s session was supposed to last 30 to 60 minutes. In fact, we were together 90 minutes when Joy called and inquired, “when will you be done?” She and Roberto were understandably wondering how long they’d have to wait outside in the car.
My time with Archaela was deeply fascinating. And fun. And, in the end, surprisingly insightful and helpful.
She started by asking about me and my interests. What was my career? Where am I now in my life? What do I wish to do in the future and what if anything is blocking that? She then asked my exact birthdate and birthplace. She needed to read my birth parshah. That portion of the Torah that is read on an annual cycle that corresponds to my exact birth. After that, it got interesting. Very interesting.
Archaela read from the parshah and then tried to summarize what she gleaned from both the Torah and what I had said before about my work and goals. “So, as a parks planner, you believe in sustainability, and that too is a central belief in Judaism,” she gently offered.
“Actually, not really,” I replied. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I am very uncomfortable with the concept of sustainability. And in many ways, I do not see Jewish teachings as compatible with that approach to the world. For example, “be fruitful and multiply” does not seem a particularly sustainable concept.”
The details of the subsequent hour are really not the point. What was so extraordinary, so revealing, was that there was a dialog of mutual learning, openness and respect. Archaela would reach for a conclusion, I would accept some of it, but not all of it and we would both try to understand each other.
Finally, with time running out, she was determined for me to get my “money’s worth.” She wanted to give me a recommendation. And she did. And it was just wonderful. Really helpful.
She told me that I must focus on completing some writing pieces that I told her about. I should declutter my life from less significant, less core pursuits. She affirmed that I knew the destination I wanted to reach and that I should organize my life to that goal.
My last day and night in Joburg included some blessed opportunities to just hang out with Ruth. We played Scrabble – each of us won a game! Ruth was willing to show me some of the editing and writing work that she had done over the years and the nature of the process of editing that she uses now. I enjoy editing, the process of discovery and the closing in on things that are close to truth. So much learning! And Ruth was an impressive practitioner.
On the last morning in Joburg, we snuck in our final Scrabble game and Ruth drove me to the airport where I was off to Cape Town. It was a full three days and three nights in South Africa’s largest city!
I will not bore you with my first-world complaints of jet lag. Of leaving Istanbul airport at 2am, only to end up in an hour-long Johannesburg airport passport control line – with certifiable jerks cutting ahead – and finally being greeted by Cousin Ruth Nicola in the early afternoon that same day, who, with calmness and patience, was waiting for me in the passenger reception area. Oh. Please excuse. That was a complaint.
I’ll move on. (But perhaps bore you in other ways!)
My first evening in Joburg (see, I’m already on a first nickname basis), was a festive dinner at the home of my cousin Joy Margolis. I had first met Joy, briefly, when, as an adventurous woman in her 20’s, she visited my mother in early 1980’s Seattle. The second time we met was 15 plus years ago in the Joburg home of her mother, Lillian Stein, for a grand shabbat dinner.
Lillian and her husband Leon – both of whom I actually met at Lillian’s sister Mavis’s home in London whilst our family was living there in 1972 – were founders and owners of a major egg and poultry business in South Africa. Lillian’s mother Frieda was my mother’s aunt. That made Joy and me second cousins.
Joy has been an educator and a writer – she has published several children’s books and one topic of our post-dinner conversation was her exploring the choice of publisher for future books. She is also a heckuva wonderful cook and laid out a magnificent feast for our evening of food and conversation.
Joining Joy and me at the dining table were her brother Swami Padmapadananda, her significant other, Roberto Valente, and our cousin, Ruth with whom I stayed three nights at her nearby flat. Joy’s son Josh, who was busy in the next room engaged in his real estate consulting work, popped in to say hello.
Swami’s story is fascinating and fantastical. As a young man, named Raymond Stein, he got into a horrible traffic accident and nearly died. His family were all yoga practitioners and as Raymond healed up, he found himself attracted not only to yoga, but in general to Hindu practice and belief. Eventually, he turned his youthful physical crisis into a lifelong mission and became a Hindu monk. For the last decade he has devoted himself to helping educate and lift children out of extreme poverty in Kenya. Annually he returns to South Africa for medical check-ups and to reunite with family. I was fortunate to be there at just the right time to meet him (for my first time). To read more about Swami’s inspirational life and work, click on this link: https://about.me/swamipadma
Roberto and Joy have been in relationship for around 10 years. Mostly retired now, Roberto has a background in real estate development. He has been working to develop housing for low-income residents and I was able to delve into the practicalities, financing, and goals of one of his projects.
Ruth is an educator, writer, and editor. Her work is varied, including editing of student PhD dissertations and textbooks. She is the daughter of Abie Swersky, Lillian Stein’s brother, which makes her exactly the same relation to me as Joy.
I met Abie only once, in 1998, when Zac and I were in London. We were staying at Cousin Mavis’s home – everyone in the family throughout the world always stayed at Mavis and husband Harry’s home in the London Borough of Chiswick. (Turnham Green tube stop, and a 5 minute walk to 29 Abinger Road – we all memorized that address!). Abie and his wife Joyce had us all over to their lovely home for a delightful Passover seder that year along with children and grandchildren Nadia, Allison and Adam.
Ruth told me more details about her father that I hadn’t known. He was an attorney (called an “advocate”) and major authority on tax law in South Africa during the Apartheid era. He knew some of the significant anti-Apartheid advocates and helped the cause as he could, but his specialty was not the prime subject of the struggle against that government’s core social policy. Nevertheless, he – like so many others – left South Africa during the Apartheid-era because he couldn’t abide the regime. About 60% plus of South African Jews have left the country.
Around the dining table, our conversation that evening at Joy’s was wide-ranging and animated. Everyone asked detailed questions about the latest political machinations in the USA, and like other South Africans I encountered in the rest of my stay, they all demonstrated an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the most minute issues facing our country. Later in the stay, I asked my cousin Gary how and why he knew so much about American politics.
“It’s because ours is so hopeless and depressing, that we like to focus on something a little more positive and exciting.”
It’s a bit more than that, of course. Wither the USA goes so effects the whole world. So, they need to keep up. But their depression about their own domestic future seemed real.
Back to Joy’s meal.
A theme of my communications with my relatives during the entire stay in South Africa has been a consistent set of questions: Are things getting better or worse in this country? Roughly 30 years after Apartheid fell, and White minority government was no more, is inequality increasing or decreasing? Is crime? Are public services getting better or worse?
The answers from my relatives were consistent and emphatic. Things were getting worse. Always worse. Pretty much for everyone, both the rich and the poor. Bad for the poor for obvious reasons… more poverty, greater inequality and fewer opportunities. But bad for the relatively rich as well. More crime, poorer public services, and currency devaluation making foreign travel – or emigration – far less affordable.
The details would then pour out. The government is incompetent and corrupt. Public services continue to deteriorate. Violence has increased as has income and wealth inequality. Whites are leaving as they can. Jews among them.
Then came the examples. The issue du jour was the assassination attempt on the federal head of the electrical utility. He escaped with his life, and then called out governmental and political malfeasance and corruption. The country has for years been going through increasing disruptions in electrical service, with regular daily power outages called “load shedding.”
Regular conversations and life choices now revolve around the load shedding schedule for the day and week. People in high rise apartments can’t get the elevator to take them up or down from the street (a huge health and safety issue for seniors). Restaurants cook food by lanterns and gas. Refrigeration is a worry.
Then there is the question of just getting around safely. Traffic lights in South Africa are called – and this is very cute – robots. When load shedding occurs, all robots go dead, so people get stuck in huge traffic jams as they squirm through un-signaled intersections. And while we talk about roads, a few more examples of daily life.
Because the government can no longer be relied on to actually pave the roads – and fill potholes – the private sector has stepped in. Auto insurance companies now have pothole repair teams. They have found that it is cheaper to fix the potholes themselves than pay for all the damages to cars from pothole encounters.
Because leaving a car in a car park can be dangerous, there are various formal and informal non-governmental security services that “watch” your car for you when you shop. Returning to your car, men and women and children with reflective vests smile at you and you are to give them money and thank them for their service. Same is true at robot-impaired intersections, where you develop ongoing relationships with the folks on the street. My relatives always tried to keep coin change in the cup holder to contribute to folks who patrolled their local intersections. Personal relations were formed between drivers and intersection guards over the years.
The above represents the opinions of my relatives and my own observations. So, I checked Wikipedia and other sources. Sadly, the trends were confirmed.
How could this be? In the USA, we are looking at our own high levels (in the Gini 30’s) of inequality and very much seeing that it has a racial component. Native Americans and Blacks have far less wealth per capita than Whites, for example. We have been exploring issues of institutional racism, the need for diversity, equity and inclusion and the value of representation. Yet in South Africa, where there is Black majority rule, inequality has actually increased.
That said, throughout the trip, I also saw some clear and wonderful changes that reflected Nelson Mandela’s inspiring vision of a “Rainbow Nation.” There is an emergent Black middle class, both bourgeois and professional. Public accommodations are now open to all. When I went to magnificent parks and swimming areas (more on that in a future blog), I saw people of all races and ages playing together. The universities, including elite ones like Wits University, are now mostly attended by Blacks.
It all adds up to a feeling that the nation is balanced precariously between hope and despair; between a model of successful integration and a catastrophe. And it is all so horribly frustrating because South Africa has phenomenal natural and human resources to draw from.
50% of the world’s gold reserves are found here. It is the largest coal exporter in the world. South Africa holds the world’s largest reported reserves of platinum group metals, chrome ore and manganese ore, and the second-largest reserves of zirconium, vanadium and titanium. Russia may have the most diamond reserves in the world, but South Africa is close behind. It even has some of the finest universities in the world.
How do people who are used to trusting institutions or expecting basic services cope when those services are in a constant and dramatic decline? In South Africa they creatively adapt. Recoup. And adjust their expectations.
Throughout my nearly two weeks in South Africa, I saw (this is being written when back home in Olympia) both wealth and inequality, play out dramatically before me. To one degree or another, all my relatives and their close friends are in a kind of bubble within which a mostly first-world middle class existence is possible. For some, the impacts of load shedding and potholes push on that bubble. For others who can afford their own solar arrays or private security, they find ways to adapt, continually adapt, to changed social circumstances.
Joy and Ruth had a suggested plan for me, my second day in Joburg. Would I be interested in going to The Origins Centre on the campus of Witwatersrand University (Where Nelson Mandela got his law degree)? It is a museum which explores the begins of humanity in southern Africa. “Why yes,” I quickly reply. Which continued my basic approach on this trip to the three nations all going through various forms of trauma. I will “say yes” to everything.
In 1791, the Russian Ruler, Catherine the Great, identified specific portions of her realm in which Jews were permitted to permanently reside. This area became known as the “Pale of Settlement.”
There had long been various kinds of limitations on Jews within what is now known as Eastern Europe. Jews were seen by majority Christian communities as foreign, suspicious, and even dangerous apostates. For hundreds of years before the 1791 edict, Eastern European Jewish life was centered on yeshivas – which were institutions for religious, social and cultural study – and shtetls, small villages of impoverished tradesmen and small farmers.
More than 30 years ago, some of my mother’s relatives put together a family tree of those yeshiva-bochers and shtetl-dwelling ancestors with the surname Antolept. It listed names, dates of birth and death, marital relationships, and little or no additional information. This green and white covered pull-out document was distributed to the known Antolept descendants whose shared history started 150 years ago in the Pale of Settlement but who have since scattered around the Earth in six continents. (Who knows, there may also be an Antolept in Antarctica that we don’t know about. An alliterative homerun!)
About five years ago, after extensive genealogical research by a new generation of family historians, a gathering of nearly 100 Antolept progeny met in New York City. It was a quick few days of greetings and storytelling. For me, the event was both illuminating and fun. But it was only a small taste of what there was to learn about those people who stayed and those who fled poverty and oppression, as well as a strong cultural homogeneity in what is now Lithuania. I wanted fuller connections, and the primary purpose of this foreign travel was to whet my appetite for and deepen my knowledge of family lore.
As my trip moved from Turkey to South Africa and then on to Israel, I stayed in the homes, shared meals, and got to know with greater intimacy, some wonderful members of my family, who like me, now lived “beyond the pale.”
The most popularly known depiction of shtetl life in modern culture is, of course, the play and movie “Fiddler on the Roof.” It was a sad but also sweet coincidence for this blog purpose then, that the man who was initially reluctant to take the role of Tevye the Milkman, in the 1971 movie, but who went on to play Tevye over 3500 times in theater throughout the world, Chaim Topol, just passed away a few days ago at the age of 87.
With theater on my mind, and in search of a means of structuring this blog entry to orient readers to the last two-plus weeks of travel, I will introduce you all to my family under the classic western theatrical rubric:
Dramatis Personae
For all of South Africa, and most Israel, I met with the progeny of Moishe Hershel Antolept and his wife Chava Jaffe Antolept. They are my great grandparents on my mother’s side. For two nights I stayed with Chava’s brother’s family line.
The Swerskys of Johannesburg (Joburg)
My mother’s aunt Frieda Antolept (my grandfather’s sister) married Simon Swersky in South Africa. They had five children, Lillian, Abie, Harry, Mavis and Alec (who died long ago). On the first three South African nights, I stayed in the home of Ruth Nicola, daughter of Abie.
Ruth is a writer, educator, and editor. Jean and I had gone on safari with her 15 years before in our only previous visit to South Africa. We also met with her and her close friend, Grant, in Nova Scotia, a few years later and have kept in touch with writing and phone and zoom over the years.
A selfie with Joy, Padma, Ruth and Roberto at Joy’s Joberg home.
On my first night, Ruth and I went over for dinner at the home of Joy Stein. I first met Joy when she was traveling the US as a young woman, slightly older than myself. At her Joburg home, we had a delicious meal and a lively and warm conversation with Joy’s brother Swami Padmapadananda (aka Raymond Stein), and her significant other, Roberto. Joy and Swami are the children of Lillian Stein and grandchildren of Frieda Antolept (Frieda was my mother’s aunt). I also briefly met Josh, Joy’s son.
2. The Castles of Cape Town
Along with her older sister Adele, Sybil Castle is the last of my mother’s generation still alive. And she is very much alive! The youngest daughter of the youngest daughter of Moishe Hershel Antolept. For my first three nights in Cape Town, I stayed with her son Gary Castle and wife Janine’s home in a pleasant suburban neighborhood of Cape Town. There, they are in the process of raising Samuel (who has stayed in our Olympia home parts of the last two Decembers while on winter break from college in the USA Great Plains), Brandon and Anna. While at their home, we had a family gathering which included Sybil’s other, older son David Castle and his wife Debbie and two daughters Rachel and Anna; as well as her daughter Elana Castle Smut’s family which flew in from New York, including husband Grant and children Jonah and Leah.
A Castle of beauties, from left Debbie, Ella, Rachel, Leah, and Anna
3. The Itais of Israel
In my first visit to Israel in 1994, I visited cousins in the very northern tip of Israel, who came to their country by way of Kibbutz Kfar Giladi.[1] I met at that time the original Israeli immigrant from our family, Shirshara Jaffe Itai, who was Moishe Hershel and Chava’s niece. Shirshara had several children, including Yuval who went on to a career as a mariner and many other trades, Avner who became Israel’s foremost choral director, Shula who stayed in the kibbutz and became an educator, and Hemy, her youngest, who became a hardware designer and one of the principal creators of what we now call “smart cards.” You know, like credit cards, things that computers can read. Not an insignificant contribution.
Hemy takes me to the Alawite village of Ghajar, in the Golan Heights adjacent to (and disputably within) Lebanon.
For my first two nights in Israel, I stayed (actually convalesced! For more on that see a later blog entry.) in Hemy and his wonderful wife Anat Itai’s beautiful country home in Beit Hilel, which is located in Israel’s northern Hula Valley.
4. The Brahms’ of Ra’anana
Sybil Castle’s older sister Adele Brahms, had visited our home in Bellevue when I was nine years old. I called her “Miss South Africa” because I thought she was beautiful and heard that she won a “best legs” contest in what was then my pre-feminist awareness period. She also, apparently, won some speed typing award, but what I remember most was just hanging out with her for what probably was a couple of weeks. Adele went on to make aliyah to Israel, marry an Israeli and mother two children, Daniel and Michal. For the rest of this most recent trip to Israel, I stayed in Daniel (Danny) and his wife Shirly Brahms‘ apartment. It used to be Adele’s apartment. Adele is now toward the fragile end of her long life, and I visited her in her nursing home twice on this trip.
On our first day with car, Danny and Shirly and I visit the ancient city of Caesarea.
5. The Benjamins of Kiryat Yearim
Janine Swersky Benjamin and her husband Brian made aliyah to Israel about 30 years ago and did they ever make a presence since. They have nine children and 49 grandchildren! Self-described as former South African hippies, they now lead lives strictly consistent with halakhic Jewish law and customs. Their daughter Tamar, kindly helped arrange our dinner meeting with Danny and Shirly.
6. The Ports of Bet Shemesh
David Port and his wife Lauren, have three children, Orly, Elisha and Ezra, ages 8, 6, and 4. David, Ruth Nicola’s nephew, is a clinical psychologist, specializing in service to the Haredi community. Lauren is an editor and translator between Hebrew, English and French.
Danny, Shirly and I enjoy the quietest moment of the evening in the exuberant home of David and Lauren Port.
[1] I am extraordinarily proud to have a family connection with this kibbutz and its contribution to the creation of the state of Israel. For more research, there is a movie about its founding and role as a smuggling center into British Mandate-era Palestine.
Daniel's Derekh 