A recent article in The Economist entitled "Boomtown Church" got me thinking. It outlines the rise of the Catholic Church in Africa and traces the beginnings of this accelerated growth to the Second Vatican Council of 1962-65 which loosened ever so slightly, but loosened nonetheless, the very strict liturgy that had characterised the church in Africa. The article begins with a touching scene of Sunday worship from a Catholic Church somewhere along Ghana's coast. It goes on to mention Cardinal Turkson who if you believe the international media, was in the running to succeed Pope Benedict XVI. According to The Economist, Cardinal Turkson, "caused a stir when he claimed the African church knows no sexual abuse in its ranks because homosexuality is so rare on the continent." 

Last weekend I had lunch with a dear Zimbabwean friend. P was raised as a Catholic and attended a Jesuit  boarding school in Zimbabwe. The boys who were aged between 11 and 17, regarded the Jesuit Fathers as the epitome of brilliance. How else could they describe priests who after only two weeks of the new term, knew the name of every boy in the class and could tell at a glance which unfortunate soul was absent? It was only much later that P discovered that the priests' amazing powers of recollection were largely due to meticulous organisation whereby a student's seat in chapel was referenced to his desk in class and even to the bed in which his slept. It's easy when you know how it's done. Thus it never occurred to the boys to challenge the priests on anything. Not even when they fondled them.

P told me of how one night, he and a group of boys witnessed a  European Father having sex with a man from a nearby village. The careless priest had left the window open and a lamp switched on behind him. When the story broke, the Jesuits immediately closed ranks. The event was reconstructed in its entirety and they maintained to a man that the sex act the boys had witnessed, never happened. It was nothing more than a mischievous fantasy put about by wicked boys. Then in a rare act of protest, the boys, some of whom were prefects, refused to take holy communion and held out for several weeks. That's when the Fathers came down hard on them.  Although their only offence had been one of youthful voyeurism, the boys were suspended and their parents called in to apologise. All this occurred more than  30 years ago but P's anguish in retelling the events is still raw.

African families revere education and would gladly send their sons and daughters off to seemingly benign institutions, in relatively isolated areas and be eternally grateful for the opportunity. It is also well known that the Catholic Church which set up many of these schools in Africa, is poisoned by a small but not insignificant number of priests who abused children with impunity. Put these two factors together and Cardinal Turkson's assertion that there is no abuse in the African church, looks patently absurd. I wouldn't be surprised if some priests regarded Africa as a choice destination and not because they could win over great numbers of new converts and embed Catholic values, but because of  the opportunities for uninhibited abuse  of children a backward continent offered.

I'm glad there was no white smoke last week for Cardinal Turkson - even if he is from the same part of Ghana as I am. There's been a resounding silence from Africa when it comes to abuse by Catholic priests. Indeed, more stories like P's need to be told. I know they are out there.

See the article at:

The writing challenges posted here are set by Allaboutwriting, an invaluable and multifaceted resource in Johannesburg for aspirant writers. This challenge was to describe a man meeting a woman for the very first time.

Here is my entry.

He pushed through the throng of people at the bar, making a beeline for the woman in the white linen jacket. He timed it perfectly and just as she reached across the counter to take her cocktail, he nudged her shoulder. Ever so slightly. Her glass wobbled and the paper umbrella toppled over in slow motion before disappearing into the shadows underneath the counter. She swore over the pounding bass beat and looked around instinctively, her eyes searching for someone to blame and a tart rebuke hovering on her lips.
This was the moment he was supposed to say the code phrase. But when she looked at him, her grey eyes flashing with anger, his detailed briefing fled from his mind. She paused for a moment longer than necessary, urging him to remember but he'd clean forgot. Then suddenly, his earpiece buzzed with annoyance. "You're a bloody useless spy Jason. Get the hell out of there!"

One of the major benefits of returning to South Africa from Asia is that the kids wake up way ahead of time for school. Long may that last!

I tried one of the packets of bath salts from that charming little shop in Ubud, Bali. I came out of the bath feeling like I was doing the moon walk... on a cushion of air. It was very weird. But also very good. 

We got back to find the maid (yes, the one who can't cook) had absconded. Here's an extract from my interview with a prospective candidate to fill the position. Juliet is Zimbabwean and was quick to point out that it's Juliet, "as in Romeo and Juliet".
Me: Its a three bedroom house
Juliet: OK
Me: There's the usual washing and ironing and cooking on occasion
Juliet: OK
Me: The dog will bite you
Juliet: OK

On our last day in Singapore we went to Sentosa. It's astounding that a beach resort in touching distance of one of the world's busiest container ports can be so clean and the water so clear. It was one of Thando's favourite beaches too. 
We spent some time in the butterfly enclosure but the silly things don't sit still long enough for their picture to be taken. Then I remembered I had a "big boy" camera with continuous shooting at super fast shutter speeds. The butterfly didn't stand a chance. 

The macaws were much more accommodating and this white one with the yellow crest couldn't stop saying "Hello!" All too soon it was back to the hotel to get our bags and catch a ride to the airport with another gregarious driver. This one had his radio dial stuck on Abba. "Money…Money…Money…" 
You know the rest.

Here are some other pictures from Singapore. I particularly like the one of the girl shooting me, shooting her...

I woke up at 3am after our late night shopping debacle and couldn't get back to sleep. Feeling restless, I decided to go out for a run. There are many cities I wouldn't do that in at that time of the morning but in Singapore, you don' even think twice. It's warm and muggy all day and night - just the way I like it.  As I suspected, I didn't get very far before my heart screamed to me to "Stop!" And they say you must always listen to your heart... So it was back to the hotel and a shower and the growing realization that I might have caught flu from one of the taxi drivers who'd told me all about the high cost of living, in between loud bouts of sneezing and coughing.

We ventured out at lunch time to the Gardens on the Bay. It's a huge eco-garden with exotic plants and lovely flowers and all manner of clever innovations to save energy. It also has the mandatory doomsday video of what the world will look like by the year 2100 if we continue to abuse the earth's resources the way we do. It was quite sobering and made me want to start recycling again. Thoroughly chastened, it was off to the Singapore Flyer, a giant ferris wheel with stunning views over the city and the bay.

We were done by late afternoon and all I wanted to do was to crawl back into bed. But we were right next to the Marina Bay Sands and I thought, "We've come all this way….". It certainly makes a bold architectural statement with a viewing deck in the form a cruise liner atop three hotel towers, 57 stories high. A taxi driver - perhaps the same one who'd given me the flu - had told me to say we were going for drinks then we wouldn't have to pay the $25 charge per person to go up in the lift.

It was really magnificent up on the viewing deck at the Ku De Ta restaurant and you couldn't help but be swept along by the vibe. With skyscrapers on one side and picturesque container ships waiting in the bay on a sheet of azure water, it felt like a fairground with a catchy techno beat instead of an oompah band. There were newly weds, tourists and foreign domestic workers on their day off and dressed to impress. Yes, we did have drinks after all and the bill came to less than the $25 x3 we'd have had to pay if we'd taken the normal lift up to the top. So I guess I should forgive the taxi driver for giving me his flu. 

We almost missed our flight from Bali to Singapore. I think the gods must have heard our pleas to stay because a truck spilled several bags of construction sand a few kilometers away from the airport causing a tailback that stretched for miles. But we made it, with minutes to spare and landed in Singapore a couple of hours later.

Singapore is much more expensive than Bali and the driver of every taxi we've hired complains bitterly about the cost of living. "Ten years ago, Singapore was ok," said one. "Now you cannot." While he was driving us to the hotel, he got a phone call to tell him of his daughter's A-level results. He was very proud although he tried not to show it. I'd be over the moon if Nathan or Noemi got five A's and a B like his daughter did. Another driver lamented that old people here have to work, literally until they die, eating bread every day because they can't afford anything else. We got talking about the justice system and he confided in me, with some regret I might add, that if you touched a woman's arm in Singapore you could get caned. And then thrown in prison to cool off your backside. I suspect he was more unhappy about that than the prospect of having to carry on working in his old age.

But Singapore is great for shopping and the kids had been looking forward to this part of their holiday with undisguised glee. My cunning plan was to take them late at night to a 24 hour mall in Little India, in the hope that they'd be exhausted and wouldn't keep asking, "Daddy, can we buy this?" or "Daddy, can we buy that?" It was a wonderful ruse that backfired horribly in practice. I ended up the exhausted one with my wallet a lot lighter than when we set out. I remembered what the wise Chinese taxi driver had said to me earlier in the evening. "Ten years ago, Singapore was ok. Now, I cannot."

We were having lunch at a restaurant by the seaside in Jimbaran, Bali. It's one of those places where the live fish cower in fright in plastic containers, praying you don't choose them as your meal. If you listen very closely you can hear the lobsters pleading, "Pick him! Pick him!"
Anyway, we were waiting for our dishes when five guys - three guitarists, a double bass and a conga player - walked in from the beach and began playing Bob Marley hits. They were pretty good and invited Nathan to jam with them. He's not bad himself. He gets it from me.

One afternoon the villa staff taught us how to weave coconut palm fronds. Actually it would be more correct to say that they tried to teach us. It's amazing what the Balinese, both men and women, can do with their hands. Each design has a name (sorry, I've forgotten them all) and are used for weddings and temple ceremonies. Some are even used to boil individual portions of rice in, rather like a packed lunch!

After all that running about, it was time for a massage. That's my masseuse on the right. Be warned, she's a whole lot stronger than she looks!!

I didn't understand much of the symbolism of the dances that night at the Ubud Water Palace, but the women were absolutely divine.

Her husband died just before New Year and she couldn't help crying when she told me about him. She's carrying on running the shop without him but it's "very difficult" she said.