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The idea of going on holiday and lounging pool side for days on end does not appeal to me. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m as much of a sloth as the next guy, but seriously, lying on some rickety outdoor sun bed, trying to pretend like you’re not cold or bored? Give me a break. Suffice to say, it was with some trepidation and skepticism that I approached our recent trip to the Penninsula Hot Springs in sunny Mornington.
Get in touch with your medieval roots this weekend at the Collingwood Children’s Farm Winter Solstice.
Eduardo Galeano, in the first chapter of his masterpiece: “Open Veins of Latin America” describes the mines of Potosí. The history of this Bolivian town is the paradigm of European colonial exploitation. In Potosi the natives were forced to work as slaves to extract huge amounts of minerals that were then exported to Spain. The city was founded at the foot of Cerro Rico, a mountain full of mineral veins, particularly silver, so that the tip was said to shine under the rays of the sun. By 1625, Potosi had become one of the most heavily populated cities in the world. In its first 28 years of existence, the number of inhabitants had reached that of London and had even surpassed Rome, Madrid and Paris.
Friday 11 June 2010 is a day that will be forever etched in the history of South Africa… and of the world. It was a day characterized by rainbow colours, celebratory pandemonium and the sound of the Vuvuzela – the definitive symbol of the Fifa 2010 World Cup. Indeed, finally the time had come and South Africa was ready for it all. Today was the kick off for the 19th Fifa World Cup tournament, and the streets were alive with people from across the country, and across the globe – all feeling the momentous energy.
Five months ago, the idea of the Tote ever reopening its doors seemed as likely as Bon Scott singing on the next ACKA record. However, through some miraculous turn of events, the iconic venue is set to defy the odds and dust off the taps this month for a grand reopening. Prior to its untimely closure in January, the venue had been up against every brick wall imaginable.
The day Luis Eduardo Guerra died was hot. It was the dry season. The river that separates the village from his small cocoa plot was almost dry. For this reason, the easiest way to go was through the river itself. The stones made the journey uncomfortable, but not as much as venturing into the forest. Luis Eduardo was crossing the threshold of middle age. He had three sons and his wife had recently died. With a black mustache and a beard cut with care, he’d looked death in the face many times. The first time he saw a corpse he was when he was perched on his father’s shoulders, running towards the coast, away from the war. |
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