Dave Martin was just a hippie with big dreams before he founded Africa’s first eco-friendly lodge in the middle of the Transkei, South Africa’s most underdeveloped and ruggedly awe-inspiring coastal region. Bulungula is not what you might expect from a lodge sitting on the “Top Twenty Places to See in South Africa” list but it is certainly something very different. It has no bell hops or airport transfer bus but it has a mass of open space, fresh air and the ocean. By not having wrecked the environment or exploited the local people, it has a totally green, guilt-free conscience.

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There is a memory clearly preserved in my mind, one of very little consequence but vast immediate thrill: the first hotel bathroom I saw with a toilet-side telephone. In my youthful ideology, it spelled out true luxury, that I had jumped the gap: my family was now among the elite. Since that day, the joy I derive from the sight has plummeted (to the point of disintegration), and a new thought has taken its place: What the hell were they thinking? What call could ever be so urgent that it must occur during those bodily functions? Who would ever want to be on the receiving end of such a call? The bathroom phone, along with many elements of luxurious living, has, in reality, no purpose. There is no “need” in luxury, only “want.” We want to show what we’re capable of, what we can do just for the sheer fact of it. To prove that our success has reached a level where we can throw off common sense and embrace the unlikely, improbable, and damned near impossible. In brief: to accomplish the ridiculous.

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My friends and I were sitting in a bar in Barcelona, watching Spanish girls walk by. We had been noticing their innate sense of style since we had arrived in Spain four days earlier.

“If I could throw out all my clothes and start over, I’d start in Spain.”

“I mean, look at them!”

It was true. It was hard to explain, exactly. They didn’t have the obvious fashion sense of the French or the perfect beauty of the Italians. You could never guess the next thing a Spanish girl was going to do.

Most of them, including the boys, had strange haircuts. On the boys, it was mostly the European semi-mullet like soccer star Cristiano Ronaldo, but the girls had all sorts of styles going on, mostly having to do with one part of their hair being severely shorter than the other. Their bangs were super-short while the back was long and curly, or one side was long and straight while the other was cropped right up next to the ear (and this was before the “Posh” cut.)

SPANISH RETRO CHIC

Their outfits weren’t immaculate; it was more as though they were all privy to some amazing accessories store that the rest of us didn’t know about. Their shoes, sneakers mostly, matched the bright colors of their tops. Their patchwork purses dangled from one arm, and it was impossible to look away from all of the color and pattern. What I envied most was their jeans: all of them, no matter how big or small, skinny or curvy, had perfectly fitting jeans. Most of them looked like the “boyfriend” cut from the States, hanging precariously off the hips, just shy of falling off, and usually held in place with a funky belt. At the knees, they flared considerably, harking back to the ‘70s. I wanted those jeans.

In the end, I can’t explain why, but I have to agree with my friend. If I could throw out everything I own and start my whole wardrobe all over again, I would most definitely start in Barcelona . . . and perhaps stop there.

IMAGE
by Ed Tarwinski

What does the fashionable man about town wear for the coming global recession? Make mine a zoot suit. Blame it on bandleader Kid Creole if you like. When hard times last hit the UK, back in the early ’80s, his was the killer-diller style my pals and I most craved. In a banana-yellow zoot, shoulders padded wider than Oxford Street, and crooning “I’m A Wonderful Thing, Baby,” the tropical gangster evoked places and realities worlds apart from Britain’s dole queues and riot-torn cities. I loved the look’s sheer exuberance: how the broad-lapelled jacket and high-waisted, cuff-trimmed trousers turned the Kid into a living exclamation mark. How the luxurious folds and clamorous colours gave him space to be whoever he wanted. To me the zoot still says of its wearer, “I am here. But you cannot know me, let alone own me or make me redundant.”

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A couple of blocks from my flat, my local park is an unassuming, shady square, neatly framed with grey iron railings. Despite its small size, it manages to be the heart of the local community; old men gather here for epic chess battles, chattering families pass around the mate gourd and thermos of hot water, courting teenagers snuggle up in secluded corners, and determined joggers run laps, dodging the ubiquitous flocks of pigeons feasting on crumbs around the central fountain. On Saturdays, the square is thronged with early morning shoppers stocking up on greens at a bustling fruit and vegetable market, and throughout the steamy summer months of January and February it bursts into life, as local groups noisily practise their Carnival routines with much banging of drums and some very vigorous dancing. Besides these seasonal activities, there is a permanent children’s play area, including conveniently located benches where parents can sit and gossip.

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