We flew over the Namib desert in a hot air balloon, and were descending gently, when the wind caught us and slammed us down. Never expect Africa to treat you with kid gloves
No one who's read Ian McEwan's Enduring Love can forget the heart-stopping opening pages of the book, as a cluster of people run across a field in Oxfordshire chasing a hot air balloon which has slipped its moorings. The posters for the current film of the book make good use of this striking image. Until last month I'd never been in a big balloon myself. Then on a trip to Namibia my companion and I decided that floating over the Namib desert on a hot October day would be an experience worth the large hole it would make in our wallets. And it was. Namibia is vast and arid and beautiful. You can go there to see game: lion, giraffe and wildebeest. It was the end of the dry season, and so hot that at noon springbok gathered under the thorn trees to catch the slightest shade. You can also go there to admire the desert. In the Sossusvlei area huge dunes heave and ripple in the blazing heat. Drifting above them, suspended in our wicker basket, we could admire the striking patterns of sand and shadow. As we descended gently we felt like Armstrong and his companions about to make a soft landing on the moon. Except that the wind caught us and we were slammed down hard on to the stony ground. "Never expect Africa to treat you with kid gloves," I muttered, as we pulled ourselves upright.
Living in central London I am used to casual insults flying between pedestrians and taxi drivers, car drivers and cyclists, white van men and despatch riders. I have taken part myself in the occasional robust exchange of views. But every now and then a genuinely venomous tirade, hurled at a woman by a member of the male sex, has the power to shock. The other day, on my way to a breath of fresh air before lunch, and crossing the Outer Circle of Regent's Park, I was brought short by truly furious abuse. I was on a pedestrian crossing, having waited patiently for the walking man signal before attempting to get to the other side. As I began my brisk trot across the white stripes a large car swept up, saw me at the last minute, and braked hard. I glanced at the driver, gesturing helpfully that the light was in my favour and not his. He wound down his window. "You stupid effing bitch!" His face was contorted with fury as he spat out the words. "Get out of the effing way! You shouldn't be allowed out! Can't you see the effing sign?" He wound up his window, still mouthing furiously at me as I did my nonchalant best to continue my journey. I wasn't sure what I had done to earn the abuse, apart from indicating mildly that I had every right to cross the road. But the incident set me wondering if there is not in a disturbing number of otherwise modern men still a great deal of utter contempt for the female sex.
The American feminist Camille Paglia believes that it's not male hatred of women but male fear of women which is the great universal. (She also points out that if there is no female Mozart there's no female Jack the Ripper either). But that evening my equanimity was restored when a group of us gathered in a beautiful house south of the park to hear some of the English National Opera's younger singers ("the stars of tomorrow today") sing favourite pieces for our entertainment. The sublime trio from Mozart's CosI fan tutte, "Soave Sia il Vento", instantly restored one's faith in the better side of human nature.
Over the years I spent working on Radio Four's Today programme I learned to speed-read: a necessary skill when you're required to digest numerous interview briefs and all the morning papers in a very short period of time. Now that I chair A Good Read I've discovered that in more normal circumstances I read rather slowly, enjoying going back over bits that need savouring. Last week the folk music DJ Mike Harding and the scientist Susan Greenfield joined me to record the first in the new series featuring favourite paperbacks. I loved Mike's choice (a classic mountaineering saga) while he loathed mine (a reprinted novel from the 1930s), and we both hugely admired Susan's book, a memoir translated from German. What were they? Listen in on 7 December in the afternoon and find out. Good books still furnish the airwaves pretty well, thank heavens.
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
