SOLAR ENERGY

There was a city, Nokuthula Nkosi of The Palace began the story of the Lost City,her shadow falling on the handwoven tapestry woven meticulously by Zulu women. Ages ago,a tribe from north Africa came here to build a spiritual centre. After a fateful earthquake all that remained was a heap of rubble…The Palace is the city revived to its original splendour. I was listening to Nkosi,not sure whether to laud her semantics or the ingenuity of the architects who have recreated a magnificent city complete with artificial waves,colossal mosaic,an exquisite dome that took 5,000 man hours to paint and even a life-size sculpted elephant,perhaps the largest in the world. Or the guts of South African tycoon Sol Kerzner who dared to turn a deserted scrap of land at the foothills of the Pilanesberg mountains into,as the tagline reads,a million thrills,one destination.

I did not count the million thrills,but I did not fare too badly either. Zip slide. That was the first on my itinerary. This is not a gravity-defying lunge or a jump off a precipice. Harnessed,one zips horizontally at a speed of 120 km per hour nearly 180 metres above sea level. This one is certainly not for the faint heart. Neither is jet skiing on the lake where the waves get grumpy in a blink or being dipped in the lake after parasailing. Rising out of the lake drenched to my last sinew,I certainly did not feelor look like Ursula Andress,but I was so heady with the typical Sun City fervour that I was ready to tee off in The Lost City Golf Course where crocodiles laze in a muddy watering hole by the 13th hole.

A bit of thrill is fine but aiming at the million had my feet sore and my bones creaking. I wanted to slouch by the flower beds arranged tidily by the macadamised streets or jump into a beryl pool. Thankfully,I had an option,of getting pampered in the Gary Player Golf Course spa. I chose to be embalmed in African potato and wrapped in plastic to let the potato and jojoba oil seep through my dehydrated skin. I am sure I looked funny as an Egyptian mummy but when I rinsed off that oil I felt anew. Recharged,I headed to the Cultural Village to shake a leg with the tribals. But born with two left feet I could not do much except tap,fervidly trying to match their high somersaults and concerted altos. I failed miserably at both,even at striking a tune in a traditional musical instrument with gourd windpipes. The girls wearing beads giggled as I missed the notes,but when they said a prayer for me in Afrikaans I wondered whether they sought blessings for my two left feet or the meagre musical sense.

Bonfire was being lit in the shebeen a traditional African tavern but I chose to rock and roll at a showstopper of a concert,The Let There Be Rock show,that took you through the history of music through various performances. In the auditorium,the whistles were not only for the perfect rendition of Shania Twain or Billy Joel,it was also for the svelte girls who wore beads and shimmered in the light and for men who were nimble and sensual enough to tempt even a wooser.

My tryst with Sun City was not over yet. I still had to dig into the lavish breakfast spread at The Palace,often touted as the best in the world. The ostrich eggs peeping out of a wicker basket turned the frugal eater in me into an epicure and from the ninth floor I saw the valley where once molten lava hurtled down the Pilanesberg as the wrath of the gods. As I walked into the aviary,a little ibis perched herself on my shoulder,pecked on my camera strap and trilled. That moment,the Sun City seemed more than a destination with million thrills; it looked the closest approximation of the stuff that dreams are made of.