Of Blue Jeans and the Zulu Nation

Gadzooks. So many things happening around the world what with revolutions of one size or another taking place in Algeria and Tunisia and Egypt and Yemen and Jordan and Iran and China and God knows where next and even radical public union minions huffing and puffing in Madison Wisconsin because the Governor wants them to actually contribute to their pension plans...and now comes word that the first lady, stalwart defender of the children and their right to a healthy diet is vacationing at a ski resort in Colorado and daily consuming over 1500 calories worth of baby back ribs...ah, but skiing is such a physically demanding endeavor.

It all goes to show you that one never knows what lurks around the corner. A few weeks ago, all the merry dictators in the above mentioned countries were celebrating the new year with their usual rounds of debauchery and executions, and now look at them. Some fleeing to parts unknown with their off shore deposits and the rest trembling in anticipation of what comes next. And the first lady just weeks removed from her national campaign to remove all fatty treats and non soybean products from our public schools for the sake of the children and now engorging herself in Oprah like gluttony.

Ah, the uncertainty of events.

Recently, I found myself reflecting on the strangeness of history and the sheer impossibility of accurately forecasting the final destination of current events, and all because I glanced at the label in my Levi Strauss blue jeans.

They were made in Lesotho, South Africa, formerly part of the great Zulu nation of pre-colonial times. In 1879 the British fought the Zulus at a battle celebrated in a 1964 movie named Zulu. This was ten years before my maternal grand mother was born, but at the same time her parents were no doubt battling the bloody British like the Zulu, sans spears.

I had watched that movie just days before and here I was trying on a new pair of jeans made by the descendants of the Zulus who had battled those British. Did chief Mangosuthu Buthelizi prophesize that 130 or so years from then, after the British were long gone from Zulu land, that his great grandson would be making a pair of pants for the descendant of the enemy of his enemy who lived in a far away land across the great sea? I kind of doubt it.

History is strange indeed, and final destinations are hard to call. I never stop marvelling at it all.