A WALK IN THE HEATHER

So much more than a maid

2012-01-04T22:53:00.000+02:00

I was quite touched by the recent movie, The Help. For sure it’s the type of tearjerker designed to do just that, and it wasn’t the best scripted film either, but it had some wonderfully poignant moments. I think it has particular resonance with South Africans. For us the moral message of the film is more than just an appropriate sentiment – it’s a slice of our own past.

Much has been made of the cultural similarities between the highly segregated American Deep South and apartheid South Africa. Many generations of white children developed close relationships with their family’s black domestic workers who served as their childminders, and in many cases, their friends and confidantes. As my mom only worked part time when I was growing up, I didn’t have a maid to look after me like many of my schoolfriends did. So I can’t draw on personal experience here, but can only imagine how difficult it must have been for these women, many of whom had left their children in the care of a relative back home.

In the movie Skeeter asks the maid Aibeleen, “What does it feel like to raise a white child when your own child's at home being looked after by somebody else?”

The film reminded me of this image that was part of a David Goldblatt exhibition I saw at the V&A Museum in London in July.

In the photograph entitled 'A farmer’s son with his nursemaid, on the farm Heimweeberg, near Nietverdiend in the Marico Bushveld' Transvaal, December 1964, the tenderness between the boy and his companion is evident. They both look happy but she has sad eyes. Maybe she’s thinking about her little boy or girl far away in another village.

The amazing story behind the photos in this collection is told by one of the items in the exhibition, a letter from Goldblatt to the V&A’s former Senior Curator of Photographs in 1987.

115 of Goldblatt’s photographs had been on display in several venues in the UK during the 1980s. With the exhibition ending and the political circumstances in South Africa worsening, Goldblatt was concerned about what could happen to the photos on their return to SA. He felt the need to secure his photographs in a safe, though publicly accessible, place outside his country.

He wrote, ‘Obstinately, and probably unrealistically, I still believe that this can become as reasonably ‘just’ a society as can be hoped for, and that the transition to that distant state might happen without catastrophic conflict. Increasingly however, that belief is becoming baseless. In the face of the awful things happening here and the worse that are very possible it is ridiculous to be concerned with anything as paltry as photographs. But I am. And it seems to me that considering their vulnerability to destruction, it might one day be useful and even valuable to have a fairly wide ranging collection of photographs from South Africa, such as this exhibition, housed outside this country in a museum which is publicly accessible and as likely to be permanent as any institution can be. Hence the V&A’.

Apartheid may be over but domestic workers are still a fixture in many middle class homes, except now the madams are of all different hues. While they remain a relatively inexpensive form of labour compared to most countries, it doesn't seem as though maids will go out of fashion any time soon. In fact, this practice is what keeps some people here. A well-to-do family we know recently went through a traumatic experience that's sadly not unusual in this country. Having been held at gunpoint and robbed in their home, they decided this was not the place for them, and were planning to emigrate. But then they decided to stay because the wife decided she couldn't live without her maid.

New luxury hotel for Kruger Park

2011-08-18T19:07:00.000+02:00

The Kruger National Park is South Africa's most well-known game reserve – the flagship brand for wildlife if you like. As one of SA's largest national parks, it generates R2 billion each year. And now it seems there's an opportunity for even more income. The SA government has approved the construction of two hotels in the Kruger Park, which will almost certainly entice some wealthy visitors to part with their cash, as well as create jobs for members of the local community. While the authorities claim nothing will go ahead without the appropriate environmental impact assessment, there are concerns that the hotels could harm the biodiversity of the park.

Surprisingly, South Africans make up the vast majority (78%) of the park's tourists, with Germans (29%) leading the pack in terms of foreigners. Those Germans, zey love ze animals! But do they need to stay in a five star hotel? I would have thought the attraction of places like the Kruger was the opportunity to experience something completely different to what you'd normally get on holiday anywhere in a city. The park already has some rather larney lodges, where one can experience 'rustic Africa' without being deprived of life's essential luxuries, like hot baths, w-fi and hairdryers.

Ag, what the heck, let's paint paradise and while we're at it, put up a parking lot.

Our skool holiday was a reel riot

2011-08-15T19:05:00.000+02:00

My housemates and I were having a girly night in, watching Titanic (for the umpteenth time). The boat had just sunk and panic was setting in aboard when one of my housemates got a text message from a friend saying, “It’s kicking off in Clapham Junction!” We switched over to Sky News and watched with horror as a different kind of disaster unfolded. As a resident of Wandsworth I consider Clapham Junction my ‘hood’. So it was with a sickening sense of disbelief and anger that I witnessed the trail of destruction there last Monday.

The rest of the week was spent fielding messages and calls from friends in SA asking if I was OK – oh the irony!

In a former life as a high school supply teacher in London I got to experience on a daily basis how badly behaved this country’s youth are. I had my purse stolen from my handbag under my nose in a Lambeth classroom. I counted it a successful day if there were no fights in my class, and I didn’t need to cry in the bathroom at lunchtime. I used to avoid taking the bus home at 3pm because it was usually overrun with unruly teenagers who didn’t need any encouragement to threaten you just for looking at them.

These kids don’t have money to go on holiday, and in the absence of suitable diversions they spend their school holidays getting up to mischief.

I remember spending my July school holidays attending pre-season athletics training or doing holiday homework assignments – and I was by no means abnormal – it’s just something we did.

These riot hoodlums think the world owes them something because they have nothing but I wish they could go to Zandspruit in Johannesburg to see what that truly means. A shack and no running water. That would quickly put their problems into perspective.

Solve the boredom problem and the discipline - holiday military boot camps?

Government to start mass deportation of Zimbabweans

2011-07-19T19:02:00.000+02:00

While Britain and SA have many differences, they also share a number of similarities. One of the dilemmas they have both had to grapple with is the issue of immigration.

In the last few years neither country has been particularly successful at stemming the tide of illegal immigrants, and have recently only woken up the necessity of a tougher stance on border control.

The UK has taken some successful steps to rectify the problem, but of course the legacy of its formerly friendly immigration policy will not be removed so easily. A large number of unskilled refugees who can't
speak English and cannot work drain the welfare state, and of those who can work, many argue they are taking jobs from British workers in these hard economic times.

In South Africa the number of asylum seekers has steadily spiralled, with the country now the number one refugee destination in the world. And with at least a quarter of the working population unemployed, many
citizens have unleashed their frustration, not on the government, but as xenophobic violence on the people they see as taking their rightful jobs.

The government has realised the situation is out of control, and has promised to clamp down by deporting these people. It's heartbreaking to refuse someone asylum, but there's only so much one country can do to shoulder the burdens of an entire region.

However, with the department of Home Affairs and the police already swamped, it remains to be seen now effectively this plan will actually be implemented.

Happy Birthday dear Madiba!

2011-07-16T18:59:00.000+02:00

Johnny Clegg and Savuka's 1987 song 'Asimbonanga' means, 'We have not seen him'. It refers to

Nelson Mandela, whose image was banned for the 27 years of his incarceration until he was released on 11 February 1990.

It's amazing to think that the face of the man the world never saw for nearly three decades is now one of the most familiar on the globe. Our former president has become an international icon for justice and compassion, so it's fitting that his birthday on 18 July is recognised as a day of community involvement.

There are many ways to get involved, wherever you are in the world. Why not give your 67 minutes in honour of this precious man and his legacy.

Happy Birthday tata!

Princess Charlene to sink or swim?

2011-07-04T18:57:00.000+02:00

So Charlene's wedding appears to have gone swimmingly (sorry, couldn't resist), but are things are rosy as they seem? Could there be any truth in the rumours that SA's new princess tried to duck out at the last minute after finding out about her hubby's third love child?

But then again, she was prepared to marry him knowing he already had two children, possibly more, given his reputation as a ladies man with a somewhat murky romantic past. So would this new revelation really have deterred her?

While she looked absolutely beautiful in every outfit she wore during the two day marital extravaganza, she certainly seemed a little tense and ill at ease - not the traditional demeanour of a radiant bride on her big day. Maybe the stress of it all was a bit too much to bear.

Or perhaps she did try to escape, not because of Albert's past, but because the prospect of a life under a permanent spotlight was quite frightening. That would be enough to make any young beautiful girl who grew up on a quiet Benoni street reconsider her priorities I suppose.

Let's hope the gossip is all nonsense and that Charlie and Bertie will cast off the Grimaldi curse to enjoy a happy life together.

Government to bribe media?

2011-06-12T18:55:00.000+02:00

Media freedom in SA is a hot topic, so when the national government announced it would buy advertising only in publications that presented a good image of the government, anger was bound to ensue. The looming shadow of the proposed media appeals tribunal and related Protection of Information Bill adds a darker sense of unease to the whole situation.

Perhaps it’s true that the media largely reports government failures, and not its successes (bad news sells, etc) but I wonder if those people in government have a persecution complex. Do they honestly believe the media is out to get them? Is it guilt? I certainly believe we need to give credit where credit is due, but the last thing we need is a sense of complacency when there is so much still to be done.

And the ANC government seems to forget that, despite complaining that the media doesn’t report its service delivery successes, it still managed once again to garner the overall majority in the recent municipal elections. Perhaps this is because many of the people who voted for the ANC cannot read or live in rural areas without access to mainstream media. Or maybe it means voters don’t pay attention to what the media says anyway…

The other thing that bothers me is the proposed monstrous advertising budget of R1 billion. Where does this money come from? Could it not be better spent elsewhere, like um, service delivery?

Eish, no wonder the government is an easy target for the media.

SA film fest to debut in London

2011-06-06T18:52:00.000+02:00

For a long time the term ‘SA film industry’ was practically an oxymoron. But over the last few years things have changed. The quality and quantity of homegrown movies seems to be growing. As a result our
films are receiving international exposure and scooping up accolades, proving you don’t need a big budget to produce a well-crafted product. Skoonheid, the first Afrikaans film to be shown at Cannes, has just won a major award at this prestigious festival.

To give you an idea of how much the SA film industry has grown, it now employs 40,000 people – 10 times what it did a decade ago. This may be a drop in the ocean in terms of the overall unemployment rate, but it
shows how much potential there is for job creation and income generation.

So in light of such positive developments, it’s exciting to hear that the long-overdue SA UK film festival will make its debut in London this year. This will no doubt lead to more opportunities for directors, actors, screenwriters and technical personnel, while promoting our country as a tourism destination. In addition, we hope the bursaries and awards on offer will allow the creative talents of disadvantaged filmmakers to be developed.

At this stage it would be unrealistic to try to compete with giants like the UK and USA, which
both have an illustrious heritage of film-making that goes right back to the birth of film itself. But then again, do we want to? Let's rather take this chance to show our unique strengths and tell our own stories.

SA: Friend of dictators since 19...?

2011-05-30T18:49:00.000+02:00

There have been rumours that South Africa could grant asylum to our Libyan dictator friend, Uncle Gaddafi. However, this type of thing is not unprecedented in SA, and thus quite possible. Eyebrows were raised when the government welcomed first Haiti’s ousted president Jean-Bertrand Aristide and then Marc Ravalomanana of Madagascar.

These days it seems if you are politically well-connected, no matter what atrocities you have committed you can carve out a comfortable life for yourself in another country for several years before standing trial (if you are even unlucky enough to make it to court).

President Zuma’s ambivalent stance towards Robert Mugabe’s human rights abuses also points to this buddy-buddy system that’s prevalent throughout Africa, and forms the backbone of the Dictators for Life Club. Perhaps the recent uprisings in Egypt and Tunisia are encouraging signs that the people have had enough of this nonsense.

Let’s hope South Africans will kick up enough of a fuss to make it clear they do not want to shelter a mass murderer. We have enough of our own already.

Volcanoes and elections

2011-05-23T18:47:00.001+02:00

Forgive the pun, but Iceland’s volcanoes seem to be pulling out all the stops at the moment. Almost exactly a year ago, the eruption of the volcano with the unpronounceable name disrupted thousands of flights and cost airlines millions of dollars in losses. And now, once again, the world is gripped by the fear that the most recent eruption, this time by a volcano with the (at least more manageable) name of Grimsvotn, will ground flights once again. We wait to see whether the experts will deem the air safe to travel in. Until that happens, if you’re planning a trip this week, you’d better start investigating alternatives.

Meanwhile back in SA, the people pulling out all the stops last week were the politicians ahead of the local government elections, which dominated, if not monopolised, the headlines for several days. The results show the ANC is still very much in the lead, but the DA has certainly proved itself a force to be reckoned with, gaining 24% of the vote to the ANC’s 62%. In an unprecedented turn of events, the DA even won the entirely black ward of Kliptown in Soweto. The opposition party also remains in control of Cape Town. And true to form, the ANC rewarded its loyal voters with new houses and electricity. No, of course it didn’t. It spent taxpayers’ hard-earned money on a big party.

Steve does it again

2011-05-18T18:43:00.000+02:00

Good old Steve Hofmeyr. Ever controversial, the Afrikaans singer says that if Julius Malema wins his hate speech case against Afriforum, he will sing a song featuring the k-word in its lyrics.

It seems Steve is deliberately trying to set himself up as a Spy vs Spy white version of Malema. However, the good (or bad) news (depending on whether you’re a Hoff fan or not) is that the words "dubula ibhunu" (shoot the boer) were declared incitement to murder in a judgment handed down in the High Court in Johannesburg.

This judgment is not related to the Afriforum case, but could set a legal precedent for it. That means Malema is not likely to win the case, which means – and this is where you breathe a sigh of relief - Steve will (presumably) not sing his song.

But then again, knowing how much Stevie loves the limelight, maybe he will sing it anyway, just for kicks. And launch a whole new court case to keep the nation gripped and media attention firmly upon him for months to come.

So long, farewell

2011-04-18T16:35:00.000+02:00

‘Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending’ - Lazurus Long

It’s difficult to bid adieu to what you love.
This is my last Suburban Blips column, as I am leaving the Gazette after a wonderful two and a half years.

I have been given the opportunity to work in London, but will miss this newspaper and its community, which have become like family.
I have shared your joys, frustrations, achievements and scandals. I have befriended artists, musicians, even politicians and PR people (who would have thought?).

The charity network is re-running the 1995 TV series Suburban Bliss (Yes, I know, they must be getting desperate - good title though). In one episode Billy Dwyer meets a reporter from the Parkhurst Gazette, which he rather disparagingly refers to as the ‘local knock-n-drop’.
This greatly upsets the journalist, who retorts, ‘To our readers, this newspaper is more important than any mainstream daily, I’ll have you know.’
I can certainly identify with her sentiments. I’m constantly impressed by the loyalty of our readers, and how passionate they are about their suburbs. And upholding the high standards you expect always keeps us working hard.

Thank you to all the readers who enthusiastically respond to our stories each week. It’s this interaction with the community that’s made my job rewarding.

Although I’ll be swapping darkest Joburg for the bright lights of another continent, I have no doubt I’ll return one day soon to my beloved city.

Vultures and worker snails

2011-04-15T16:34:00.000+02:00

Dwellers of the urban jungle like to shop. Perhaps it satisfies our hunting instinct. Nothing will stop us - except when we become the hunted.

Beware the predatory shop assistants at a particular technology chain store. They are identified by their royal blue plumage and highly competitive behaviour. They huddle near the entrance like vultures awaiting their turn to attack the victim. Before you can blink, one is at your side. I’m just browsing thanks, you say. He hovers. You politely tell him you’ll call if you need any help. He leaves you alone and returns to his flock.But two minutes later, another one breaks away and approaches you. Just browsing, you say...

Somehow I’d rather be bombarded than avoided, which was my experience at another technology retailer. I couldn’t find the computer they advertised so I looked around for someone to ask. It was a case of the Lesser Spotted Salesman. Eventually I found one cowering behind some DVDs. Perhaps this was because he had been blinded by the very bright neon lights in the shop. This might also explain why he couldn’t answer my question. Fearing I too might become afflicted by the same condition, I beat a hasty retreat.

Then there’s the clothing chain where the shopfitter’s challenge was to hang as many garments as out of reach as possible. If you want to get one down, you have to ask one of the worker snails. They’re easily spotted as they are bright red. But neither haste nor friendliness are behavioural characteristics. They sigh loudly as they haul out a ladder and carry it to the shelf as if wading through treacle...

After this ordeal no wonder it’s so satisfying to eventually purchase an item - that’s the thrill of the conquest.

Robbed by the bank

2011-04-08T16:32:00.000+02:00

At the beginning of March I received a friendly SMS from my bank reminding me that my debit card would expire at the end of the month.

I was instructed to go to my branch to collect a new one. Being a person who hates waiting unnecessarily, and knowing how long the payday queues can be, I duly went a week before month end.

As the teller was about to issue my card, he casually mentioned I would be charged R60 for it. After nearly choking on my tongue, I managed to splutter, “Why?”
“Because you are applying for the card before it expires,” I was told. “If you come after it expires, you won’t be charged,” was the perfectly rational explanation.
Right, so let me get this straight. You encourage me to get my new card early, and when I do, you penalise me. I understand charging to replace lost cards, but one with a week left to live?

I tried to tell the teller that it was ridiculous to expect a client to go without access to her money for several days until she could find another convenient time to return. But this argument had no effect, so I tried the bank manager who, to his credit, saw sense and agreed to cancel the charges.

South Africa is notorious for having some of the highest bank charges in the world. I bet most customers are so used to being ripped off they simply resign themselves to paying these farcical fees.

Part of the reason we continue to be fleeced on a daily basis is our own apathy. We’re all guilty of it.
If we resolved to be more proactive about complaining - and complimenting - perhaps things might change.

Crickets, anyone?

2011-03-08T16:23:00.000+02:00

What happened to Parktown prawns?

These once ubiquitous creatures used to roam our suburban homes and gardens, striking fear into the hearts of ‘Madams and Eves’ alike.

But they seem to have disappeared. The last time I saw one was on the big screen in the guise of an alien.

I’m not surprised they were the inspiration behind the revolting beasts in a sci-fi movie.

I was quite petrified of Parktown prawns as a child. They were even scarier than vampires or gremlins, because they were real.

I remember on many occasions being so hot at night, going to sleep with my window wide open. Only to be woken a few hours later by a chilling scratch-scratch sound behind my desk.

I knew it could only mean one thing – a prawn had climbed into my room from the garden.

Knowing how well these insects could jump, I had nightmares that it would leap onto my face while I was sleeping.

So this meant waking up one of my parents to help me capture the thing and tip it outside. One night, the monster followed me out of my room down the passage. Another time, my foot disturbed one snoozing inside my takkie. I think my scream was heard in Norway.

Parktown prawns are just a variety of king crickets – harmless really. Nonetheless, there are all sorts of urban legends about them, such as the tale that they were the result of a botched genetic experiment by Wits University students.

Or you heard from someone whose friend’s aunt’s cousin twice removed (once with tweezers) threw a bucket of wet cement over a Parktown prawn and cracked it open a year later to find it still alive and kicking.

Several people I spoke to have not seen a Parktown prawn in years. Perhaps the hadedas ate them all.

Or maybe the prospects in Hollywood were more lucrative.

Going forward, let's all sing from the same hymn sheet

2011-02-11T16:18:00.000+02:00

‘Dear Heather, As per our telecomms today, please find attached the information you requested. I am waiting for high resolution photographs and will revert back asap.’

Revert back? Uh, what? Someone please shout ‘Tautology’!
That was the wording of an e-mail sent to me recently by a PR person. Even more scary than the grammatical error or ridiculously formal tone was the word revert, which is popping up with growing frequency in the corporate world.

The dictionary defines this verb as ‘to return to a former habit, practice, belief, condition, etc.’
I have a suggestion: if you’re going to use a fancy word, at least find out what it means and use it properly. Don’t just tack it onto your e-mail because your manager used it and you thought it sounded kind of posh. What happened to a simple ‘I’ll get back to you’?

Instead of using pompous, pretentious cliches, let’s revert to basics. Let’s banish mindless, meaningless corporatese.

And while we’re at it, first and foremost, we must think out of the box and give 150 percent to
ensure we synergise our strategies.

Last but not least, let’s touch base to ensure all stakeholders, roleplayers and other interested and affected parties are on the same page, singing from the same hymn book, going forward.

It’s all in a day’s work

2011-01-28T15:04:00.000+02:00

For these charlatans, a bit of method acting is all in a day’s work.

There’s at least one on every corner - the elderly, blind, disabled, mothers with babies, children.
Our city’s streets are filled with beggars - yet I don’t remember there being so many when I was growing up. Maybe it’s an indication of the lack of jobs, a rise in laziness or an increased number of immigrants.

Perhaps they represent a society that no longer can or will look after its most vulnerable members. It’s probably a combination of factors.

Many of these ragged specimens are heart-wrenching sights that invoke pity in motorists. I’m particularly saddened by the dusty, barefoot children.

I wonder how our beggars stay warm, whether they have homes or sleep on the streets. If so, are they homeless out of choice or necessity? But I also wonder how many simply exploit our sympathy to earn some cash, and are not as badly off as they appear, such as the women who borrow babies for effect.

Last week a reader sent in photos of an apparently crippled beggar in Killarney who, once his shift was finished, decamped to the pavement and stripped off his telltale jacket. He then walked off nonchalantly, miraculously ‘healed’.

For these charlatans, a bit of method acting is all in a day’s work. For years there’s been a man at an intersection in my suburb who variously has an injured head or broken arm (right or left). The effect is creatively achieved with a single, versatile bandage.

Further down the road is a wizened, middle-aged woman with a surprising variety of outfits. My mom recently saw her depositing money at the bank across the road from her regular post.
She probably lives in a mansion in Westcliff.

Show some consideration

2011-01-21T15:01:00.000+02:00

Whoopee! Now that everyone is back at school and work, the roads have returned to their usual nightmarish state.

And along with potholes and congestion, the moron drivers have reappeared.
You know the ones - so busy talking on their cellphones they are unable to turn properly, almost forcing drivers in the adjacent lane onto the pavement to avoid a collision, while they sail past in oblivion.

Or those who plough straight across traffic circles without even glancing to check if there are other vehicles approaching.
Maybe that’s you?

Getting behind the wheel seems to turn ordinarily nice people into mean and selfish monsters. Especially in the concrete jungle of Joburg, where only the fittest survive.
I live only 10km from my office and even during peak hour I have honed my route such that my commute takes about 20 minutes. But as journalists do, I sometimes need to go further afield during the daily gridlock. That’s when it becomes tricky.
A yellow grid is painted across the intersection of Oxford Road and North Road in Melrose. Most drivers seem to think this is some kind of game to see how many cars can fit inside the block. Call me crazy, but I happen to believe it means, No stopping here. At any rate, nobody lets you in if you’re trying to get from North Road to turn right into Bompas Road. So you end up having to go straight along Oxford Road and turn further down.
Narcissistic drivers won’t reach their destinations any quicker. Why not show a bit of common decency?

Return to basics

2011-01-10T14:52:00.000+02:00

As matrics celebrate their results and rejoice in being freed from the shackles of school, a new crop of Grade 1s enters the classroom.

Dressed in their shiny new shoes, bright white socks and uniforms two sizes too big, they have much to live up to. It’s not just their school bags, almost the same size as them, upon their shoulders – but the hopes and dreams of the nation. They’ll grow into their clothes but will they reach their destiny?
In 12 years’ time they will be the class of 2022. Hopefully by then the huge mistake that was Outcomes Based Retardation will be a thing of the past.

One thing is certain, whatever replaces it needs to adequately prepare pupils for life beyond Grade 12.
Regardless of the actual matric pass rate, what matters is that those who passed have the correct knowledge. The pass rate could be 100 percent but it’s meaningless if the graduates can’t read or write.
You might laugh, but that is frequently expressed as a problem both here and in supposedly more advanced countries like the UK and USA. Universities continually complain that many intelligent young prospects who enter their halls are almost illiterate. Instead of sinking their teeth into the intricacies of Freudian theories or metaphysics, these students must first be taught how to write an essay.

The new South African curriculum needs to give pupils skills for an increasingly technological world. They should leave school IT literate, creative, critical thinkers and doers.
Yes, Education Department, I said creative. In the quest for scientific advancement and improving our dismal maths marks please don’t get rid of subjects like art.

And please, please go back to teaching times tables – they can never be too old-fashioned.

Trollies, buses and vuvuzelas

2010-12-15T14:47:00.000+02:00

It’s been another successful year for city council.

The roads were fixed, street lights repaired, and everyone billed correctly. The Joburg Connect call centre was a well-oiled machine and top officials refused on principle to give themselves huge bonuses. Hah! Well, there’s always next year…

Back in reality, cellphone masts and eiruv poles reared their metallic necks. A runaway bus crashed into Kitty Shelter’s wall, while other buses took shortcuts through the suburbs. A lease dispute erupted over the long-vacant Parkhurst bowling club, while city council still decides what to do with it. Until a decision is reached, the good news is that the property has been cleaned up and secured.

The traffic islands at Hyde Park corner saw the start of a long-term makeover, just in time for the glorious month-long spectacle that was the World Cup. For a few short weeks everything seemed to work, and we forgot about our problems as we caught the gees and waved our flags. Five months later it feels like we dreamt it, with not a flag in sight, nor a vuvuzela within earshot.

Once again the community proved its generosity and gave two tragedies a happy ending.
Handyman Joss Lunga’s bakkie burnt down, but caring neighbours blessed him with a replacement, enabling him to make a living once more.

Solly Radali’s magnificent trolley was stolen, but another was donated, along with materials to create anew. Soon he was back with his best trolley yet.

There you have it - the good, the bad and the utterly ridiculous of 2010. Never a dull moment.

Everyone's a superstar

2010-11-29T14:42:00.000+02:00

Fancy dress parties have a strange effect on people’s personalities.

Nowhere is this more apparent than the end of year office party. Normally shy people tend to develop sudden confidence when bedecked, not as their everyday selves but, as a pirate or a vampire or Dolly Parton.

That quiet woman in accounts turns out to be quite a rock star. The mild-mannered web developer surprises everyone as he becomes a John Travolta on the dance floor. All because they’ve swapped their corporate clothing for something glitzier. I suppose a little alcohol does help to effect the transformation for some.

But a disguise definitely plays a large role, if you’ll excuse the pun, in removing inhibitions. While a clown suit may not be suitable work attire, here anything goes – and no matter what you wear no-one will really judge you. In fact, the more outrageous the better. A costume allows you the freedom to speak and act outside your comfort zone. You find yourself taking on another persona altogether.

The fascinating conundrum is the identity of the characters who emerge. Are they louder, funnier, crazier versions of ourselves? Or the real self bursting out of hiding? Perhaps they are alter egos, people we secretly want to be. Like Superman, or a hippie.

I love fancy dress parties, probably because I’m a bit of a drama queen. I relish the opportunity to go completely over the top, and find it hard to comprehend there are those who don’t share my enthusiasm for such things.

To them I say just try it. Don a wig and feather boa - you might discover your inner diva.

A slippery slope

2010-11-13T21:23:00.002+02:00

Forget Jimmy Choo. This year’s must-have footwear is the humble slipper. Not the glass variety – the bedroom kind. Yes, those old floppy stokies are becoming increasingly common sights on the streets and inside the malls of Joburg. Have you noticed them too?

I often see them on the feet of otherwise smartly-dressed and immaculately made-up women in supermarkets. Maybe they wear them to save their stilettoes while driving, or are just too tired from a long day at work. Perhaps they absent-mindedly forget to change their shoes before leaving home. Either way, this seems a temporary measure.

But then there are those, mainly student types, who deliberately set out for the day wearing slippers as if they are the vital ingredients to their street cred.

Indeed, not a mistake, a fashion statement, along with luminous t-shirts and skinny jeans.

It’s difficult to determine why these shoes, previously confined to the house, became acceptable outdoor accessories. They’re no doubt warm and comfy, but bound to wear out quickly. Certainly not very practical or durable. Then again, fashion is rarely durable or practical - or rational, for that matter.

Perhaps this fad is a philosophical statement about the separation of our external and internal selves. Or a reaction against pricey, elitist footwear brands – have you ever seen designer slippers? This fluffy footwear tells the world, ‘I don’t succumb to label hype, I’m an individual… just like my friends.’

This is a worrying trend. It’s the start of, well… a slippery slope. What other items of bedroom apparel will soon become the norm in public? Dressing gowns, hair curlers, face packs… I shudder at the thought. Let’s hope taste will prevail.

A messy issue

2010-11-05T20:00:00.000+02:00

Jazz on the Lake was a great party – the amount of rubbish left behind was testament to that.

But it would be fabulous if just for once that were not the case. As seems the norm at these types of events, there were no bins in the concert area. A team of cleaners with plastic bags roved about picking up rubbish during and after the show. And the next day there were still remnants of the musical revelry in the park.

I wonder how much difference bins would have made. Many people would have thrown their litter on the ground anyway. Some such litterbugs justify their actions as job creation. That may be so – without dirt some workers would be unemployed – but does that mean criminals should commit crime to ensure cops aren’t made redundant?

Look at it another way. Instead of doing someone a favour by littering, do so by not littering. Throwing your cooldrink can in a bin, not on the pavement, will mean one less time the poor old street cleaner needs to bend her bad back to pick it up.

Understanding the downside of litter is an important step in changing mindsets. Every pupil should visit a landfill to see how much waste humans generate.

And recycling should be spread to public places, not just the home.

If city council is serious about making Joburg greener, perhaps it should consider introducing recycling bins at big events like Jazz on the Lake. Containers for plastic, glass and metal could be placed around the area and items deposited on departure. Of course, it will take time for people to get used to the idea, but such public demonstration of commitment to the environment will do wonders to spread awareness.

Amazing Race comes to town

2010-10-29T20:57:00.000+02:00

Not being the lucky (or unlucky) owners of satellite TV at home, we have to make do with the welfare channels.

One of our favourite shows on the charity network is the Amazing Race, a competition that sends contestants around the world on every imaginable form of transport, from rickshaws to aeroplanes, in the quest to win $1 million. To obtain clues they have to complete all sorts of hair-raising tasks, from solving puzzles to abseiling.

In the 13 seasons screened locally, to my knowledge the teams have been to Joburg just once, and that was to Soweto. So I started wondering what quintessential Joburgian challenges the contestants could take on if they came here. In the hope of persuading the producers to choose Jozi as a destination I took the liberty of suggesting an itinerary.

After landing at the airport the teams must catch the Gautrain to Sandton City to search for a particular clue inside the hundreds of stores in the city’s most exclusive mall. Then they must get through to Joburg Connect (just kidding – I wouldn’t be that cruel). Instead they should head to Rosebank to learn how to make a beaded wire key-ring from one of the crafters at the African craft market. Once their teacher is satisfied with their finished product they must make their way to the taxi rank and, using hand signals only, catch a taxi to Constitution Hill. Inside they will find a clue directing them to Emmarentia Dam, where they will have the choice of canoeing or sailing across it. Back on dry land they will jump into a hired car and head back east to Benoni to master the skill of sandboarding down a mine dump.

Then they must drive back to the airport in rush hour traffic. Sounds easy enough.

A moment of silence please

2010-10-26T21:18:00.000+02:00

I won’t lie. Despite knowing it would happen, nothing quite prepared me for the scene of devastation. When I saw those forlorn looking stumps I had a lump in my throat. Silly really, I suppose. They were just trees after all, weren’t they?

The plane trees on Empire Road were planted to mark the Empire Exhibition of 1936, a celebration of the British Empire in its heyday. On the same day we mourned our fallen heroes, these green sentinels were chopped down to widen the street for the Rea Vaya Bus Rapid Transit route. Protests by residents were ignored. Sorry old chaps, it’s all about progress you know. Somewhat ironic when you consider that the purpose of this great exhibition was to show off Britain’s progress in science, design and medicine; its forward thinking and modern outlook. Now we dig to commemorate a new milestone.

The trees are an alien species and remnants of colonialism, which some say are very good reasons for getting rid of them.

Anyway, everyone knows how much we need a better public transport system. Sacrifices must be made for change to come about.

That may be so, but these septuagenarians were part of the history of our city that has now been deleted. Imagine the stories they could have told if they were able to speak. Tales of love lost and found, betrayals, scandals, births and deaths. Perhaps on a quiet afternoon one could have heard them rustling secrets to each other while birds twittered in their branches. But now there are no more whispered secrets. Just a barren wasteland of blood-red earth.

They were only trees. Weren’t they?

Rhythm of the city

2010-10-22T20:55:00.000+02:00

Jozi is a musical melting pot - you only need to turn on the radio to hear this.

I listen to a vast number of radio stations, and am constantly hopping from one to the other. This either means I’m fussy or my taste differs widely. I think it’s a bit of both.

While I love many types of music, if a particular song or DJ annoys me, or it happens to be business hour, I change the channel. So on a weekly basis I hear music from many genres, sometimes in languages I don’t understand or recognise. It’s a fascinating exercise, and a window onto the cultures and subcultures of South Africa.

We must be one of the most musically diverse countries in the world. The list of categories for the South African Music Awards includes gospel, sokkiedans, country, pop, rock, jazz, maskandi, mbaqanga, rap, kwaito and R&B, among others. That excludes further categories of local traditional music, which has its own awards ceremony.

Once when I passed the deli counter in a supermarket, two men working there broke into song, and were joined by their woman colleague. I stood for a moment, entranced by their sweet sound. Nothing gives me goosebumps quite like voices raised in a capella harmony. But that type of spontaneous music-making is not unusual in South Africa, and that's precisely what touched me about it. I simply can't imagine this happening in a supermarket in Europe. Customers would be appalled if employees started singing at random.

But this is a place, where music is an integral part of life and the fabric of work and play, and is as natural as breathing. A place where every day is a sonic odyssey.

Gluttony and Gucci

2010-10-19T21:17:00.000+02:00

Christmas comes but once every nine months, didn’t you know?

In mid-October decorations appear in shops, and the advertising onslaught begins. You know it’s that time of year when you need a forklift to pick up your copy of the Gazette.

I dread Christmas.

But before you cry, ‘Bah humbug indeed!’ I don’t hate Christmas itself - it’s the tacky commercialism I can’t stand.

First of all, why does it have to start so early? Surely late November would be adequate? Do we have to be subjected to baubles and cheesy dirges for almost three months?

Then there are the horrible decorations – cheap plastic fir trees and angels. It’s visual pollution at its worst. I’ve seen some tasteful displays but these are few and far between.

And what relevance to South Africa do these wintry images have? We must come up with our own symbols. A few years ago our family made a beautiful tree by hanging gold and silver seed pods from a potted branch. With a growing worldwide emphasis on carbon footprint, it’s time we re-used, recycled and bought locally produced items. I loved one artist's fresh take on an old cliché - a bright orange beaded wire reindeer.

As for the gifts, can someone please tell the retailers to stop bombarding us with 'special' offers, and remind the general public the worth of a present is not measured by how much debt you incur paying for it.

I spent Christmas in Malawi last year, and what a relief it was to get away from tinselled malls. There I saw how little most people had and was reminded how materialistic us northern suburbs dwellers are.

It made me yearn for a return to simple values instead of gluttony and Gucci.

Jacarandas and thunderstorms

2010-10-15T20:53:00.000+02:00

The moment, barely a week ago, that I first spied those tiny purple blossoms I was filled with joy.

There’s something about the blooming jacarandas that says 'Summer is here and it will soon be holidays.’

Almost overnight our green suburbs were splashed in bright splotches of mauve – a magical transformation that never ceases to amaze me. Part of what makes the splendour special is that it’s fleeting. It disappears in the blink of an eye, as quickly as it arrives, and must be savoured while it lasts.

I’ve been a fan of jacarandas since childhood. I remember walking down the path to my primary school classroom across a lilac carpet of fallen petals, imagining I was a princess in a fairytale land.

Despite being exotic, these trees have become Gauteng icons. They look particularly striking against a sky full of velvety charcoal storm clouds – another of my favourite Highveld sights.

And I love the storms that go with the skies - they suit my artistic temperament.

There’s the build-up – gusts of wind, clouds gathering, frantic rushing around to collect washing off the line and close windows. Rumbling in the sky, soft at first, then louder; jagged flashes of lightning. There’s a sense of danger in the air. A dramatic pause, and then the heavens open.

A marvel to behold, although not so great to get stuck in as a pedestrian or motorist. How fresh the air smells afterwards, and how cool.

I know a few adults who are frightened of thunderstorms because they didn’t grow up here. But I couldn’t imagine summer without them. They were something I missed most in my three years in England.

Nothing beats falling asleep to the sound of a downpour outside, the rain soaking our dry African earth.

An icy reception

2010-10-12T21:14:00.000+02:00

A certain provincial government minister gave a speech during an event at a community organisation. At the beginning he welcomed various people, before asking if any members of the media were present. I was the only person who raised a hand, so he spoke directly to me. ‘I don’t normally like to welcome the media, but I think today it’s important. Welcome to you too,’ he said.

I plastered a polite smile on my face and said nothing, but inside I was fuming. Had I heard right? Had he just shamelessly insulted the media, to one of its representatives?

Yet somehow I wasn’t surprised. This jibe simply reflected the ruling party’s current attitude to the media – that of suspicion and paranoia.

Conversation in Parliament: ‘Those pesky journalists are always turning up when they’re not wanted, poking their noses into affairs we’d rather hush up. We wish they’d just go away. No on second thoughts, we want them to stay, but only say nice things about us. I know, we should pass a Protection of Information Bill to censor the naughty bits.'

‘Great idea! I heard something about the media being the Fourth Estate, and that’s not fair because I only have three estates. These people obviously have too much power.’

Someone forgot to point out that if they want the press to say nice things about them, threatening to gag freedom of speech may not be the best way to go about it.

Sure, at times the press tends toward sensationalism, or acts irresponsibly, but that’s not a good enough reason to resent its presence. What about the positive stories it brings to light?

At any rate, less than a week after this politician pronounced his unwelcoming welcome, he was axed by Premier Nomvula Mokonyane. Poetic justice?

The curious case of the ghost road

2010-10-08T20:50:00.000+02:00

The mind boggles as to how it took eight months to open a perfectly good road.

Construction of Park Road in Birnam started in December, after a green park was bulldozed in half to create it.

By February it was tarred and freshly painted. Ready for action. But instead of being opened to traffic it stood barricaded for weeks. Residents and motorists started wondering what was going on, growing increasingly annoyed. Because Delta Road, a former thoroughfare, was closed to build the glistening new road, exacerbating the rush-hour nightmare.

Apparently Park Road remained closed because traffic lights needed to be installed. So everyone waited for that to happen. Which it did, eventually. But the lights weren’t on, and no-one was home… because they were all stuck in traffic.

Some residents in their frustration took to blaming everyone from councillor Ray Wolder, who simply inherited the problem from her predecessor, to the Democratic Alliance, the party she represents. Wolder in fact spent many hours e-mailing and phoning the powers that be in an effort to fix the problem.

At last the traffic lights were switched on. Surely now the road would be opened, the people thought. Alas, it remained inexplicably shut, taunting drivers with its emptiness. A bureaucratic paper trail was holding up the process, it emerged.

I was tempted to go there in the middle of the night and move the barricades myself. Would the authorities have noticed? Then one day workers came along quietly, removed the barriers and officially opened Park Road. Without even the tiniest fanfare. Not even a ribbon (or red tape) cutting ceremony.

The street that took years to come into being was unveiled to the sound of one hand clapping.

The final countdown

2010-10-05T20:59:00.000+02:00

Everything they have learnt in the last 12 years will count when this year’s matrics write their final exams.

I’m not just referring to academic knowledge but power of recall, critical thinking, study skills, emotional intelligence, stress management and self-esteem. Most Grade 12s are painfully aware that should any of these be lacking, the outcome could be disastrous.

I had two Grade 1 teachers. On my first term report, Mrs A wrote that I was talkative and disruptive. But she moved overseas and was replaced by Mrs B, who saw the situation differently. She told my parents I was enthusiastic and contributed to class discussion. Looking back I wonder whether I would have turned out the same way had Mrs A remained my teacher for that year.

Of course, children are resilient and will bounce back with enough encouragement, but one negative label at such a crucial stage has the potential to affect the rest of someone’s life, perhaps in the middle of a gruelling exam.

Millions of pupils in South Africa have to learn under the difficult circumstances of malnutrition, ill-resourced schools, no electricity, absent parents, absent teachers. There is no doubt these factors have devastating effects on a person’s education. But sometimes pupils are too quick to use external factors as an excuse. Those with enough determination to succeed usually do, and they will be the true heroes of Matric 2010, as opposed to those from affluent schools who score 10 distinctions.

At the same time, I hope Grade 12s understand that failure is not the end of the world. Pupils have taken their own lives under this mistaken belief. There’s always a second chance to get it right. I wish you success, Class of 2010.

Tourists vs travellers

2010-10-03T21:20:00.000+02:00

“Tourists don’t know where they’ve been; travellers don’t know where they’re going.” - Paul Theroux.

Adventure is in my blood. I have a traveller’s spirit, and it’s the same spirit that drives me as a journalist. Ever since I was little I’ve had a curiosity about the world, an interest in people and their stories, a hunger for knowledge and a love for languages and cultures. So far I’ve been to 18 countries. I’m a backpacker at heart and enjoy the freedom of the open road.

Recently a friend described me as a good traveller. I hadn’t thought before about whether there were grades of travellers. But I concluded there definitely are. I’ve seen some shocking specimens.

Like those who complain about everything. Or the ones who boast, 'We did Italy, then we did France, then we did Spain… By ‘did’ they probably meant visited the standard tourist locations and headed for the nearest watering hole.

Travel is not about ticking destinations off a list. It’s about keeping an open mind and exploring places different from what you’re used to. That’s not to say having fun and relaxing aren’t important too. But how about finding at least one spot off the beaten path?

Whether you travel inside our borders, or further afield, learn the history of a place, engage with its inhabitants, greet them in their language (a great ice-breaker). Don’t just head for a burger – sample the local cuisine. These actions will make the difference between a mediocre trip and an unforgettable one.

As you head off on holiday this year will you be a tourist or a traveller? Or maybe somewhere in between?

The power is in the details

2010-09-24T20:02:00.000+02:00

City Power must be commended for trying – but that’s as far as it goes.

The entity took the trouble to place adverts in several Caxton community newspapers, the Gazette included, advising residents of planned power interruptions in their areas. The cuts were scheduled to last from 11pm at night until 6am the next morning. All well and good. Forewarned is certainly forearmed.

However, four nights before the appointed date, we were just climbing into bed at 11pm when everything went dark. We could see the whole neighbourhood was affected, and since we were about to go to sleep anyway, we didn’t report it. The electricity came back on at 8am the following morning – a suspiciously similar time period to that advertised. So we waited to see if our cut would occur on the right day. It didn’t. We could only assume City Power changed its mind about the date or got it wrong in the first place. What's the use of warning about a power cut on the wrong day?

It would also be a good idea to provide the correct names for the suburbs mentioned. The advert in the Gazette read, ‘The following areas will be affected: Dunkeld; Hyde Park; Hydepark Ext 5; Saxonworld; Kilarney Mall; Parkwood; Sussex; Chester Road; Rosebank; Federation Road and Fricker Road.’

Is it Hyde Park or Hydepark? Just Kilarney (sic) Mall or the whole suburb? Saxonworld? And last time I checked, Sussex was a road, not a suburb.

Most people understand that occasional, scheduled power interruptions are necessary for maintenance work, but they begin to lose patience when inconvenienced by incorrect information.

Accurate communication is a huge part of good service.

Take another look at litter

2010-09-17T19:59:00.001+02:00

Jazz on the Lake was a great party – the amount of rubbish left behind was testament to that.

Understanding the downside of litter is an important step in changing mindsets. Every pupil should visit a landfill to see how much waste humans generate.

And recycling should be spread to public places, not just the home.

Three cheers for books

2010-09-10T19:58:00.000+02:00

What’s the best book you’ve ever read? One that made you bawl your eyes out, laugh till you ached or opened your mind to a new way of thinking?

If you’re like me, you probably have too many favourites to count.

I discovered the joy of reading before I even learnt to read. By the time I was about four, my mother had read me the story of Snow White enough times that I knew it by heart. One day I opened the book and recited the story to her, convinced that what I was doing was reading. Much to my dismay, it was not. But what this shows about reading is that a good story is one you’ll never forget.

I don’t remember many of the TV shows I watched while growing up, but hundreds of books have stayed with me. In some cases, particular images or moments from each one - like the ominous grey-suited men in Michael Ende’s Momo.

Reading is solitary, but not lonely. It fires up the imagination in a way nothing else can. Books take the reader on fantastic journeys to both real and imaginary places. I blame my insatiable thirst for travel on being introduced to Tintin and Asterix comics at the age of eight.

Many of us take the ability to read for granted. But it is a skill millions do not have the opportunity or ability to master.

This being National Book Week, and International Literacy Day on 8 September, spare a thought for those with dyslexia and other learning difficulties, as well as those who have never had the chance to learn.

So what about those who can read but don’t? Many youngsters (and adults) spend more time playing electronic games and SMSing each other than reading. They are missing a whole universe of fun.

Lessons for life

2010-09-03T19:56:00.000+02:00

Most people who own cars take them for granted – until something goes wrong. Then the wailing and gnashing of teeth begins.

‘Why are the services of a mechanic so expensive? Why do panelbeaters never keep their promises?’ we moan. We wonder whether it’s possible for a tiny piece of plastic to cost that much. When the man in overalls says the thingy has become discombobulated and he needs to replace it, we nod dumbly. We suspect we are being ripped off, but because we know nothing, we cough up. And we wish we had more knowledge so we could fix the car ourselves.

That’s why basic vehicle maintenance should be a school subject. It could form part of life orientation, a compulsory subject that includes sex and health education, and career guidance. Aside from its slightly ridiculous name, life orientation seems to be on the right track. I’m not knocking academic subjects like maths and history, because they are certainly important, but I do think education needs to be more practical.

School is meant to prepare pupils for adult life, which usually includes further study and a job. But what’s the use of learning about mitochondria unless one plans to become a biologist? Wouldn’t it be more useful to learn how to parallel park, for example? In fact, some schools in America offer driving lessons to their pupils. A wise idea, considering the expense of learning to drive with a private instructor.

Perhaps local schools should even adminster the learner’s licence exam. This would help to relieve the huge backlog of test bookings at the traffic department, while teaching young people a valuable life skill.

Very few people know how to do emergency first aid – this should also be part of the curriculum. Along with self-defence lessons, and hands-on instruction in changing an electrical plug.

Of course, not everyone would actually pay attention, but if they saw the relevance of what they were studying, something might stick.

The forgotten generation

2010-08-27T19:53:00.000+02:00

‘Is there nothing the throw-away generation won’t throw away?’ read the text on a Rand Aid magazine advert from several years ago.

Underneath it was a photo of a dejected, lonely-looking elderly woman on a bench next to an overflowing rubbish bin.

This is the awful reality many senior citizens face. They tried to save for retirement, but can’t keep up with inflation. What they have is simply not enough to survive on, and a meagre government pension doesn't help. Their families are unwilling or unable to care for them, so they end up in old age homes, which themselves receive reduced government subsidies.

While some families simply do not care, others have had to make the heartbreaking decision to house elderly parents somewhere else. The truth is that caring for them can be a huge burden on one’s time and finances, while paying off a bond and putting one’s own children through school or university. So these senior citizens become the abandoned generation.

These days our government is heavily focused on youth and education, with hardly a thought for the older members of society. Their years of contributing to the economy, fighting in our wars and raising our leaders go unacknowledged.

What a great pity, as pensioners still have much to offer. For one thing, they can tell fascinating stories about the past. They are as much a part of our history as heritage buildings, and should be treasured.

On that note, congratulations to one of Johannesburg’s oldest residents, Teddy Cohen, for reaching the ripe old age of 102.

I wish you much health and happiness.

An awful earful

2010-08-20T19:51:00.001+02:00

If you’ve never heard the Joburg Connect concerto, the Telkom sonata or the SAA symphony, consider yourself lucky.

Call centres seem to have been designed to make us insane. Never mind the endless sequences of pressing various digits to pick options, only to be told ‘Sorry ma’am, I don’t deal with that issue, you need to contact another department’. It’s the so-called music that truly sends callers off the deep end.

The worst call holding tunes play in 30-second loops, and were clearly designed only for those brief pauses after the switchboard operator says ‘Going through.’ Or they were created somewhere where people don’t wait an average of 10 minutes to speak to someone on the other end, which is unfortunately the norm here.

I’m not sure why, but somehow a tinny electronic version of the first eight bars of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons doesn’t really stand up to repeated listening. Neither does a medley of pan pipes playing Abba, by the way. (One thing’s for sure – you know you’ve made it big as a musician when someone records a pan pipes cover album of your songs.)

Surely if they’re going to make us wait that long we deserve better? Some real music at the very least?

I was quite impressed with the call centre of a certain bank, which serenaded me with Johnny Clegg – not just one song, but an entire album.

Maybe companies could go one step further and give callers a choice of artists or genres to listen to. I mean, they’ve set up these fancy number-pressing systems - they could use that technology to give customers a more pleasurable waiting experience. Press 5 for jazz, press 7 for gospel.

Or give us something educational - teach me another language or some interesting facts. Just please hold the muzak.

No woman ever deserves it

2010-08-13T19:49:00.000+02:00

This was going to be an upbeat column in celebration of Women’s Day. And then I found out that a young woman I know was raped last week.

It happened one night as Thandi (not her real name) was walking from the taxi stop to her house.

In one moment she went from being just Thandi to a Statistic.

Now everything I wanted to say about how much women are capable of would have been hollow.

Women can do almost anything, but few can stop a man from raping.

It is estimated that 1 000 women are raped daily in South Africa. That’s 40 rapes an hour. In a survey last year, one in four men admitted he had raped someone.

It’s not a problem that will go away on its own. Unless attitudes are changed, sexual violence against women will not decrease.

While Women’s Month celebrates beauty, femininity and the progress of women’s liberation it also highlights how far we still have to go.

It is vital for both women and men to take this opportunity to talk about rape and sexual violence.

Rape needs to be removed from the list of taboo conversation topics. Myths about cures for Aids and the male prerogative need to be dragged out from the shelter of ‘culture’ and exposed as cowardice, pure and simple.

Women need to know that it’s not their fault. No one ever deserves it.

Women must arm themselves - with pepper sprays, self defence classes, and men who respect and protect them.

Details: Stop Women Abuse Helpline 0800-150-150,

People Opposed to Women Abuse www.powa.co.za or 011-642-4345,

Lifeline 011-728-1347.

Time for a fresh take

2010-08-06T19:46:00.000+02:00

Of all the movies made in or about Joburg, ask yourself how many actually make it look nice. Congratulations if you came up with two.

It seems filmmakers (or screenwriters) have latched on to Joburg as the perfect setting for dark and grimy stories. The most recent was District 9 – brilliant but, not exactly a tourist brochure for the city of gold. What about Tsotsi? Also a gem, and some excellent cinematography made the skyline look rather romantic, but again, it showed mainly the rough underside of the metropolis. Then there’s Jerusalama, Stander… the list goes on.

We certainly have some suitably grim locations, but we also have a reputation for being crime-riddled and these films only serve to reinforce that.

We need a blockbuster that will do for Jozi what Breakfast at Tiffany’s did for New York (who could forget that famous opening scene where Audrey Hepburn, bathed in morning light, peers into the shop windows on 5th Avenue) or what The Italian Job did for Turin.

Of course, no films manage to ‘sell’ their locations better than the Bond genre. After watching one I want to jump on a plane to Venezuela, or Paris or any other destination it features.

Joburg has enough quirky and beautiful parts to fill plenty of movies. The tale of the rise (or fall) of one of the Randlords could make a gripping period drama. It could be filmed in a heritage home, on condition that the movie-makers restored it before filming started. That way, history could be preserved in both stone and celluloid.

But maybe filmmakers don’t venture into our leafy suburbs because they look too much like middle-class America – with barbed wire on top. We wouldn’t want people overseas thinking that many people in Joburg live similar lives to them.

That would ruin the money-making potential of ‘the scariest city in Africa'.

How to beat the rat race

2010-08-01T19:42:00.000+02:00

One of the best things about the World Cup had nothing to do with soccer or the vibrant atmosphere. It was the novelty of stress-free driving in Joburg.

With pupils on holiday and no roadworks it was a breeze getting anywhere at any time - except near stadiums of course. Then it was back to reality and traffic jams. Two events brought home the lunacy of it all.

On the way to an early morning appointment in Parktown I was stuck in a queue of cars because of an ill-considered stop street on a main thoroughfare.

Since I had nothing better to do I started wondering whose idea it was for almost everyone to start and end work at the same time, making us all cram onto the roads fighting our way to the office. If I could get my hands on that person, I would make him/her drive on the M1 at 5pm every day for eternity.

Public transport might alleviate road congestion, but creates its own form of congestion such as the type I recalled while working in London: leap off the platform, hurl oneself into an impossibly packed tube and wedge body under someone’s armpit... not very appealing.

There’s no claustrophobia on a scooter, however. I realised this while riding on the back of one last week. It was a perfect mode of city transport - economical on fuel, nipping between cars with ease. The only downfall was the danger posed by other road users. Ours is not really a culture of two-wheeled modes of transport (bicycles, scooters and motorbikes). Is it because of the danger? Or is it dangerous because two-wheelers are in the minority? Either way, it’s a pity.

I’m not giving up on my dream of owning a scooter though.

Enigma in our midst

2010-07-16T19:41:00.000+02:00

A harmless elderly man has lost his treasured creation and lifeblood because of the callous actions of what appear to be Metro police.

Solly Radali is an institution, known far and wide as the trolley man, with his ornate steelwork, and brings smiles to the faces of all who see him.

He simply goes about the streets, not breaking any laws, just making the best of what life has thrown him. Metro police were apparently on a blitz in Parktown, confiscating hawkers’ belongings. They must have known about his trolley, otherwise they wouldn’t have cut a lock with bolt cutters in order to retrieve it. They didn’t even have the courage to take the trolley from him in his presence. What was their motive? Were they trying to enforce by-laws or was it simply malice?

Those who know him say Solly is no criminal. He’s honest, gentle and doesn’t drink.

Imagine the hours he spent putting his masterpiece together - now it’s probably lying in a yard somewhere. And this wasn’t the first time his handiwork has been taken by people with no respect for the value of art. But all he did was quietly resign himself to the loss and keep going.

What a contrast to how many of us would react if just one of our many belongings was stolen. This item was one of Solly’s few worldly possessions and yet there was no sense of righteous indignation. No demands to see justice done. Just a sad smile when I met him near the bowling club on Wells Avenue. Maybe experience has taught him that people like him are often not considered important in the greater scheme of things.

Speak to the hand

2010-07-09T19:39:00.000+02:00

As every resident knows, dealing with officialdom can be a nightmare.

Along with having to contact city council and its various entities for our own problems, we journalists have to deal with a breed called The Spokesman.

Most are utterly useless.

A recent phone call to one spokesman went something like this.

“Hello, have you managed to find out about the issue for me?”

“No, I’m not in my office right now. I don’t have the information at hand and will have to check my e-mail when I get back. I’ve been in meetings all morning.”

“Yes, but have you been in meetings for the last two weeks? I e-mailed you over two weeks ago.”

In a defensive tone: “You must realise you are not the only journalist I deal with. I have 20 journalists phoning me every day…”

One can imagine how constructive these exchanges usually are.

No wonder spokesmen have 20 journalists phoning them every day – if they actually responded on time, we wouldn’t have to hound them.

The job must certainly be stressful - finding answers from various departments can’t be easy, but that’s what these people are paid (no doubt far more than us) to do.

The Spokesman also has some of the best excuses. “I can’t talk now, I’m driving,” is a favourite. A crazy idea, I know but, in order to be a spokesman, The Spokesman should be available to speak to the media. (Wow, I should probably stop having these revolutionary thoughts). And since The Spokesman appears to spend much time driving, a hands-free kit would be a good idea.

The Spokesman had not responded to these allegations at the time of going to print.

The dream is not over

2010-07-02T19:37:00.000+02:00

So, life goes on. The Pre-2011 Fee-fi-fo-fum Earth Trophy (my trademark) steams ahead.

We’ve been told to find a new team to support, but I just can’t do it. This tournament has done strange things to those of us previously uninterested in soccer.

I feel like I’ve lost a friend who can’t be replaced. Bafana Bafana was my first love and I’d be a traitor to find a new one so soon. I think I’m grieving.

First came the denial. Surely I’d wake up to find it was all a nightmare and South Africa was still in the game. Then the anger. Why oh why did we have to lose so badly to Uruguay because of a silly referee decision? Then depression – the world seemed just a bit duller for a couple of days.

The good news is I’ve nearly recovered. After all, there’s much to be glad about. Our team bowed out holding its head up high. And on the whole, the show has gone off smoothly. Tourists are blowing vuvuzelas, having a blast (forgive the pun) and raving about the atmosphere. They seem to love our country and its people.

Citizens have bonded with each other. They’ve laughed, cried and screamed together like never before.

The special courts have made convictions in record time, and police report a huge dip in crime rates due to increased officer presence on the streets. An e-mail currently doing the rounds expresses the same positive sentiments and has fuelled the proudly South African flame.

Some people have already taken their Mzansi flags off their cars – but that’s because they don’t realise what they really represent. They don’t just show support for the national team. They say, 'I support team SA – that’s all of us'. They say 'Welcome to our glorious nation'.

Let’s keep waving the flag. The dream is not over.

Holidays are more than just dates

2010-06-25T19:35:00.003+02:00

“Which public holiday is it today anyway?” I overheard one lank-haired young man say to another as they slouched through the shopping centre. “Dunno,” shrugged his friend.

The irony was stupendous.

Members of the very sector of the population who should have known it was Youth Day didn’t have a clue. And it was clear they simply didn’t care, as long as they had a day off.

They were, no doubt, not the only young people oblivious of the meaning behind the celebration of Youth month. There must be plenty more throughout the country with a similar sense of apathy.

On one hand you can’t really blame them - youngsters are notorious for not knowing what’s really good for them. At one high school assembly, our deputy headmaster spent what felt like eternity telling us in excruciating detail the history of Youth Day. Like typical know-it-all teenagers, we rolled our eyes and yawned, hoping this speech wouldn’t cut into our break time. It was probably an interesting talk, and we would have learned something had we listened properly, but it was way cooler to pretend we weren’t bothered.

The same goes for other public holidays. Ask a young person what is commemorated on 16 December or 24 September and the reply is likely to be 'Um, like... our right to party?'

More practical countries like the UK don’t mark significant dates. They simply schedule evenly-spaced bank holidays – on Mondays, to give people long weekends with minimal work disruption. Our seemingly haphazard yet meaningful public holidays are a unique aspect of our culture to be proud of. We shouldn’t take them for granted, but rather make an effort to find out what they commemorate. In doing so, we are actively keeping democracy alive.

A road by any other name

2010-06-18T16:58:00.000+02:00

Roads without names frustrate many Joburgers.

On some streets, poles are missing their signs, on others the entire structure has disappeared. Kerbside names on countless more have long since worn off. This makes navigating the city much harder than it ought to be, especially for a journalist constantly trying to locate addresses for appointments. It would probably be easier with a GPS, but I never found myself needing such a device enough to justify buying one, and often a good old-fashioned map book does a better job.

Unfortunately using a map book requires being able to identify which street you are on. Come to think of it, perhaps all those streets remain nameless because some tenderpreneur in city council owns a company that sells GPS units. Or maybe there is just no budget or inclination to name them. I suspect the latter.

Some residents gave up waiting for city council to do its job and set about repainting the kerbs themselves.

Then a major football event arrived and lo and behold – suddenly Fifa-branded street signs were popping up all over the show. Finally our major intersections have identities again! The only problem is at least one is wrong. A new sign on the corner of 6th Street and 4th Avenue in Parkhurst calls 4th Avenue Braeside Road. Granted, it’s not far off, as Braeside Road, an extension of 4th Avenue begins just across the street. What makes it amusing is that right underneath the new sign is the old one with the road’s real name.

To the powers that be this detail may not be important, but to residents who know every minute facet of their suburbs it’s an outrage.

Everyone’s doing it… almost

2010-06-01T16:56:00.001+02:00

There’s something stirring about brightly coloured flags fluttering against the crisp blue sky. Something that inspires patriotism and excitement. With just days to kick-off, Joburg is buzzing, with hardly a vehicle on the road not sporting one or more flags. Companies and homeowners are pinning their colours to their respective masts. Everyone is getting into the football spirit. Oh wait, not quite everyone.

Durban’s CBD has colourful lights, Bloemfontein has vuvuzela shaped streetlights but I have yet to see anything similar in Joburg. The road to the airport looks fantastic, but that’s in Ekurhuleni. Where has our city council been? Some might argue it has chosen rather to prioritise things like cleaning and beautifying major routes. Decorations would be a waste of money. Maybe, but then what do you call a R90 million beauty pageant?

Some flags or posters along our main roads would cost very little and generate much pride. And it would be a great opportunity to sell eGoli. Ordinarily, most tourists only pass through here via the airport on their way to more ‘exotic’ coastal destinations like the Cape. But as the only host city with two soccer stadiums, spectators will be descending here in unprecedented numbers.

And they won’t just be here to watch football. They’ll want to see the sights, eat the food and meet the people. A captive audience – what a chance to show the world that this is not just a gateway to everywhere else, but a historical, vibrant, spectacular destination in its own right. But as councillor Marcelle Ravid pointed out in a recent letter, Joburg Tourism Company has missed its opportunity to market this city to both tourists and residents - probably because the budget ran out.

We’ll just have to fly the flag ourselves.

Arise

2009-11-14T22:31:00.003+02:00

“You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up: To more than I can be.”

We were chatting in the office about the incident of the cops shooting a three year old boy. One of my colleagues asked, Doesn’t it make you sad? No, I said, I feel nothing.

I probably sound callous, but this has already happened so many times that I’m actually bored sick of it. I guess living in Joburg can do that. You become desentised to violent killing.

But before you think I’m an ice queen, there are many things that still move me.

Yesterday I covered an event at a primary school for disabled kids. The school received R250 000 from the CEO of BP, who ran the Soweto marathon and raised the money through sponsorships and donations. The CEO spoke about how the experience had humbled him, how his daughter (a pupil at the school) humbled him every day. He got really choked up and emotional. While there are some wealthy pupils at the school, most of them are from disadvantaged backgrounds and the school gets very little government funding. The headmaster said that the money will be used to fund more teachers.

Then, as is customary, the school choir got up to sing. From the first notes of Josh Groban’s You raise me up, I had goosebumps. I always found that song rather cheesy, but yesterday, sung with childlike sincerity, it took on a deeper significance. It was a tribute to their benefactors, teachers, parents and everyone else who helps them overcome their daily obstacles. It was a symbol of their bravery, their childlike determination to rise despite the odds they face. And a lyrical version of the school’s motto, ‘Arise’. It was such a beautiful moment, I wanted to capture it forever. There were tears in my eyes by the end.

To the pupils and teachers of Forest Town School, I salute you. Keep rising.

Finally someone with insight into racism drama

2009-10-22T12:48:00.003+02:00

I have followed the University of the Free State hostel story with great interest since it began. And the issue has come into the news again after the University’s new VC Prof Jansen decided to pardon the perpetrators instead of punish them. It's a tricky balancing forgiveness with punishment - I guess this is something only God gets right.
Jansen's rationale for doing so didn’t entirely convince me. In fact, I found that the media in general haven’t got to grips with the issue properly. So I was very impressed with this article in today’s Star newspaper – originally from The Times in UK. Interesting that this insight comes from a journalist OUTSIDE South Africa. I haven’t seen anything like this in any media here, or maybe I just missed it.

I like the way McDougall’s article gives the cleaners’ side of the story, and how he looks at the home environments the students come from. And reading it finally shed light on why Jansen feels the problem is much much bigger – because racism is still very much an institution in some communities. Perhaps it helps that the writer is not surrounded by the issue and its connected emotions. Perhaps everyone here is getting so caught up in this that they haven’t got the perspective required to start solving this problem. What do you think?

Newspaper fridge poetry

2009-05-26T22:09:00.004+02:00

Here's something fun to do: make fridge poetry out of newspaper headlines.

Cut out a whole bunch of words or phrases from a newspaper. Make sure you get a good selection of nouns, verbs, adjectives and don't forget those important words like a, the, of, is, for, from, so etc.

Then put them all together to make a poem. See my 5-minute attempt above.

Decision time

2009-04-16T22:45:00.002+02:00

I have been thinking a lot about who to vote for in the elections. This is only the second national election I'll have been able to vote in (was 17 in '99) and I have been putting a lot more effort this time into thinking about my vote than last time. More mature I guess, or perhaps it's because a lot of my job involves politics, mostly indirectly, like dealing with ward councillors and their various levels of competence. I also work with people who are very passionate about politics, so I suppose I have become more politically aware and interested recently.

Cope seemed exciting at the beginning, but now I am worried that they will turn out like the ANC, and i am not really impressed with their record of governing. I may be wrong, but I'm pretty sure Cope supports affirmative action, and I am not prepared to vote for anyone who actually supports affirmative action. I think it's time for that to be dismantled. We need something better.

And after considering a few other parties, I came to a sad realisation. Much as I find the DA a bunch of whingers, I feel at this moment it is the party that best reflects my interests. And that's quite scary. Because I never thought I'd fall into the category of the white DA supporter. 'The white tribe' huddling together trying to hold on to what they have left.

My funny story about the white tribe:
This week, in preparation for the elections, my colleague and I decided to hit the streets to ask people whether they'll be voting, and why or why not, and who they will vote for (if they wish to tell). So anyway, Kate spoke to an old white man who was half deaf and as a result was shouting his answers to her in the middle of a busy shopping mall. He told her that the reason he was voting was 'to stop Zuma from getting in. I support the white tribe!' he shouted at the top of his voice. Kate was getting strange stares from the passersby in this rather trendy, liberal area, who probably thought she'd found the left-wing loony of the suburb! A red-faced Kate eventually managed to exit the conversation after having ascertained that he will be voting for the DA (no, not the VF!).

At any rate, I gladly acknowledge that the ANC has done a lot for SA, but in general, I think the ANC has failed both the country and me, and I am sad to have to say that this party will certainly not be getting my vote. But also realise that the other parties are lacking in many ways too.

So that's my predicament. Please feel free to set me on the path to political enlightenment.

Book review: "Thabo Mbeki: The Dream Deferred" by Mark Gevisser

2009-02-09T17:54:00.007+02:00

Introduction

I started reading Mbeki's biography just after he was recalled because I realised that I actually knew very little about this man who ruled our country for almost 10 years. I wasn’t even sure whether to be glad or sad he was gone, so I wanted to read it to help me make up my mind!

At 800 pages, this thick, heavy book is certainly no weekend read but is very engrossing. Gevisser, the book’s author, writes very well – I found myself swept up in the story by his stirring and beautifully written prose, with which he has painted a detailed portrait of Mbeki. This is a linear history of Mbeki’s life that is cleverly interwoven with themes and motifs. There are parts that drag on and go into too much detail, but on the whole I found it as exciting as any novel. I enjoyed Part 1 the most, perhaps because Gevisser has done such a good job of evoking the world of Mbeki’s parents and ancestors. It was interesting to watch as the book unfolded how his past had such an influence on who he became.

The ‘dream deferred’ in the title comes from a poem by Langston Hughes which Mbeki cited in one of his speeches. Gevisser uses it to illustrate the conflict between the utopian ideals of a freedom fighter versus the reality once freedom has been won. Imagine spending spent so many years working towards liberation, only to realise that the job is not finished once you are in power. How do you begin to start fixing everything that is wrong? Thus the dream is conceded, put off, defeated. There is also this notion that Mbeki’s destiny was already a dream deferred – his father’s dream of freedom passed on, which Mbeki had to realise to finally come home.

What did I learn from this book? Many revelations…

ANC history:
I learnt a lot about the banned underground ANC from reading Long Walk to Freedom, but knew very little about the ANC in exile until I read this book. It was great to get another perspective on the party’s history. I also learned what a large role the SACP played in the struggle and I learned about key players in the movement that I had never really heard of.

Mbeki’s family:
I had heard of his parents, but knew very little about them.
I found Mbeki’s mother such a poignant character. I had seen pictures of her before, and thought she seemed just a sweet little gogo, but I now know that she is so much more than that. She’s a tough, determined, intelligent woman who made many sacrifices for the struggle and for her family, someone who has also endured great pain and sadness with great strength.

I learned that Mbeki’s father Govan was a struggle stalwart imprisoned together with Mandela, Sisulu etc. He was a tireless workaholic who eventually forsook his blood family for his political family. I can’t judge him too harshly for that – I guess it shows how hard he fought for what he believed in, and everything else paled in comparison.

Mbeki’s younger brother Jama disappeared while in exile in Botswana, and his son Kwanda also disappeared as a young man. Neither were ever found, and even post-apartheid investigations drew blanks. They were eventually presumed dead. This must have affected Mbeki deeply, even though this intensely private man only ever spoke about it twice publicly. His mother never got the closure of a burial, proper time of mourning or justice for whoever killed them, which meant she has never got over their deaths.

The photos above are of Mbeki (top), Jama (left) and Kwanda (right). Strong family likeness.
Mbeki's mother is below, outside Mbewuleni.

Mbeki’s AIDS stance:
As an intellectual with a critical, questioning mind, Mbeki has always been attracted to alternative theories. So when he discovered documents disputing the link between HIV and AIDS, he started researching, and became convinced that AIDS was a conspiracy by big pharmaceutical companies to control Africa by keeping Africans enslaved to their expensive AIDS treatment drugs. He acknowledged the existence of HIV, but believed that because of their living conditions poor people were more susceptible to AIDS-related illnesses like TB – hence the ‘poverty causes AIDS’ statement. He believed that it was important to get to the root of the problem if Africa was ever to be free, and that Africa needed to find its own solutions – the whole African renaissance idea. As an economist, Mbeki chose a Marxist reading of the AIDS crisis over a biological one. Gevisser feels that Mbeki chose to ignore the role of sexual promiscuity in AIDS because of the stigma attached to it, and his fear that if it true, it would prove that Africans really are just sexually promiscuous savages, as their colonial oppressors believed.

I think its important that Mbeki acknowledged the poverty angle - subsequent research has shown the definite link between poverty and AIDS – but I think he took too much of a one dimensional view of it. His paranoia clouded his judgement and caused a lot of time to be wasted while people died without treatment.

Mbeki’s writing:
Mbeki is certainly a gifted and prolific writer. He wrote much of the ANC’s communication and in fact wrote many of Mandela’s speeches. He took a very literary approach to many of his speeches, including quotes and themes from poets, philosophers and historians.

Mbeki’s relationship with Mugabe:
In the early 80s the ANC made a deal with the newly elected ZANU in Zimbabwe to allow the ANC to move weapons through Zim into SA. Mbeki had played a big role in negotiating this deal with their leader Mugabe, and the two men subsequently developed a close relationship of mutual respect. So when Zim situation started going downhill, Mbeki was reluctant to criticize Mugabe out of his loyalty to Zimbabwe for its help in the ANC’s in time of need. It was this relationship that created the dilemma: how do you tell your father he is wrong? And so Mbeki continued his quiet diplomacy, perhaps in part because of his whole African renaissance dream of finding African solutions to African problems. He probably felt that allowing others to intervene would destroy the dream.

I see Mbeki’s position, but unfortunately there’s only so long you can hope for the situation to rectify itself, and at the end of the day think his stubborn pride got in the way of a solution for Zim.

Mbeki’s relationship with Mandela:
I used to think that everything between Mandela and his deputies was hunky-dory, but after reading Long Walk I realised that he disagreed a lot with de Klerk, and in this book it appears that he and Mbeki didn’t get on so well either. The two men shared Eastern Cape roots but were very different: Mandela was royal, Mbeki the son of working class parents; Mandela a compassionate lawyer, Mbeki a pragmatic economist; Mandela had spent 27 years imprisoned (exiled) in his own country while Mbeki had spent 27 years in exile outside SA. And they were from different generations. So they had very different views on how the newly democratic country should be governed.

Mandela focused his presidency on the country’s morale. His goal was reconciliation, trying to build unity in a fractured society. Mbeki felt that this was not enough to build a nation – economic reform was also needed. When he became president this was exactly what he did, and his economic policies made the economy grow drastically.

Mandela’s term was a time of great optimism – think post-election euphoria, Bafana Bafana’s victory, world cup rugby victory and a general buoyant mood. A time of slightly awkward yet touchy-feely embrace. By the time Mbeki came into power we had sunk to earth, with many people disillusioned about still being jobless and homeless five years after they’d been ‘saved’. So Mbeki was tasked with rebuilding - not the emotional but economic wellbeing - of his homeland. And this was no touchy-feely time. Tough issues had to be dealt with and many people yearned for the optimism of the Madiba age. But I feel that each man was in power at the right time – for these two approaches really work hand in hand. I believe that at the very least both men should be given credit for their roles in building a nation.

One of the things that vexed Mbeki was that despite the role of countless others in the liberation struggle, Mandela somehow became the focus of world attention and was seen internationally as a saint and THE hero of the liberation struggle. Along with this came the notion that Mandela could do no wrong – he was the ‘one good native’ of Africa, and all other African leaders were pretty much rubbish. This was a stigma that Mbeki constantly tried to shake off during his presidency and was why he reacted badly to criticism of his ability – he saw it as a reflection of the ‘one good native’ syndrome.

I do feel quite sorry for Mbeki having to take over from such a revered person as Mandela. In comparison with a charismatic person, anyone would seem boring and cold, and this is exactly how the media portrayed Mbeki, and what I came to believe he was. However, the book paints a very different picture of him – he was a gregarious, sociable fun-loving man with many friends and a magnetic personality. The thing about him was that this was also part of his wiliness - he managed to use these gifts to charm many people to support him and the ANC during apartheid. He became known as the ‘seducer’, luring many prominent Afrikaners to believe in a non-white government. Later on some of these people became disenchanted because what they felt had been a genuine friendship with him seemed to disappear the minute he got what he wanted - they had been mere political pawns. Stories like this make you realise that while some see him as an innocent victim in his own axing, Mbeki was just as good at political maneuvering as his opponents - including Zuma.

Mbeki's relationship with Zuma:
I never realised that once upon a time Mbeki and Zuma actually got on well and worked closely together. The book tells how in the end their rivalry got in the way of their relationship and resulted in a nasty power struggle. The legacy of this brutal rivalry is still being felt today, with Zuma supporters claiming Zuma is innocent and was framed by Mbeki, while Mbeki supporters still insist Zuma is guilty as sin. And quite frankly there doesn’t seem enough evidence to help me make up my mind on the issue. Much as I find Zuma rather creepy, uneducated and unsuitable as a president, I can’t pronounce him guilty just because I don’t really like him. Of course, my knowledge of Zuma also comes from the media, and they are known to have their own agendas too. So I’ve found it very hard to get an objective view on the whole Zuma issue.

Coming home

The book refers throughout to Mbeki’s sense of dislocation, a sense that he didn’t really have a home. After being sent away from home at such a young age, and a life lived in so many different places, even when Mbeki was finally ‘home’, he battled to feel connected again. It was only many years later that he seemed to really come home I a ‘spiritual’ sense.

Mbeki’s hidden social side came out during his 2004 election campaign, in which he walked the streets and visited common people in their homes. He laughed, he cried, he talked, he engaged with them. And they began to see him not as an aloof and inaccessible intellectual, but as a real person who cared about their welfare. I believe this was more than just a publicity stunt and that he genuinely did care for them. It showed his heart, the heart for his people that began beating all those years ago as a young boy growing up amongst poor, rural, uneducated people. And it was just after that year’s election victory and he was sworn in for his second term that he told Gevisser how he thought the country had changed, become more integrated. But Gevisser wondered whether it was the country, or Mbeki himself, that had really changed. Mbeki said that he now felt an inner peace, best expressed by the German word ‘stille’. It seemed to Gevisser then, that at last Mbeki had managed to shrug off his sense of dislocation and had truly come home. I found that part really profound – it was as if finally the dream was no longer deferred, that Mbeki had fought for his country’s freedom and finally won his own.

My verdict

The book gives a balanced account of Mbeki’s life using many sources but is by no means an unflattering portrait. While it does say a number of negative things about Mbeki, it’s overwhelmingly positive in its portrayal. In fact it makes you feel quite sympathetic, even affectionate, towards him. I guess this is partly because there was a lot of sadness in his life – his parent’s break-up, his father’s distant affection, being sent away to school at a young age, his brother’s and son’s disappearances, his sense of rootlessness, his mother struggling on her own in a little rural town for so many years etc.

But I also took what I read with a pinch of salt. Although as an author writing a biography you try to be objective, when you spend 8 years writing about a person, you’re bound to develop an attachment which will add a certain bias to your writing. I suppose no writer can be truly unbiased. Eyewitness accounts are fallible too, as Gevisser tells how people’s memories of Mbeki in some situations differed vastly – no doubt clouded by their own perceptions of him.

Perhaps it was Gevissers persuasive prose, the book made me like Mbeki. He certainly has his flaws, but he doesn’t seem to be seduced by fame and money like so many politicians – it seems like he really desires to serve his people. After reading this book, I wanted to give him a standing ovation. I think he deserves more recognition than he got for what he did for SA.

So am I sad he’s gone? Well in a way yes, if purely because I have no idea whether Zuma will make a better or worse president than him, and that uncertainty is scary. All I ever hear about the man are negative things, but I know he has also done some good things, so I’d like to find out for myself who he really is. I’m keen to read his new biography – it may answer my questions. Yes, I think that will be the next book on my list.

Brief summary of Mbeki’s life (if you’re interested)

The Mbekis come from a long line of Christian educated black people. Mbeki’s paternal great-grandparents were Mfengus, some of the first Christian coverts in the Eastern Cape, while his maternal great-grandparents were prosperous, educated land owners in the region. His parents Epainette and Govan, both teachers, met in Durban where they were working and heavily involved in Communist politics and later the ANC. They decided to move back to the rural Eastern Cape so they could mobilise rural people to the liberation movement, and they opened a small shop in the town of Mbewuleni. Mbeki, the second of four children, was born here.

He attended the local village school, and then stayed with his uncle in Queenstown for a year, after which he completed his schooling at Lovedale. He was known as a bright, conscientious high achiever, but there was no impression of him being a leader. Because of his involvement in a school protest, he was expelled in his matric year and completed his year by correspondence at home.

During this time he also fathered a son called Kwanda with a local girl, Olive Mpahlwa, but because his family couldn’t pay lobola they couldn’t get married and Kwanda was brought up by Olive and her family. His parents’ marriage had broken down because his father’s political life had always taken precedence over his family, and so Govan moved to PE while his wife remained in Mbewuleni.

Mbeki then moved to Johannesburg to complete his A levels, where the ANC recognised his leadership potential and managed to arrange a scholarship for him to study in UK. He wanted to go to the traditional Oxford or Cambridge but they sent him to the new progressive Sussex university in Brighton, which he was initially unhappy about, but soon settled down happily. He obtained his degree in economics and economic history and then his masters.

While in UK, he met Oliver Tambo who was living in exile in London and who became his lifelong friend, mentor and father figure. Mbeki was also a member of the communist party. After studying communism in Russia along with other ANC and SACP people, he was posted to Zambia, Swaziland and then Nigeria. Later on, he was heavily involved with the movement in exile in Zambia, before finally going back to South Africa in 1990 when the ANC was unbanned. He became deputy president in 1994, and was president from 1999 to 2008.

More info:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thabo_Mbeki

Yes we can. Yes and amen!

2009-01-20T22:29:00.000+02:00

What a momentous day. I almost can’t believe this really happened. I remember when I was younger we used to wonder if the US would ever have a black president. Back then, given the political situation in USA, we doubted we’d see it in our lifetime. And yet here we are now! Yes we can! The slogan may be cheesy, but it does make you want to rise up and believe that anything is possible.

But at the end of the day it matters not what the colour of the new guy’s skin is. All that matters is whether he can do the job required of him. I can only imagine what it feels like to be American right now. It must feel good. Really good. To be so full of hope for a fresh start after your last president kinda messed up a lot. I hope that they won’t be let down this time.

Reconciliation Day

2008-12-16T20:32:00.001+02:00

Today, December 16th, we celebrate Reconciliation Day in South Africa. Before ‘94 this public holiday was known as the Day of the Vow, and it commemorated the Boers’ victory over the Zulus at the very bloody battle of Blood River in 1838. It is also the day on which Umkhonto we Sizwe (armed wing of ANC) was founded 47 years ago in 1961. So I think it’s great that instead of the day being remembered for violence against another race, we now celebrate being able to come together and put aside our differences.

And how fitting it was that I just spent this afternoon at a braai with black people! My colleague Thabo invited a bunch of us to a braai at his place, and aside from another coloured colleague, I was the only other non-black person there. And I had a good time. On my way home I realised that I had just spent the day doing what I wouldn’t have been able to do 20 years ago. I am so grateful for how far we have come. I drove back home in the cool evening with the last tinges of pink sunset in the sky, past mine dumps and rugged koppies and I thought, this is why I love SA.

Mumble-man

2008-11-04T21:04:00.000+02:00

Mumblers really irritate me. One of my colleagues has this annoying way of mumbling when he speaks. Now it would be different if he had a speech impediment. I have plenty of patience for people with speech impediments. But the simple truth is he just doesn’t open his mouth when he talks. And so I’m the one left feeling like the idiot for continually going ‘pardon’, ‘excuse me’ or ‘sorry’ in conversations with him. I just want to say “Open your mouth! Pronounce! Annunciate!” It can really get trying at times. Maybe mumblers are my grace growers. I dunno!

A week for untimely exits

2008-10-01T22:48:00.003+02:00

I feel like the last couple of weeks have been full of complete changes, not only in South African politics, but in my own life too. And the only word I can use to describe this all, is “wrenching”.

Let’s start with Mbeki’s sudden departure. One week he was our president and the next week he wasn’t. Just like that. We were expecting it to happen in April, but somehow I just wasn’t prepared for his untimely exit. I felt cheated in some way. I don’t agree with everything he’s done, but I have a lot of respect for him, and what he’s achieved in this country. I thought he at least deserved the proper farewell he would have received when leaving office next year. So I felt rather sad that it had to end this way.

And then there was my job. I hadn’t been feeling very happy in my job for the last couple of months, and my bosses was becoming harder and harder to deal with. I wasn’t working as hard as I could have, but I guess I just lost interest somehow. So I started looking for a new job. I went to one interview and the next day I was offered the job. At first I wasn’t sure if I should take it, cos I started having doubts… was I ready to leave yet? But then I thought: what if the time comes when I really wanna leave but nothing comes up? So I decided to take the plunge. I gave in my 2 weeks notice, and here I am, working as a journalist at a local newspaper!

It all happened so fast I still feel quite disorientated. It sort of doesn’t feel real! Leaving my old job was hard because it felt like I was wrenching myself away, and I’ll really miss the people I worked with, but I suppose you can’t be too sentimental about these things. I can’t turn back now, so I’ll have to make the most of this new opportunity! I can already tell that this new job is gonna be pretty manic, but I think it will be better then being bored like I was (being bored at work is nice for a while, but then it just gets… boring! Haha). And hopefully I’ll get to meet lots of interesting people.

So this has all been pretty crazy, and at times makes no sense! All I know is that the Lord has a plan, and perfect timing!

World in Union

2008-08-11T21:43:00.010+02:00

I heard a blast from the past today – remember World in Union from the Rugby World Cup in 1995? PJ Powers and Ladysmith Black Mambazo? Wow! Gotta be one of my all-time favourites.

And boy, it brought back so many memories!

Of Madiba in the number 6 jersey.

Of everyone rejoicing in our victory.

Of the resulting hope and unity and optimism that sprang from it what was probably the biggest moment of national pride we’d ever felt as a newly democratic country.

I remember the feeling that started to awaken – that SA was alive with possibility, that we could do anything, go anywhere with this potential. That was echoed in the lyrics of the song:

There's a dream, I feel
So rare, so real
All the world in union
The world as one

Gathering together
One mind, one heart
Every creed, every colour
Once joined, never apart

It's the world in union
The world as one
As we climb to reach our destiny
A new age has begun

Searching for the best in me
I will find what I can be
If I win, lose or draw
There's a winner in us all

We may face high mountains
Must cross rough seas
We must take our place in history
And live with dignity

Just to be the best I can
Sets the goal for every man
If I win, lose or draw
It's a victory for all

It's the world in union
The world as one
As we climb to reach our destiny
A new age has begun

Ah man! It's slightly cheesy, but always gives me goosebumps. I just wish we could feel as optimistic as a nation now as we did back then.

Oh, and the last memory is of singing World in Union in a massed choir event at school, where a whole bunch of choirs from neighbouring schools pitched up to perform the song with us. Standing there on stage singing it with what must have been at least 300 other teenagers was an awesome moment – and the sound was spine-tingling! I’ll never forget it.

Heavy Metal music - what the heck?

2008-05-27T12:31:00.000+02:00

What is it about heavy metal music that some people love so much? I absolutely can't stand it. Now I enjoy quite a wide variety of music, and will even tolerate most music I don't even like, but I simply cannot bear heavy metal. Just to clarify, I'm not referring to what some people call hard rock. No, I'm talking about the type of music dominated by loud grinding guitars and a very angry male screaming the lyrics. Well if you can call it music.

I'm not saying that the people who play this type of music are not musicians. I'm sure that playing your guitar very fast and very loud, and screaming till your throat is sore require a lot of skill.

No seriously, I'm sure that what they do requires as much practice and dedication as other musicians, but I just fail to see the attraction. Maybe if you are a person with a lot to be angry about, this music really 'speaks' to you. I dunno. I am not an angry person at all, so this music just makes me stressed and uptight because it disagrees with my spirit. I'm not trying to be sensational, but it really sounds demonic. My boss listens to this music all the time, and he says it relaxes him (???). I don't know how, but anyway.

Maybe someone can shed some light on this matter for me?

Where do we go from here?

2008-05-27T11:18:00.001+02:00

There is so much need in this place. So much need before all this all xenophobic stuff happened, and now there's even more. I get so emotional every time I drive past a beggar, every time I read in the newspapers about the people in these refugee shelters, people just trying to survive. Sometimes its hard to believe that there are over 15000 homeless people as a result of this human rights tragedy.

But this IS real, this is now, this is happening in the city I live in. This is something we are all part of. We all know someone who's a foreigner. Our gardener at home is Malawian, a gentle, hard-working man who goes home once a year to see his wife and children. He hasn't been harmed, but I can only imagine how afraid he must be, and how worried his family back at home must be. My heart broke for the Mozambican man I saw on Carte Blanche last night who lost 6 of his family members in these attacks, all of whom were the sole breadwinners for their families back home. They came to South Africa to give their families a better life, but now they are gone…

So how do we even begin to make sense of what has happened here? How do we move on? I don't think there's a simple answer to that. So much needs to be said, so much needs to be done. Maybe we should all start by examining our own hearts, and our own attitudes to others. We have probably all harboured prejudice of some kind. We can all make a better effort to understand other people, and serve their needs, no matter who they are.

Some thoughts and feelings on the xenophobic attacks

2008-05-21T14:28:00.003+02:00

Yesterday The Times published a shocking photo of a man who was burned alive purely because he was foreign. When I saw this photo and read the accompanying story I was filled with such anger for the people who did this, and for the people who stood by and laughed, yes, LAUGHED, as police tried to save the man's life. I am horrified at the sheer blind hatred that can justify such an act. The photo attracted a lot of media attention both here and abroad. Some say it shouldn’t have been published. I say go ahead. People need to know the truth, even though it's shocking.

One of the townships in which these attacks took place was the Joe Slovo informal settlement. The particular irony of this is that Joe Slovo himself was an immigrant from Lithuania. And yet he dedicated his life to the freedom struggle in his adopted country, a struggle which had as its basis the belief that all human beings have the same essential and equal right to dignity. So who is more 'South African' - the 'foreigner' who upholds that ideal or the 'South African' who seeks to destroy it?

I always have a lot of respect for what Desmond Tutu has to say. I really liked his humble, honest and compassionate response to the situation.

SA vs UK reprise (aka The Song of Life)

2008-05-16T14:43:00.004+02:00

As I was walking through Pick n' Pay yesterday, 2 men working at the deli counter suddenly broke out into a gloriously harmonious song, and were soon joined by their female colleague. I stood for a moment, entranced by their sweet sound. Of course, that type of spontaneous music-making is nothing unusual in South Africa, but that's precisely what touched me about it. I simply can't imagine that happening in a Tesco supermarket in England! People would freak out if employees, or anyone else randomly started singing. But why-ever not? Song is a natural part of our social and political life. Look at the way even politicians open many of their political rallies in song (never mind the dubious lyrics of Jacob Zuma's theme tune, Umshini Wami). Can you imagine Gordon Brown doing that? Didn't think so.

There's nothing that gives me goosebumps quite like voices raised in a capella harmony. I am so glad to live in a country were music is an integral part of life, where song is part of the fabric of work and play and as natural as breathing. And that's another reason why I'm proud to be South African.

Somewhere Between 2 and 10 Steps to Making Your Own Words

2008-05-16T11:33:00.008+02:00

Do you ever make up words? I do, sometimes!

I found this great article on http://www.squidoo.com/words-and-phrases-that-should-exist#module3271503

Between 2 and 10 steps to making your own words
Think of a condition, state of being, or attitude.
Pick a couple or three words to describe it
Smadooble them together
Twilk the letter arrangement slightly
Check your results in Google
Check results in Free Dictionary or other dictionary-like source, including
ones made of [*gasp*] paper.
Congraturacticalations - you just made up your first word!It only takes two steps if you're feeling completely positive (posilactic!) that the word does not yet exist. Make it up and post it here with your name on it, then let it fly freely unto the waiting world.
That way when glamahoony becomes as common as toaster oven, we shall know for all time who gets the acclaim and credit for having come up with it first. The other steps are only necessary if you need to further twilk the results and schmeezlik around until you find a word that works.
You'll know it by the flavor. Just think... Lewis Carroll never had it so good. Without this marvelous WWW at his fingertips, look what HE did.
(Italicized words are my own inventions - go invent your own!)

SA vs Australia rivalry

2008-05-16T11:23:00.001+02:00

Sarah Britten is a South African who has recently moved to Australia. She writes about her thoughts and experiences there on ThoughtLeader (thanks Laura for introducing me to ThoughtLeader). I think Britten makes an interesting point here:

Australia is regarded by so many South Africans with an awkward mixture of jealousy and resentment. If I were moving to London, nobody would bat an eyelid. But Australia — Australia is too similar to South Africa, too much an example of what might have been if … who knows? As I wrote in my first book of South African insults,
The South African rivalry with Australia is to be expected. Like us, they’re an ex-British colony, although, unlike us, they can’t get over their fetish for old women wearing crowns. They play the same sports as us, at which they beat us soundly and repeatedly. In the family of those nations that once saluted the Union Jack, Australia is the golden-haired, blue-eyed sibling who wins all the sporting and academic awards at school and can do no wrong. Meanwhile, bolshy and resentful, South Africa — the black sheep of the family — loiters in dark alleyways, dragging on a joint and scratching listlessly at a mildly Satanic tattoo.

The man in the plastic bags

2008-05-11T18:04:00.005+02:00

The following article appeared in my local paper (Northcliff Melville Times) this week.

I often saw him clad in nothing more than a strange assortment of plastic bags, grey skin and horny bare feet, purposelessly walking and walking without end.

Nobody knew who he was, or what he lived on, or even where he lived. Once or twice I glimpsed him wrapped in a couple of grey blankets sleeping in an open bus shelter on the side of the road. Traffic roared by and pedestrians stepped heedlessly over his inert body. What can one do for these nameless, homeless people in a country where there is no welfare net to help them in times of trouble?

For a few moments our consciences will no longer be troubled by thoughts of – just possibly – stopping our car and getting out to ask if we can take him to a shelter.

We will put him out of our minds and never think of his plight again, because on Saturday last he was knocked down by a passing vehicle and, as silently and unresistingly as he had lived his life, he died, never to trouble our sensitivities again. The man in the plastic bags is gone.

- Barbara Durlacher

An incredibly sad story, isn’t it?

My load-shedding playlist

2008-03-18T13:26:00.002+02:00

In ‘light’ of the return of load-shedding in Joburg I decided to put together a list of songs dedicated to Eskom:

Candle in the wind – Elton john
Light my fire – the Doors
What is the light? – Flaming Lips
You light up my life - ?
Dancing in the dark – Bruce Springsteen
Back to black – Amy Winehouse
Black – Pearl Jam
Strangers in the night – Frank Sinatra
Silent night
Power to the people – John Lennon
Turn your lights down low – Bob Marley

As well as some songs Eskom might like to ban:
Leave the light on for me – Belinda Carlisle
Put the light on – Santana
Shine a light – Rolling Stones

And some appropriate bands:
The Darkness
Electric Light Orchestra (ELO)
Orchestral Manoevres in the Dark (OMD)
Lighthouse family

There must be heaps more… so if you can think of some tell me and I’ll add them!

How to write about Africa

2008-02-16T23:00:00.008+02:00

Recent musings about Africa reminded me of a funny but thought-provoking article by the Kenyan writer Binyavanga Wainaina. Some of you may have seen it before. It parodies the romantic and stereotypical ideas of Africa that many people actually choose to believe.

How to write about Africa

by Binyavanga Wainaina
Always use the word 'Africa' or 'Darkness' or 'Safari' in your title. Subtitles may include the words 'Zanzibar', 'Masai' 'Zulu', 'Zambezi', 'Congo', 'Nile', 'Big', 'Sky', 'Shadow', 'Drum' 'Sun' or 'Bygone'. Also useful are words such as 'Guerrillas' 'Timeless', 'Primordial' and 'Tribal'. Note that 'People' mean Africans who are not black, while 'The People' means black Africans

Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don't get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn't care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care.

Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.

Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can't live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.

Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.

Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).

Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa's situation. But do not be too specific.

Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life—but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.

Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the 'real Africa', and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.

Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people's property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).

After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa's most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or 'conservation area', and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa's rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.

Readers will be put off if you don't mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical—Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).

You'll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.

Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.

A precious life, stolen

2008-02-16T22:31:00.002+02:00

Three days ago, a little girl was shot just 2 streets from where I live. Many of you have by now heard the tragic story of 12-year-old Emily Williams, who was shot accidentally in the crossfire between security guards and armed robbers outside her friend’s house on Wednesday morning. Many people die tragically every day in South Africa, and I have never met this girl, but I found myself profoundly moved by her story. Perhaps it was the physical proximity that made it so real. Or maybe it was the front-page photo of this pretty smiling girl that haunted me. She had all these dreams for her life that will never be realised. I kept thinking about the anguish and desperation her mother must have felt as she tried to drive her bleeding daughter to hospital in rush-hour traffic. And I imagined what it must have felt like for her friend and younger sister to watch her die in front of them. I weep for her, I weep for her family, and for the evil that is in this world that takes our loved ones from us every day.

What I learned in the UK

2008-02-08T22:15:00.000+02:00

Those of you who got my last email will know how I have lately been thinking a lot about SA and UK. Well, following on from that, I stole this idea from Laura’s ‘What I learned in USA’ blog post.

What I learned in the UK

1. Africa is definitely not for sissies! South Africans are strong people – they have to be! The most unassuming housewife has an inner strength I don’t see in most Europeans. People in 1^st world countries are fairly spoilt and they don’t have to fight for much because they have so much in comparison. Many Africans develop an enterprising spirit to survive. Sure, there are lots of lazy ones who give up, sit back and become unemployment statistics. But there are so many who don’t – they are people who can make something out of nothing, and believe me I’ve met some people overseas who can’t even make something out of a lot. Just seeing the hawkers at the traffic lights makes me smile, and the other day they were even directing traffic while the lights were out!

2. South Africans like to think of themselves as liberal and open-minded, but in comparison to European are generally quite conservative in their thinking, dressing and behaviour. I think I became a lot more liberal from living over there.

3. At first I hated UK clothing fashion (I mean the kind you can buy in ordinary chain stores) because it was so different from SA fashion. Then I began to like it and now I actually prefer it It’s a lot more daring and creative and tends to change a lot more from year to year than it does here. The clothes in SA shops seem very bland and conservative to me now, although I do like up-and-coming SA designers like Stoned Cherrie and Sun Goddess. I do wish that we got more UK-style clothes here (except for the chav tracksuits – they can stay there, fanks!)

4. South Africans are terrible drivers. They are insane risk takers on the road and get impatient over the slightest thing. If you take more than half a second to pull off from a green light, the drivers behind you start hooting. In comparison, UK drivers seem so calm, patient and sensible!

5. There’s nothing quite like chatting to a fellow South African far from home to make you feel better about life!

6. It takes longer to go by bus from Joburg to Grahamstown than it does to fly from Joburg to London. Remembering my joyous Greyhound coach days makes a 10 hour flight seem like a short journey.

7. Before I went there, I was told that British people were lazy and that’s why South Africans get good jobs. Well, there are lots of people on the dole, but on the whole, I didn’t think they were a lazy nation at all. And you are certainly not going to walk into a good job just because ‘South Africans have a good repuation’, as many people have heard.

8. There may soon be more South Africans in London than there are in Grahamstown. Seriously, according to the last UK census (2001), there were 45 500 South Africans in London. Although I haven’t found any current figures, if I work on a constant growth rate over the last 6 years, I’d put that figure somewhere around 60 000 now, which is only slightly less than the population of Grahamstown, 62 600.

The same 2001 census also showed that there were some 140 000 South Africans living in the UK, which I’m sure has increased dramatically since then, but is still nowhere near the figure of 1 million which is thrown about by some people.

Source:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/shared/spl/hi/uk/05/born_abroad/countries/html/south_africa.stm

Have a look at this link – more interesting statistics on South Africans in UK.

Job-hunting

2008-02-03T21:20:00.001+02:00

I have been home for 3 months and have been job-hunting since I came back. Looking for a job, as most people know, is hard. It’s frustrating if you are a control-freak. You can be in control of the quality of your CV and the jobs you apply for but there is so much about the process you can’t control. You are constantly subject to the whims and wishes of others, who will read your CV if they feel like it, and call you for an interview when they feel like it. And then hire you if you possess the X-factor they are looking for. It’s definitely a lesson in humility, patience and perseverance for me!

New Year blog revival

2008-02-03T21:16:00.000+02:00

I suddenly realised that I haven’t blogged since May… and that I really missed it. So as of today I'm back on board with my blog and hope to write in it on a more regular basis ie once a week. Uploading photos on Blogger is a slow and painful process so I will continue to use facebook for this purpose. However there is no better place than to pour out my crazy, brilliant, random, dumb and Heathery thoughts than in my blog… so here’s to a healthy future of blogging!

London Sightseeing

2007-05-28T15:06:00.000+02:00

Watching the English

2007-05-14T17:00:00.000+02:00

I have just finished reading a most fascinating book called "Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour" by Kate Fox, an English social anthropologist. It is an anthropological study of the English (as in people born and bred in England).

The book opens in Paddington station with Fox telling us how for the last 2 hours she's been queue-jumping and bumping into people as part of her research for the book. And as she goes one to explain through the book, it's the way the English respond to these types of situations that makes them characteristically English. She argues that much English behaviour stems from a core problem she calls the social dis-ease: a pun referring to the way English people are not at ease socially. She notes that the symptoms of this dis-ease are like a mixture between autism and agoraphobia and that the English have developed a number of coping mechanisms for this problem, which have become central to their character. These include humour, class-consciousness and values of fair play and modesty.

As a result of this social dis-ease, English people are very private and have a lot of hidden privacy rules. Ways in which I have unwittingly broken these English privacy rules are: asking a person's name or occupation too early on in a conversation (the English are uncomforatble with too much familiarity too soon) or how much something cost them (for the same reason and also because talking about money, which is suggested by the job one does, makes people uncomfortable).
Another way of coping is retreating into their castles. The English love their privacy which means that their homes are very important to them, and thus are DIY- and gardening-crazy. A quote from someone: "Home is what the English have instead of social skills."

Humour is an essential part of Englishness as it's useful for diffusing awkward situations (of which there are many, if you're English). Here are the rules: It's considered embarassing to be too earnest about something - rather make a joke about it. Don't appear too keen and don't show excessive emotion like wailing and weeping. The appearance of modesty is also important so boasting is taboo - they'd rather use self-deprecation or understatement, so " a debilitating and painful disease becomes 'a bit of a nusiance'". Someone once said that "the English have satire instead of revolutions". It seems they vent their frustration through joking rather than actually doing something about it, like have a social uprising.

One part that really made me laugh was the bit about "Typical!" Fox says "English people mostly don't expect good service or products, and when their pessimistic assumptions are confirmed they say, 'Huh! Typical!' And it probably is typical but it always will be because the English never do anything about it except sit around saying 'Typical!' to each other!" They are also secretly pleased that their gloomy predictions have been proved right - she calls this 'Eeyorishness'!

Another way of dealing with this social inhibition is through props and facilitators, such as games, sport and alcohol, most of which lead to.... the Pub!! Here are the pub rules:
At the bar, as with everything in England, there is a queue - you just can't see it. But it's there. The people know the order and the barman knows the order and woe betide anyone who jumps the queue. Whoops. Done that a few times already - but I didn't know the rule!
Another rule is that you can't buy your own drink - you have to buy rounds. When I was explaining this to a South-African friend, it was like a holy revelation for her. "Oh!" she said. "I thought that when my English friends asked me what I was having they were just interested in what I was drinking!"

Fox says "It is no accident that almost all of the most popular sports and games played around the world today originated in England" That gives you something to think about! She argues that games are just a means to an end, that "we can pretend that the game itself is really the point, and the social contact a mere incidental side-effect."

Queuing is certainly a typically English pastime as it relates to the strongly English notions of fair play and courtesy. There are of course a number of unwritten rules about queueing too!
I found the bit about alcohol very interesting. Fox talks about 2 types of 'drinking cultures'. In integrated drinking cultures (such as France, Spain and Italy) drinking is a morally neutral element of normal life and doesn't seem to lead to the levels of drunken and disorderly behaviour so common in countries like England, US, Australia, Scandinavia, where there is an 'ambivalent' drinking culture. This means that there is a morally charged relationship with alcohol and people feel they have to justify drinking and thus will find any excuse for celebration. Alcohol is particularly useful to the English because it removes inhibitions. Now I'm not sure which category South Africa would lie in but I think it would also be ambivalent, although not as extreme. What do you think?

Fox uses an objective yet informal, layman-friendly and humorous writing style which manages to convey an understanding of the English culture, as well as bits of praise and criticism. Through this book I gained a lot of insight into the character of the English and it has become a great icebreaker and topic of conversation amongst all my friends from different countries, including the English ones. Since reading it, I find I now pick up on and am am better able to interpret aspects of English behaviour I hadn't before. I highly recommend it!

Tate Modern

2007-04-27T21:13:00.000+02:00

I visited the Tate Modern for the main purpose of having a look at the temporary 'Slides' exhibit in the Turbine Hall. And while i was there I revisited some old favourites!

Someone coming down one of the big slides. I wanted to go on one of them but the queue was so long I had to settle for the small slide. You slide down on these sack things.

The teeny slide I had to settle for - but it was still a lot of fun!

Mark Rothko's Black on Maroon: You may laugh at this picture but you have to see it in real life to fully appreciate it. It's enormous and very sombre; reminds me of a dark room with light and shadows showing on a red curtain

Dammi i Colori is a video about how the mayor of an Albanian town left in crumbling decay after the fall of the Soviet union got artists to paint the buildings in bright colours. It's interesting to see how this simple Utopian vision boosted the morale of the town's inhabitants

Brancusi's fish: he portrays the essence of a fish with just a slice of shiny bronze

De Chirico: one of his slightly eerie Surrealist masterpieces

Picasso: Girl in a Chemise. Such a delicate painting from his Blue Period which shows that he can actually draw properly!

Whaam by Roy Lichtenstein. An icon of the Pop Art movement

CHAVS

2007-03-21T22:45:00.000+02:00

Well, as promised, more on chavs - an insight into my life in the UK.

They can be seen everywhere – in each town they have different names but essentially they are the same breed, known as chavs. Some common characteristics:

Branded sportswear, tracksuits in particular
Big gold chains
Girls: Croydon facelift, big gold hoop earrings
Boys: Short, flat hair; big diamond stud earrings
Burberry caps and bags
White trainers
Babies in buggies

Many of them rely on the nanny state to provide them with money and thus live in council housing estates.

There are various theories as to where the word ‘chavs’ comes from.

Some people think its an acronym for ‘Council House and Violent’ or ‘Council house asscociated vermin’.
According to http://www.worldwidewords.org/, others believe it derived from the name of the town of Chatham in Kent, where the term is best known and probably originated. But it seems that the word is from a much older underclass, the gypsies, many of whom have lived in that area for generations. Chav is almost certainly from the Romany word for a child, chavi, recorded from the middle of the nineteenth century. We know it was being used as a term of address to an adult man a little later in the century,. Other terms for the class also have Romany connections; another is charver, Romany for prostitute. Yet another is the deeply insulting pikey, presumably from the Kentish dialect term for gypsy that was borrowed from turnpike, so a person who travels the roads.

Vicky Pollard from the show 'Little Britain' has made Bristol chavs famous! Yeah but no but!

Bovverd? Am I bovvered though? I AINT BOVVERD!

2007-03-21T22:27:00.000+02:00

There is a comedy sketch show here called the Catherine Tate show, where she plays various characters. One of them is a London teenager called Lauren who is just dripping with attitude. In case you haven’t already realised it, her catchphrase is ‘am I bovverd?’ She reminds me of some of the kids I teach. She also displays some chav characteristics such as the huge gold earrings and Croydon/ Essex facelift (tightly scraped back hair in a ponytail). (More on chavs later). Check out this link to hear some of her famous sayings and go to youtube for some videos of her in action!

Bovverd? Am I Bovverd? Lauren (Catherine Tate) Soundboard - Am I bovvered though? Bothered? I AINT BOVVERD?

The Impressionists

2007-03-21T21:29:00.000+02:00

I went to the National Gallery on Saturday. I've been there before but it's always wonderful to go back and absorb some beautiful art! I particularly love Turner and the Impressionists. These are some of my favourites.

Monet - Grand Canal, Venice. I love the way the picture looks like it's made up of layers of colours.

Monet - Houses of Parliament at sunset. This looks even better in real life - the sunset is amazing!
Monet - Umbrellas

Pisarro - Boulevard Montmartre at night. I love how he's created the effect of lights refelcted in wet surfaces

Bonnie Scotland

2007-02-27T21:42:00.000+02:00

More Snow!

2007-02-27T21:38:00.000+02:00

SNOW!!

2007-02-07T14:15:00.000+02:00

2 weeks ago it snowed and when I woke up I was greeted by a fabulous white wonderland. Apparently there is more snow expected tonight. I'm excited for that.

Back to the 80's!!!

2007-02-07T13:52:00.000+02:00

It was my mate Liza's 24th birthday the other day and she held a fabulous 80's theme party. One guy commented how scary it is that girls actually always have secret 80s outfits. But Liza said that 80s parties are just an excuse for dressing the way we really want to dress. Have a look at some of the pics:

Things I miss about South Africa

2007-02-07T13:48:00.001+02:00

Rusks, chutney, Liqui-Fruit, fishpaste, plum jam (especially my mom's), boerewors, soft fresh brown bread, Peppermint Crisp, Diddle Daddle popcorn, Jumping Jack popcorn, Tastic Rice, patti-pans, Nik-naks, Tastee-Weet porridge, Pickled fish, curry brawn, my family, my dogs, African people, African outfits, Nkosi Sikelele and African music, gumboot dancing, hadedas, sun....

My Prague Pictures

2007-01-03T19:27:00.000+02:00

Tyn church in old town square
Delicious pastry thing in the old town square!
Distinctive red and cream Prague tram
Prague castle seen from Charles Bridge

Painting

2007-01-02T19:35:00.000+02:00

Since March I've been busy painting a series of paintings of natural objects close-up and tightly cropped. So far I have six and plan to do more. Here they are.

New Year's Resolutions

2007-01-02T18:44:00.000+02:00

I can't believe it's 2007 - blah blah blah...

New year is always a good time to reflect on the year behind and plan for the year ahead. A lot happened in 2006: I moved to London, joined a new church, started doing supply, went to Ireland and Prague and painted 6 pictures. I was always a bit of a scoffer about new year's resolutions - I didn't really set any goals for 2006 and it worked out allright. However, I've realised it's actually beneficial to do these things so this year I have made some resolutions. Here are some of them: to move in a more definite career direction, travel some more in Europe and UK, learn a new language and have an art exhibition. So I'll let you know how I'm doing on those!

A Seville orange... in Seville!

2006-12-31T04:39:00.000+02:00

Seville, Spain

2006-12-31T04:37:00.000+02:00

Park in Seville, Spain

2006-12-31T04:36:00.000+02:00

Alhambra Palace, Granada, Spain

2006-12-31T04:33:00.000+02:00

Casa Battlo, Barcelona, Spain

2006-12-31T04:31:00.000+02:00

Cinque Terre, Italy

2006-12-31T04:29:00.000+02:00

Akropolis, Athens

2006-12-31T04:28:00.000+02:00

Rooftop cafe, Corfu, Greece

2006-12-31T04:27:00.000+02:00

Amalfi, Italy

2006-12-31T04:25:00.000+02:00

Venice

2006-12-31T04:20:00.000+02:00

Verona, Italy

2006-12-31T04:10:00.000+02:00

I absolutely love the combination of the intense saturated green and the reddish brown. And the staircase is straight from a fairytale.

Lake Fischl, near Salzburg, Austria

2006-12-31T04:08:00.000+02:00

View of Louvre from clock in Musee d'Orsay, Paris

2006-12-31T04:06:00.000+02:00

The Moulin Rouge, Paris

2006-12-31T04:05:00.000+02:00

In the French Alps

2006-12-31T04:04:00.000+02:00

Some of my favourite photos of some of my favourite places

2006-12-31T03:42:00.000+02:00

Over the next few posts I want to show you some of my favourite photos I took of places while travelling over the past couple of years.