I wanted to keep on blogging here but I found a much more user-friendly site on news24.com. it's easier to leave comments and in general more accessible.
I can copy and paste from here to there but not vice versa ... and that's just to begin with. So my three loyal readers here must just bear with me when they see some of my older stuff there which I'm regurgitating for my new readers
I've been there for a week and I'm racing through their rankings, which is heartening... almost a 1000 places up in just a week. The new address is http://blogs.news24.com/chuckv See you there.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Man on a mission ... Episode 2
We crawl through interminable roadworks and Mark swears at the traffic. I assure him that roadworks are good. That was probably the downfall of Africa. A lack of roadworks. African tyrants deliberately let their communications networks collapse to prevent opposition parties from rallying. If I need to point out to you that roads are an integral part of an extended communications network, you are probably on the wrong site.
As we crawl through the roadworks I have time to observe the small, solid but shabby suburban houses along the highway. This is very therapeutic and I always suggest that as therapy for people who claim to be depressed. I crack another beer and rejoice ... I'm not living there!
Soon enough we're out of the roadworks and the traffic and on one of the dreariest highways in the country ... the N12 between Benoni and Witbank ... and in winter it is at its very dreariest. It is an open grassland with clumps of trees here and there, but everything appears to have a thin layer of coal dust on it ... every inch of it for the whole 100km stretch.
We listen to the blues of RL Burnside and it's fitting accompanyment to the landscape. Once the coalmines of Witbank is behind us, things start looking better and Mark decides that it's time for a beer. We listen to music and chat and stop for an excellent lamb curry at Milly's outside Machadodorp. Milly, whoever you are, all I can say is bravo. So do not hesitate to stop at Milly's outside Machadodorp. It was one of the best restaurant meals I've ever eaten in South Africa.
Outside Machadodorp we take the scenic Schoeman's Kloof road and drink more beer. I point out to Mark that I was a bit worried about the state of the road, but I need not have worried. It is in tip-top shape because it is privately maintained by a toll company. Once again proof that governments should be busying themselves with creating opportunities for their citizens and not try to do things by themselves. They muck it up, as the parlous state of most of South Africa's secondary government-maintained roads bear such eloquent witness to.
If you want to have potholes ... government is the body to turn to, they are excellent at creating and maintaining them and the only person who benefits is the guy who makes the 'Potholes next 5km' signs. He's coining it.
If you want a smooth road surface pay the toll and don't complain. There at least you get a lot for a little bit of tax whereas you get very little for a lot of tax paid to government.
But I digress. My mission is to get my mother's wheels to her and conclude my 67 Minutes for Madiba. This I accomplish with a flourish and mother is happy and my father is happy that my mother is happy and my brother Abrie and sister-in-law Maretha are happy and the dogs are happy and I'm happy and mark is happy ... I think it would suffice to say everybody is happy.
But there is still the little matter of getting my 80-year-old father online ... Episode 3 to follow.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A man with a mission ... Episode 1
I wake up and have a shit, shave and shower ... and realising that I woke up too early ... a wank too. I drink my morning tea, pack my bags and phone Mark Morrison with the good news that I'm ready to roll.
Mark answers his phone with the unquestionable grogginess that accompanies the terminal diabetic who spent the previous evening imbibing. This is at 8:45am and we're due to leave at 10am ... so all's good. Mark assures me that he needs "half an hour to surface".
I go for one of the best bargain breakfasts in Melville ... the 'uitsmijter' (the bouncer) at Die Agterplaas (literally translated, The Backyard) an exellent guest house across the road from me. The uitsmijter consists of an egg and ham and cheese on bread. With bottomless tea or coffee it will set you back R24. Cheap in any one's budget and you'll make new friends.
Be that as it may, 10am is approaching and at 9:45, I phone Mark to enquire where he is at. The oblique response is that he'll be "there in a half-an-hour ... or so." I neglect to enquire what 'or so' could possibly signify and regret it soon enough.
At 10:15 I can be observed sitting at my gate with my mother's "wheels"and my personal baggage ... going nowhere.
At 10:45, I can be observed in the same position, except that I'm now building up a head of steam about Mark being late, while simultaneously building up a dread of despair that he might have committed himself to a diabetic coma, because I phone repeatedly and there's no reply.
By 11am I'm considering dailling the emergency services, because Mark is still not answering his phone, I'm out of smokes and my over-used phone is out of battery power...
I just get my phone on a charger when Mark phones me to say that he is on his way.
In reply, I point out, in a rather pointed fashion, that there is a distinct difference between half-an-hour-or-so and an hour-and-half-and-more.
Mark retorts tersely that he had problems of his own and promises to apologise ONCE for his tardiness, because he had problems of his own.
I'm a man of great compassion, so I only inform him about the importance of punctuality for about 15 minutes into our trip until he points out, in a rather pointed fashion, that I should rather have a beer.
I take his advice, seeing that the whole conversation turned pointless anyway ... we're on holiday and while Mark is negotiating the midday traffic, I drink a beer and point out to him that we could have avoided it, if we left at 10am as planned...
Mark responds by turning the music up...
TO BE CONTINUED>>
Mark answers his phone with the unquestionable grogginess that accompanies the terminal diabetic who spent the previous evening imbibing. This is at 8:45am and we're due to leave at 10am ... so all's good. Mark assures me that he needs "half an hour to surface".
I go for one of the best bargain breakfasts in Melville ... the 'uitsmijter' (the bouncer) at Die Agterplaas (literally translated, The Backyard) an exellent guest house across the road from me. The uitsmijter consists of an egg and ham and cheese on bread. With bottomless tea or coffee it will set you back R24. Cheap in any one's budget and you'll make new friends.
Be that as it may, 10am is approaching and at 9:45, I phone Mark to enquire where he is at. The oblique response is that he'll be "there in a half-an-hour ... or so." I neglect to enquire what 'or so' could possibly signify and regret it soon enough.
At 10:15 I can be observed sitting at my gate with my mother's "wheels"and my personal baggage ... going nowhere.
At 10:45, I can be observed in the same position, except that I'm now building up a head of steam about Mark being late, while simultaneously building up a dread of despair that he might have committed himself to a diabetic coma, because I phone repeatedly and there's no reply.
By 11am I'm considering dailling the emergency services, because Mark is still not answering his phone, I'm out of smokes and my over-used phone is out of battery power...
I just get my phone on a charger when Mark phones me to say that he is on his way.
In reply, I point out, in a rather pointed fashion, that there is a distinct difference between half-an-hour-or-so and an hour-and-half-and-more.
Mark retorts tersely that he had problems of his own and promises to apologise ONCE for his tardiness, because he had problems of his own.
I'm a man of great compassion, so I only inform him about the importance of punctuality for about 15 minutes into our trip until he points out, in a rather pointed fashion, that I should rather have a beer.
I take his advice, seeing that the whole conversation turned pointless anyway ... we're on holiday and while Mark is negotiating the midday traffic, I drink a beer and point out to him that we could have avoided it, if we left at 10am as planned...
Mark responds by turning the music up...
TO BE CONTINUED>>
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Going to Hazyview again...
I'm just posting this to say welcome to Maphala Makgoba and Jaco Wessels. Maphala promised me 75 000 darkie followers and Jaco is probably gay. But all is well. So welcome.
Tomorrow I'm going to deliver my mother's "wheels" to her. Mark Morrison is giving me a lift.
I shall report from Hazyview ... my view right now is quite hazy.
Tomorrow I'm going to deliver my mother's "wheels" to her. Mark Morrison is giving me a lift.
I shall report from Hazyview ... my view right now is quite hazy.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Post-World Cup babelas and Murphy on Monday, but I foil him on Friday.
The post-World Cup Monday arrives in a big blue icy blotch and that man Murphy seizes on my post-World Cup babelas to turn my mild depression into a deep one.
Charles told me the previous evening already that he aimed to pack two episodes this week and I'm not thrilled at the prospect, but early Monday morning we are on our way to work. We notice the flags are coming down from the cars and share our regrets that the whole thing is over.
There are reports of xenophobic violence in Cape Town and elsewhere. The Minister of Police assures us that this is misleading as it was in fact just normal criminality. I sigh. Fucking normal criminality!
The World Cup is clearly over and the criminals and everybody else are back at work ... rather as glumly as I am, it would seem.
The reason that I'm at work so early on a Monday is the two episodes and I'm keen to get stuck in. There's a lot to be done, especially translations from English to Afrikaans. Because we always struggle to get enough Afrikaans content I spend a lot of time translating the voice-overs of essentially English inserts into Afrikaans.
Megan and Natalia both send me scripts to translate for this purpose. It is about shark nets and Megan assures me it is a short voice-over translation. In the past Megan has sent me so-called 'director's scripts' which are the rough drafts. So on the instruction of Mr Murphy, I open the one from Natalia first.
It is much longer than the one sent by Megan, But the kindly Mr Murphy assures me that it is so because it is more complete and therefore it is the correct one for the translation. To add some credence to his assertion the opening voice-over is indeed by Andre our Afrikaans anchor.
I get stuck in and can be observed in the stuck-in position for the next six hours ... when a technicality forces me to go and consult with Megan who then informs me that I should not be translating THAT one, but other one. There are indeed two inserts about shark nets.
I thank the good Mr Murphy for his kind damn advice and assures him that his job was indeed well done and that he may now leave the room and need not return any time soon. I use less than flattering terms, but for my sensitive readers I shall spare you the details. I went in early to try and get on the front foot and after eight hours I find myself on the back foot. I sigh and get on with the correct translation.
On our way back home, Charles tells me that he always looks for the positive in any situation but he fails to find any in my wasted day. Always looking for the positive myself, I point out to him that at least I learnt some new names for sharks. The tiger shark is not the 'tierhaai' as one would have expected, but rather the 'skaamhaai' which would translate into 'shy shark'. Charles remains unconvinced that gaining this bit of knowledge was worth the wasted six hours and so am I.
On Tuesday things begin running smoothly in the absence of Murphy and the rest of the week sees me stuck in the stuck-in position. I did, however, take time to make my peace with Vince on Tuesday night, so all is well, but it soon becomes apparent that we would not be packing two episodes in one week.
Still, on Friday I go in to continue work on the next episode, only to be told that I needed to translate the voice-over for the shark net insert as a matter of urgency because there was not enough Afrikaans. Yes indeed ... the same one that I aborted on Monday. I sigh and pray that I did not discard it completely.
It turns out that I got rid of Murphy just in time on Monday because it is still there. I give Murphy the finger and get stuck in ... thinking to myself that I am indeed lucky. It does not happen to many people that they can foil Murphy on a Friday, normally his most active day.
This bolsters my confidence to the extent that I borrow Charles' car and go and visit my lovely second ex-wife Amanda and her longtime boyfriend Daan in Pretoria. I spend a splendid Saturday afternoon and night there and return home now to write this piece as another part of my 67 minutes for Madiba ... to make my three readers' life better ... one can only hope.
Happy birthday Madiba and may there be many more. It would be too much for you to die while the post-World Cup babelas is still biting.
Meanwhile I wonder why nobody comments on my blog. I see people posting the most inane shit on Facebook like: "I'm SOOOoooo hungry!" and they get 37 comments.
I write a sort of well-crafted piece and not a squeak ... not even from my three readers. I sigh and say aloud to myself: "Myself, I sometimes wonder why I bother?" Myself replies with a shrug : "What else would you be doing?"
This altercation is just about to get ugly when one of my three readers, Mark Morrison phones to say that we should go and have lunch. I leave it there and and leave this here with a belated joke: Why did the dyslexic gay guy come to the World Cup? To blow a Zuluvela of course!
Charles told me the previous evening already that he aimed to pack two episodes this week and I'm not thrilled at the prospect, but early Monday morning we are on our way to work. We notice the flags are coming down from the cars and share our regrets that the whole thing is over.
There are reports of xenophobic violence in Cape Town and elsewhere. The Minister of Police assures us that this is misleading as it was in fact just normal criminality. I sigh. Fucking normal criminality!
The World Cup is clearly over and the criminals and everybody else are back at work ... rather as glumly as I am, it would seem.
The reason that I'm at work so early on a Monday is the two episodes and I'm keen to get stuck in. There's a lot to be done, especially translations from English to Afrikaans. Because we always struggle to get enough Afrikaans content I spend a lot of time translating the voice-overs of essentially English inserts into Afrikaans.
Megan and Natalia both send me scripts to translate for this purpose. It is about shark nets and Megan assures me it is a short voice-over translation. In the past Megan has sent me so-called 'director's scripts' which are the rough drafts. So on the instruction of Mr Murphy, I open the one from Natalia first.
It is much longer than the one sent by Megan, But the kindly Mr Murphy assures me that it is so because it is more complete and therefore it is the correct one for the translation. To add some credence to his assertion the opening voice-over is indeed by Andre our Afrikaans anchor.
I get stuck in and can be observed in the stuck-in position for the next six hours ... when a technicality forces me to go and consult with Megan who then informs me that I should not be translating THAT one, but other one. There are indeed two inserts about shark nets.
I thank the good Mr Murphy for his kind damn advice and assures him that his job was indeed well done and that he may now leave the room and need not return any time soon. I use less than flattering terms, but for my sensitive readers I shall spare you the details. I went in early to try and get on the front foot and after eight hours I find myself on the back foot. I sigh and get on with the correct translation.
On our way back home, Charles tells me that he always looks for the positive in any situation but he fails to find any in my wasted day. Always looking for the positive myself, I point out to him that at least I learnt some new names for sharks. The tiger shark is not the 'tierhaai' as one would have expected, but rather the 'skaamhaai' which would translate into 'shy shark'. Charles remains unconvinced that gaining this bit of knowledge was worth the wasted six hours and so am I.
On Tuesday things begin running smoothly in the absence of Murphy and the rest of the week sees me stuck in the stuck-in position. I did, however, take time to make my peace with Vince on Tuesday night, so all is well, but it soon becomes apparent that we would not be packing two episodes in one week.
Still, on Friday I go in to continue work on the next episode, only to be told that I needed to translate the voice-over for the shark net insert as a matter of urgency because there was not enough Afrikaans. Yes indeed ... the same one that I aborted on Monday. I sigh and pray that I did not discard it completely.
It turns out that I got rid of Murphy just in time on Monday because it is still there. I give Murphy the finger and get stuck in ... thinking to myself that I am indeed lucky. It does not happen to many people that they can foil Murphy on a Friday, normally his most active day.
This bolsters my confidence to the extent that I borrow Charles' car and go and visit my lovely second ex-wife Amanda and her longtime boyfriend Daan in Pretoria. I spend a splendid Saturday afternoon and night there and return home now to write this piece as another part of my 67 minutes for Madiba ... to make my three readers' life better ... one can only hope.
Happy birthday Madiba and may there be many more. It would be too much for you to die while the post-World Cup babelas is still biting.
Meanwhile I wonder why nobody comments on my blog. I see people posting the most inane shit on Facebook like: "I'm SOOOoooo hungry!" and they get 37 comments.
I write a sort of well-crafted piece and not a squeak ... not even from my three readers. I sigh and say aloud to myself: "Myself, I sometimes wonder why I bother?" Myself replies with a shrug : "What else would you be doing?"
This altercation is just about to get ugly when one of my three readers, Mark Morrison phones to say that we should go and have lunch. I leave it there and and leave this here with a belated joke: Why did the dyslexic gay guy come to the World Cup? To blow a Zuluvela of course!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
What goes with orange?
I buy myself an orange scarf and orange and white hat. I'm of Dutch descent after all ... even if that was more than 350 years ago. I have a Dutch surname and Amsterdam is my second most favourite city in Europe and today they can count on my full support ... Paul the octopus and his predictions can go and take the proverbial jump in the lake. There's a very accurate parakeet in Singapore that predicted that the Netherlands will win it.
Getting dressed this morning the orange scarf proves to be a bit of a poser. How on earth is one supposed to maintain one's sartorial elegance while wearing a bright orange scarf and a cardboard orange and white hat. The short answer is that one cannot, so I shrug it all off and put on a black blazer and a white shirt, telling myself that World Cup finals don't come around every second week and that I could for one day sacrifice my sartorial elegance for a greater cause.
I turn to the newspapers for inspiration and for once they do inspire me. It would seem that this is 'the best World Cup' ever. I'm happy to hear that because I also enjoyed it tremendously. It would also appear that our criminals took time off for the event. Crime in Joburg apparently dropped by as much as 60% during the event, so all is good.
It is good and bugger the 'babelas' that is beckoning tomorrow and beyond. I shall enjoy today to the full and suffer the consequences when I have to.
Anyway, I suspect that my personal hangover is going to be a Mickey Mouse affair when compared to what the country as a whole is likely to suffer. I'm not talking about just the depression of returning to a 'normal' life after so much excitement.
The criminals would no doubt be eager to recoup the lost 'opportunity costs' caused by their idleness during the event. Then there is also a specific vagueness as to the real costs of staging it, that I find disconcerting. I suspect somebody is going to have to pay and I suspect it may just be me and the rest of South Africa's 5 million (out of a population of about 46 million) taxpayers.
But enough of those negative thoughts. I think 'brand South Africa' benefitted enormously and the much-maligned Joburg more so than most. This is because before the World Cup tourists shunned the place and hurried of to more touristic and 'safer' destinations. The World Cup forced them to come to Joburg ... and enjoy its openness and friendliness.
Most of the foreigners I spoke to confirmed this and vowed to return as soon as they can. So I think I may allow myself a bit of sentimentality at this juncture and thank all the foreigners who came here for their bravery and good spirits that made the event. I salute my fellow South Africans for their hospitality and I thank the criminals for taking a holiday. Well done all ... okay enough of that already.
This afternoon Charles Moore is threatening to take me to the stadium on his bike... "WAITER, BRING ME A TEQUILA!!! AND HURRY!!"
Meanwhile there is a split threatening (if it has not happened already) in my circle of friends. The reason for this is Vince. It seems he is going out of his way lately to irritate me, clearly ignoring the fact that it is an unwritten rule of my circle of friends that if there's irritation to be done I do it to them and not vice versa.
Yesterday, I book a table to watch the Springboks take on the All Blacks. I book for 15 people because I know that the table would fill up even with strangers whom I can then meet.
I oversleep a little bit but still get there in good time for the match ... but without having had my morning tea. It is an equally well-known fact that I should best be avoided completely before my first cup of tea in the mornings and what you should not do before my first morning tea is to irritate me.
On my arrival I see Vince and Jan sitting at an extraordinarily small table for 15 and my temperature rises immediately. Did the restaurant screw up the booking? At the table I see that their is indeed a sign that reads: "CHARLES 15". I am about to enquire politely from the manager how he thought that 15 people could be seated around a four-seater table, when Vince glibly informs me: "I gave away your table."
This bit of news proves a bit too much for my pre-tea persona and I explode: "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!" And that was just my opening gambit. I go on to berate Vince in the most uncomplimentary manner until he ups and leaves.
Raymond the manager assures me that he would set me up another table for 15 in the courtyard whence I immediately decamp ... also pissed off with Jan for having let Vince e give away MY DAMN TABLE!
My tea has hardly arrived when Vince arrive to add insult to injury .... He tells me: "You need help." By this time I have fortunately taken a sip of my tea so I just roll my eyes, speechless at his effrontery before I can muster a 'FUCK OFF!'.
The keenly anticipated rugby match between the two top teams turns out to be a disaster from the Springboks' viewpoint. They get clobbered and my already dark mood turns all black, where it remains for the rest of the day no matter what I drink.
But that was then and this is now and I finally can tell you with what orange goes: The World Cup of course! HUP HOLLAND HUP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Getting dressed this morning the orange scarf proves to be a bit of a poser. How on earth is one supposed to maintain one's sartorial elegance while wearing a bright orange scarf and a cardboard orange and white hat. The short answer is that one cannot, so I shrug it all off and put on a black blazer and a white shirt, telling myself that World Cup finals don't come around every second week and that I could for one day sacrifice my sartorial elegance for a greater cause.
I turn to the newspapers for inspiration and for once they do inspire me. It would seem that this is 'the best World Cup' ever. I'm happy to hear that because I also enjoyed it tremendously. It would also appear that our criminals took time off for the event. Crime in Joburg apparently dropped by as much as 60% during the event, so all is good.
It is good and bugger the 'babelas' that is beckoning tomorrow and beyond. I shall enjoy today to the full and suffer the consequences when I have to.
Anyway, I suspect that my personal hangover is going to be a Mickey Mouse affair when compared to what the country as a whole is likely to suffer. I'm not talking about just the depression of returning to a 'normal' life after so much excitement.
The criminals would no doubt be eager to recoup the lost 'opportunity costs' caused by their idleness during the event. Then there is also a specific vagueness as to the real costs of staging it, that I find disconcerting. I suspect somebody is going to have to pay and I suspect it may just be me and the rest of South Africa's 5 million (out of a population of about 46 million) taxpayers.
But enough of those negative thoughts. I think 'brand South Africa' benefitted enormously and the much-maligned Joburg more so than most. This is because before the World Cup tourists shunned the place and hurried of to more touristic and 'safer' destinations. The World Cup forced them to come to Joburg ... and enjoy its openness and friendliness.
Most of the foreigners I spoke to confirmed this and vowed to return as soon as they can. So I think I may allow myself a bit of sentimentality at this juncture and thank all the foreigners who came here for their bravery and good spirits that made the event. I salute my fellow South Africans for their hospitality and I thank the criminals for taking a holiday. Well done all ... okay enough of that already.
This afternoon Charles Moore is threatening to take me to the stadium on his bike... "WAITER, BRING ME A TEQUILA!!! AND HURRY!!"
Meanwhile there is a split threatening (if it has not happened already) in my circle of friends. The reason for this is Vince. It seems he is going out of his way lately to irritate me, clearly ignoring the fact that it is an unwritten rule of my circle of friends that if there's irritation to be done I do it to them and not vice versa.
Yesterday, I book a table to watch the Springboks take on the All Blacks. I book for 15 people because I know that the table would fill up even with strangers whom I can then meet.
I oversleep a little bit but still get there in good time for the match ... but without having had my morning tea. It is an equally well-known fact that I should best be avoided completely before my first cup of tea in the mornings and what you should not do before my first morning tea is to irritate me.
On my arrival I see Vince and Jan sitting at an extraordinarily small table for 15 and my temperature rises immediately. Did the restaurant screw up the booking? At the table I see that their is indeed a sign that reads: "CHARLES 15". I am about to enquire politely from the manager how he thought that 15 people could be seated around a four-seater table, when Vince glibly informs me: "I gave away your table."
This bit of news proves a bit too much for my pre-tea persona and I explode: "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!" And that was just my opening gambit. I go on to berate Vince in the most uncomplimentary manner until he ups and leaves.
Raymond the manager assures me that he would set me up another table for 15 in the courtyard whence I immediately decamp ... also pissed off with Jan for having let Vince e give away MY DAMN TABLE!
My tea has hardly arrived when Vince arrive to add insult to injury .... He tells me: "You need help." By this time I have fortunately taken a sip of my tea so I just roll my eyes, speechless at his effrontery before I can muster a 'FUCK OFF!'.
The keenly anticipated rugby match between the two top teams turns out to be a disaster from the Springboks' viewpoint. They get clobbered and my already dark mood turns all black, where it remains for the rest of the day no matter what I drink.
But that was then and this is now and I finally can tell you with what orange goes: The World Cup of course! HUP HOLLAND HUP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Polishing turds and other travails of a subtitler...
It is often said that you cannot polish a turd, but I beg to differ.
In fact it is my job to polish language-related turds. Now you may want to know what a language-related turd looks like, in case one floats across your computer screen, but are too afraid to ask. Fear not I'll tell you...
But first a bit of background. I'm a language practitioner with more than 20 years experience ... no I'm NOT a linguist!
A linguist is someone who studies the mechanics or structure of a language. They need not even to understand or speak the language itself.
This would allow the renowned linguist Noam Chomsky to conclude that Afrikaans is the most sophisticated language in the world.
Sophisticated in the sense of being sleek, fast and effective ... like a Ferrari.
Structure and the mechanics of language are what turn linguists on. Just give your average linguist an organigram of the structure of deep-south Urdu and he'll get a happy glaze in his eye and excuse himself with a slightly guilty grin and disappear into the toilet while clutching it .
Language practitioners on the other hand, are the people who make sure language stays on the road it was intended to take. In other words, they make sure that other people say what they wanted to say correctly and clearly and in most cases better than what said other people could've said it themselves.
There is another branch of dealing with language and that is the grammarian. I honestly don't know what grammarians do except that it has got something to do with grammar. I also honestly don't know what they do for kicks ... or even if they do anything for kicks.
But back to polishing turds. In my line the most common turd I have to polish is what I would call the wafflers. They use many words to say virtually nothing. Here is an example: "Well, you know the problem was with the wheel... if I remember correctly, it was the front left wheel, but it could've also been the wheel on the roof, I mean the spare wheel. But the real problem was communication. Well, you know nobody communicated anything to anybody and you know communication is very important in situations like that. You know, I mean communication is very important full stop, but as I was saying you know, well there was then this communication problem with there being no communication about the wheel, I mean about the problem with the wheel....." And so on ad nauseum.
Now how to put that in a maximum of 80 characters? "Easy!" I can already hear you saying that. "There was a problem with communication about either the front left wheel or the spare wheel." Voila! Turd polished!
But you don't know the waffler.
His next utterance would almost certainly be: "But you know communication was not the real issue there. The problem was really that we had no spare wheel and you know...."
Surprisingly, wafflers are mostly men, which brings me to swallowers who are mostly women.
The swallower speaks in half sentences like this: "We were on our way to ... when Sally said she must ... then we stop and she ... but later we got ... and when we got ... the shops I mean."
I can go on and on, as is the people to whom I listen's wont, but that is enough. Okay that one was really easy to polish: "We were on our way to the shops when Sally said she had to stop and we got there later."
There are some turds that you can't polish. Those are when the people you have to transcribe speaks utter shit clearly but remain incomprehensible. Just listen closely to most politicians and you'll know what I'm on about. I just transcribe them as is ... and recommend that they be cut out completely.
Polishing turds is unfortunately just one of my travails. I have many.
The thing that I hate most in life is waiting. I can easily sit in a bar all afternoon and vacantly stare into space without being the least bit bothered, but if I sit in a bar waiting for someone, 15 minutes becomes an eternity.
At Clive Morris Productions I wait a lot ... knowing that each passing moment means that I would have to rush at another time and in my job rushing means fucking up. I wait for movies, I wait for scripts and I wait for people... I wait for THE VIEWING.
Just this morning I wait four hours for my last two jobs of the week, knowing that I would have to rush them in time for THE VIEWING... That they are the two biggest jobs of the week does not concern me at all ... I can't be bothered less.
No Sirree ... I take everything in my stride as I sit in the courtyard smoking one cigarette at a time and watching the minutes tick by as I light the next one...
While I wait I may just as well introduce you to some of my other close colleagues. You already know the three darkies in my office, the erudite Mr Zee, Fortunate and Ntoks as well as my long-suffering boss Charles Moore. I once remarked that in the long-suffering stakes at CMP only Charles beats me. Every problem, including mine, is his.
Now I'm ready to introduce Natalia and Megan. Natalia is the Line Producer, apparently meaning that she has to sign the whole thing off each week ... not a job that I want because my problems are hers too. Megan is the Content Producer meaning that she has to fill the show with interesting stuff each week ... not a job that I want either.
I like all aspects of my job and love my colleagues dearly, except during THE VIEWING. There is a reason why I write THE VIEWING as if it was the title of a B-grade horror or porn movie.
The Viewing happens once a week and then Charles, Megan, Natalia, the big boss Clive and the equally long-suffering editor Louise have the opportunity to display their prowess at subtitling.
My dearest Megan turns into Mean Hawk-eye Meg and good on her too for that.
Like any language practitioner I need a proper proofreader and I also need the ears of as many people as would care to hear the parts of the swallowed sentences that I could not. When I get the movies they are in 'rough cut' and the sound is of a variable quality. The fact that the darkies sometimes get loudly expressive of their joyful emotions behind me does not help my cause either.
I like my subtitles to be perfect and need all the help I can get, but they behave horrendously.
Clearly not knowing that each error spotted is a dagger to my heart, they would exacerbate my pain by sighing loudly, rolling their eyes in an exaggerated fashion, throwing their hands in the air and renting their clothes at each typo that I made in a rush to be in time for The Viewing... forgetting that I waited a long time for the job to arrive... and had to rush it.
That was until I crapped on them about it and intimated that I would resign about it. Remember my blog about shit and fighting it off to create space for the good stuff...
Now everybody is behaving in an exemplary fashion, but my pain at each error I made and spotted during the viewing remains... but it is not half as bad as my pain when I spot an error missed during The Viewing when the show is aired.
Then I sigh loudly, roll my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, throw my hands in the air and rent my clothes...
I have never seen the 50/50 show ... I only watch the subtitles but you should try and catch the insert about seal clubbing in Namibia on youtube or wherever you can. It is truly horrendous and should be stopped. I'm not an activist but it was heart-rendering to watch. IT SHOULD BE STOPPED and I beseech all three of my readers to try and do something to get it stopped.
Meanwhile my sister Emily is fortunately back and the dogs moved out ... but they move back in as soon as she goes out ... to the great consternation of the damn cat Schmiegel. Tonight Emily was out and the dogs moved in and the damn cat Schmiegel finally settled down ... on my shoulder ... to complain ... in my ear ... which she also likes to lick and bite when she thinks I'm not paying attention ... which is often.
In fact it is my job to polish language-related turds. Now you may want to know what a language-related turd looks like, in case one floats across your computer screen, but are too afraid to ask. Fear not I'll tell you...
But first a bit of background. I'm a language practitioner with more than 20 years experience ... no I'm NOT a linguist!
A linguist is someone who studies the mechanics or structure of a language. They need not even to understand or speak the language itself.
This would allow the renowned linguist Noam Chomsky to conclude that Afrikaans is the most sophisticated language in the world.
Sophisticated in the sense of being sleek, fast and effective ... like a Ferrari.
Structure and the mechanics of language are what turn linguists on. Just give your average linguist an organigram of the structure of deep-south Urdu and he'll get a happy glaze in his eye and excuse himself with a slightly guilty grin and disappear into the toilet while clutching it .
Language practitioners on the other hand, are the people who make sure language stays on the road it was intended to take. In other words, they make sure that other people say what they wanted to say correctly and clearly and in most cases better than what said other people could've said it themselves.
There is another branch of dealing with language and that is the grammarian. I honestly don't know what grammarians do except that it has got something to do with grammar. I also honestly don't know what they do for kicks ... or even if they do anything for kicks.
But back to polishing turds. In my line the most common turd I have to polish is what I would call the wafflers. They use many words to say virtually nothing. Here is an example: "Well, you know the problem was with the wheel... if I remember correctly, it was the front left wheel, but it could've also been the wheel on the roof, I mean the spare wheel. But the real problem was communication. Well, you know nobody communicated anything to anybody and you know communication is very important in situations like that. You know, I mean communication is very important full stop, but as I was saying you know, well there was then this communication problem with there being no communication about the wheel, I mean about the problem with the wheel....." And so on ad nauseum.
Now how to put that in a maximum of 80 characters? "Easy!" I can already hear you saying that. "There was a problem with communication about either the front left wheel or the spare wheel." Voila! Turd polished!
But you don't know the waffler.
His next utterance would almost certainly be: "But you know communication was not the real issue there. The problem was really that we had no spare wheel and you know...."
Surprisingly, wafflers are mostly men, which brings me to swallowers who are mostly women.
The swallower speaks in half sentences like this: "We were on our way to ... when Sally said she must ... then we stop and she ... but later we got ... and when we got ... the shops I mean."
I can go on and on, as is the people to whom I listen's wont, but that is enough. Okay that one was really easy to polish: "We were on our way to the shops when Sally said she had to stop and we got there later."
There are some turds that you can't polish. Those are when the people you have to transcribe speaks utter shit clearly but remain incomprehensible. Just listen closely to most politicians and you'll know what I'm on about. I just transcribe them as is ... and recommend that they be cut out completely.
Polishing turds is unfortunately just one of my travails. I have many.
The thing that I hate most in life is waiting. I can easily sit in a bar all afternoon and vacantly stare into space without being the least bit bothered, but if I sit in a bar waiting for someone, 15 minutes becomes an eternity.
At Clive Morris Productions I wait a lot ... knowing that each passing moment means that I would have to rush at another time and in my job rushing means fucking up. I wait for movies, I wait for scripts and I wait for people... I wait for THE VIEWING.
Just this morning I wait four hours for my last two jobs of the week, knowing that I would have to rush them in time for THE VIEWING... That they are the two biggest jobs of the week does not concern me at all ... I can't be bothered less.
No Sirree ... I take everything in my stride as I sit in the courtyard smoking one cigarette at a time and watching the minutes tick by as I light the next one...
While I wait I may just as well introduce you to some of my other close colleagues. You already know the three darkies in my office, the erudite Mr Zee, Fortunate and Ntoks as well as my long-suffering boss Charles Moore. I once remarked that in the long-suffering stakes at CMP only Charles beats me. Every problem, including mine, is his.
Now I'm ready to introduce Natalia and Megan. Natalia is the Line Producer, apparently meaning that she has to sign the whole thing off each week ... not a job that I want because my problems are hers too. Megan is the Content Producer meaning that she has to fill the show with interesting stuff each week ... not a job that I want either.
I like all aspects of my job and love my colleagues dearly, except during THE VIEWING. There is a reason why I write THE VIEWING as if it was the title of a B-grade horror or porn movie.
The Viewing happens once a week and then Charles, Megan, Natalia, the big boss Clive and the equally long-suffering editor Louise have the opportunity to display their prowess at subtitling.
My dearest Megan turns into Mean Hawk-eye Meg and good on her too for that.
Like any language practitioner I need a proper proofreader and I also need the ears of as many people as would care to hear the parts of the swallowed sentences that I could not. When I get the movies they are in 'rough cut' and the sound is of a variable quality. The fact that the darkies sometimes get loudly expressive of their joyful emotions behind me does not help my cause either.
I like my subtitles to be perfect and need all the help I can get, but they behave horrendously.
Clearly not knowing that each error spotted is a dagger to my heart, they would exacerbate my pain by sighing loudly, rolling their eyes in an exaggerated fashion, throwing their hands in the air and renting their clothes at each typo that I made in a rush to be in time for The Viewing... forgetting that I waited a long time for the job to arrive... and had to rush it.
That was until I crapped on them about it and intimated that I would resign about it. Remember my blog about shit and fighting it off to create space for the good stuff...
Now everybody is behaving in an exemplary fashion, but my pain at each error I made and spotted during the viewing remains... but it is not half as bad as my pain when I spot an error missed during The Viewing when the show is aired.
Then I sigh loudly, roll my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, throw my hands in the air and rent my clothes...
I have never seen the 50/50 show ... I only watch the subtitles but you should try and catch the insert about seal clubbing in Namibia on youtube or wherever you can. It is truly horrendous and should be stopped. I'm not an activist but it was heart-rendering to watch. IT SHOULD BE STOPPED and I beseech all three of my readers to try and do something to get it stopped.
Meanwhile my sister Emily is fortunately back and the dogs moved out ... but they move back in as soon as she goes out ... to the great consternation of the damn cat Schmiegel. Tonight Emily was out and the dogs moved in and the damn cat Schmiegel finally settled down ... on my shoulder ... to complain ... in my ear ... which she also likes to lick and bite when she thinks I'm not paying attention ... which is often.
Friday, July 2, 2010
The cradle of petkind and I display a better side of myself
This being the World Cup everybody is using any excuse to take time off. The school kids are on an extended holiday and my niece and two nephews went to their respective fathers, mothers or whatever.
With my niece being away her damn cat Schmiegel moves in with me. Apart from being quite ugly, Schmiegel is also very vocal. She is forever complaining about something and insists on sitting on my lap while she is doing it. That would have been OK if she sat still, but no she is forever busy changing her position.
Her main complaint is about my sister Emily's dogs, especially the daschund called Wors. She has a particular and unSouth African distaste for Wors. I have an equal distaste for complaining women and busy cats and to have both on my lap soon becomes intolerable and I put Shmiegel on her cushion in front of the heater where she eventually comes to rest with a last desperate plea for the ring: "So that I can just sort out those damn dogs forever. I promise I'll give it back."
But as soon as I mumble something to myself (which is often) Schmiegel sees this as an invitation to a renewed conversation on my lap and the whole process starts anew. No wonder then that I struggle to blog these days.
Yesterday I dropped my sister off at the highspeed airport train station.Yes the so-called Gautrain is finally operational. She is off to Port Elizabeth to watch the Netherlands play Brazil with her sons and her ex-husband.
I promise to look after the animals. After work I celebrate that the week is over and that I got a "well done" for my subtitles. I'll soon write a blog about the travails of a subtitler.
When I stumble in at 12:30, the dogs are elated to see me. So elated that the crazy dog Daisy runs off into night. So their I am driving up and down in Melville's streets in my sister's car looking for a crazy little dog that looks like a gremlin out of the movie Gremlins.
When I finally spot her she just scoots off in another direction. I am tired and emotional and after cursing her solidly I return home only to find her waiting for me at the gate.
Once inside I check on everybody's food and get ready for bed while Schmiegel complains bitterly that I dared switch off the heater when I left for work. I am just in bed when there is a scratch at my door. I tell the dogs off in no uncertain terms but the scratching continues with increased intensity.
With a heavy sigh I open the door for them. They make a bee-line for my bed and much to Schmiegel's disgust I let them into the bed while she sits and hisses on the cupboard. Peace return after a while and the dogs and I sleep in the bed and Schmiegel in front of the heater which I left on for her.
This morning I display more of my better side and brace myself for a trip to Cresta, a gigantic shopping mall where I often get lost or lose the car that I borrow for such occasions in the parking lot. I am also convinced that I am the only real human that goes to Cresta. All the millions of other 'people' walking around their have the vacant stares of zombies.
The reason for this mission is that I want to buy my mother a walker, sort of a hi-tech Zimmer-frame with wheels and brakes and a seat and whatnot.
I go in get lost virtually immediately but after I asked directions once or twice, I find the place and buy the thing. I am determined to get out as quickly as possible, but I get lost again and I buy myself two pairs of trousers, a blazer and a pair of shoes. Now I'm really desperate to get out but I get lost again and end up in a perfume shop where I buy myself 51.3N from Dunhill.
I ask more directions from various 'people' and after a mere half-an-hour I finally locate the car and scoot out of there determined to keep up with my better side by writing a blog for my three readers, despite not feeling like it. But now I have had enough of being a goody two-shoes. So here you go my three readers I dedicate this blog to you and I'm off to the nearest bar.
With my niece being away her damn cat Schmiegel moves in with me. Apart from being quite ugly, Schmiegel is also very vocal. She is forever complaining about something and insists on sitting on my lap while she is doing it. That would have been OK if she sat still, but no she is forever busy changing her position.
Her main complaint is about my sister Emily's dogs, especially the daschund called Wors. She has a particular and unSouth African distaste for Wors. I have an equal distaste for complaining women and busy cats and to have both on my lap soon becomes intolerable and I put Shmiegel on her cushion in front of the heater where she eventually comes to rest with a last desperate plea for the ring: "So that I can just sort out those damn dogs forever. I promise I'll give it back."
But as soon as I mumble something to myself (which is often) Schmiegel sees this as an invitation to a renewed conversation on my lap and the whole process starts anew. No wonder then that I struggle to blog these days.
Yesterday I dropped my sister off at the highspeed airport train station.Yes the so-called Gautrain is finally operational. She is off to Port Elizabeth to watch the Netherlands play Brazil with her sons and her ex-husband.
I promise to look after the animals. After work I celebrate that the week is over and that I got a "well done" for my subtitles. I'll soon write a blog about the travails of a subtitler.
When I stumble in at 12:30, the dogs are elated to see me. So elated that the crazy dog Daisy runs off into night. So their I am driving up and down in Melville's streets in my sister's car looking for a crazy little dog that looks like a gremlin out of the movie Gremlins.
When I finally spot her she just scoots off in another direction. I am tired and emotional and after cursing her solidly I return home only to find her waiting for me at the gate.
Once inside I check on everybody's food and get ready for bed while Schmiegel complains bitterly that I dared switch off the heater when I left for work. I am just in bed when there is a scratch at my door. I tell the dogs off in no uncertain terms but the scratching continues with increased intensity.
With a heavy sigh I open the door for them. They make a bee-line for my bed and much to Schmiegel's disgust I let them into the bed while she sits and hisses on the cupboard. Peace return after a while and the dogs and I sleep in the bed and Schmiegel in front of the heater which I left on for her.
This morning I display more of my better side and brace myself for a trip to Cresta, a gigantic shopping mall where I often get lost or lose the car that I borrow for such occasions in the parking lot. I am also convinced that I am the only real human that goes to Cresta. All the millions of other 'people' walking around their have the vacant stares of zombies.
The reason for this mission is that I want to buy my mother a walker, sort of a hi-tech Zimmer-frame with wheels and brakes and a seat and whatnot.
I go in get lost virtually immediately but after I asked directions once or twice, I find the place and buy the thing. I am determined to get out as quickly as possible, but I get lost again and I buy myself two pairs of trousers, a blazer and a pair of shoes. Now I'm really desperate to get out but I get lost again and end up in a perfume shop where I buy myself 51.3N from Dunhill.
I ask more directions from various 'people' and after a mere half-an-hour I finally locate the car and scoot out of there determined to keep up with my better side by writing a blog for my three readers, despite not feeling like it. But now I have had enough of being a goody two-shoes. So here you go my three readers I dedicate this blog to you and I'm off to the nearest bar.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Blue Monday and Oros PART 3 .... Conclusion
On Tuesday it would seem that my blue Monday is over. We are all cheerfully awaiting Bafana's match against France, hoping against hope and reason that they can pull off a 3-0 victory that would see them through to the next round.
I'm scheduled to go and watch at Jan's place if work allows. Since we have the imperative of the match driving us, work allows and at 3:30 I call a taxi from Paddy's Sportsbar where the good citizens of Randburg are already out in their numbers. For a moment I regret that I'm going tto watch at a private house and miss out on the 'gees'.
But only until a drunk guy called Mike insists on blowing his vuvuzela loudly in my ear ... at regular intervals. I move to another table an watch the spectacle. Randburg dressed up in the yellow Bafana kit for the occassion and is in high spirits and ordering more of the same continuously....
At kick-off time I'm still waiting for my taxi but I consider to be a good thing. This way I can catch a bit of the 'gees' which is now very spirited indeed. I am also interested to see what Randburg will do during the singing of the national anthem. Although all the colours of the rainbow nation are represented, it is by far a 'white' congregation present in Paddy's.
Will they stand for the anthem?
Yes they will. They rise like one and what surprises me even more is that many of them even seem to know the seSotho part of our tri-lingual anthem and do not fake singing it like many whiteys, including myself, do. Nevertheless, looking around I can see that most of us are faking singing the seSotho part and when the Afrikaans part comes along I see many darkies faking that ... before we all find our common voice in the English conclusion.
All united and proudly South African thanks to the World Cup and I'm happy to be there and part of it.
Then my taxi arrives and I'm off to Jan's place listening to the game on the radio in some darkie language while the driver Johannes keeps me abreast of developments. When we score our first goal he nearly overturns the car, but when he regains control it is high-fives and elaborate handshakes in celebration.
After the game we are all in high spirits at Jan's, congratulating ourselves on Bafana's victory and agreeing that all turned out well with all things considered. We spend a pleasant evening with wine and a splendid spaghetti bolognaise that Jan made ... well done Jan ... before we all decamp at about 10pm, citing the fact that the work not done by leaving early on Tuesday, must be crammed into Wednesday.
On departure I steal a bottle of wine from Jan, but have the good manners to alert him to this fact and after he inspected the bottle to ascertain that it was not one of his 'special' ones he bids me good drinking and goodbye.
At home I open the bottle, pour myself a glass and sits down to write you a witty blog about the day ... when my niece's cat Schmiegel jumps through the window and knocks over the bottle. It shatters on my already dirty white tile floor. The floor is dirty because Zita has disappeared. I clean up and go to bed thinking that my blue Monday may in fact not be over.
Predictably Wednesday and Thursday go by in a blur of work but we finish the programme in good time on Thursday afternoon and I even get a bit of praise and is certain that my blue Monday is finally over and at last I have time to write.
All of this, but especially the broken bottle of wine, lead me to the reflect once again that shit happens by itself and that you have to work real hard for the good things in life. Also that if you don't deal with the shit in your life, it multiplies and in the same way, if you don't deal with the good stuff in your life it diminishes.
This is a common mistake that a lot of people make. They become so busy dealing with shit that they forget to deal with the good stuff in their lives, which means the good stuff diminishes and since nature does not tolerate a vacuum, the space created by the departing good stuff ... fills up with shit.
It is always good to remind oneself of this: Life is never how it should be or ought to be. You can count on that. But you can also count on the fact that life is always exactly how it is at any given point and if you just deal with how it is ... you'll be okay. Not as okay as you may feel that you deserve, but exactly as okay as you would be.
So remember to fight the shit and fight for the good stuff because they are on the same continuum.
My next blog will be about the damn cat Schmiegel ...
I'm scheduled to go and watch at Jan's place if work allows. Since we have the imperative of the match driving us, work allows and at 3:30 I call a taxi from Paddy's Sportsbar where the good citizens of Randburg are already out in their numbers. For a moment I regret that I'm going tto watch at a private house and miss out on the 'gees'.
But only until a drunk guy called Mike insists on blowing his vuvuzela loudly in my ear ... at regular intervals. I move to another table an watch the spectacle. Randburg dressed up in the yellow Bafana kit for the occassion and is in high spirits and ordering more of the same continuously....
At kick-off time I'm still waiting for my taxi but I consider to be a good thing. This way I can catch a bit of the 'gees' which is now very spirited indeed. I am also interested to see what Randburg will do during the singing of the national anthem. Although all the colours of the rainbow nation are represented, it is by far a 'white' congregation present in Paddy's.
Will they stand for the anthem?
Yes they will. They rise like one and what surprises me even more is that many of them even seem to know the seSotho part of our tri-lingual anthem and do not fake singing it like many whiteys, including myself, do. Nevertheless, looking around I can see that most of us are faking singing the seSotho part and when the Afrikaans part comes along I see many darkies faking that ... before we all find our common voice in the English conclusion.
All united and proudly South African thanks to the World Cup and I'm happy to be there and part of it.
Then my taxi arrives and I'm off to Jan's place listening to the game on the radio in some darkie language while the driver Johannes keeps me abreast of developments. When we score our first goal he nearly overturns the car, but when he regains control it is high-fives and elaborate handshakes in celebration.
After the game we are all in high spirits at Jan's, congratulating ourselves on Bafana's victory and agreeing that all turned out well with all things considered. We spend a pleasant evening with wine and a splendid spaghetti bolognaise that Jan made ... well done Jan ... before we all decamp at about 10pm, citing the fact that the work not done by leaving early on Tuesday, must be crammed into Wednesday.
On departure I steal a bottle of wine from Jan, but have the good manners to alert him to this fact and after he inspected the bottle to ascertain that it was not one of his 'special' ones he bids me good drinking and goodbye.
At home I open the bottle, pour myself a glass and sits down to write you a witty blog about the day ... when my niece's cat Schmiegel jumps through the window and knocks over the bottle. It shatters on my already dirty white tile floor. The floor is dirty because Zita has disappeared. I clean up and go to bed thinking that my blue Monday may in fact not be over.
Predictably Wednesday and Thursday go by in a blur of work but we finish the programme in good time on Thursday afternoon and I even get a bit of praise and is certain that my blue Monday is finally over and at last I have time to write.
All of this, but especially the broken bottle of wine, lead me to the reflect once again that shit happens by itself and that you have to work real hard for the good things in life. Also that if you don't deal with the shit in your life, it multiplies and in the same way, if you don't deal with the good stuff in your life it diminishes.
This is a common mistake that a lot of people make. They become so busy dealing with shit that they forget to deal with the good stuff in their lives, which means the good stuff diminishes and since nature does not tolerate a vacuum, the space created by the departing good stuff ... fills up with shit.
It is always good to remind oneself of this: Life is never how it should be or ought to be. You can count on that. But you can also count on the fact that life is always exactly how it is at any given point and if you just deal with how it is ... you'll be okay. Not as okay as you may feel that you deserve, but exactly as okay as you would be.
So remember to fight the shit and fight for the good stuff because they are on the same continuum.
My next blog will be about the damn cat Schmiegel ...
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Blue Monday and Oros PART 2
I arrive at work with the welcoming sight of closed doors with signs that read: "ENERGY SAVING TIP: IF THE HEATER IS ON CLOSE YOUR OFFICE DOOR" And in smaller print: "Thanks for caring for the environment".
We are working for a environmental programme after all and being by now a kind of heat-seeking missile after a hell-ride in a real skoroskoro, complete with holes in the floor through which you could see the cold tar passing and what is worse the cold air coming in at high speed, I'm all for preserving heat in whatever form.
I politely knock on one door and find nobody home. But it is warm so I stand there for a while, while cunningly thinking about my next move ... which is to go and politely knock on the second door ... same story.
At Charles Moore's office I found them all huddled around what they called a 'production meeting' and I join in with the repeated assurance of how happy I am to be there. They are really huddled in a production meeting not just around the heater and have scant regard for my travails.
So having attended the production meeting I am eagerly at work in my office where the erudite Mister Zee has turned the aircon up to the maximum ... to my great delight.
In the meeting it was made clear to me that I should prioritise an interview that needed transcription ... so I open my inbox and see 'interview', open it and start beavering away ... for about three hours ... before I gently inquire about the spelling of a name mentioned in the interview ... I am told that I was not supposed to work on THAT interview because it has to be shot again.
I work on something else and catch a lift home with Charles who complains bitterly that the public broadcaster which is commissioning the show, the SABC, is still cash-strapped but they did find it in their budget to buy R3 million to spend on tickets for the World Cup.
Corruption is rife in that organisation and every new broom they bring in seems more keen than the previous to sweep ever larger amounts of taxpayer's money into their own pockets. The carpets are already too worn to sweep anything under.
I tell Charles to stop depressing me further and we part ways in silence as I get off at Nuno's and he heads home ... equally depressed.
There I meet Jan who is in possession of my spare credit card which I badly need since I lost my main card in the Lollipop Lounge last Thursday after a night of ... well let's put it politely ... excess.
(The Calvinistic part of me, that can suddenly make a forceful comeback after such an event, would have me believe all my other troubles stemmed from that night... I decline the invitation of believe.)
So happily re-united with some form of cashflow I drink a dram or two with Jan and friends only to walk home into further darkness in my area. I turn on my heel and head for Charles's house to watch our Monday night edition of the show ... only to see if some glaring error did not slip through.
I've been working on the show now for three months and have not seen much of it. I only watch the sub-titles.
Anyway Charles invites me to sleep there due to the energy crisis at my humble abode and I gladly accept. Another cold night and fighting with polar bears would have been too much for my frail frame of mind.
TO BE CONTINUED...
We are working for a environmental programme after all and being by now a kind of heat-seeking missile after a hell-ride in a real skoroskoro, complete with holes in the floor through which you could see the cold tar passing and what is worse the cold air coming in at high speed, I'm all for preserving heat in whatever form.
I politely knock on one door and find nobody home. But it is warm so I stand there for a while, while cunningly thinking about my next move ... which is to go and politely knock on the second door ... same story.
At Charles Moore's office I found them all huddled around what they called a 'production meeting' and I join in with the repeated assurance of how happy I am to be there. They are really huddled in a production meeting not just around the heater and have scant regard for my travails.
So having attended the production meeting I am eagerly at work in my office where the erudite Mister Zee has turned the aircon up to the maximum ... to my great delight.
In the meeting it was made clear to me that I should prioritise an interview that needed transcription ... so I open my inbox and see 'interview', open it and start beavering away ... for about three hours ... before I gently inquire about the spelling of a name mentioned in the interview ... I am told that I was not supposed to work on THAT interview because it has to be shot again.
I work on something else and catch a lift home with Charles who complains bitterly that the public broadcaster which is commissioning the show, the SABC, is still cash-strapped but they did find it in their budget to buy R3 million to spend on tickets for the World Cup.
Corruption is rife in that organisation and every new broom they bring in seems more keen than the previous to sweep ever larger amounts of taxpayer's money into their own pockets. The carpets are already too worn to sweep anything under.
I tell Charles to stop depressing me further and we part ways in silence as I get off at Nuno's and he heads home ... equally depressed.
There I meet Jan who is in possession of my spare credit card which I badly need since I lost my main card in the Lollipop Lounge last Thursday after a night of ... well let's put it politely ... excess.
(The Calvinistic part of me, that can suddenly make a forceful comeback after such an event, would have me believe all my other troubles stemmed from that night... I decline the invitation of believe.)
So happily re-united with some form of cashflow I drink a dram or two with Jan and friends only to walk home into further darkness in my area. I turn on my heel and head for Charles's house to watch our Monday night edition of the show ... only to see if some glaring error did not slip through.
I've been working on the show now for three months and have not seen much of it. I only watch the sub-titles.
Anyway Charles invites me to sleep there due to the energy crisis at my humble abode and I gladly accept. Another cold night and fighting with polar bears would have been too much for my frail frame of mind.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Winter solstice, blue Monday, Oros and beyond... PART 1
So it is winter solstice.
It is also Monday in Johannesburg so it is going to be blue ... the sky I mean and my lips and my fingers due to the unfortunate heating arrangements in my humble abode. So far so bad ... then it gets ... well worse ...
I stumble out of bed and rush to my R149 heater. The one that have reversed climate change when it was called upon to do so, but having done so, found that it was no match for the real deal: An old-school Joburg winter.
You must remember that my humble abode is at the bottom of some kind of valley and the well-known (at least to me) inversion effect is in full force here. The cold settles at the bottom of the valley and that point seems to be right below and around my bed with the lesser effects felt in the rest of said abode.
That is why I bravely rush to my heater in the morning, often having to fight off an amorous polar bear or two in the process. They always tell me the poles have heated up too much for their liking and find my said abode more suited to their suits.
But that is besides the point. When I get to my heater it refuses to give heat. This one may expect from a reluctant woman but not from a R149 heater. I am upset especially since it so admirably did my bidding when climate change needed to be reversed.
I curse it and the R149 I spent on it and turn to make myself a cup of tea but my much more effective and expensive kettle would not budge either. I am beginning to see the dawning of a bad blue day ... and once again I'm not mistaken.
There is indeed no electricity.
Now, I may or may not, have mentioned in my previous dispatches that I cannot really be considered fully operational before I had my first cup of tea. This is the proof.
I am freezing my arse off while morosely sipping on a glass of Oros ... a sort of synthetic drink that poor people use to keep kids happy at under-8 parties ... but it is not working for me. It only serves to remind me that my situation is poor.
No electricity means no escape from the Alcatraz in which we live ...I can't get out of my electric-gated yard.
It is only on my second glass of Oros that my brain, out of desperation no doubt, sends me an urgent message which I decode as follows: "Your damn sister has a gas stove!"
For me it is the work of a moment to realise: "TEA!"
Now things are coming together ... it would seem.
Armed with a cup of warm tea, I immediately search out a sunny spot from where I can eye the forbidding fort gate while smoking a cigarette and think. Yes the sun is shining outside.
Then I realise that this being South Africa where 'load-shedding', the euphemism for
'black-outs' (I suppose the latter could have a racist connotation) are not uncommon, it would be stupid to have an electric gate that you can't open manually.
Working from that premise I further surmise that if the manual option at my humble rented abode is padlocked there must probably be some battery-assisted emergency escape. And so there is.
Soon I'm walking gaily in the sunshine to catch a taxi.
On nearing the spot where I always catch them I am briefly heartened by the number of them passing and when one stops within hailing distance I forego it as a skoroskoro. A little mistake...
Although it is already 11am every single taxi that comes by after that is packed. So I stand at the roadside forlornly pointing my finger in the direction of Randburg ... for 20 minutes ... before I get a real skoroskoro ... what else I think and I take it.
TO BE CONTINUED...
It is also Monday in Johannesburg so it is going to be blue ... the sky I mean and my lips and my fingers due to the unfortunate heating arrangements in my humble abode. So far so bad ... then it gets ... well worse ...
I stumble out of bed and rush to my R149 heater. The one that have reversed climate change when it was called upon to do so, but having done so, found that it was no match for the real deal: An old-school Joburg winter.
You must remember that my humble abode is at the bottom of some kind of valley and the well-known (at least to me) inversion effect is in full force here. The cold settles at the bottom of the valley and that point seems to be right below and around my bed with the lesser effects felt in the rest of said abode.
That is why I bravely rush to my heater in the morning, often having to fight off an amorous polar bear or two in the process. They always tell me the poles have heated up too much for their liking and find my said abode more suited to their suits.
But that is besides the point. When I get to my heater it refuses to give heat. This one may expect from a reluctant woman but not from a R149 heater. I am upset especially since it so admirably did my bidding when climate change needed to be reversed.
I curse it and the R149 I spent on it and turn to make myself a cup of tea but my much more effective and expensive kettle would not budge either. I am beginning to see the dawning of a bad blue day ... and once again I'm not mistaken.
There is indeed no electricity.
Now, I may or may not, have mentioned in my previous dispatches that I cannot really be considered fully operational before I had my first cup of tea. This is the proof.
I am freezing my arse off while morosely sipping on a glass of Oros ... a sort of synthetic drink that poor people use to keep kids happy at under-8 parties ... but it is not working for me. It only serves to remind me that my situation is poor.
No electricity means no escape from the Alcatraz in which we live ...I can't get out of my electric-gated yard.
It is only on my second glass of Oros that my brain, out of desperation no doubt, sends me an urgent message which I decode as follows: "Your damn sister has a gas stove!"
For me it is the work of a moment to realise: "TEA!"
Now things are coming together ... it would seem.
Armed with a cup of warm tea, I immediately search out a sunny spot from where I can eye the forbidding fort gate while smoking a cigarette and think. Yes the sun is shining outside.
Then I realise that this being South Africa where 'load-shedding', the euphemism for
'black-outs' (I suppose the latter could have a racist connotation) are not uncommon, it would be stupid to have an electric gate that you can't open manually.
Working from that premise I further surmise that if the manual option at my humble rented abode is padlocked there must probably be some battery-assisted emergency escape. And so there is.
Soon I'm walking gaily in the sunshine to catch a taxi.
On nearing the spot where I always catch them I am briefly heartened by the number of them passing and when one stops within hailing distance I forego it as a skoroskoro. A little mistake...
Although it is already 11am every single taxi that comes by after that is packed. So I stand at the roadside forlornly pointing my finger in the direction of Randburg ... for 20 minutes ... before I get a real skoroskoro ... what else I think and I take it.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Saturday, June 19, 2010
It's too damn cold to blog...
Joburg can get very cold. This week saw temperatures plummet to -10 degrees celsius. If I was a romantic I would have linked that to Bafana's shattering defeat by Uruguay which briefly silenced the vuvuzelas.
Just for the record, the shocking decision by the referee to send off our goalkeeper only served to unite the nation .... everyone was in full, if somewhat morose, agreement that it was ... well ... a shocking decision.
But it is really to cold to blog so I'm heading back to my bed with the forlorn hope that it will warm up a bit later and the even more forlorn hope that Bafana will beat France 3-0 which they apparently have to do to stay in the competition.
Just for the record, the shocking decision by the referee to send off our goalkeeper only served to unite the nation .... everyone was in full, if somewhat morose, agreement that it was ... well ... a shocking decision.
But it is really to cold to blog so I'm heading back to my bed with the forlorn hope that it will warm up a bit later and the even more forlorn hope that Bafana will beat France 3-0 which they apparently have to do to stay in the competition.
Monday, June 14, 2010
It's the World Cup and I am getting adventurous....
Yes, the World Cup spirit has taken a firm hold on me and when Mark Morrison suggests that we go and have lunch in Newtown near the fan park I do not hesitate ... I'm in... but disappointment awaits...
Mark wants to take photographs for the Newtown project and I just want to soak in the 'gees' in a different area from Melville. But we are clearly too early. There's no game on ... no fans to photograph and no gees. So we sit down for lunch at a deserted Nikki's Oasis. I have a splendid burger and a beer.
We have a very able and friendly waitress whose name eludes me now, but I'm surprised that she does not know the darkie word for the Black Label beer brand namely 'zamalek'. Apparently this means 'something that does not give you a babelas' but I beg to differ.
I scold the waitress gently about her youthful ignorance and we stop about five passing darkies to do a survey in order for me to convince her of the veracity of my information and I am not disappointed ... they all agree that a Black Label is indeed a zamalek.
Mark is there on business and proves this by sending numerous SMSes while I enjoy Joburg's fantastic winter sunshine. But I do get bored and take a stroll through where people are setting up their fleamarket stalls where I buy myself ... a VUVUZELA in the colours of the South African flag of course ... but just think of it ... I buy myself a DAMN VUVUZELA. Good grief! What is happening to my mind ... I'm thinking.
So having done the deed I now have to blow on the damn thing. Not as easy as you may think ... I blow and I blow with getting a squeak out of the thing. I then take to just staring forlornly at it, wondering why I just spent R70 on something so utterly useless ... Mark mocks my inability ... and I am about to admit defeat when I notice the damn has got a small hole in it!
I go and exchange it and after a couple more tries I realise that one just has to relax the stomach muscles and VOILA! You too can produce the sound of a frustrated elephant bull with a priapism and an infection in his trunk.
I blew it so well that two different darkie photographers wanted to take photos of me and I let them. Then I got Mark to take a photo of us and then they wanted a photo of themselves with me on their own cameras and race relations in South Africa once again flourished. The revamped area around the world famous Market Theatre is really wort a visit.
Have the bacon end egg burger at Nikki's I can really recommend it at just R30. There is also Museum Africa to be investigated ... by you.
So that was my adventurous foray into Newtown and I regretted having to leave just as the first people began arriving. I had my French class to attend to. Okay it was not much of an adventure but I did leave Melville again for some other destination than Randburg and Jan's house in Parkwood.
Mark wants to take photographs for the Newtown project and I just want to soak in the 'gees' in a different area from Melville. But we are clearly too early. There's no game on ... no fans to photograph and no gees. So we sit down for lunch at a deserted Nikki's Oasis. I have a splendid burger and a beer.
We have a very able and friendly waitress whose name eludes me now, but I'm surprised that she does not know the darkie word for the Black Label beer brand namely 'zamalek'. Apparently this means 'something that does not give you a babelas' but I beg to differ.
I scold the waitress gently about her youthful ignorance and we stop about five passing darkies to do a survey in order for me to convince her of the veracity of my information and I am not disappointed ... they all agree that a Black Label is indeed a zamalek.
Mark is there on business and proves this by sending numerous SMSes while I enjoy Joburg's fantastic winter sunshine. But I do get bored and take a stroll through where people are setting up their fleamarket stalls where I buy myself ... a VUVUZELA in the colours of the South African flag of course ... but just think of it ... I buy myself a DAMN VUVUZELA. Good grief! What is happening to my mind ... I'm thinking.
So having done the deed I now have to blow on the damn thing. Not as easy as you may think ... I blow and I blow with getting a squeak out of the thing. I then take to just staring forlornly at it, wondering why I just spent R70 on something so utterly useless ... Mark mocks my inability ... and I am about to admit defeat when I notice the damn has got a small hole in it!
I go and exchange it and after a couple more tries I realise that one just has to relax the stomach muscles and VOILA! You too can produce the sound of a frustrated elephant bull with a priapism and an infection in his trunk.
I blew it so well that two different darkie photographers wanted to take photos of me and I let them. Then I got Mark to take a photo of us and then they wanted a photo of themselves with me on their own cameras and race relations in South Africa once again flourished. The revamped area around the world famous Market Theatre is really wort a visit.
Have the bacon end egg burger at Nikki's I can really recommend it at just R30. There is also Museum Africa to be investigated ... by you.
So that was my adventurous foray into Newtown and I regretted having to leave just as the first people began arriving. I had my French class to attend to. Okay it was not much of an adventure but I did leave Melville again for some other destination than Randburg and Jan's house in Parkwood.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Engaging with foreigners .... and I could once again not do a spellcheck
Having become used to the facility of engaging with strangers in Melville, I thought engaging with foreigners would be an easy task ... I should have known better.
They are as a rule mistrustful as to my intentions and it would seem that my natural sartorial elegance and suave manner make no difference.
They are in the 'most dangerous city in the world' and they ain't gonna trust nobody.
But I try. Here are the results:
First up the Americans.
I find one Justin sitting at 'my' table in 'my' restaurant (Nuno's) and I buy him a beer when I learn that he is a humanitarian worker in Afghanistan. Justin is sort of uninteresting as just a undercover CIA agent could hope to be. He is vaguely unspecific in all his responses to my questions.
Next up the Dutch.
Now this is quite problematic with the first bunch because my sister Emily's daschund bites their little girl when she wants to play with it. My engagement stops with profuse apologies.
Next Mexico.
The Mexicans are keen to engage but we have communictaion (sic) problems. One of them, Oswaldo speaks a good English and he wants to sell me a good tequila.
I have heard from a variety of reliable sources that the tequila on sale in SA is the worst kind imaginable ... and for the record I can state that if you really want to try the Level 6 on the Baboon Scale babelas ... mix the tequila on sale in SA with any other drink. You would hardly be able to breathe.
So tomorrow at 11:30am I'm going to have a tequila tasting with Oswaldo.
More Americans....
Two very pretty American women (not girls) in the company of two attractive Mexican guys. They are clearly couples but as soon as I use the word 'darkie' one of the American chicks gets miffed and they up and leave without understanding. They even leave behind several half-drunk glasses of South African red. Talk about wasteful consumption....!!
The Dutch again....
My next bunch of Dutch are more satisfactory.
They are filled with happiness. They are dressed in orange and are here to ENJOY. So I get the darkies to team up and sing ... I joined in but clearly I faked it ... Shosholoza.
Incidently I am still convinced it should be our national anthem... But I do not actually know what it means .... So I venture out to consult the nearest darkie ... but where I am most darkies are foreigners ... go figure. They are from Zimbabwe, Zambia or other countries that begin with a Z. Like Congo ... except it doesn't anymore.
So I have to hunt further down the street. I find Gunman ... he is called gunman because he actually packs a gun ... I've seen it. But he is also a Sotho and he tells me shosholoza means: "Move on/Keep on moving."
This I remember as correct from my seSotho endeavours at school. In case you do not know, the prefix indicates the language and as in: the Zulus speak isiZulu, the Xhosas isiXhosa and the Basothos seSotho.
I think I mentioned down the line that this is quite a complicated country. So let's move along SHOSHOLOZA.
So the Dutch speak Dutch to me and I speak Afrikaans to them and since the willingness to undestand each other is there. We love the understandability of each other. Great fun.
Then the Danish..
A group of nine flew in for one game. They got a special deal on the plane tickets, but despite frequent requests from my side they refused to engage... so fuck them ... I really cannot stand people who travel 10 000 miles to stick their heads up their own arses!
Then there is James. He is an American. But he lives here. He is also a darkie. He restores my faith in humankind. James is actually half Native American (Cherokee) and half Haitian.
He came here for the first time in 1999 and after 4 days in Joburg bought himself a house. It says it all.
And then I meet some Chinese from Ghana... I should have known. They wore Ghana T-shirts made in China. This is a sign that I should stop the damn blog for tonight.
Okay I promised the Danes a raw deal .... they support Germany's 4-0 massacre of Australia too loudly for my liking.
They are as a rule mistrustful as to my intentions and it would seem that my natural sartorial elegance and suave manner make no difference.
They are in the 'most dangerous city in the world' and they ain't gonna trust nobody.
But I try. Here are the results:
First up the Americans.
I find one Justin sitting at 'my' table in 'my' restaurant (Nuno's) and I buy him a beer when I learn that he is a humanitarian worker in Afghanistan. Justin is sort of uninteresting as just a undercover CIA agent could hope to be. He is vaguely unspecific in all his responses to my questions.
Next up the Dutch.
Now this is quite problematic with the first bunch because my sister Emily's daschund bites their little girl when she wants to play with it. My engagement stops with profuse apologies.
Next Mexico.
The Mexicans are keen to engage but we have communictaion (sic) problems. One of them, Oswaldo speaks a good English and he wants to sell me a good tequila.
I have heard from a variety of reliable sources that the tequila on sale in SA is the worst kind imaginable ... and for the record I can state that if you really want to try the Level 6 on the Baboon Scale babelas ... mix the tequila on sale in SA with any other drink. You would hardly be able to breathe.
So tomorrow at 11:30am I'm going to have a tequila tasting with Oswaldo.
More Americans....
Two very pretty American women (not girls) in the company of two attractive Mexican guys. They are clearly couples but as soon as I use the word 'darkie' one of the American chicks gets miffed and they up and leave without understanding. They even leave behind several half-drunk glasses of South African red. Talk about wasteful consumption....!!
The Dutch again....
My next bunch of Dutch are more satisfactory.
They are filled with happiness. They are dressed in orange and are here to ENJOY. So I get the darkies to team up and sing ... I joined in but clearly I faked it ... Shosholoza.
Incidently I am still convinced it should be our national anthem... But I do not actually know what it means .... So I venture out to consult the nearest darkie ... but where I am most darkies are foreigners ... go figure. They are from Zimbabwe, Zambia or other countries that begin with a Z. Like Congo ... except it doesn't anymore.
So I have to hunt further down the street. I find Gunman ... he is called gunman because he actually packs a gun ... I've seen it. But he is also a Sotho and he tells me shosholoza means: "Move on/Keep on moving."
This I remember as correct from my seSotho endeavours at school. In case you do not know, the prefix indicates the language and as in: the Zulus speak isiZulu, the Xhosas isiXhosa and the Basothos seSotho.
I think I mentioned down the line that this is quite a complicated country. So let's move along SHOSHOLOZA.
So the Dutch speak Dutch to me and I speak Afrikaans to them and since the willingness to undestand each other is there. We love the understandability of each other. Great fun.
Then the Danish..
A group of nine flew in for one game. They got a special deal on the plane tickets, but despite frequent requests from my side they refused to engage... so fuck them ... I really cannot stand people who travel 10 000 miles to stick their heads up their own arses!
Then there is James. He is an American. But he lives here. He is also a darkie. He restores my faith in humankind. James is actually half Native American (Cherokee) and half Haitian.
He came here for the first time in 1999 and after 4 days in Joburg bought himself a house. It says it all.
And then I meet some Chinese from Ghana... I should have known. They wore Ghana T-shirts made in China. This is a sign that I should stop the damn blog for tonight.
Okay I promised the Danes a raw deal .... they support Germany's 4-0 massacre of Australia too loudly for my liking.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Mzanzi comes to the party ... and what a party it was ... IS.
I had my doubts about our ability to successfully organise an event of this magnitude but I need not have worried ... everything went more than well. It was cheerful and not even a shambles ... you had to be dead not to feel the 'gees'.
It was at the last minute, but Mzansi (South Africa's darkie nickname) came to the party with all the vigour of a diverse people who suddenly realises that they are capable of greatness and unity of spirit.
This morning I even left my laptop in the care of three strange young darkie guys while I went walkabout to think what I was going to write about.
While walking I suddenly realise that it is typical of us South Africans. We are always oscillating between hope and despair.
This thought brings me back to Amanda's beautiful painting called "Slave to Hope".
It is a very '70s painting in style and was done in that style deliberately. Amanda is a decor fundi and she went through a '70s phase' some eight years ago. So the painting is round ... about a metre in diameter and it hangs in the middle of my room.
On the 'hope' side she depicts herself sitting cross-legged on the edge of a magic carpet.
She's wearing a '70s reddish/pinkish flowery dress and is high up in the sky and blowing bubbles into the clouds.
It is really beautiful and I hang the painting so that I see that side the most. That means it is hanging facing me where I sit and use my laptop ... if I have a signal at home which is not often.
Otherwise I just sit and stare into space and at Amanda's painting.
Facing my bed is the 'despair' side ... so I wake up to that. Here Amanda plays Ophelia ... she is drowning in a inky blue sea and almost slipping out of the painting.
Above her ominous jellyfish float ... ominously.
Some mornings when I rush out of bed to get to the alarm clock I bump into it and it swivels on its mounting. When I finally get up after hitting the snooze button three times ... I always set my alarm for half-an-hour before I really have to get up because I find those 10-minute snoozes almost more rewarding than the night's rest. Your dreams become clear and memorable and it is ... lovely.
Okay ... so when I finally get up, I bump into it and when I sit down to have my obligatory cup of tea. It is a general rule that you should not try to speak or engage with me in any way before I had my first cup of tea in the morning.
Let's try again... When I am finally sitting down with my tea and cigarette ... I look to Amanda's painting for inspiration for the day and all I see is the thin metal frame.
Stasis between hope and despair ... a thin line ... one all too familiar to the citizens of Mzansi and I am always happy to realise that it's mine too.
But now I'm off to engage with the World Cup tourists ... I am very disappointed that there are so few female World Cup tourists. I am oscillating between hope and despair concerning my investment in Viagra that I made recently ... will the blue pills reach their sell-by date before I can try them out? I am a slave to hope...
Okay I lied... I'm off to watch SA play France ... in RUGBY!
When I get home I see the painting is actually called 'Slave of Hope' .... I wonder if my mis-representation of the title did not spring from a Freudian slap ... ok slip...
LANGUAGE IS INDEED SOMETHING THAT SWIMS IN YOUR HEAD.
It was at the last minute, but Mzansi (South Africa's darkie nickname) came to the party with all the vigour of a diverse people who suddenly realises that they are capable of greatness and unity of spirit.
This morning I even left my laptop in the care of three strange young darkie guys while I went walkabout to think what I was going to write about.
While walking I suddenly realise that it is typical of us South Africans. We are always oscillating between hope and despair.
This thought brings me back to Amanda's beautiful painting called "Slave to Hope".
It is a very '70s painting in style and was done in that style deliberately. Amanda is a decor fundi and she went through a '70s phase' some eight years ago. So the painting is round ... about a metre in diameter and it hangs in the middle of my room.
On the 'hope' side she depicts herself sitting cross-legged on the edge of a magic carpet.
She's wearing a '70s reddish/pinkish flowery dress and is high up in the sky and blowing bubbles into the clouds.
It is really beautiful and I hang the painting so that I see that side the most. That means it is hanging facing me where I sit and use my laptop ... if I have a signal at home which is not often.
Otherwise I just sit and stare into space and at Amanda's painting.
Facing my bed is the 'despair' side ... so I wake up to that. Here Amanda plays Ophelia ... she is drowning in a inky blue sea and almost slipping out of the painting.
Above her ominous jellyfish float ... ominously.
Some mornings when I rush out of bed to get to the alarm clock I bump into it and it swivels on its mounting. When I finally get up after hitting the snooze button three times ... I always set my alarm for half-an-hour before I really have to get up because I find those 10-minute snoozes almost more rewarding than the night's rest. Your dreams become clear and memorable and it is ... lovely.
Okay ... so when I finally get up, I bump into it and when I sit down to have my obligatory cup of tea. It is a general rule that you should not try to speak or engage with me in any way before I had my first cup of tea in the morning.
Let's try again... When I am finally sitting down with my tea and cigarette ... I look to Amanda's painting for inspiration for the day and all I see is the thin metal frame.
Stasis between hope and despair ... a thin line ... one all too familiar to the citizens of Mzansi and I am always happy to realise that it's mine too.
But now I'm off to engage with the World Cup tourists ... I am very disappointed that there are so few female World Cup tourists. I am oscillating between hope and despair concerning my investment in Viagra that I made recently ... will the blue pills reach their sell-by date before I can try them out? I am a slave to hope...
Okay I lied... I'm off to watch SA play France ... in RUGBY!
When I get home I see the painting is actually called 'Slave of Hope' .... I wonder if my mis-representation of the title did not spring from a Freudian slap ... ok slip...
LANGUAGE IS INDEED SOMETHING THAT SWIMS IN YOUR HEAD.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
THE WORLD CUP! .... THE VUVUZELA IS HERE!!!!!!!!!!
SORRY THAT I'M SHOUTING ... IT'S JUST THAT YOU WON'T HEAR ME OTHERWISE!!!!!!!!
Seriously ... Yesterday everyone who owned a vuvuzela in Joburg blew it from 12pm to 1pm ... and sporadically throughout the afternoon and evening.
My friend Jan says in his office it sounded like a beehive on the move and outside like the coming of the second revolution...
Jan must have very good soundproofing in his office because inside my office it sounded like a thousand beehives on the move .... or at least the Israelites leaving Egypt and blowing down the walls of Jericho.
I am more in agreement with his second statement and given that Jan is not prone to hyperbole, you better believe me when I say that it was an unparalleled racket...
Forget the flags ... this is going to be the World Cup of the VUVUZELA!!!!!!!!
(Just a brief note on the flags ... there were 316 of them on the last official count. The schools closed and Charles and I are no longer driving Kieran to school in Parkview so any flag count from here on would be unscientific because the parameters of our study changed.
We did briefly consider beginning a new study on our new route but when he nearly drove into some-one while counting flags yesterday ... I forbade him to count any more flags today and desisted from doing so myself. In any case we were dog tired from work because everybody else wanted to be 'off' next week ... and we wanted to be off tomorrow ... so we packed two episodes in one week .... and could not even be bothered with our own private obsessions.
Meanwhile my spy, Lizette Pretorius from Pretoria reports that she counted 173 on her designated scientific route yesterday and remarked in her confidential report: "Even Pretoria is getting it!"
The 'it' being GEES ... as encapsulated by the VUVUZELA!!!! I can even hear a solitary one now... sounding forlorn like the mating call of a moose... Never heard that sound myself but I have an imagination. Lastly flagged my hat ... SA/France...)
Okay, I admit, that was not a brief note ...
Seriously ... Yesterday everyone who owned a vuvuzela in Joburg blew it from 12pm to 1pm ... and sporadically throughout the afternoon and evening.
My friend Jan says in his office it sounded like a beehive on the move and outside like the coming of the second revolution...
Jan must have very good soundproofing in his office because inside my office it sounded like a thousand beehives on the move .... or at least the Israelites leaving Egypt and blowing down the walls of Jericho.
I am more in agreement with his second statement and given that Jan is not prone to hyperbole, you better believe me when I say that it was an unparalleled racket...
Forget the flags ... this is going to be the World Cup of the VUVUZELA!!!!!!!!
(Just a brief note on the flags ... there were 316 of them on the last official count. The schools closed and Charles and I are no longer driving Kieran to school in Parkview so any flag count from here on would be unscientific because the parameters of our study changed.
We did briefly consider beginning a new study on our new route but when he nearly drove into some-one while counting flags yesterday ... I forbade him to count any more flags today and desisted from doing so myself. In any case we were dog tired from work because everybody else wanted to be 'off' next week ... and we wanted to be off tomorrow ... so we packed two episodes in one week .... and could not even be bothered with our own private obsessions.
Meanwhile my spy, Lizette Pretorius from Pretoria reports that she counted 173 on her designated scientific route yesterday and remarked in her confidential report: "Even Pretoria is getting it!"
The 'it' being GEES ... as encapsulated by the VUVUZELA!!!! I can even hear a solitary one now... sounding forlorn like the mating call of a moose... Never heard that sound myself but I have an imagination. Lastly flagged my hat ... SA/France...)
Okay, I admit, that was not a brief note ...
My new best friend Maphala Makgoba did indeed join my blog and now the darkies outnumber the Germans on my follower list ... so there Gabrielli.
Talking about Germans ... they seem to be the predominant group of World Cup tourists in Melville at the moment ... followed by Americans ... British ... Spanish or Portuguese (from wherever they hail, ) ... French and Italians.
This was not a scientific study but Charles Moore and I decided it should be the next survey so I began listening to the tongues around me.
But I did meet Rufus and Dan from London and Arne from Germany.
As for talking to Germans ...
I went and sat down ... tiredly ... at a German table in a restaurant in Melville to smoke a cigarette, as we do here when you are a smoker in a non-smoking section of a restaurant, and talked to them ... as I do.
Arne had two darkie chicks with him. There is something deeply unsurprising about that.
The one was Naledi (it means 'star' in seSotho) ... she did mention her last name but it was too noisy for me to hear it and the other was Patience. I did my survey on the usage of the word 'darkie' with them and they shrugged it off. No offence ... but Naledi reckoned it was "a level of education thing" or something like that.
I disagreed because I conducted a more broad-ranging survey among darkies since my last altercation with Gabrielli.
The rules of engagement are simple: I call them darkies and they call me King Charles ... sorry I could not resist that. They call me whatever ... mlungu, Boertjie, whitey... for the duration of the World Cup it would seem that we South Africans are going to be a nation united.
I am off today so I am free to mingle with the crowds ... I'll keep you posted.
WELCOME MAPHALA ... sorry ... a VUVUZELA!!!!! again.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
I lost my car keys, my equilibrium and my pride .... the World Cup is HERE!
I don't even have a car ... or equilibrium or money or whatever ... but the World Cup is HERE!
At least I found my pride again. It was stuck under my shoe and smelled funny ... but hey... I found it there.
The title comes from the Tom Waits song "The one that got away'. I did indeed lose my keys yesterday and that put my equilibrium at stake because I had to sleep at Jan's house ... after only realising that I lost my keys at 5am ... Not a propitious start or end to any day.
So having slept in the foreign country called Parkwood ... Jan brings me back to Melville. We discuss flags with his daughter Julia who says that she is trying to convince him to get one and he says patriotism is a good thing for primitive people.
I agree with I think, Disraeli' .... How does one spell that!!!!? How I wish now I said: "I agree I think with Gladstone ... who said: (In politics) patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel."
But let us move on. I am proud of Joburg and our embracing of the event. We are flagging up big time... We are here ... and when we drive into Melville there are flags everywhere. And everybody is happy.
But flags are not all ... the place is teeming with foreigners ... and they want to talk ... so instead of working I'm talking .... and loving it. THE WORLD CUP is here... but while I'm talking to foreigners I am also drinking and they are all having a whale of a time and I'm AT F"""kin last replacing Windows Vista ("£$%^&********) with Windows 7 and it seems to be a bit better.
One lives in hope.
I speak to two foreigners at Nuno's ... OK they are only from Randburg, but hey.... they are foreign to me. I ask them if their cars (you cannot live in Randburg without at least two cars) had flags on and they assure me that they WILL FLAG UP before the end of the week.
They are Dave and Cathy .... just for the record. Dave is "in the import/export@ business and Cathy ... is "just an accountant" .... I roll my eyes.
But the World Cup is here and Melville is buzzing and I love it.
Meanwhile Amanda gave me a beautiful painting.
A reversible self-portrait of her in hope and despair ... my normal state ...
In hope she blows bubbles on the beach ... in despair she drowns beneath jellyfish ...
OK welcome to MY DAUGHTER TAMLIN (AT LAST), Jaco Wessels, Braam van Straaten, Elize Viljoen and if I missed someone ... Welcome anyway.
At least I found my pride again. It was stuck under my shoe and smelled funny ... but hey... I found it there.
The title comes from the Tom Waits song "The one that got away'. I did indeed lose my keys yesterday and that put my equilibrium at stake because I had to sleep at Jan's house ... after only realising that I lost my keys at 5am ... Not a propitious start or end to any day.
So having slept in the foreign country called Parkwood ... Jan brings me back to Melville. We discuss flags with his daughter Julia who says that she is trying to convince him to get one and he says patriotism is a good thing for primitive people.
I agree with I think, Disraeli' .... How does one spell that!!!!? How I wish now I said: "I agree I think with Gladstone ... who said: (In politics) patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel."
But let us move on. I am proud of Joburg and our embracing of the event. We are flagging up big time... We are here ... and when we drive into Melville there are flags everywhere. And everybody is happy.
But flags are not all ... the place is teeming with foreigners ... and they want to talk ... so instead of working I'm talking .... and loving it. THE WORLD CUP is here... but while I'm talking to foreigners I am also drinking and they are all having a whale of a time and I'm AT F"""kin last replacing Windows Vista ("£$%^&********) with Windows 7 and it seems to be a bit better.
One lives in hope.
I speak to two foreigners at Nuno's ... OK they are only from Randburg, but hey.... they are foreign to me. I ask them if their cars (you cannot live in Randburg without at least two cars) had flags on and they assure me that they WILL FLAG UP before the end of the week.
They are Dave and Cathy .... just for the record. Dave is "in the import/export@ business and Cathy ... is "just an accountant" .... I roll my eyes.
But the World Cup is here and Melville is buzzing and I love it.
Meanwhile Amanda gave me a beautiful painting.
A reversible self-portrait of her in hope and despair ... my normal state ...
In hope she blows bubbles on the beach ... in despair she drowns beneath jellyfish ...
OK welcome to MY DAUGHTER TAMLIN (AT LAST), Jaco Wessels, Braam van Straaten, Elize Viljoen and if I missed someone ... Welcome anyway.
Friday, June 4, 2010
VUVUZELAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ... BRING EARPLUGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
South Africans are very inventive people.
Just think about it... A South African guy invented the only South African product that was used on the spacecraft that went to the moon ... Pratley Putty. I know it is self-evident that a South African should have invented the only South African product to be used in the spacecraft that went to the moon but YOU can try to put it better.
A South African also invented open-heart surgery... the Book of the (last) Century ... Lord of The Rings ... and 'dolosse' ... those concrete wave-breakers that you see around shorelines across the world ... as well as 'the plumbing of secure internet transacting' ... apartheid (a model that the Jews and Palestinians have been trying to implement with the same measure of success that we had here for many a year ... none) ... Mrs Balls' Original Chutney ... Appletizer ... in short too many things to mention in a short blog like this one...
But then, to top it all, the world's worst wind instrument ... the vuvuzela. Now the vuvuzela is a hollow plastic tube in the form of a trumpet and when one blows on it, it produces a SOUND ...
The SOUND of ... a power drill hitting concrete... an angle grinder through cold-rolled steel ... a tomcat on heat being strangled ...
Now I've never strangled a tomcat on heat and never will ... neither have I had any contact with people who strangle tomcats on heat and if I see a person strangling a tomcat on heat rest assured that I shall intervene ... by calling the relevant authorities.
What I'm trying to get at is that this 'weapon of mass distraction' produces a sound so ugly that one would probably be better off by never hearing it. When I described the sounds above, I was talking about a single vuvuzela ... but what soccer fans are likely to encounter is that of a single one ... multiplied ... by only 90 000.
Fifa hinted ... briefly ... at banning the vuvuzela during the World Cup ... but soon backed off.
South African soccer lovers would hear none of it ... they can't hear anything anyway because the SOUND of many vuvuzelas has been proven to be harmful to hearing. It has been compared to the sound of a million angry bees with vocal cords on steroids ... and that is putting it mildly.
Nevertheless this weapon may just see Bafana Bafana score a goal as the opposing teams lose their balance as their hearing goes ... we live always live in hope in SA.
In another ironic twist ... the voices from within South Africa trying to ban the vuvuzela were just beginning to be heard when ... the Blue Bulls went to Soweto. Now it is not only the darkies at soccer matches blowing the damn thing ... it is also whiteys at rugby matches. The Afrikaans daily Beeld announced it on their posters: "BULLS SAVE VUVU". You can always count on Pretorians to be well-meaning but ultimately destructive.
In their insularity they are much like the Americans. As Churchill put it so well: "One can always count on the Americans to do the right thing ... once they have exhausted all other possibilities..."
So make peace with it ... buy earplugs and know that the vuvuzela can now be bought craftily-beaded in the colours of your country's flag by our ever-inventive 'bead-and-wire' artists on the steets of Joburg and Melville specifically ... BECAUSE WE LIKE TO BE LOUDLY SOUTH AFRICAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I got a darkie chick, one Maphala Makgoba, whom I just met, to vouch for the veracity of this blog ... so there we have race realtions again ... she said she would definitely join the blog.
"this damn whitey promised me a round of drinks in exchange of joining his blog. He apparentely has one darkie as a follower which makes me the second darkie. In two weeks he will have atleast 20 darkies. You just have to love South Africa, you meet a whitey you negotiate terms of engagement or blow a vuvuzela in the ear of whitey> and wallahhhh..."Maphala
OK that was my new best friend Maphala ... you just got to love South Africa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Just think about it... A South African guy invented the only South African product that was used on the spacecraft that went to the moon ... Pratley Putty. I know it is self-evident that a South African should have invented the only South African product to be used in the spacecraft that went to the moon but YOU can try to put it better.
A South African also invented open-heart surgery... the Book of the (last) Century ... Lord of The Rings ... and 'dolosse' ... those concrete wave-breakers that you see around shorelines across the world ... as well as 'the plumbing of secure internet transacting' ... apartheid (a model that the Jews and Palestinians have been trying to implement with the same measure of success that we had here for many a year ... none) ... Mrs Balls' Original Chutney ... Appletizer ... in short too many things to mention in a short blog like this one...
But then, to top it all, the world's worst wind instrument ... the vuvuzela. Now the vuvuzela is a hollow plastic tube in the form of a trumpet and when one blows on it, it produces a SOUND ...
The SOUND of ... a power drill hitting concrete... an angle grinder through cold-rolled steel ... a tomcat on heat being strangled ...
Now I've never strangled a tomcat on heat and never will ... neither have I had any contact with people who strangle tomcats on heat and if I see a person strangling a tomcat on heat rest assured that I shall intervene ... by calling the relevant authorities.
What I'm trying to get at is that this 'weapon of mass distraction' produces a sound so ugly that one would probably be better off by never hearing it. When I described the sounds above, I was talking about a single vuvuzela ... but what soccer fans are likely to encounter is that of a single one ... multiplied ... by only 90 000.
Fifa hinted ... briefly ... at banning the vuvuzela during the World Cup ... but soon backed off.
South African soccer lovers would hear none of it ... they can't hear anything anyway because the SOUND of many vuvuzelas has been proven to be harmful to hearing. It has been compared to the sound of a million angry bees with vocal cords on steroids ... and that is putting it mildly.
Nevertheless this weapon may just see Bafana Bafana score a goal as the opposing teams lose their balance as their hearing goes ... we live always live in hope in SA.
In another ironic twist ... the voices from within South Africa trying to ban the vuvuzela were just beginning to be heard when ... the Blue Bulls went to Soweto. Now it is not only the darkies at soccer matches blowing the damn thing ... it is also whiteys at rugby matches. The Afrikaans daily Beeld announced it on their posters: "BULLS SAVE VUVU". You can always count on Pretorians to be well-meaning but ultimately destructive.
In their insularity they are much like the Americans. As Churchill put it so well: "One can always count on the Americans to do the right thing ... once they have exhausted all other possibilities..."
So make peace with it ... buy earplugs and know that the vuvuzela can now be bought craftily-beaded in the colours of your country's flag by our ever-inventive 'bead-and-wire' artists on the steets of Joburg and Melville specifically ... BECAUSE WE LIKE TO BE LOUDLY SOUTH AFRICAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I got a darkie chick, one Maphala Makgoba, whom I just met, to vouch for the veracity of this blog ... so there we have race realtions again ... she said she would definitely join the blog.
"this damn whitey promised me a round of drinks in exchange of joining his blog. He apparentely has one darkie as a follower which makes me the second darkie. In two weeks he will have atleast 20 darkies. You just have to love South Africa, you meet a whitey you negotiate terms of engagement or blow a vuvuzela in the ear of whitey> and wallahhhh..."Maphala
OK that was my new best friend Maphala ... you just got to love South Africa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A real skoroskoro and a conversation about religion
My problem with taxis in the mornings is that they are all packed until about 10am when they pass the point where I join the route on foot. That means I really have to walk far to the first major drop-off point.
The reason why I mention this is that I made a decision, in principle, not to take skoroskoros anymore and rather wait for a vaguely decent taxi. A skoroskoro is a vehicle that is in fact a crock and the onomatopoeic skoroskoro refers to the sound they make when they drive .... skoroskoroskoroskoro ... the 'Os' are pronounced as if they had a genuflect accent.
But I'm late for work and my principles take a hike and I take a skoroskoro when it stops. I immediately know it is a skoroskoro because the dented sliding door will not open until the driver gets out and manoeuvres it open with a secret flick of his hips ... and then it refuses to close again ... but soon enough we are on the road.
Further clues that this is the real deal in the skoroskoro category follow quickly. Apart from the skoroskoro noise my seat dumps me on my neighbour when we go around the first righthand corner and the front passenger door flies open. But we are an adaptable lot here in the south of Africa and I learn to lean left when the taxi goes right and and the front passenger learns to hold on to the dashboard with his right hand and the door with his left hand while leaning right.
I join the other passengers in silent prayer and try not to think about the state of the vehicle's brakes or shock absorbers while it careens through the traffic ... I suspect they are close to being non-existent ... which brings me to God and religion.
Now everybody knows I'm an atheist but few of you would guess that my parents and especially my father is a deeply religious person. He is one of only a handful of people, perhaps the only one, whom I know who practises all the virtues of Christianity including tolerance and forgiveness. That is why we still get along.
Many years ago when our politics also parted ways we decided to limit our conversational topics to one ... rugby where we are both on the same page ... we support the Free State Cheetahs. This happened as if we both grasped at the same time that it was the only way to keep our relationship going and no discussion preceded the event.
Fortunately we have since rejoined opinion on politics and the weather and rainfall patterns provide further stimuli for our conversations.
With my mother there is no such problems. She berates me my variety of addictions and is fearful that I'm now addicted to the internet as well ... and also hints darkly at my godlessness when she gets the chance between analysing the latest health affliction that is making her life a misery.
That was why I was shocked when she complained about being lonely instead of her normal ailing health the other day ... and being the dutiful son that I am ... took her seriously for once. Not that I could get her interested in the wonders of the internet or google ... no sirree!
For that I had to rely on my father who, after my presentation, dutifully thanked the Lord in his pre-lunchtime saying of grace "for the wonderful technologies that He gave us".
Then we had lunch and it was time for Abrie to take me back to Kruger International.
Without prompting he begins talking about how he is getting slightly irritated by the creationists and Christian fundamentalists peopling the rural community around him. He finds their blunt refusal to take any scientific evidence into account when they expound their own beliefs especially grating.
I feel his pain ... he professes to be a Christian ... but ...
I was also there once ... and for a long time ... until I realised that faith does not readily stand up to any manner of scrutiny by a questioning mind ... and once you begin scratching the surface of your religious beliefs with a vexing question you are in for a long and hard think.
FLAG UPDATE: Meanwhile it would seem that only Joburg is 'flagging up' big time. I spotted hardly a flag around Hazyview and my father quietly removed the one I put on his car. I asked Lizette in Pretoria to do a count for me but have not heard from her since and Charles Moore reported that there were noticably fewer in Cape Town during his recent visit there. Let me know if I'm wrong.
The reason why I mention this is that I made a decision, in principle, not to take skoroskoros anymore and rather wait for a vaguely decent taxi. A skoroskoro is a vehicle that is in fact a crock and the onomatopoeic skoroskoro refers to the sound they make when they drive .... skoroskoroskoroskoro ... the 'Os' are pronounced as if they had a genuflect accent.
But I'm late for work and my principles take a hike and I take a skoroskoro when it stops. I immediately know it is a skoroskoro because the dented sliding door will not open until the driver gets out and manoeuvres it open with a secret flick of his hips ... and then it refuses to close again ... but soon enough we are on the road.
Further clues that this is the real deal in the skoroskoro category follow quickly. Apart from the skoroskoro noise my seat dumps me on my neighbour when we go around the first righthand corner and the front passenger door flies open. But we are an adaptable lot here in the south of Africa and I learn to lean left when the taxi goes right and and the front passenger learns to hold on to the dashboard with his right hand and the door with his left hand while leaning right.
I join the other passengers in silent prayer and try not to think about the state of the vehicle's brakes or shock absorbers while it careens through the traffic ... I suspect they are close to being non-existent ... which brings me to God and religion.
Now everybody knows I'm an atheist but few of you would guess that my parents and especially my father is a deeply religious person. He is one of only a handful of people, perhaps the only one, whom I know who practises all the virtues of Christianity including tolerance and forgiveness. That is why we still get along.
Many years ago when our politics also parted ways we decided to limit our conversational topics to one ... rugby where we are both on the same page ... we support the Free State Cheetahs. This happened as if we both grasped at the same time that it was the only way to keep our relationship going and no discussion preceded the event.
Fortunately we have since rejoined opinion on politics and the weather and rainfall patterns provide further stimuli for our conversations.
With my mother there is no such problems. She berates me my variety of addictions and is fearful that I'm now addicted to the internet as well ... and also hints darkly at my godlessness when she gets the chance between analysing the latest health affliction that is making her life a misery.
That was why I was shocked when she complained about being lonely instead of her normal ailing health the other day ... and being the dutiful son that I am ... took her seriously for once. Not that I could get her interested in the wonders of the internet or google ... no sirree!
For that I had to rely on my father who, after my presentation, dutifully thanked the Lord in his pre-lunchtime saying of grace "for the wonderful technologies that He gave us".
Then we had lunch and it was time for Abrie to take me back to Kruger International.
Without prompting he begins talking about how he is getting slightly irritated by the creationists and Christian fundamentalists peopling the rural community around him. He finds their blunt refusal to take any scientific evidence into account when they expound their own beliefs especially grating.
I feel his pain ... he professes to be a Christian ... but ...
I was also there once ... and for a long time ... until I realised that faith does not readily stand up to any manner of scrutiny by a questioning mind ... and once you begin scratching the surface of your religious beliefs with a vexing question you are in for a long and hard think.
FLAG UPDATE: Meanwhile it would seem that only Joburg is 'flagging up' big time. I spotted hardly a flag around Hazyview and my father quietly removed the one I put on his car. I asked Lizette in Pretoria to do a count for me but have not heard from her since and Charles Moore reported that there were noticably fewer in Cape Town during his recent visit there. Let me know if I'm wrong.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
A clearer view of Hazyview... and my parents
Fortunately my brother Abrie arrives by car to come and pick me up from the Kruger International which indeed received a major make-over from when I saw it last.
That time, if memory serves correctly, it consisted of a single, dirty pre-fab structure and a windsock wilting in the blazing heat along with the ten or so passengers eyeing the small twin prop aircraft that was due to transport them to Joburg with all the suspicion it deserved. I was there to drop off my girlfriend of the time and I silently feared for her life.
But now 60 odd passengers arrived in a four-engine jet plane from British Aerospace to be welcomed by an attractive thatched-roofed building and a direction board indicating "International Arrivals" and "Domestic Arrivals" in the same direction ... for a moment I fear that it would be the same entrance ... but no ... the internationals split off at some point ...
But then I think that if a domestic and international flight arrived at the same time there would really not be anything to stop the al Qeada operative from just walking in with the locals. I hope that the airport authorities have some kind of plan for such an eventuality ... but knowing the locals of the Slowveld I'm not going to bet any money on that.
Meanwhile I arrive home (chez les parents) armed with two bottles of wine and we have our normal familial conversations about nothing and then go to bed.
This morning I wake up to go for a leak in ... a beautiful garden ... resplendent ... even in winter ... with an astonishing array of bright colours. From the bright post office red of the poinsettias to British racing green with canary yellows to orange to auburn ... thrown in ... and much in between.
Then I realise that I have been giving Hazyview a raw deal. It is a beautiful place and it is the perfect base camp from which to visit:
Blyde River Canyon
That time, if memory serves correctly, it consisted of a single, dirty pre-fab structure and a windsock wilting in the blazing heat along with the ten or so passengers eyeing the small twin prop aircraft that was due to transport them to Joburg with all the suspicion it deserved. I was there to drop off my girlfriend of the time and I silently feared for her life.
But now 60 odd passengers arrived in a four-engine jet plane from British Aerospace to be welcomed by an attractive thatched-roofed building and a direction board indicating "International Arrivals" and "Domestic Arrivals" in the same direction ... for a moment I fear that it would be the same entrance ... but no ... the internationals split off at some point ...
But then I think that if a domestic and international flight arrived at the same time there would really not be anything to stop the al Qeada operative from just walking in with the locals. I hope that the airport authorities have some kind of plan for such an eventuality ... but knowing the locals of the Slowveld I'm not going to bet any money on that.
Meanwhile I arrive home (chez les parents) armed with two bottles of wine and we have our normal familial conversations about nothing and then go to bed.
This morning I wake up to go for a leak in ... a beautiful garden ... resplendent ... even in winter ... with an astonishing array of bright colours. From the bright post office red of the poinsettias to British racing green with canary yellows to orange to auburn ... thrown in ... and much in between.
Then I realise that I have been giving Hazyview a raw deal. It is a beautiful place and it is the perfect base camp from which to visit:
Blyde River Canyon
- The Kruger National park
- God's Window
- The falls
- The Potholes ... no not the same ones you see on the roads ... for which the authorities seem to to think that putting up boards telling you to beware of them for the next 5km ... every 5km ... is a solution. My brother Abrie correctly points out they could save a lot of money by simply putting up one board saying: "Potholes for the next 7000km". This would be more cost effective. They could even do better by putting up signs outside every airport saying: "POTHOLES EVERYWHERE!"
- Elephant rides
In the morning my mother sits me down and complains ... she is lonely here ... all her friends are dead or departed ... that sounds strangely macabre ... let me put it differently ... all her friends are dead and gone ... that's not right either. OK, so here friends who are not dead all left the area and went to live in old age homes somewhere... and she wants to do the same. I mean go and live in an old age home...
My father and I disagree with her...
Why give up a luxurious environment, if somewhat financially constrained, for a small room in an old age home somewhere where it is cold and windy in the winter and warm and windy in the summer ... Cape Town ... and be more financially constrained?
My soon-to-be 80-year-old father is the general handyman for my very able sister-in-law Maretha... (Was that a bad case of hyphenitis or what? And don't say what).
So my mission of the day becomes to get them online so that my mother can chat to her offspring where-ever they may be.
First I explain the wonders of google and gmail to them ... Storing your shit in the 'cloud' and all that and having live video chats and all of that plus google docs as well as spreadsheets and the internet BEING the computer ...
Using my father's upcoming 80th birthday as fundraising motif I phone my brother Noddy and he agrees that the old folks must get connected and he pledges his financial support for the project ... as does Abrie.
The end result is that my parents will soon be talking to YOU online.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Life makes up my mind for me....
I spend the whole morning trying to do just two things .... to connect to the internet to check my flight times and make up my mind about how I'm going to get to the airport. Last night I decided to go by 'public transport' ... minibus taxis.
This morning the idea seems slightly less appealing... It would involve a lot of walking and I have a Level 3 on the Baboon Scale hangover. It is also quite warm I realise when I go outside to leave for Nuno's where I know my internet connection would work. Up to then I spent two hours trying to go online without success.
Then to confuse and frustrate me even further Charles Moore phones to tell me two things ... Firstly that he counted 169 flags on cars on his way to work ... this is fantastic news ... my flagging campaign is clearly taking off ... remember a mere two or three weeks ago when we began our survey we counted only 64.
However Charles reckons that this jump in flags had nothing to do with me ... but rather with the fact that Bafana Bafana won their game against Colombia 2-1. The Star's headline reads: Delighted fans ignore chaos. And by the sound of it I was right again. It was a cheerful shambles with all of South Africa's idiosyncrasies on display .
'Ticket checkers' taking tickets and disappearing with them ... to sell on .... taking bribes to let some people in faster ... and at the wrong entrances and in general making sure that the seating arrangements inside the stadium became 'a cheerful shambles' and clearly despite this and the mammoth traffic jam to and from the stadium counted for nought ... a good time was had by all although it is reported that the vuvuzelas were deafening ... I will do a full blog on that South African idiosyncrasy soon.
The second thing Charles tells me is that he is trying to organise one of the work minibuses to take me to the airport ... but he can't guarantee anything ... This third option throws me completely ... 'public transport' ... private taxi ... or waiting for Charles ... and still I have no real idea when my flight is ...
So then I pack three longjohns, a pair of jeans, shampoo, toothbrush and perfume head for Nuno's ... oh yes and my laptop with power supply this time.
At Nuno's I establish that my flight is at 3:30pm. I ask the darkie waiters about taxi transport to the airport and they give me the lowdown ... which sounds slightly complicated ... but I'm ready to go ... Having plenty of time I have a breakfast and drink a cleansing beer. I am on holiday after all.
Then I begin arguing with myself. "I have the money to pay for the taxi and not having a car saves me a lot of money every month. Think down-payments, insurance, petrol and general maintenance," says one part of my brain.
"You are just lazy and/or afraid to leave the comfort zone of the one taxi route you use," says the other part.
It's a hung parliament and I am called upon to make a decision. I go with the latter view ... It would be the most interesting option ...
I begin walking and only then look at my watch and realise that I have to be at the airport an hour before departure ... Life made up my mind. I turn on my heel and phone Levi ... my regular taxi guy ... he wants R350 for the trip and we settle on R300 because I'm his 'customer'.
On my way to the airport I remember why I wanted to write the blog about going to Hazyview yesterday... I was because my brother Abrie threatened to come and fetch me with his micro-light in Nelspruit ... I did not speak to him again since ... so I'll just have to wait and see what form of transport the last leg of my trip would be... And I guess forgetting about it while writing yesterday's blog was extreme denialism ... But just In case ... I'm at the airport in Joburg now and knocking back two double gin and dry lemons... My plane is due now
This morning the idea seems slightly less appealing... It would involve a lot of walking and I have a Level 3 on the Baboon Scale hangover. It is also quite warm I realise when I go outside to leave for Nuno's where I know my internet connection would work. Up to then I spent two hours trying to go online without success.
Then to confuse and frustrate me even further Charles Moore phones to tell me two things ... Firstly that he counted 169 flags on cars on his way to work ... this is fantastic news ... my flagging campaign is clearly taking off ... remember a mere two or three weeks ago when we began our survey we counted only 64.
However Charles reckons that this jump in flags had nothing to do with me ... but rather with the fact that Bafana Bafana won their game against Colombia 2-1. The Star's headline reads: Delighted fans ignore chaos. And by the sound of it I was right again. It was a cheerful shambles with all of South Africa's idiosyncrasies on display .
'Ticket checkers' taking tickets and disappearing with them ... to sell on .... taking bribes to let some people in faster ... and at the wrong entrances and in general making sure that the seating arrangements inside the stadium became 'a cheerful shambles' and clearly despite this and the mammoth traffic jam to and from the stadium counted for nought ... a good time was had by all although it is reported that the vuvuzelas were deafening ... I will do a full blog on that South African idiosyncrasy soon.
The second thing Charles tells me is that he is trying to organise one of the work minibuses to take me to the airport ... but he can't guarantee anything ... This third option throws me completely ... 'public transport' ... private taxi ... or waiting for Charles ... and still I have no real idea when my flight is ...
So then I pack three longjohns, a pair of jeans, shampoo, toothbrush and perfume head for Nuno's ... oh yes and my laptop with power supply this time.
At Nuno's I establish that my flight is at 3:30pm. I ask the darkie waiters about taxi transport to the airport and they give me the lowdown ... which sounds slightly complicated ... but I'm ready to go ... Having plenty of time I have a breakfast and drink a cleansing beer. I am on holiday after all.
Then I begin arguing with myself. "I have the money to pay for the taxi and not having a car saves me a lot of money every month. Think down-payments, insurance, petrol and general maintenance," says one part of my brain.
"You are just lazy and/or afraid to leave the comfort zone of the one taxi route you use," says the other part.
It's a hung parliament and I am called upon to make a decision. I go with the latter view ... It would be the most interesting option ...
I begin walking and only then look at my watch and realise that I have to be at the airport an hour before departure ... Life made up my mind. I turn on my heel and phone Levi ... my regular taxi guy ... he wants R350 for the trip and we settle on R300 because I'm his 'customer'.
On my way to the airport I remember why I wanted to write the blog about going to Hazyview yesterday... I was because my brother Abrie threatened to come and fetch me with his micro-light in Nelspruit ... I did not speak to him again since ... so I'll just have to wait and see what form of transport the last leg of my trip would be... And I guess forgetting about it while writing yesterday's blog was extreme denialism ... But just In case ... I'm at the airport in Joburg now and knocking back two double gin and dry lemons... My plane is due now
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Not clear why I wanted to write about Hazyview ...
My parents live on my brother Abrie's farm near Hazyview. That's about 400km from Joburg and I'm going there tomorrow.
Initially the plan was to rustle up the usual suspects and go as a group ... my brother has a backpacker facility on the farm. After initial excitement about the prospect my so-called friends began cancelling on me ... but all was fine ... The back-up plan was that my sister Emily and her kids would go ... then Emily cancelled yesterday.
A visit to my elderly parents is really long overdue ... I was last there two years ago ... so I decide I will go alone and book a ticket to the somewhat pompously named Kruger International outside Nelspruit in the Lowveld. The last time I was there it looked more like the Kruger Backwater, but that was some time ago and things change ... sometimes for the better ... one can only hope.
With the main leg of my trip taken care of I phone my brother Abrie to hear if he'll come and fetch me ... no problem ... farmers are always looking for an excuse to go to the nearest big town.
Now it's time to train my considerable intellect on the vexing problem of getting to the airport from my house ... I am loathe to ask one of my so-called friends to take me and averse to spending a fortune on a real taxi ... that means public transport in the form of minibus taxis...
When I faced with the same problem coming back from Oyster Bay I even wrote a blog about the lack of public transport to and from OR Tambo International ... your gateway to the nearest traffic jam ... but that was before I knew about the only 'real' public transport here.
A kindly reader then sketched the route for me and said a trip to the airport should come in below R20 if you know where you are going ... So once again I'm faced with a three-leg voyage before I can embark on the second leg of my real trip.
First I have to get to Park Station in Joburg Central ... from there I must take another taxi to Kempton Park and from there another one to the airport. I'll start out early....
Now Hazyview is somewhat of a tourist destination itself. In itself it has all the charm of a gigantic but poorly planned shopping mall, but there are more types of accommodation to suit every pocket and people use it as a base-camp to explore the many natural delights of the Lowveld about which I will write at length once I am there.
Where am I going with this blog? That is my more immediate concern ... my view has indeed become very hazy about that. I could swear I had a point when I started out... seems to have deserted me ... I'll just publish and be damned .... and such a poor piece on top of Rian Malan's must-read piece of earlier today... I'm shooting myself in the foot. What the hell maybe inspiration will hit me in Hazyview .... and then again not ... the locals call it Lazyview in the Slowveld...
Welcome to Rachel Tolton... and Hazyview.
Initially the plan was to rustle up the usual suspects and go as a group ... my brother has a backpacker facility on the farm. After initial excitement about the prospect my so-called friends began cancelling on me ... but all was fine ... The back-up plan was that my sister Emily and her kids would go ... then Emily cancelled yesterday.
A visit to my elderly parents is really long overdue ... I was last there two years ago ... so I decide I will go alone and book a ticket to the somewhat pompously named Kruger International outside Nelspruit in the Lowveld. The last time I was there it looked more like the Kruger Backwater, but that was some time ago and things change ... sometimes for the better ... one can only hope.
With the main leg of my trip taken care of I phone my brother Abrie to hear if he'll come and fetch me ... no problem ... farmers are always looking for an excuse to go to the nearest big town.
Now it's time to train my considerable intellect on the vexing problem of getting to the airport from my house ... I am loathe to ask one of my so-called friends to take me and averse to spending a fortune on a real taxi ... that means public transport in the form of minibus taxis...
When I faced with the same problem coming back from Oyster Bay I even wrote a blog about the lack of public transport to and from OR Tambo International ... your gateway to the nearest traffic jam ... but that was before I knew about the only 'real' public transport here.
A kindly reader then sketched the route for me and said a trip to the airport should come in below R20 if you know where you are going ... So once again I'm faced with a three-leg voyage before I can embark on the second leg of my real trip.
First I have to get to Park Station in Joburg Central ... from there I must take another taxi to Kempton Park and from there another one to the airport. I'll start out early....
Now Hazyview is somewhat of a tourist destination itself. In itself it has all the charm of a gigantic but poorly planned shopping mall, but there are more types of accommodation to suit every pocket and people use it as a base-camp to explore the many natural delights of the Lowveld about which I will write at length once I am there.
Where am I going with this blog? That is my more immediate concern ... my view has indeed become very hazy about that. I could swear I had a point when I started out... seems to have deserted me ... I'll just publish and be damned .... and such a poor piece on top of Rian Malan's must-read piece of earlier today... I'm shooting myself in the foot. What the hell maybe inspiration will hit me in Hazyview .... and then again not ... the locals call it Lazyview in the Slowveld...
Welcome to Rachel Tolton... and Hazyview.
Rian Malan tells it as it is ... couldn't have done better in a month of Sundays update
The following piece by Rian Malan was sent to me by email and since it encapsulates many of my personal views so much better than I could say it I decided to post it here. I'm sure Rian won't mind ... if he does ... let him sue me.
It's a sunny weekday afternoon in Jo'burg, and I am lunching with friends at an outdoor restaurant. The joint we're in was hit by armed robbers earlier this week.
The newspapers on the table are full of hair-raising tribulations – our former police chief on trial for bribery, commuter buses shot up by murderous taxi bosses who won't tolerate competition, and elders of the African National Congress declining to sign the charge sheet against Julius Malema, the controversial youth leader who made global headlines the other day by endorsing Robert Mugabe, the cocky little psychopath who ruined neighbouring Zimbabwe.
Malema is now facing disciplinary charges, but no one in the ruling party is willing to take the risk of being identified as his accuser.
This is worrying. Are racist demagogues winning the battle for control of the ANC? Are decent black men scared to take a stand lest they find themselves alongside whites, trussed up in the missionary cooking pot while Malema lights a fire beneath us?
In a normal society, such questions would induce nervous breakdown, but my mates and I are laughing.
We're sitting in the African sun, sharing jokes, and wondering how to con foreigners into coming here for the World Cup.
Once upon a time, South Africans imagined that this soccer extravaganza would make us all rich.
Myself, I struggled to believe that half a million football tourists would cross the planet in the midst of a brutal recession to visit a country best known for its high crime rate.
My neighbours scoffed, preferring to believe they would make a killing by renting out their homes. Alas. Bookings are running at about half the anticipated level.
Would-be scalpers are stuck with tickets they can't even give away, and Fifa's gluttonous marketing arm has reportedly managed to lease only 1% of the luxury private boxes in our enormously expensive new stadia.
I am rather enjoying the resulting cries of pain. Fifa has made a monkey out of South Africa
Our own leaders collaborated enthusiastically, partly because they relished the glory of presiding over an event of World Cup stature, but also because they were eager to participate in murky backroom deals that saw politically connected individuals reaping obscene profits on taxpayer-funded construction contracts.
Now we're all saddled by debts it will take generations to pay off. I'm so riled that part of me would be gratified if the World Cup were a complete failure.
But South Africa is a complicated country, and there's always another side of the story. As I write, a certain Mrs Gladys Dladla is ironing clothes in my kitchen.
Gladys is an old-school Zulu matriarch, struggling heroically to maintain a huge family on her meagre earnings as my once-a-week char. She lacks the wherewithal to bribe officials who control access to state housing, so she's lived in a tin shack for 16 years.
In recent weeks, getting to work has become a frightening ordeal thanks to renewed tensions between police and the aforementioned taxi thugs.
Gladys's life seems entirely miserable, but she always shows up on time, chattering cheerfully about church and her hope that God and the ancestral spirits will soon guide us to victory in the national lottery. Gladys and I have a little syndicate going.
The World Cup is an event of huge symbolic importance to Mrs Dladla. In the next several weeks, oily ANC politicians will attempt to convince you that this tournament is a tribute to their heroic victory over apartheid and associated triumphs of the human spirit.
Hm. For people like Gladys, the longing for success is actually rooted in despair. They're so tired of being losers and also-rans, trapped at the bottom of a society that constantly threatens to degenerate into just another African basket case.
Their dream was that in June 2010 the world's eyes would descend on us, and at last find something to admire. Mrs Dladla looks on these things with enormous pride.
She feels that their glory reflects on her directly, and besides, there's always the hope that football tourism might generate jobs for her unemployed offspring.
She was a great supporter of short-lived plans to turn my rambling old home into a cheap doss house for football hooligans. In the end, I baulked at paying tribute to Fifa, whose lawyers crushed all attempts to market World Cup lodgings through any channels other than their own.
Just as well, because our doss house would most likely have failed anyway.
So now we stand before you with clean hands. We have nothing to gain from the World Cup but the pleasure of your company, so it would be nice if you changed your minds about coming. Please! We've almost bankrupted ourselves in our determination to stage a tournament that runs like clockwork.
And if it doesn't – you can have a chuckle at our expense. Last week's newspapers reported a state of abject unreadiness among the pom-pom girls scheduled to perform at the opening ceremony.
A day or two later, President Jacob Zuma informed America that we have the laziest and most useless civil service on the planet.
Elsewhere such an admission would have precipitated the government's downfall. Here, the story was relegated to page five.
I struggle to see how anyone can resist a country where such things happen. South Africa is amazing! At any given moment, all possible futures seem entirely plausible. We are winning, we are losing. We are progressing even as we hurtle backwards.
Every day brings momentous exhilarations and dumbfounding setbacks, and the sun shines brightly even in winter. Throw in the heady proximity of Mandela and Beckham, and you're almost guaranteed a splendid time.
As for crime, well, yes, crime is a threat, but our police have been given orders to smash anyone who so much as touches a hair on any football fan's head.
If you book now, you'll arrive just in time to catch a last glimpse of our fading rainbow, and the first stirrings of our next upheaval.If that sounds alarming, I wouldn't worry. There is much to be said for living on the edge, in a place shot through with "heartspace and the danger of beauty", as the Boer poet Breytenbach once phrased it.
Britain seems pallid in comparison. We are told that your election was an event of epochal significance, but from Jo'burg, it looked boring – three nice white men with almost identical opinions jostling for space on the same centrist pinhead. As for the prospect of a hung parliament… you call that a crisis? Good God. We have far worse, every day, before breakfast. And we're still laughing. Better get here before we stop.
FLAG UPDATE: Charles Moore and Kieran counted 128 flags this morning. My efforts are being rewarded.
It's a sunny weekday afternoon in Jo'burg, and I am lunching with friends at an outdoor restaurant. The joint we're in was hit by armed robbers earlier this week.
The newspapers on the table are full of hair-raising tribulations – our former police chief on trial for bribery, commuter buses shot up by murderous taxi bosses who won't tolerate competition, and elders of the African National Congress declining to sign the charge sheet against Julius Malema, the controversial youth leader who made global headlines the other day by endorsing Robert Mugabe, the cocky little psychopath who ruined neighbouring Zimbabwe.
Malema is now facing disciplinary charges, but no one in the ruling party is willing to take the risk of being identified as his accuser.
This is worrying. Are racist demagogues winning the battle for control of the ANC? Are decent black men scared to take a stand lest they find themselves alongside whites, trussed up in the missionary cooking pot while Malema lights a fire beneath us?
In a normal society, such questions would induce nervous breakdown, but my mates and I are laughing.
We're sitting in the African sun, sharing jokes, and wondering how to con foreigners into coming here for the World Cup.
Once upon a time, South Africans imagined that this soccer extravaganza would make us all rich.
Myself, I struggled to believe that half a million football tourists would cross the planet in the midst of a brutal recession to visit a country best known for its high crime rate.
My neighbours scoffed, preferring to believe they would make a killing by renting out their homes. Alas. Bookings are running at about half the anticipated level.
Would-be scalpers are stuck with tickets they can't even give away, and Fifa's gluttonous marketing arm has reportedly managed to lease only 1% of the luxury private boxes in our enormously expensive new stadia.
I am rather enjoying the resulting cries of pain. Fifa has made a monkey out of South Africa
Our own leaders collaborated enthusiastically, partly because they relished the glory of presiding over an event of World Cup stature, but also because they were eager to participate in murky backroom deals that saw politically connected individuals reaping obscene profits on taxpayer-funded construction contracts.
Now we're all saddled by debts it will take generations to pay off. I'm so riled that part of me would be gratified if the World Cup were a complete failure.
But South Africa is a complicated country, and there's always another side of the story. As I write, a certain Mrs Gladys Dladla is ironing clothes in my kitchen.
Gladys is an old-school Zulu matriarch, struggling heroically to maintain a huge family on her meagre earnings as my once-a-week char. She lacks the wherewithal to bribe officials who control access to state housing, so she's lived in a tin shack for 16 years.
In recent weeks, getting to work has become a frightening ordeal thanks to renewed tensions between police and the aforementioned taxi thugs.
Gladys's life seems entirely miserable, but she always shows up on time, chattering cheerfully about church and her hope that God and the ancestral spirits will soon guide us to victory in the national lottery. Gladys and I have a little syndicate going.
The World Cup is an event of huge symbolic importance to Mrs Dladla. In the next several weeks, oily ANC politicians will attempt to convince you that this tournament is a tribute to their heroic victory over apartheid and associated triumphs of the human spirit.
Hm. For people like Gladys, the longing for success is actually rooted in despair. They're so tired of being losers and also-rans, trapped at the bottom of a society that constantly threatens to degenerate into just another African basket case.
Their dream was that in June 2010 the world's eyes would descend on us, and at last find something to admire. Mrs Dladla looks on these things with enormous pride.
She feels that their glory reflects on her directly, and besides, there's always the hope that football tourism might generate jobs for her unemployed offspring.
She was a great supporter of short-lived plans to turn my rambling old home into a cheap doss house for football hooligans. In the end, I baulked at paying tribute to Fifa, whose lawyers crushed all attempts to market World Cup lodgings through any channels other than their own.
Just as well, because our doss house would most likely have failed anyway.
So now we stand before you with clean hands. We have nothing to gain from the World Cup but the pleasure of your company, so it would be nice if you changed your minds about coming. Please! We've almost bankrupted ourselves in our determination to stage a tournament that runs like clockwork.
And if it doesn't – you can have a chuckle at our expense. Last week's newspapers reported a state of abject unreadiness among the pom-pom girls scheduled to perform at the opening ceremony.
A day or two later, President Jacob Zuma informed America that we have the laziest and most useless civil service on the planet.
Elsewhere such an admission would have precipitated the government's downfall. Here, the story was relegated to page five.
I struggle to see how anyone can resist a country where such things happen. South Africa is amazing! At any given moment, all possible futures seem entirely plausible. We are winning, we are losing. We are progressing even as we hurtle backwards.
Every day brings momentous exhilarations and dumbfounding setbacks, and the sun shines brightly even in winter. Throw in the heady proximity of Mandela and Beckham, and you're almost guaranteed a splendid time.
As for crime, well, yes, crime is a threat, but our police have been given orders to smash anyone who so much as touches a hair on any football fan's head.
If you book now, you'll arrive just in time to catch a last glimpse of our fading rainbow, and the first stirrings of our next upheaval.If that sounds alarming, I wouldn't worry. There is much to be said for living on the edge, in a place shot through with "heartspace and the danger of beauty", as the Boer poet Breytenbach once phrased it.
Britain seems pallid in comparison. We are told that your election was an event of epochal significance, but from Jo'burg, it looked boring – three nice white men with almost identical opinions jostling for space on the same centrist pinhead. As for the prospect of a hung parliament… you call that a crisis? Good God. We have far worse, every day, before breakfast. And we're still laughing. Better get here before we stop.
FLAG UPDATE: Charles Moore and Kieran counted 128 flags this morning. My efforts are being rewarded.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Boerewors Curtain lifts... and i could not do a spellcheck
So there they were ... in Soweto ... thousands of them ... all dressed in blue ... all slightly drunk and all Blue Bulls supporters ...
But they were in great spirits (no pun intended) for this historic occassion and in no small measure, I guess, excited as I was about the 'meaning' of the event.
Something to tell your grandchildren about: "I was there when the Bulls first played in Soweto..."
So there they were ... in Soweto ... all with dark skins ... all slightly drunk ... millions of them ... lining the roads ... shouting encouragement to the invading army ... some to sell 'safe' parking ... others to sell whatever and most just there for the 'gees' (see my blog about language).
All in great spirits...
So there I was ... on the back of a motorcycle ... ably driven by my boss Charles Moore ... slightly drunk ... in Soweto ... dressed impeccably in three pairs of longjohns, three thermal vests and my outer clothing ... light blue shirt by Gant ... fauve chinos from Woolworths ... black leather jacket from Markhams for Men ... pointy black shoes from a cheap shoeshop ... in fact they were not cheap ... R800 ... and an Iverness Cape.
All in good spirits ...
When Charles tells me that we will go to Soweto on the bike my stomach tightens. Those of you who read my blog regularly would know I'm not the adventurous type. Bikes give me the jitters ...
To deal with that problem I invite my sister Emily to lunch and she tells me she is also going but by public transport ... Rea Vaya (seSotho for: "We're going/moving"). The 'rapid bus transport' system between Soweto and the Joburg CBD. It is supposed to link up many parts of the metropole ... and should have been done by now ... but ain't ... this is Africa.
There was a joke about SA politicians saying: "Everything would be ready by 2010 ... Oh fuck this is 2010!!!!"
I phone Charles to tell him the good news but he points out to me that it's fine to go on the Rea Vaya ... but to come back would probably entail a long wait... and he wants to be back in time to catch the next semifinal game ... the Stormers from Cape Town against the Waratahs from New-South Wales in Australia ... So it's going to be the bike...
I'm not the type of person to shirk a personal phobia so after lunch with Emily I head to the nearest bar ... where fortunately I see Scot ... He hears my pain and buys me a tequila ... I respond in kind and then Inge arrives ... also on her way to the game ... and she responds by buying a round of tequila ... and I respond in kind ... then Charles arrives and we decide it's probably a good idea to have a tequila ... I wash all the tequila down with a cleansing beer ...
Then we set out for Soweto. I try to count flags as we go ... and get to 135 at Soccer City, the new World Cup stadium outside Soweto where some big soccer match is going down. Too many flags ... In fact the final between Wits University and Mamelodi Sundowns in the Nedbank Cup.
My previous boss ... yes the one who fired me ... once remarked: "What will they have next ... a Paper Cup?"
Once at Orlando Stadium we drive straight to the bottom of the steps ... with a ticket checker running after us ... I swear I did not hear him trying to call us back ... and apologises profusely to him when he catches up with us ... He accepts the apology and all is well.
We head for the beer garden surrounded by thousands of Blue Bulls ... with blue faces and
hard-hats with bull horns sticking from them... I sigh ... these are my people ...
I check for people ... darkies I mean ... not many in attendance ... I would say a 1000 or 2000 out of the 45000 spectators.
Three of them are sitting just behind me and I ask them why they are there ... They're not Bulls supporters ... The response is good ... They are there for the country ... as am I.
Meanwhile my sister Emily reports that outside the stadium the Bulls and the darkies were bonding big time ... She did not have a ticket and was just there to report on the 'gees' or vibe. When she went into shebeen (bar, tavern) for a beer it was packed with Bulls ... and there was not a drop left to drink ... she was referred to the funeral parlour next door ... which was packed by Bulls and there was still a beer on sale ... you got to love this country!
Well done Soweto ... and well done Pretoria. The Boerewors Curtain lifted and it was a magnificent thing ... and it was good to be there.
I can tell you much more ... but I'm tired now ... there were so many things worth writing about.
But they were in great spirits (no pun intended) for this historic occassion and in no small measure, I guess, excited as I was about the 'meaning' of the event.
Something to tell your grandchildren about: "I was there when the Bulls first played in Soweto..."
So there they were ... in Soweto ... all with dark skins ... all slightly drunk ... millions of them ... lining the roads ... shouting encouragement to the invading army ... some to sell 'safe' parking ... others to sell whatever and most just there for the 'gees' (see my blog about language).
All in great spirits...
So there I was ... on the back of a motorcycle ... ably driven by my boss Charles Moore ... slightly drunk ... in Soweto ... dressed impeccably in three pairs of longjohns, three thermal vests and my outer clothing ... light blue shirt by Gant ... fauve chinos from Woolworths ... black leather jacket from Markhams for Men ... pointy black shoes from a cheap shoeshop ... in fact they were not cheap ... R800 ... and an Iverness Cape.
All in good spirits ...
When Charles tells me that we will go to Soweto on the bike my stomach tightens. Those of you who read my blog regularly would know I'm not the adventurous type. Bikes give me the jitters ...
To deal with that problem I invite my sister Emily to lunch and she tells me she is also going but by public transport ... Rea Vaya (seSotho for: "We're going/moving"). The 'rapid bus transport' system between Soweto and the Joburg CBD. It is supposed to link up many parts of the metropole ... and should have been done by now ... but ain't ... this is Africa.
There was a joke about SA politicians saying: "Everything would be ready by 2010 ... Oh fuck this is 2010!!!!"
I phone Charles to tell him the good news but he points out to me that it's fine to go on the Rea Vaya ... but to come back would probably entail a long wait... and he wants to be back in time to catch the next semifinal game ... the Stormers from Cape Town against the Waratahs from New-South Wales in Australia ... So it's going to be the bike...
I'm not the type of person to shirk a personal phobia so after lunch with Emily I head to the nearest bar ... where fortunately I see Scot ... He hears my pain and buys me a tequila ... I respond in kind and then Inge arrives ... also on her way to the game ... and she responds by buying a round of tequila ... and I respond in kind ... then Charles arrives and we decide it's probably a good idea to have a tequila ... I wash all the tequila down with a cleansing beer ...
Then we set out for Soweto. I try to count flags as we go ... and get to 135 at Soccer City, the new World Cup stadium outside Soweto where some big soccer match is going down. Too many flags ... In fact the final between Wits University and Mamelodi Sundowns in the Nedbank Cup.
My previous boss ... yes the one who fired me ... once remarked: "What will they have next ... a Paper Cup?"
Once at Orlando Stadium we drive straight to the bottom of the steps ... with a ticket checker running after us ... I swear I did not hear him trying to call us back ... and apologises profusely to him when he catches up with us ... He accepts the apology and all is well.
We head for the beer garden surrounded by thousands of Blue Bulls ... with blue faces and
hard-hats with bull horns sticking from them... I sigh ... these are my people ...
I check for people ... darkies I mean ... not many in attendance ... I would say a 1000 or 2000 out of the 45000 spectators.
Three of them are sitting just behind me and I ask them why they are there ... They're not Bulls supporters ... The response is good ... They are there for the country ... as am I.
Meanwhile my sister Emily reports that outside the stadium the Bulls and the darkies were bonding big time ... She did not have a ticket and was just there to report on the 'gees' or vibe. When she went into shebeen (bar, tavern) for a beer it was packed with Bulls ... and there was not a drop left to drink ... she was referred to the funeral parlour next door ... which was packed by Bulls and there was still a beer on sale ... you got to love this country!
Well done Soweto ... and well done Pretoria. The Boerewors Curtain lifted and it was a magnificent thing ... and it was good to be there.
I can tell you much more ... but I'm tired now ... there were so many things worth writing about.
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