My friend The Writer admonished me sternly that I should try to be a focused writer rather than be a somewhat meandering bloggist in my writing. I took his advice to heart. So here goes.
My friend the Canadian Pep Talk Man admonished me sternly that I should not call myself an uWammba in isiZulu, but rather use the SeSotho word for a self-employed white Afrikaans middle-aged man with a BA degree, SeWammba. I took his advice to heart so here goes.
I am a SeWammba sitting at Dirkie's Diner in Jeffreys Bay some 120okm from my natural habitat, Melville. I came here specifically because it is known as an Afrikaner holiday enclave so I wanted to study my own people in their natural habitat. So far so bad, there are not many of them in evidence and with nobody specific to talk to I will tell you all I know about Jeffreys Bay.
I think I have already done that here above, but I will add that it apparently is a world-renowned surfing paradise and that the ribroll I had at Dirkie's Diner was worth the R40 that I am going to pay for it, but just barely. I am also drinking a reasonably priced (R11) Merlot/Shiraz blend from Swartland Winery.
But I am meandering. Here I am as a SeWammba in Jeffreys Bay. I got here by taking a plane from Joburg to Port Elizabeth. I originally wanted to spend the day in Port Elizabeth because it markets itself as "The Friendly City". I wanted to see just how friendly it was exactly. I studied for my BA degree in the town, but have not been back much.
On the plane I started talking to the poor guy sitting next to me and he told me he was going home to Plettenberg Bay some 200km down the drag called the Garden Route, which is a rich man's hangout.
He offered me a lift to Humansdorp which is some 20km from where I am supposed to be going, Oyster Bay. Then the lady sitting behind me bought me a gin and tonic when the plane couldn't handle my credit card's chip. I did ask them beforehand if they accepted credit cards and they did reply in the affirmative. She bought me a drink and offered me a lift to Jefffreys Bay which is also about 20km from Oyster Bay. I declined the rich guy's offer of Humansdorp and took the lady's Jeffreys Bay one.
But then I ran into my first ex-wife and she said she would take me to St Francis Bay, also about 20km from Oyster Bay.
My first ex is still thinking of me as a uWammba instead of a SeWammba and I can hardly blame her. I only changed my status today.
We had a rather terse and depressing conversation about my status and my prospects and when she had to stop to put in petrol in Jeffreys Bay I got off at Dirkie's Diner. I do not need to be reminded that I am in the shit and that my prospects are ... iffy.
So I think all things considered that was rather to the point. In case my meanderings confused you, here it is again: I am a SeWammba stuck at about 20km from my destination. Did I mention Dirkie's Diner ... yes I did. That's it then.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Being an uWammba, suffering from Relentless Self-Promotion Fatigue and a Floater
I am an uWammba. That is the isiZulu word for an unemployed white middle-aged man with a BA degree. For a variety of reasons these are not much sought-after qualities in the South African job market. Until last month I was a mere Wammba, I gained the honorific prefix 'u' after a rather nasty disagreement with my boss.
At that point I was a rather glum individual. My prospects seemed to dwindle faster than you can say increased overdraft. The media market in South Africa, where my Wammba skills were still in some demand, is also on a bit of a slippery slope - indeed as it is worldwide - and jobs are hard to come by.
In a typical South African response to the crisis I went to my favourite restaurant and started to drink and speak to random strangers about my dilemma. I was truly a lost soul which is a difficult position for an atheist to find himself in.
Among the strangers I spoke to, were two journalists from Belgium. The woman, it had to be the woman, saw my pain and after listening to my wide and truly comprehending analysis of South Africa, she commissioned two stories from me for the princely sum of 600 Euro.
She also convinced me of the need for more insightful stories about South Africa in Europe and the world at large. Something a bit different than the normal gloom and doom that is the staple of international news coverage of the place.
That is when my career as relentless self-promoter started. I made it my mission to promote me and my skills, presumed talents and whatever to a new person every single day. I started accepting random strangers as my friends on Facebook, indeed inviting them to direct more people to my blog. I accost anyone I see in my favourite restaurant who looks vaguely foreign or media related and ask them to help me find contacts overseas so that I could write for them.
That was about three weeks ago and I went at the task at full throttle. Today I am suffering from Relentless Self-Promotion Fatigue Syndrome (RSPFS). I keep on promoting my blog on Facebook, but that is all I have energy for today.
The Laughing One suggested I write a blog and in fact it is the highlight of my day to do it.
Anyway today is sort of unseasonably cold and miserable and I had difficulty dragging myself out of bed as the RSPFS had me in its icy grip.
Then I had to get up to go to the crapper and that is where my problem with the floater started. The damn thing just would not go away. I eventually got rid of it on the seventh flush and that is when I realised again one must hang in there until the right wave comes along for you.
So here I am back to relentless self-promotion.
Tomorrow I am flying to Port Elizabeth ... I bought the ticket when I was still a mere Wammba. The Laughing One, the Fridge Guy, the Writer, the Laughing One's Chick and me spent a memorable holiday in Oyster Bay in the Eastern Cape over December and decided to do a bit more of the same over Easter.
I shall write from a coffee shop or bar in Port Elizabeth tomorrow while waiting for the Laughing One to come and pick me up to go to Oyster Bay where he has a house.
At that point I was a rather glum individual. My prospects seemed to dwindle faster than you can say increased overdraft. The media market in South Africa, where my Wammba skills were still in some demand, is also on a bit of a slippery slope - indeed as it is worldwide - and jobs are hard to come by.
In a typical South African response to the crisis I went to my favourite restaurant and started to drink and speak to random strangers about my dilemma. I was truly a lost soul which is a difficult position for an atheist to find himself in.
Among the strangers I spoke to, were two journalists from Belgium. The woman, it had to be the woman, saw my pain and after listening to my wide and truly comprehending analysis of South Africa, she commissioned two stories from me for the princely sum of 600 Euro.
She also convinced me of the need for more insightful stories about South Africa in Europe and the world at large. Something a bit different than the normal gloom and doom that is the staple of international news coverage of the place.
That is when my career as relentless self-promoter started. I made it my mission to promote me and my skills, presumed talents and whatever to a new person every single day. I started accepting random strangers as my friends on Facebook, indeed inviting them to direct more people to my blog. I accost anyone I see in my favourite restaurant who looks vaguely foreign or media related and ask them to help me find contacts overseas so that I could write for them.
That was about three weeks ago and I went at the task at full throttle. Today I am suffering from Relentless Self-Promotion Fatigue Syndrome (RSPFS). I keep on promoting my blog on Facebook, but that is all I have energy for today.
The Laughing One suggested I write a blog and in fact it is the highlight of my day to do it.
Anyway today is sort of unseasonably cold and miserable and I had difficulty dragging myself out of bed as the RSPFS had me in its icy grip.
Then I had to get up to go to the crapper and that is where my problem with the floater started. The damn thing just would not go away. I eventually got rid of it on the seventh flush and that is when I realised again one must hang in there until the right wave comes along for you.
So here I am back to relentless self-promotion.
Tomorrow I am flying to Port Elizabeth ... I bought the ticket when I was still a mere Wammba. The Laughing One, the Fridge Guy, the Writer, the Laughing One's Chick and me spent a memorable holiday in Oyster Bay in the Eastern Cape over December and decided to do a bit more of the same over Easter.
I shall write from a coffee shop or bar in Port Elizabeth tomorrow while waiting for the Laughing One to come and pick me up to go to Oyster Bay where he has a house.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Baboon Scale
In the late 70s or early 80s PJ O'Rourke visited South Africa as part of his series Holidays in Hell. He listed all the problems facing apartheid South Africa and asked rhetorically what South Africans did in the face of such seemingly insurmountable obstacles. His answer: "They drink."
South Africa today faces equally daunting prospects.
Unemployment runs at anything between 24% or 45%. That is depending on whom you ask. The official rate is 24.3% but nobody really believes that number. In my own view it is closer to 35%.
Education is in a shambles after a disastrous dalliance with so-called Outcomes Based Education.
Skills levels amongst most of the unemployed are basically non-existent, meaning that they are unemployable.
After a vigorous drive to 'transform' the public service through affirmative action most of the middle management of the service are often found incapable of writing an actionable letter. This means that service delivery often grinds to a mushy halt exactly where policy is supposed to take effective shape.
Crime and corruption is rampant if not actually out of control.
Infrastructure is decaying faster than it can be fixed.
Julius Malema, HIV/Aids and other diseases.
That is to mention only a few of the problems that I can think of off the top of my head on a rainy Monday morning.
So what do South Africans do in the face of all of these problems? They drink.
This is a country where the previous minister of health drank her liver to hell, skipped the waiting list and got a new one which she then proceeded to drink to pieces again.
Here anti-hangover cures are regularly advertised on national TV and hard liquor is sold in plastic satchels to make it easy to smuggle into sporting and entertainment events.
It is also a country with a scientific scale to measure hangovers: The Baboon Scale:
Level 1: A feint dullness of the senses experienced mostly by non-regular drinkers after they had one glass of wine too many the previous night. Hardened drinkers cannot even remember when last they had a level 1. Should it occur to them they are likely to call in sick.
Level 2: Non-regular drinkers think of calling in sick after having three glasses of wine too many but they still go to work where you can often find them at the coffee machine saying: "Never again". Regular drinkers feel on top of their game.
Level 3: Non-drinkers call in sick. Regular drinkers go to work thinking: "Never again" but not saying it.
Level 4: Non-drinkers go to hospital and hardened drinkers think of calling in sick. They then take their favourite anti-hangover cure and go to work where they spend a lot of time around the coffee machine saying: "Never again".
Level 5: This is the last level where one can even think of pretending to be functional. Only the most hardened drinkers would go to work and then only for half a day. All other people call in sick.
Level 6: Hardened drinkers call in sick and most other people go to hospital.
Level 7: Hardened drinkers go to hospital. Other people are still there after the previous time.
Level 8: Hardened drinkers wake up and hope they are dead. Other people wake up and they are dead.
Level 9: Hardened drinkers wake up and they are dead.
So there you are ... the Baboon Scale to measure babelas or hangovers, of which I am the proud inventor.
That brings me somehow back to Julius Malema. The problem with Julius is that he would have been funny if he was not so dangerous with his populist crap he feeds to the uneducated masses. He reminds me of a young Hitler or Mussolini. In fact he will turn a Level 2 hangover or babelas into a Level 4 or 5 if you think about him too much. This is exactly what is happening to me now. So I am logging off to go and have a lie-down.
South Africa today faces equally daunting prospects.
Unemployment runs at anything between 24% or 45%. That is depending on whom you ask. The official rate is 24.3% but nobody really believes that number. In my own view it is closer to 35%.
Education is in a shambles after a disastrous dalliance with so-called Outcomes Based Education.
Skills levels amongst most of the unemployed are basically non-existent, meaning that they are unemployable.
After a vigorous drive to 'transform' the public service through affirmative action most of the middle management of the service are often found incapable of writing an actionable letter. This means that service delivery often grinds to a mushy halt exactly where policy is supposed to take effective shape.
Crime and corruption is rampant if not actually out of control.
Infrastructure is decaying faster than it can be fixed.
Julius Malema, HIV/Aids and other diseases.
That is to mention only a few of the problems that I can think of off the top of my head on a rainy Monday morning.
So what do South Africans do in the face of all of these problems? They drink.
This is a country where the previous minister of health drank her liver to hell, skipped the waiting list and got a new one which she then proceeded to drink to pieces again.
Here anti-hangover cures are regularly advertised on national TV and hard liquor is sold in plastic satchels to make it easy to smuggle into sporting and entertainment events.
It is also a country with a scientific scale to measure hangovers: The Baboon Scale:
Level 1: A feint dullness of the senses experienced mostly by non-regular drinkers after they had one glass of wine too many the previous night. Hardened drinkers cannot even remember when last they had a level 1. Should it occur to them they are likely to call in sick.
Level 2: Non-regular drinkers think of calling in sick after having three glasses of wine too many but they still go to work where you can often find them at the coffee machine saying: "Never again". Regular drinkers feel on top of their game.
Level 3: Non-drinkers call in sick. Regular drinkers go to work thinking: "Never again" but not saying it.
Level 4: Non-drinkers go to hospital and hardened drinkers think of calling in sick. They then take their favourite anti-hangover cure and go to work where they spend a lot of time around the coffee machine saying: "Never again".
Level 5: This is the last level where one can even think of pretending to be functional. Only the most hardened drinkers would go to work and then only for half a day. All other people call in sick.
Level 6: Hardened drinkers call in sick and most other people go to hospital.
Level 7: Hardened drinkers go to hospital. Other people are still there after the previous time.
Level 8: Hardened drinkers wake up and hope they are dead. Other people wake up and they are dead.
Level 9: Hardened drinkers wake up and they are dead.
So there you are ... the Baboon Scale to measure babelas or hangovers, of which I am the proud inventor.
That brings me somehow back to Julius Malema. The problem with Julius is that he would have been funny if he was not so dangerous with his populist crap he feeds to the uneducated masses. He reminds me of a young Hitler or Mussolini. In fact he will turn a Level 2 hangover or babelas into a Level 4 or 5 if you think about him too much. This is exactly what is happening to me now. So I am logging off to go and have a lie-down.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Fuming at Vodacom and making a fool of myself
Last night my data bundle ran out unexpectedly. I use about a gig per month and I have just recharged my account with 2 gig a couple of days ago. So I phone Vodacom to ask for an explanation.
They do eventually answer their phone and look into my account. They tell me they can see that I recharged the account, but that I never converted my airtime into data. I have been using this system for more than six months and I tell them heatedly that I DID convert it to data and that it was a system failure on their side. They promise to look into the matter further.
This morning I see there was indeed an SMS from them saying that they found no record of me making a data bundle purchase. Now here in South Africa cellphone companies have a proud tradition of skinning their clients alive and using the skins to wipe their arses.
I sit the whole morning wondering if I should buy new data or whether I should wait for Vodaccom to realise their mistake and sort out the problem. In the end I buy new data and load it like I have done before.
This time I phone them to confirm that the data conversion was successful this time. It was not ... I ask the consultant how the hell she planned to fix this problem. I sarcastically ask whether she will just send me another damn SMS to confirm that I did not buy data. I refer her to the previous SMS which she then reads out in full to me. It ends with: "As a once-off gesture of goodwill I have credited your account with 2 gig."
One should read the whole communication and not lose one's temper after the first line and shout: "FUCK YOU" to nobody in particular.
I wanted to do the Baboon Scale today but after expending all that energy on nothing in particular I have none left.
They do eventually answer their phone and look into my account. They tell me they can see that I recharged the account, but that I never converted my airtime into data. I have been using this system for more than six months and I tell them heatedly that I DID convert it to data and that it was a system failure on their side. They promise to look into the matter further.
This morning I see there was indeed an SMS from them saying that they found no record of me making a data bundle purchase. Now here in South Africa cellphone companies have a proud tradition of skinning their clients alive and using the skins to wipe their arses.
I sit the whole morning wondering if I should buy new data or whether I should wait for Vodaccom to realise their mistake and sort out the problem. In the end I buy new data and load it like I have done before.
This time I phone them to confirm that the data conversion was successful this time. It was not ... I ask the consultant how the hell she planned to fix this problem. I sarcastically ask whether she will just send me another damn SMS to confirm that I did not buy data. I refer her to the previous SMS which she then reads out in full to me. It ends with: "As a once-off gesture of goodwill I have credited your account with 2 gig."
One should read the whole communication and not lose one's temper after the first line and shout: "FUCK YOU" to nobody in particular.
I wanted to do the Baboon Scale today but after expending all that energy on nothing in particular I have none left.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Saturday
It is Saturday and I have nothing to say. Saturday means rugby. Fridays also in the Super 14 season. Last night my team, the Cheetahs from the Free State, lost to the Reds from Brisbane in Australia.
One of the best writers in South Africa, Karel Schoeman, once remarked: "I am not an Afrikaner, I am not a South African, I am a Free Stater." I fully agree but I don't know why. I was born there and love to visit one of the most beautiful parts of the country, the north-east Free State. By the way, if Schoeman wrote in English he probably would have won the Nobel Prize for literature and several Booker Prizes. He is translated into English so get him if you can.
Tourists often overlook the north-east Free State in their haste to see the Big Five (elephant, rhino, lion, leopard, buffalo in case you didn't know) or the Garden Route (another piece of overtraded real estate if you ask me). They are possibly not aware that I was born there or of the magnificent landscapes that you can see even on your way to the Garden Route.
I had a boerewors roll for breakfast. I bought it at a church bazaar. The game I am going to watch now is the Blue Bulls from Pretoria and the Western Force from Perth, apparently the Pretoria of Australia. I grew up in Pretoria and hate the damn place. It is an insular place with all the smugness of a provincial capital altough it is the national capital. Although it is only 50km from Joburg it is a world apart.
It is on average 3 degrees celcius warmer than Joburg and is one of tthe least windy cities in the world. The heat and the lack of airflow probably have something to do with the stuffiness of its citizens. It is often said in Joburg that Pretoria is behind the Boerewors Curtain.
Meeting a girl in Pretoria goes something like this: "Hi I am Charles." "Hi Charles, I am Lizelle. What kind of car do you drive?" I may be mistaken but I think all girls in Pretoria are called Lizelle.
Nevertheless today I am supporting the Blue Bulls. That is how the Super 14 support system works. First you support your own team and then any South African team playing against an Australian or New Zealand outfit. The Bulls are my least favourite SA team but one of the favourites to win the competition. My poor Cheetahs are alas lying 12th on the log and they are unlikely to even get close to the top.
The problem the Cheetahs have to deal with every year is that the richer provinces buy all their best players and they have to start almost from scratch the next year. The Free State is rightly known as the rugby player factory of South Africa.
The Bulls are leading by 7 points to 6 after 26 minutes but they are not likely to lose. That is me for today.
One of the best writers in South Africa, Karel Schoeman, once remarked: "I am not an Afrikaner, I am not a South African, I am a Free Stater." I fully agree but I don't know why. I was born there and love to visit one of the most beautiful parts of the country, the north-east Free State. By the way, if Schoeman wrote in English he probably would have won the Nobel Prize for literature and several Booker Prizes. He is translated into English so get him if you can.
Tourists often overlook the north-east Free State in their haste to see the Big Five (elephant, rhino, lion, leopard, buffalo in case you didn't know) or the Garden Route (another piece of overtraded real estate if you ask me). They are possibly not aware that I was born there or of the magnificent landscapes that you can see even on your way to the Garden Route.
I had a boerewors roll for breakfast. I bought it at a church bazaar. The game I am going to watch now is the Blue Bulls from Pretoria and the Western Force from Perth, apparently the Pretoria of Australia. I grew up in Pretoria and hate the damn place. It is an insular place with all the smugness of a provincial capital altough it is the national capital. Although it is only 50km from Joburg it is a world apart.
It is on average 3 degrees celcius warmer than Joburg and is one of tthe least windy cities in the world. The heat and the lack of airflow probably have something to do with the stuffiness of its citizens. It is often said in Joburg that Pretoria is behind the Boerewors Curtain.
Meeting a girl in Pretoria goes something like this: "Hi I am Charles." "Hi Charles, I am Lizelle. What kind of car do you drive?" I may be mistaken but I think all girls in Pretoria are called Lizelle.
Nevertheless today I am supporting the Blue Bulls. That is how the Super 14 support system works. First you support your own team and then any South African team playing against an Australian or New Zealand outfit. The Bulls are my least favourite SA team but one of the favourites to win the competition. My poor Cheetahs are alas lying 12th on the log and they are unlikely to even get close to the top.
The problem the Cheetahs have to deal with every year is that the richer provinces buy all their best players and they have to start almost from scratch the next year. The Free State is rightly known as the rugby player factory of South Africa.
The Bulls are leading by 7 points to 6 after 26 minutes but they are not likely to lose. That is me for today.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Boys night in Melville
Last night was boys' night. Now these normally sedate affairs were instituted by me, the Laughing One and the Lawyer mainly to get away from our girlfriends/wives for one night a week.
To begin with the three of us sat pensively staring into our beers and went home satisfied with the peace and quiet the moment afforded us. Normally quite early too, say at about 9pm at the latest. Three middle-aged men taking time out. That was then and that was good.
Since then we have been joined by the Writer, the Fridge Guy, the Poet, the Photographer, the Wannabe Lawyer (a woman to boot!) and things took a turn for the worse. Suddenly witty conversation became expected and jokes flowed faster than the booze. So don't ask me what the damn witty conversation was about. I cannot even remember how I got home!
So there we were ... eight middle-aged white people having fun (I suppose it was fucking fun because we repeat it every Thursday) in what the British and European media love to describe as one of the most dangerous cities in the world ... Johannesburg , South Africa.
Now make no mistake Joburg, Jozi, Joeys, whatever you want to call it is not for the fainthearted. I was once shot through my knee at 4:17am ... in my bed. So what. Shit happens and with the best trauma surgeons in the world on 24h call my knee was fixed up in no time whatsoever, I do not even have a damn limp to solicit sympathy with. I always have to force the little trauma into a conversation and since I don't have a fucking limp people look at me as if I am making it all up. They shrug and start talking about something else like hot cross bun recipes.
Anyway I still love the much-maligned Joburg, as I prefer to call it. In my vast travelling experience I only found one city that I prefer to it and that was Paris. But Paris is not for the poor. Since I happen to be damn poor Joburg is where I prefer to live.
The people are open-minded and friendly. That at least holds true in my suburb Melville. A true village in a big city. A bit like Soho, Greenwhich and Montmartre in their own ways. So I lie. I do not live in Joburg, I live in Melville. I resent leaving Melville which is probably a good thing because I don't have a car.
Since Joburg is a business centre (and the only so-called World City in Africa) people here are forced to network and be open about stuff. I picked up all the above people in bars and restaurants in Melville. I hate them because I can hardly think straight after last night's boys' night. My hangover measures a full 5 on the Baboon Scale (of which I am the inventor and on which I will expand on in my next blog if I remember to do it).
But back to Joburg. Apart from the friendly people the place is also full of trees. In fact it is the largest man-made forest in the world. I mention that because I like trees and I am always impressed by the number of them here where there were only one or two about a 100 years ago. No you will not catch me hugging a damn tree! I like them like I like the sea. Sort of nice to look at. Many trees mean many birds so if you are a birder bring your binoculars next time you visit Joburg.
Apart from people, trees and birds Joburg also offer a vast array of other attractions like museums, parks and shopping malls which I cannot say much about since they are outside Melville and I have never been to them. But I have it on good authority that they are splendid and well worth a visit.
I think this is enough blogging for one day. So to conclude last night was boys' night ... oh yes the damn Wannabe Lawyer gave me a lift home because I was a bit unsteady on my feet and had my laptop with me. One must not be stupid in Joburg ... like anywhere else.
To begin with the three of us sat pensively staring into our beers and went home satisfied with the peace and quiet the moment afforded us. Normally quite early too, say at about 9pm at the latest. Three middle-aged men taking time out. That was then and that was good.
Since then we have been joined by the Writer, the Fridge Guy, the Poet, the Photographer, the Wannabe Lawyer (a woman to boot!) and things took a turn for the worse. Suddenly witty conversation became expected and jokes flowed faster than the booze. So don't ask me what the damn witty conversation was about. I cannot even remember how I got home!
So there we were ... eight middle-aged white people having fun (I suppose it was fucking fun because we repeat it every Thursday) in what the British and European media love to describe as one of the most dangerous cities in the world ... Johannesburg , South Africa.
Now make no mistake Joburg, Jozi, Joeys, whatever you want to call it is not for the fainthearted. I was once shot through my knee at 4:17am ... in my bed. So what. Shit happens and with the best trauma surgeons in the world on 24h call my knee was fixed up in no time whatsoever, I do not even have a damn limp to solicit sympathy with. I always have to force the little trauma into a conversation and since I don't have a fucking limp people look at me as if I am making it all up. They shrug and start talking about something else like hot cross bun recipes.
Anyway I still love the much-maligned Joburg, as I prefer to call it. In my vast travelling experience I only found one city that I prefer to it and that was Paris. But Paris is not for the poor. Since I happen to be damn poor Joburg is where I prefer to live.
The people are open-minded and friendly. That at least holds true in my suburb Melville. A true village in a big city. A bit like Soho, Greenwhich and Montmartre in their own ways. So I lie. I do not live in Joburg, I live in Melville. I resent leaving Melville which is probably a good thing because I don't have a car.
Since Joburg is a business centre (and the only so-called World City in Africa) people here are forced to network and be open about stuff. I picked up all the above people in bars and restaurants in Melville. I hate them because I can hardly think straight after last night's boys' night. My hangover measures a full 5 on the Baboon Scale (of which I am the inventor and on which I will expand on in my next blog if I remember to do it).
But back to Joburg. Apart from the friendly people the place is also full of trees. In fact it is the largest man-made forest in the world. I mention that because I like trees and I am always impressed by the number of them here where there were only one or two about a 100 years ago. No you will not catch me hugging a damn tree! I like them like I like the sea. Sort of nice to look at. Many trees mean many birds so if you are a birder bring your binoculars next time you visit Joburg.
Apart from people, trees and birds Joburg also offer a vast array of other attractions like museums, parks and shopping malls which I cannot say much about since they are outside Melville and I have never been to them. But I have it on good authority that they are splendid and well worth a visit.
I think this is enough blogging for one day. So to conclude last night was boys' night ... oh yes the damn Wannabe Lawyer gave me a lift home because I was a bit unsteady on my feet and had my laptop with me. One must not be stupid in Joburg ... like anywhere else.
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