Oyster Bay wrap-up, meeting Jack Parow and public transprt at OR Tambo International

WARNING: THIS WILL BE ABOUT AS RAMBLING AS MY TRIP BACK FROM OYSTER BAY.

The Fridge Guy, George, the Writer Vince's Chick, Adri and I left Oyster Bay at 5:15 in the morning to get to the Port Elizabeth airport in time for their 8am flight. Mine was scheduled for 10am so I was in good time.

At 6am we could be observed fixing a flat tyre in the rain. Nevertheless we still got to the airport in time for their flight and I had time on my hands to reflect on the time in Oyster Bay so I compiled a mental list of 10 things to do when in Oyster Bay.

1) Take good friends along. That is unless you yearn to be very much alone.
2) Braai a lot, be it fish or meat. Add good friends and wine and you won't believe how much you will enjoy Oyster Bay.
3) Relax ... there is not much else to do. If your idea of relaxing is to take long walks on semi-deserted beaches with soft white sand, Oyster Bay is the place to be.
4) Go and enjoy the splendid view from Bar-Nic-Les over a long tall cool one. Take friends along or make new ones there, but not when they are watching rugby.
5) Go to St Francis for shopping and lunch at Christie's Catch. Eat the hake and chips and buy the fresh catch of the day to braai later.
6) Take scenic drives and walks around St Francis and Oyster Bay.
7) Read a book or talk shit to your friends (highly recommended).
8) Relax (see 3)
9) Relax (see 3 and 8)
10) Relax (see all of the above)

That was the Oyster Bay wrap-up, no on to Jack Parow.

Until last week Wednesday I had no idea that their was a creature in existence who went by the name of Jack Parow. Then I chanced on an interview with him in the 1Time airline's in-flight magazine. Just by the way 1Time is my budget airline of choice in South Africa. They are always friendly and on time and as much as is possible with a budget airline, fun to fly with.

So then I learned that Jack Parow was an Afrikaans rap star of sorts. I don't like rap and dis not think Afrikaans even lent it to that genre. Jack tried, but failed to convince me otherwise in the magazine interview. I shrugged and forgot about him by the time I started reading the next article which I cannot remember what it was about.

Then on Friday around the lunch table Jack came up for discussion again and I was surprised that my friends (same age and older than me) knew about him and were even able to quote his lyrics. After my initial surprise, I forgot about Jack again until Saturday during half-time of the Sharks game when Nic the barman (Bar-Nic-Les geddit?) played Jack's current hit "Cooler than you or me" or something like that.

The song, if you can call anything by a rapper a song, mocks the self-satisfied middle-class people 'who have made it' in their own minds. The very types sitting in the bar and irritating me by filling the air with their impotent testosterone dregs. I immediately became a fan of Jack Parow as I saw their discomfort in the face while listening to the track.

Then while waiting for my flight, who should walk in but Jack Parow himself. I invite him to join my table and he accepts graciously. Unfortunately it is almost boarding time for me and I just have time to tell him how I became his oldest fan and he thinks that it is 'cool'. He also reminds me that we live in a small country then my flight is called.

On the flight my hopes to score a lift into town from one of my fellow passengers fade fast. The lady next to me is reading an Afrikaans Christian self-help book called 'n Doelgerigte Lewe (A goal orientated life) and she is going to Pretoria anyway.

On arrival in Joburg I momentarily believe that my incredible run of luck was continuing as someone taps me on the shoulder and calls me by my name. His name is Luke and he was one of my clients from the time I managed a gay bar in Melville. He says his sister is coming to fetch him and maybe she could pick me up as well.

It turns out that the sister is also going to Pretoria first, so I decide to investigate the public transport from the airport into Joburg. The short result of my investigation reveals that there is none. The long result is exactly the same.

I spot the shuttle service of a hotel chain and decide to book a room in one of their branches near Melville, take the shuttle and disappear at the hotel entrance. Alas, the shuttle only operates between their airport branch and the airport.

Then I take an un-metered taxi for a negotiated R300. He wanted R350 but immediately agreed when I offered R300, making me regret that I did not 0ffer R250 as an opening bid. And that is how I got back to Melville where I am happy to be back in my natural habitat

Being a SeWammba about 20km from his destination

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.

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.