Gogol Bordello

I have a new favourite band called Gogol Bordello. They are roughly labelled as a Gypsy Punk Rock outfit with a Ukranian lead singer, 2 Russian fiddlers, Israeli accordian player, an American drummer and 2 eastern women that prance around the stage in striped stockings with fire buckets on their feet...thats right, fire buckets on their feet!

So catchy is their music that it had a bunch of crazy drunk South Africans trying to cosack dance on rickety tables in a little Lesotho mountain lodge where I inadvertantly introduced it at 4am one morning. They are massively cheesy and they rock! Check them out on:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_81l4DXlwM

Hey, hey, hey, lalalalaaaaaa

Lion man answers the call

Not one day after my hunting post, I received this youtube link...it kinda highlights what true bravery bordering on stupidity is all about! Lets see you get on your bellies and wiggle towards that with your hunting knife you big men you...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7GadUhRFyk

grrrrr.

Get stuffed

On my way back from an amazing weekend of riding my mountain bike in the Tuli block on the SA/Zim/Botswana border, I passed a number of hunting farms on the endless straight road to Alldays. It got me thinking about the old debate about the merits of hunting, its role in conservation and the kind of people that want to pay big money to hammer a chunk of lead into a fellow being.

At the outset, let me say that I am fully aware that to hunt for food is perhaps many times more noble than the cowardly purchasing of that trimmed and packed beef fillet from your nearest Woolies. When you hunt for your meat, you cannot hide from the death that is required and that we are so perfectly shielded from in our modern lives of convenience. I will not dig further into this aspect except to say that even a sense of pleasure from the kill could be justified when the result is food on the table. We are predators, as evidenced by our teeth and the fact that our eyes are on the front of our face and not the sides - we stalk prey looking straight ahead.

My beef, so to speak, is with hunters that hunt to put trophies on their wall. Presumably, this means that they wish to make a statement about their courage, their cunning and their power over all beasts. They will tell you that it requires many hours of walking, lying still and sometimes coming home empty handed...doesn't sound like a whole bag of awful suffering to me! Sounds a lot like a game of golf to be honest.

Once this justification of the hardship of the hunt has been shown up as weak at best, the trump card is usually to highlight how dangerous a wounded animal can be thereby implying the courage of the hunter to be out there pitting his wits against the savage beast with nothing but a 458 with high quality telescopic sights allowing accurate kill shots from hundreds of meters away. To this epic display of knightly bravery I would like to propose the following - if this is all about proving your courage, why not leave the gun at home, leave the professional hunter and the backup guns, leave the telescopic sights, pick up a knife and go out there pick a fight with a grumpy lion. Not so keen any more? No doubt that is because the chance of you winning the fight have dropped from roughly 99.99% to about 25% assuming you are an ace with a knife and don't flinch when that 250kg beast launches itself at you. Can you then really claim that shooting something like an elephant or a lion is an act of courage? I think not. The Masai kill lion with spears and the pygmies in the Congo attack and disembowel elephants with sharp blades by running underneath their bellies and cutting them open. They do this to protect their flocks and feed the village respectively and it doubles as a display of manliness.

So, by my estimate, if I was giving awards for the lion hunter of the year, it would go to a young Masai who walked out on his own to face an angry lion with nothing but his toothpick of a spear, his courage and his conviction. I don't see wealthy American and European hunters lining up to try and win my fictional award this way. Yet they insist on running the old courage line past us to justify their barbaric 'sport'. Shoot lions if you must, you insecure children, it adds money to the overall conservation effort, but please spare me the photos of you posing on the body of the culled animal, smiling like a triumphant buffoon who thinks he has proven his courage. All you have proven is your lack thereof. Congratulations, what a man, get stuffed!

Its because I'm 'black', yo!

I am determined at some point in the next year to apply for an Affirmative Action job in South Africa as a 'black' male. Now this might be a strange thing for a 'white' guy to do but I have been having quirky little daydreams in which, sitting in the interview, I get to put the onus of proof onto the interviewer and his panel of race-conscious, eager, bright-eyed social engineers. Let us make it clear that I probably will not want, or get, the job I apply for and it will probably end up being more awkward than funny as these things often are but there is a sense of comedy stalking the whole enterprise of AA and BEE and the ongoing racial classification in South Africa.

In the old days, the NAT's, architects of apartheid were suddenly faced with the same dilemma...what do we do with those who claim to be white and are coloured, Indian and are black, coloured and are black and so on. Teams of race 'officials' looked at hair, noses, fingernails and other arbitrary bits of body and made pronouncements that sometimes even split families into two distinct racial groups, the consequence of which, in apartheid South Africa, can only be imagined. The Apartheid Museum has a page from the national race records stating in the given year how many whites officially became coloured, how many coloureds officially became white and so, laughably, on.

We now know from DNA studies that there is fundamentally no inherent difference between humans beyond the obvious physical and cultural ones and since no too members even of the same race have the same appearance reading anything into this would seem silly. In one extremely amusing recent addition to the debate, a local TV show had local celebrities tested to find out which geographical area of the world their ancestors came from, something which DNA can tell us. Some 'white' people turned out to have African and Khoi DNA and in one case a stunned Tim Modise was told he had Germanic as well as Khoi roots- he seemed very perturbed to be a black part of the 'master race'!

Back to my mildly odd, somewhat satisfying musings about claiming 'black' status. I figure that if, by modern science, Tim Modise is germanic, I could very well be Khoi or African and since all humans, by current thinking and archaeological discovery, come from Africa, I could very well be 'black' by our current definitions. I could have been overlooked by the apartheid government, a lucky escapee into the 'white' camp and now I could come 'out of the closet' so to speak and declare my true nature, a proud 'black' man in every way. Since compulsory DNA testing is not yet required for job applications in our beloved little country, I would ostensibly be within my rights to claim 'blackness' and be entitled to all of the privileges it now entails. I could put my name down for an RDP house, join government departments, get Telkom shares at a discount and enroll at all those cool exclusive clubs for black people like the Black Lawyer's Association, The Black Management Forum and so on. I could go undercover at the AWB or the Boeremag, treading carefully since I would be be in for a pretty hard time if they found out I was actually 'black'.

Oh, and I could apply for the position of President of SARFU, DNA test Jake White and should he also prove to be black like me, I could entice him back to coach our Springboks to 2011 victory.

Surely its time to move on from all these childish clubby, clubby games we play now? 'White' and 'black' pretty much have no meaning any more, yet a country that fought against racial classification and WON is doggedly hanging onto the concept. I think we need to move on but maybe its just because I am 'black'... ;)

Katgeveg!

I visited Bloemfontein for the second time in my life this week which happened to coincide with the annual curry cup final between the Freestate Cheetahs and the Gauteng Lions. For those of you who don't know, Bloemfontein along with Pretoria are supposed to be the cities that embodied apartheid above all others in South Africa's dark years. The locals are supposed to be a tough crowd, Afrikaans speaking and so passionate about their rugby team, the Cheetahs, that any suggestion that another team could beat them is supposed to be followed by an ass whippin' of note.

Orange people where everywhere. Orange flags were flying from the cars, shops were draped in orange, joggers wore orange socks and some loyal fellow had even airbrushed an orange Cheetah onto his restored 1960's Cadillac! 'Looks like the rumours about ass whompings might be true' I thought, 'these guys are nuts!'. Biltong was sold out and news arrived that the world cup winning Springboks would be in town for the final, hosted in Bloemfontein for a lap of honour. To call it fever pitch is to equate hurricane Katrina to a dust devil puffing harmlessly through a Fouriesberg mielie field. The local newspapers had dubbed the final as a 'Katgeveg' (cat fight!), which I thought was a pretty smart headline considering the Cheetahs were up against the Lions. The town was alive with crazed rugby fans and they were all in orange.

I was therefore slightly horrified when my business partner Allan randomly asked the biggest guy we had seen in Bloem if he was a Lions supporter and wanted to buy a red T-shirt. The guy's smiling retort was 'net om my gat te vee' (only to wipe my ass with) but all in good humour and actually wished Allan luck for the game. Now Allan could care less about who won the game but his amusement was peaked by stirring up the locals, presumably just to see if he could, so he tried harder. 'The lions are going bite those wimpy Cheetahs in half on Saturday with their massive teeth and then spit them out...ggggtoo', he fired at the next huge guy walking past...'only if you can catch us, you fat cats', the smiling orange fellow winked back.

Not getting much joy from the local huge white Afrikaans rugby fans, he found a tiny black guy in an orange T-shirt and said 'you are going to be sad on Sunday'. 'Why', said the confused stranger? 'Because the Cheetahs are going to be making a mew, mew and lions are going to be tuning GRRR, GRRR' he prodded. The little black guy stopped, turned around walked up to Allan and stared him in the eyes. 'Are you a Lions man?', he asked. 'GRRRR', said Allan. The little guy pointed his finger in Allan's face and said, 'Aaaaiy, when your lions are dead tomorrow and my cheetahs are still running around them laughing, come back here amalungu' staring at Allan like he meant it. Finally some anger from a fan, Allan was encouraged, gave the guy a pat on his back and offered him a lions T-shirt. The guy looked at him and said, 'never, never, I am Cheetahs for life. Down with the lions, down', winked at me and walked off.

This went on for a while but when Allan started picking on school girls wearing orange, I guessed it was time to head for the B&B. The Lions got trampled, the Cheetahs took it 20-18 and we fled but not before adjusting my perceptions of Bloemfontein. The city has friendly people of all colours and they stand together for their team without the crazy savagery I was expecting. In fact the biggest savage in town happened to be a temporary Lion's supporter, out for a bit of sport...

You asked, I did my bit...now its your turn Mr P

After a weekend of rugby highs and Lucky Dube's murder lows, I find myself compelled to write about the latter...and I am a HUGE rugby fan. I saw Lucky Dube in concert a number of times and it is a tragedy to have a man of his talent taken away from us.

In his world cup departure speech President Thabo Mbeki stated that he wished all of us to stand together and to help in the fight against crime. It is a phrase that has been thrown into every speech on crime and I would like to examine it. What does he mean exactly? Should we all become cops? Should we all stake out a corner on dodgy streets to snap photos of hijackers in action? I hope not. That would be promoting vigilantism and chaos.

So hopefully he means report crimes to the police when they happen and simply be a responsible citizen. I don't think anyone would NOT be doing these things already and this can't be the central problem facing police. I think the average South African is careful, vigilant, knows that 10111 is the number to call and won't hesitate if they are threatened. Hell people are even closing their suburbs off and building higher walls and installing tracking devices into their cars to deter criminals. People have organised marches against crime, demanded that more be done about crime to the point where Mr Ngakula, the safety and security minister, told parliament no less that South Africans who 'whinge' about crime should leave the country. So mixed signals are being sent out from those in power. Can the good people of South Africa do more or is that an empty request being used to divert attention from the real issue?

I guess it is all about priority. Where is crime and the will to fight crime on the government’s national agenda right now? Somewhere behind the transformation of our rugby team and the succession battle and that is probably why we have a problem spiralling out of control. Sort out the crime you get easier transformation anyway, you get stability, investment, you plug the brain drain, you promote reconciliation, you collect more tax from the newly invested foreign nationals which goes into HIV roll-outs, better health care and education all providing economic growth thereby further reducing crime.

If government really wanted to get those stats down and cut this nonsense out they could. They are, however, taking a half-hearted stab at it because most of them seem to share the thinking that pops up periodically…its all because of our past. Even if that was 100% true, and I do not buy that for a second, it is still simply an excuse from people who are not performing in their job. Excuses at the top level are not tolerated in the corporate world for non-performance, why should they be tolerated in government?

So I believe that Mbeki's speech was just rhetoric to be seen to be dealing with the issue of Lucky Dube's shooting in front of his children. Now just in case I was wrong and our president does, in fact want my help, I have put down a few ideas since none seem to be forthcoming from the guys in charge…

1) Get smart! Hire bright dedicated people into the police force and out-think the criminals. It worked superbly for SARS and paid itself off in no time. Why not the police? Why were they prepared to pay big salaries at SARS? To make more money out of tax, of course! Well, there will be an economic benefit if you sort out crime too, just not as obvious. Involve universities, business and communities. Out-think them. It is a radical problem needing a radical solution that may be complex and strategically involved.

2) Organise. Police stations should not be spending man-hours doing admin for the public when we have a crisis on the go. They should be focused on solving crime. Get rid of jobs that do not contribute to the cause like signing affidavits and making certified id book copies. Farm them out to other institutions.

3) Here is a radical one! Offer retired white male executives, those 'evil, nasty' men that benefited from apartheid, the chance to come in and use their lifetime of managerial skills, at a cut price for their country. They could manage the organisational side of police stations like a business and free the cops up to hit the bad guys? Any takers?

4) Use our army here and not in the Congo. Form units dedicated to certain types of crime. Units that hunt cash heist robbers, units that hunt hijackers and units that hunt armed robbers. Well-trained, well-equipped, highly mobile response units that respond quickly to certain codes with the intent to catch in the act. We are paying them salaries anyway and they could keep battle-ready in case of Zim’s invasion…;)

5) Alternatively, use said army to slowly take back streets of choice. Perhaps central JHB is a good place to start? Post two armed soldiers in radio contact on every street corner for a week. Any criminal stupid enough to commit a crime will be caught like a spider in a web and he will never be able to outgun the law. Arrest for the smallest crime. Keep this up until area is safe and then expand. Immediately return at first crime in safe area and repeat. Slowly drive criminals away from key areas.

6) Here is another radical one; form think-tanks of criminals in prison and allow them to redeem themselves and earn parole by working out where the next big crimes might go down or how to stop them or who to arrest. They think differently and might have a new angle. Success gets rewarded, they feel useful to society. Repeat offence after the program gets life and you get announced as a program member on your first day back in the slammer.

7) Stop these ridiculous courtroom and jail escapes. We are not fooled. It is either an inside job or the security is pathetic. Fix the one and root out the other. No more!

8) Use technology, cameras especially. We have state of the art video surveillance equipment to catch speeding motorists, why not expand that to a camera network in a city that can track criminals on recorded footage after the act? Follow them to an area, camera by camera, get pictures of their faces and publish them.

And so I could go on. I have listened to my president who voiced his own disgust at the death of Lucky Dube and I am working together with him to solve crime as he asked me to do. I have done my little bit today, I have shown I care. Now it is his turn to show me that he cares and that he has the WILL to fix this mess, regardless of who is responsible for it or how hard it is. Good people are dying, excuses are just not good enough.

I saw the funny side of SA crime this week. Now the rampant crime in SA is not very funny at all as Sir Anthony Sher's moving documentary so poignantly pointed out BUT those of us living here, wallowing in its stink so to speak have to find ways of coping with its proximity and this week we invented a new game to take the edge off. Let me explain...

My friend Mark got robbed. He is actually, despite being the victim of a crime, quite amused himself in a throw-up-the-hands kind of way. Firstly, burglars broke into his fenced complex and scaled the side of his 4-story building late one evening while he and his fiance were asleep in the house. The daring buggers swiped his laptop, their clothing and his mountain bike and had the audacity to lower all the loot to the ground using his windup extension cord! He phoned me pretty peeved the next morning (Sunday) but happy not to have run into them in the passage.

Monday, he arrived at work to discover that his offices had been broken into and that amongst other random things, his backup flash-disk for his laptop had been swiped - one year of data lost! Two days in a row. People clucked in sympathy but some of us started wondering, was it possible? A black little hat-trick was on the cards but we didn't dare contemplate it.

Tuesday brought amazing news! Although not directly, he had been a victim again! HAT-TRICK!!!!!!!!!!!! Thieves broke in and stole copper cables from a substation near his office and his whole factory stood still for a day while the council tried to fix the problem. The third one was under contention for a while but the panel gave it to him in the end...well done Markus, my first friend to get a hat-trick! Compulsory round at the Jolly Roger!

So Mark got the first 'hat-trick', Birnie has the award for 'best tackle' on a running cellphone thief, John is current holder of the 'biggest hit' for a beautiful open-hand slap on a rapist we caught in the park one morning on our weekly bike ride and I narrowly avoided the booby prize when some guy unsuccessfully tried to rob me with his finger (I could see it wasn't loaded). Starting to feel left out just a touch, I managed to snap up the award for 'harshest initiation by a team' when no less than exactly 15 guys, a full rugby side, with automatic weapons held up a happening bar and restaurant in Northern Joburg and chose me, out of the 400 people lying on the floor, to be the 'bag man'. It involved getting a gun in the face and going around asking my friends for their wallets and phones. Yes!!! On the scoreboard at last...

Sad, sick little game isn't it?

Why do cows have floppy ears?

I am reading a fairly well-known, if not infamous little scientific book at the moment. It is the kind of book that you see on a bookstore 'classics' shelf and think, 'damn I had should really read that so I know what all the fuss is/was about and so that I don't look stupid at some dinner party sometime'. So I bought the book. It has an innocuous cover displaying a perky, colourful tropical bird not mentioned in the text at all and certainly not the choice of the author, I am guessing. It was first published in 1859 and so you would guess that the science is mostly horribly out of date by now. Also you would expect the written English to be a little weird and hard to follow.

Wrong on both accounts.

The science is as relevant as the day it was written. There has, of course been a huge body of work added to it over the years, much like the work of Isaac Newton, but it is still most valid today and is a fantastic read, even for the layman (its not my field at all). There are admittedly a few bits that get involved and I chose to skip over them instead of paging backwards and forwards to the figures at the front of the book but mostly it is pretty easy to follow.

The language is simply beautiful. There is no other word I can use to describe its exact and pure style. There is not one unnecessary word. Every word is measured, weighted and used perfectly. Ideas are communicated in an honest, accurate and illuminating way. It contains a massive body of evidence on the subject, mostly everyday examples of things we see around us. I mean it starts off investigating why cows have floppy ears! We have all seen a cow's ears. No mystery there. Here is a snippet...

'When we look to the individuals of the same variety or sub-variety of our older cultivated plants and animals, one of the first points that strikes us is, that they generally differ more from eachother than do the indiviuals of any one species or variety in a state of nature...

Sterility has been said to be the bane of horticulture; but on this view we owe variability to the same cause which produces sterility...

Not a single domestic animal can be named which has not in some country drooping ears; and the view suggested by some authors, that the drooping is due to the disuse of the muscles of the ear, from the animals not being much alarmed by danger, seems probable.'

I was not expecting to be moved to write about this book, Charles Darwin's 'Origin of the Species'. I expected to wade through it, add it to the bag and move on. After reading it, however, I am forced to say something. I am forced to say something to the people who refuse to read it or those who have read it and branded it false science or dismissed it out of hand because it conflicts with their beliefs. I am forced to say something to the 'creationists' and those who hide in a corner behind 'intelligent design' and monthly try to push that drivel into children's minds in school classrooms via the courtrooms. I am forced to say that this book is too good to be ignored. If you want to know where you truly come from, to understand how we come to be surrounded by such an amazing multitude of different forms of life here on earth, simply read this book! It does not pronounce, there are no ten commandments, no rules for you to follow, no threats, no violence, no war, no rape or murder, no human sacrifice, no misogynistic acts, no fire and no brimstone. Just simple answers to very big questions, miracles one might say.

You see, Charles Darwin wrote 'Origin of the Species' way back in 1859 simply to explain the things he saw around him. He explained why domestic animals almost all have floppy ears, why there are such a wide variety of different and weird looking pigeons, why similar finches all have different beaks on different islands in the South Pacific and why certain plants grow in some areas and not others. Not very evil is it? He explained natural selection, instinct and evolution based on actual experiments he had done ( many in his own garden, cranky fellow!) to prove that it works and made observations so simple as to be virtually indisputable. So if you are looking for mystery, the meaning of life, beauty, eternity and just a good eye-opening read, I recommend a dusty old book by a guy born almost exactly 200 years ago in 1809. He knew a lot more than most people, especially his detractors, know today and had the courage to publish it when the world was not yet ready to read it...

Schnoozy the Dispatcher

I woke up this morning to find an agonised Piglet pacing the glass doors in the study with both Fatty and Gata, our Russian Blue cats pacing with her. Gata had snatched a dove from the air a few minutes earlier and was trying to get back out there to finish the job. Piglet was pacing because she thought that something needed to be done about the mangled bird outside on the lawn but could not bring herself to go near it and look it in the eye knowing it was her cat that did the damage. Fatty was sure there was something going on and he was pacing because everybody else was pacing but actually just wanted his second breakfast.



Enter Schnoozy the Bird Dispatcher!



'whats going on', I asked? 'Cats caught a dove. You have to go and put the bird out of its misery', I was told. Now I am no killer, especially of things smaller than me that would not even be a meal in a time of need, but somebody had to do something. I went out, approached the traumatised bird, picked it up and walked around to the garage down a long passage, not wanting to make a spectacle of the coming execution. The bird had most of its body feathers removed and was bleeding from its neck, back, wings and chest. It was a bald, bleeding living mess.



The dove looked at me with big frightened eyes and its breathing was shallow and fast. I tried hard to relegate its coming death to insignificance in the global and cosmic scheme of things but could not. It was here looking at me, in my hands, it was significant. Then I got the bright idea that since it was breathing so hard, if I squeezed it slightly, it might pass out from lack of air and die from a loving hug. Psychotic killer that I am, I gave it a firm snuggle and it actually started working. The poor creature's eyes opened wider and it opened its beak to try and gulp down its last breaths. As its fate became obvious to the bird, it started feebly struggling for its life for the second time that morning. I stopped immediately, horrified, and popped the poor bird into a cardboard box on a shelf and left in a state of self-loathing.



'Is it done?' asked the Piglet and I shook my head and said that I couldn't do it and that I might need professional help for my dark issues. We put it into a cat travel case since no bird cage was available, popped a bit of water inside and spent the next hour of our Sunday searching for bird seed in the local convenience stores. After securing seed and expecting to find a dead bird at home, we got back and discovered the bird had perked up a bit. It seemed to be more alert and and had drunk a little water. Piglet opened the cage and tried to put a bowl of seed inside. The hunted little dove saw its chance to escape the nightmare and bolted. It hobbled around the room and eventually got airborne, made a wonky beeline for the open doors, flapped for its life and made it into the tree one yard away.



Now I don't know whether the poor guy is dead tonight or whether he is telling his buddies about his twin escape from death. Either way, I am glad he had the chance to live or die on his own terms and not by my shaky, murderous hand. I am happy that he made that break. It must have been one hell of a rush! Mostly I am relieved that I didn't deprive it of that last chance to live.



Good luck, my plucked and mauled little friend and stay the hell away from cats and humans if you made it...

Pigs 1 - Horses 1

Animals are smarter than you think! I say it all the time but every now and then I am lucky enough to see it in action.

I was at a wedding yesterday and it was literally thronging with beasts of every description. Besides the highly evolved primates waffling on about their holy union, there were two pigs, two horses and a whole multitude of less obvious birds, insects and possibly even a few billion bacteria on a sunny little estate in Northern Johannesburg behind a high voltage fence. The story is mostly about the pigs and horses.

Both pigs were bought as the Vietnamese Pot-belly variety that are supposed to stay small and cuddly. It soon became apparent to the loving owners that these porky fellows were not going to stay small at all and they duly grew into handsome specimens of full piggy size. Now in this strange household, the horses and the pigs lived together and at some point during the last few weeks, the immense stress of the wedding got to the one pig, lets call him *Mandibles, and he flew into a porcine rage and savagely bit the leg of one of the horses, lets call him *Sandwich. Sandwich was traumatised and quite badly lacerated by Mandibles' vicious bite and was removed from the stye/paddock and the vet was called in. Many hours of struggling later, the vet stitched Sandwich up and he was put into a locked stable for recovery and reflection. Mandibles, meanwhile was put into solitary to calm the hell down.

That left the other pig, lets call him *Punchbag, and the remaining horse, *Bruce Lee together in the open area in what can only be described as an uneasy truce. Now how the communication worked between horses or whether Bruce Lee simply acted alone, we may never know, but what we do know is that later that day, Bruce Lee exacted a brutal revenge by kicking Punchbag one hell of a shot in the side. Apparently Sandwich whinnied his approval from his vantage point at the stable door. As the Piglet noted (no relation to Punchbag or Mandibles), Horses 1 - Pigs 1.

So now the married couple are trying to piece the family back together which is not an easy thing when you have one horse-eating pig living with a pig-kicking horse and a whole bunch of abused victims that can't talk through their problems. It is not the first time I have experienced family fighting at weddings but it certainly wins the award for the most bizarre!

*Actual names of the animals involved were not used in order to protect them from possible revenge attacks.

Da Super Mudda City

I took a quirky Kulula flight down to Cape Town for 3 days this week and I was impressed - with the city that is. I don't say that as somebody who is qualified to be a judge of such things but I couldn't help noticing some subtle differences to my hometown of Jozi that went a little deeper than the obvious scenery. Cape Town looks like a city on the up.

The first thing that struck me was how clean, operational and viable the CBD is. Not only is it full of beautifully restored old buildings that are fast becoming trendy and classy apartment blocks, but there is no hint of fear in the people who live and work in the city. They walk alone or in pairs, day and night to the restaurants and cafes of which there are plenty. They are of all races and the impression of a working solution to the racial harmony issue is tangible. People mingle, eat and shop together in all areas. I am not stupid enough to think there is no crime in Cape Town but I sense that the balance has shifted onto the leg of the law-abiding and the fight is being won.

The second thing that struck me was how well certain things worked there. Cape Town employs human parking meters that have nifty gadgets that keep track of your car license number and the time you have been parked and charge you accordingly. It is a super flexible system in which you can be approached and asked to pay up front, you can be nabbed as you pop back to the car to collect something or before you leave. Either way, pay you do! Now I tried to dodge the system as it was kinda fun and I am used to doing it with particular car guards that annoy me but I paid every single time. These guys were pros! The system works and it employs people and parking in Cape Town is regulated properly. Oh, and they have a sense of humour and ALWAYS have change for you.

The next thing that struck me was the number of taxis of all kinds trawling the city for business. Many were in good condition, not the heaps of junk you see in Joburg, and although I didn't use one this time, I would take a taxi in future. That's a big statement from a car-owning white South African male. Public transport without fear is a reality there. Tourists and locals alike use it all the time and it works.

I then nosed around the highways and suburbs of the Cape for a day or 2 and once again I was impressed by cleanliness. The open fields and parks were spotless (not sure if its the 120km/h wind that howls through there from time to time or diligent citizens) compared to their equivalent grubby cousins in Jozi or Durbs. I also began encountering the suburban Capetonian
at work and they are pleasant animals let me tell you. None of the aggression that flows so easily in a Joburg meeting with strangers. Granted that is why things take a little longer but I would trade it any day. The people were chillaxed man and service people had that snappy efficiency and a smile to match that is so often missing from the sullen, sulky angrybots you have to deal with here. Quips from Allan, my business partner about being in town to steal the mountain, rock by rock, to take it back to Joburg and that Cape Town is the mother city because everything takes 9 months to get done were all laughed at and parried right back at him in good humour.

Another cool bit was the super-funky low cost housing developments in the Cape Flats. These apartment buildings would not look out of place in good areas and by simply building attractively I think value has been created for people who will take pride in living in those units. Add that and all of the above to the good food and the easy-going traffic flow, even at peak hours, and you have a pretty good idea of what I am talking about. It led Allan to make another interesting comment...'it looks like the money people pay in taxes here is being spent properly'. It also, in my humble opinion shows why the ANC propaganda machine has spun into action against Helen Zille, the DA leader and mayor of Cape Town, just one year before the next elections. In a country where community after community are protesting against abysmal ANC service-delivery to the people, Cape Town has been pretty silent and is showing what can and should be done. There is a pride there and it is driving the place forward. Instead of trying to tear it down because of how it highlights the comparative failure of the rest of the ANC-controlled country, perhaps the powers that be could try emulating it for the good of the people that pay their salaries and put them into the positions that make it possible for them to sign up billions worth of empowerment shares. Just a thought comrades...

Citing by the Blind

After a bruising battle against Samoa in the opening match of the 2007 IRB world cup, rugby-watching South Africa was collectively shaken to hear that Schalk Burger had been cited for a dangerous tackle in the air against the Samoan scrumhalf, a full 48 hours after the match. A few alarm bells started ringing then and they seem to be getting louder...



1) The referee and linesman who both witnessed the event in real time decided it was moderately dangerous and gave a penalty, no yellow card was deemed necessary, nobody was hurt and there was enough doubt to assume Burger was not playing recklessly and it was an accident.


2) The game was full of late and crunching tackles, largely from Samoa, the refined essence of which could best be observed in Brian Lima taking the field, pointing to Andre Pretorius to indicate that he was going to hurt him and then hitting Pretorius so hard and late that Lima managed, somewhat moronically, to concuss himself. None of the Samoan players involved in these tackles were initially cited.



3) A hearing was convened and Schalk Burger was banned for 4 matches by an Australian commissioner who, during the hearing, decided to overrule the referee and linesman both of whom stuck to their original assessment of the situation after being able to review the video footage. They both, incidentally submitted written statements in support of their decision, so sure were they.



4) An appeal was then convened at which the SARU had to fly in its own video equipment as the equipment at the original hearing had been so bad, no clear freeze-frames of the incident could be clearly seen. At this time, the IRB panel had realised the call was harsh and reduced the sentence to 2 matches, implying that they had made the wrong call yet probably needing to save face by sacrificing the player for a few games.



5) Upon realising the huge media circus that was now surrounding the whole citing, the IRB decided to cite a Samoan flank for a dangerous tackle on Percy Montgomery - his sentence, 1 match. Schalk gets 4, he gets 1 for the same offence. That's pretty blatant. Oh and by the way, Terry Willis was the official in both cases and his reason for the discrepancy...the Samoan pleaded guilty! What? So by admitting that you tried to hurt the other guy you get a much reduced sentence compared with stating your innocence and that you were NOT trying to play dirty? This is not nursery school here! Guilty is guilty! No prizes for schloeping the teacher. Come onnnnn.



In the subsequent weeks of the competition, Brian Lima of Samoa once again comes onto the field and delivers a late and dangerous tackle on England's Johnny Wilkinson, the darling of world rugby. The tackle was bad but not nearly as bad as the one he hit South Africa's Pretorius with. This time, not only was he cited but banned for the entire tournament. So Lima does it against SA, he gets nothing, he does it against England he gets banned for the entire world cup. Okaaaay, double standards some might say.



The self-same citing whirlwind, Terry Willis, pops up again in a Samoan-Tongan incident in which a Tongan flank, Hale T Pole gets 1 week after being sent off for a dangerous tackle. Again, 1 week vs 4 weeks. Oh and Pole pleaded guilty as well. He probably brought a shiny aple to the hearing.

The All Black's Carl Hayman was caught TWICE punching an Italian in the face - not even cited! It doesn't get more blatantly dirty than that.

Australia's Drew Mitchell, spear tackle of note against the Welsh - no citing. His coach admitted on camera after the game that he thought he would be cited. Lucky him, especially considering Paul Emery of the USA got a 5 week ban for carbon copy of that tackle against England. Lucky Drew and lucky Australia indeed! Poor unknown USA.

In the same game, Stephen Moore of Australia and Gareth Thomas of Wales both performed tackles more dangerous than Schalk's and neither were cited.

So feeling fairly hard done by, with cries of foul conspiracy, South Africa headed into another match, this time with Tonga, without their star flanker. The match was fairly even-tempered and a close affair seeing SA win 30-25.



Almost 48 hours after the match and can you believe it, another citing for an SA player today...this time for the evil offence of finger biting! Frans Steyn denied it and even went as far as stating to the press that he was shocked, angry at the accusation and that he did not play the game like that. Regardless, he was trawled through the media mill, pronounced a bad boy of rugby and hauled into a hearing this afternoon. Thankfully, he was found not-guilty by virtue of the fact that there was no recorded evidence of the incident AND (here is the kicker!) the Tongan that had accused him suddenly backed off and said perhaps it happened at another time in the game or maybe he had not in fact been bitten. All this after submitting photo's of his hand to the citing commissioner along with his statement. Huh? You is or you ain't bud!



So what is happening here? Are we just unlucky, are we dirty and fans are blind to the facts, is it a conspiracy to see us lose the world cup? Well for what it worth this is what I think...



There is no simple explanation for the lack of citings for players like Drew Mitchell and Carl Hayman. They were caught on camera, they transgressed, everyone saw it and yet they were not cited. Why? Nobody appears to be able to answer this. Most often the justification is that NZ or OZ play clean rugby, SA plays dirty rugby, that's why our players are cited more often. I think that this world cup has highlighted a prejudice, a false impression and the statistics, through a blatant action that has now drawn micro-scrutiny, are finally showing the real story. I don't believe it is a conspiracy in the form of a dark meeting on a stormy night of all nations besides South Africa but what seems clear is there is a perception that SA are a dirty side and this perception is hampering impartial judgement by referees, linesmen and citing officials. You find what you are looking for but you are missing what is in front of you. The FACTS of this world cup have shown that SA is a cleaner rugby playing side than Samoa, Tonga, England, New Zealand, Wales and Australia and yet we are penalised more for it. That's not right. Love us or hate us as you will but lets be fair. There should be consistency, there should be fairness and above all, there should be respect for the player's careers and reputations that are being damaged by these citing Mongols sweeping across Paris and burning a once great game to the ground.

Go passion yourself!

I really and truly hate 'passion'!

From time to time a word like 'passion' falls into the grubby hands of the common language thugs. Instead of morphing the word, incorporating and nurturing it on a new path like 'cool', 'wicked', 'sick' and 'roll', the dirty vandals proceed to thump and bash it and, in a faux-learned frenzy, start littering every inarticulate sentence with it. Such has been the degrading fate of poor old 'passion'. Now I don't think this is just a South African thing, although it has reached epidemic proportions here. It seems to have gone global, pervading the English linguistic zeitgeist and poisoning it from within.

According to that mighty useful thingy called Wikipedia, Passion is the emotion of feeling very strongly about a subject or person. Think about that. The thing you are passionate about MUST raise strong EMOTION deep within you. It comes from the Latin 'passio' - to suffer! Yes, thats right, suffer! Translated that means you have to ache, burn, yearn, long and be consumed by the thing. It must drive you to the edge! You should break down, explode with joy or wail when you think about the object of your passion, depending upon its state at the time I guess. I am not thinking Human Resources Department here people.

Once the domain of Shakespeare, D.H. Lawrence and people who needed a word to really elevate a thought or feeling about life, love or standing for an ideal, it has now become the stock standard payoff line on CV's, in job interviews and well just about everything really. If these people are to be believed, there are bankers out there with a passion for logging hourly exchange rates, drivers with a passion for delivering parcels, passionate gardeners loving the hole they are digging in rocky ground, computer programmers passionate about debugging 10000 lines of code and even lion tamers passionate about scooping up the lion poop at the end of the taming day! Are they aching inside with burning passion for these jobs? I suggest rather that you enjoy gardening, manning the complaints desk at an airline is NOT something you are passionate about (although this one may give you that necessary strong feeling deep within!), its something you can do or at best do effectively. Every idiotic Idols contestant is NOT passionate about making mindless pop music. Regardless of what they all say, there is no fire and ache in probably 99% of the lying rodents. Some like singing, some love singing, most are sold on the idea of making loads of money if anything. 'Passion', however, seems to have become the new benchmark of commitment. If you are not passionate, you might as well not apply. We don't take 'interested', 'keen to learn', good at' or 'like' seriously. Its passionate or push off! Use it or lose out!

When I think about what has happened to 'passion', I see a Klimt on a polystyrene burger box, Mozart in a washing powder commercial, Hamlet in a bad rap song, yo. They would never recover from the association, their souls sold. Well, similarly 'passion' is lost to us forever in a haze of tacky, plastic, insincere associations.

For those of you who don't know what I am on about or, for that matter, what an oxymoron is...'passionate accountant' is one you are free to use! Goodbye oxymoron...

Go 'passion' yourselves!

If the pilot is here would you please raise your hand?

Piglet, my long suffering girlfriend/manager/disciplinary hearing adjudicator had to make an emergency trip to London yesterday to buy art at an auction.

So last night I was at Jan Smu...err, Joburg Inter....errr...the ORtiport or whatever that pit of depair is called now, shoulder down savagely head-butting my way through aimlessly wandering, painfully slow, migrating masses of passenger matter when I stole a quick glance at the board for the Piglet's SAA flight. The flight was marked 'cancelled'...huh?

Now delayed I have done, missed even, but cancelled? So, side-stepping the nearest sweaty, chewing passenger in bokkie jersey off to London, bobbing and weaving through the extended muslim family in full battle kit and running headlong through a forest of wrapped and taped slender wooden giraffes, we finally joined the mother of all queue's at the SAA counter. Since Piglet had to be in London for an auction the following day, cancelled was not an option!

Much time passes...

We duly managed, with no less then three ping-pong encounters between airline kiosks, to get the poor soul onto a Virgin flight and got SAA to pay for it. Upon leaving the SAA counter for the last time, I thought I would find out more about the actual cause of cancellation from the only friendly person on duty that night likely to give me a straight answer. The reply was simple but staggering...sir, (wry smile), we lost the pilot. That is exactly how she phrased it! Now I am no PR man but I am thinking...sir, we have had a staffing issue might have saved a bit of face there? I mean would you want to fly with the pilot should they find him, sober him up and prop him up behind the joystick? If this person could not get to the airport from their house, how the hell can they get from Joburg, via lots of Africa to London...at night!

Well within an hour, the flight had been resheduled for 09h35 the next day, all the passengers went home, the time was then duly changed to midnight (found him! Probably at the airport bar) and when, presumably, it came time to board and the poor muddling airline realised that there were now no more passengers to put on the flight since they were all sent home hours earlier, the flight was again delayed until the next day, much to the dismay of two positive thinking, giraffe-toting Swedes who refused to rock the boat and change airlines earlier.

And to add insult to injury, the Piglet tells me today that the entire auction at Sotherbys was cancelled! Reason...someone or something sneakily bought it all before the auction day! Apparently it happens...who knew?

Chance of both happening within 24 hours of eachother...when things start going pear, 100% it seems!

Up the spout, old chap!

There is something truly beautiful about a 36-0 clobbering of the English, especially when it involves some real clobbering! Something poetic in what can only be described as the combine harvesting of the reigning world champions. Jason 'fairy toes' Robinson was their best player tonight and looked like 'The Grizzly Man' after his infamous encounter with the starved and emaciated bear that used him as a cheap salmon suppliment to survive the winter. Buggered Bru, totally buggered!

And all that with Schalk watching from the bench is his bulging blazer and Jean back at home with Pierre, resting and waiting. Hundred bucks on the Boks to win this whole world cup malarkey!

My Virgin Blog

Super, my virgin blog, very excited. Thanks Heike, you and a silly Friday mood were the catalyst. Here goes...

I have a particular conundrum that is both infuriating and quite funny at the same time. My broadband connection moves into a cycle of resetting itself endlessly every time there is rain. At the first sniff of moisture in the air over Joburg's blue skies, the little flashing yellow tick on my modem starts dancing like a zulu on battle day. In fact it is so predictable that I can tell when it is going to rain before the clouds are even evident...dazzled a few people with that little trick, I have.

So, like every internet dependent geek, after putting up with the stuttering connection for a few rainy summer days, I phoned the local service provider and reported the fault one fine sunny morning. The helpful automaton on the other end, after dutifully checking my name, id number and DNA, tested the line and declared that it was working and hence no fault could be reported. I could not argue, the line was certainly working at that point. No fancy verbal jousting was going to convince this lady that I actually had a 'broken phone' when her little computer told her otherwise.

Now, on occasion, I am prone to think that I am somewhat sneaky so I waited for the next spot of rain and phoned again. This time I was fairly certain that the line would go down and I would get top marks on the 'line test'. It all went to plan, I had a self-congratulatory moment, a technician was duly flagged on the system and all I had to do was to be available on a certain day the following week and all would be well again in downloadia.

Yes, you guessed it, said day was bright and sunny, my internet connection was flying, flawless. The technician spent a few minutes poking around and plugging and unplugging things and declared his job done and that it would be fine from now. He lied like a dog! The very next time rain beckoned, down went my precious. I hopped back onto the phone and once again got my booking with a technician for the following week. Same result.

So now I am in the process of trying to book a technician for a rainy day on a rainy day. Its harder than it sounds and no amount of surfing weather forecast sites seems to help. You see, you have to predict, to the half hour, both the onset of rain and the arrival of the technician, both as slippery as wet moss on a round smooth rock. I have had some success in delaying departure of technicians either by engaging them in long conversation or handing out free drinks but, as yet, bribing rain to show up on time has proved tricky...