The Musical Traveller

1976 Revisited

2009-05-15T17:03:00.001+02:00

We all know that 1976 was the year that the Soweto uprisings started. The children, or as they are now known ‘learners’ (where on earth did that word come from?), refused to take instruction in Afrikaans. That was the start of the trouble.

Well, here we are in 2009 and those of us who speak what used once upon a time to be known as English, are now being subjected to similar and equally demeaning treatment – only that to which we are being subjected is more subtle, more insidious.

SABC TV’s channel no 3 has traditionally been reserved for English; from time to time there have been some fairly horrendous mistakes in pronunciation (but then you have to expect that when most of our continuity announcers come from another language background), and there have been a few times when programming left much to be desired. We have borne all those things with a certain amount of equanimity; after all, you can always turn off the TV if it gets too much or too bad.

However, in the last two weeks a new and worrying trend has, silently and almost imperceptibly, appeared. On Thursday nights we are now being treated to a really awful piece of programming entirely in (you guessed it) Afrikaans, and on Fridays we have the slightly more palatable De Kat (also in Afrikaans).

I would assume, therefore, that channel no 3 is no longer exclusively in English.
Come all you payers of licences and critics of the SABC, gird your loins, pluck up your courage, and in true South African fashion, lets burn down every government building we can find; lets lay waste to every school, every electrical appliance shop; lets turn over every police vehicle and march against the guns of the SABC. We have as much right to our language and heritage as those who demonstrated against Afrikaans in 1976!!!

Our rights are being violated. In popular terminology, we are ‘suffering’. Our language, our heritage, our very culture is being assaulted and belittled by those very people who found the enforced teaching in Afrikaans so unsavoury. We have a major bus strike in Johannesburg, the threat of a nation-wide strike of doctors, taxi operators threatening hellfire and brimstone if the bus rapid-transport system is introduced, political figures shouting unpleasant and defamatory epithets at our new administrator of the Cape (Helen Zille), and threats of legal action because a certain body does not recognise her right to choose her own cabinet as she sees fit – so lets do our bit and demonstrate against those in power at Auckland Park who see fit to quietly drop the occasional Afrikaans programme into our hallowed English station. GO GET THEM – VRYSTAAT!!

Euthanasia - Let's Have the Conversation

2009-05-15T14:26:00.002+02:00

This morning (15/05/2009) there was a very interesting programme on SABC about this, and I can’t help but feel that the programme only scratched the surface of this fascinating question. Of course, there are good reasons both for and against this, and let me say at the outset that voluntary euthanasia, if it were made legal in this country, could be abused. But then so can most laws be abused if one really wants to find a way….

I think that the strongest argument in favour of this is the one postulated by one of the callers: if we can make an educated decision in favour of euthanizing a favourite pet, then why can’t the same benefit be offered to a human being – a relative, a friend, one who is dear to us? In the case of a pet, we are often called upon to make a very hard decision – hard for us because it means the final end of our relationship with that pet.
Normally we would be guided in this instance by the vet, who would be able to tell us what the chances are for that animal to make a full recovery. We weigh the chances against the expense (because veterinary treatment is expensive) and we make, sometimes reluctantly, a decision.

Why do we not look upon people in the same way? Let me give you an example:
Recently my favourite cat was diagnosed with a potentially life-threatening disease and so, at considerable expense I had him treated because he was still young, and if he could survive he could still look forward to a full lifetime of fun a games in his own feline way. He underwent the treatment and came out of it somewhat better, but not quite the cat that he had been. I only had him back at home for ten days when he started going downhill again and, after taking him back to the vet for further investigation and treatment, I was told that even if he survived a fresh round of expense and suffering, he would never really be able to live a normal life and would have to he under constant care and supervision. I had no choice but to have him put to sleep (as we say). For those of you who have never been this route, it is impossible to explain the angst and soul-searching that this decision puts upon us, and the pain of final separation; but it has to be off-set against the animal’s future. We cannot make a decision based on our own wishes or needs; we have to put the animal first.

My mother, on the other hand, had been diagnosed with breast cancer some years previous to her death. She had continued to live a normal life, undergoing regular check-ups and treatments, and was quite happy, but, knowing what she did as a qualified nurse, she must have known what the final outcome would be. It was made clear to me when she left the day-clinic after one of her check-ups clutching a bottle of morphine solution. In the last months of her life she gradually became weaker and less interested in her surroundings, to the point, where, finally, she was bed-ridden and unable to attend to even her most basic functions. I know how much she hated this, and how pointless she considered the whole exercise to be, because she knew that it could only end in death. On several occasions I looked at the stock of morphine tablets, the bottle of solution, and I asked myself should I put an end to her suffering. If she had been a cat or a dog, I would have done just that; but because she was a human being, I went to every length I could to delay her final demise. Money evaporated like butter against the sun; helpers came to the house and massaged her, dressed her bedsores, chatted to her, while I ran up and down the passage with vomit-bowls and various medications – all of which did little to alleviate her suffering. She was not in great pain, but she must have felt all alone as she faced inevitable death. On several occasions she actually asked me to put an end to her suffering, but I couldn’t.

She ended her life in a nursing home, unable even to turn herself, unaware for a lot of the time of her surroundings, at times unable to recognise me when I visited; it was not a life, nor was it a death. It was something worse, because all she had were her thoughts and fears, her knowledge that sooner or later she would have to cross the threshold into the unknown – and I’m sure she must have thought about it a lot and wondered what lay ahead. Not being a particularly religious person, she was unable to appeal to her God for help; she had only herself.

I often think that the pain and suffering she went through, and the agonies of doubt and fear of loss that I suffered, could so easily have been avoided by the simple administration of a few pills. I would have done it without hesitation for a pet, but I could not do it for her.

I can only hope that when I become terminal, bed-ridden, useless, and alone with my thoughts, someone will be kind enough to slip me an overdose and let me drift peacefully away; that I shall be spared the mental anguish of remembering what life used to be like and off-setting it against the now, and shall be spared the suffering I would go through, as well as seeing the looks of hopelessness or feigned jollity on the faces of my visitors.

We tend to be kind to animals but seldom ever to people because our whole culture, our upbringing, tells us that everyone has the right to life. But surely, whoever thought that one out didn’t mean life in its barest, clinical form, but life as it should be lived.

When we are told that a mother or father, a spouse, a loved-one, has no chance of recovery and can only look forward to a constant downhill struggle like this, even if it does not involve a great deal of physical pain, do we not have the right to allow them to die with dignity? Is it not an act of supreme selfishness that we keep them alive at all costs simply because we are afraid of the final moment of parting? This is surely an instance where we should put their interests above our own, and where we should be able to do so legally and without fear of reprisal.

In my mother’s final weeks, I prayed for death as keenly as she must have done. Each day became yet another treadmill which had to be faced, another uncertainty, another worry, and there was no hope of any pleasant outcome.

Let us put criminals aside; as I said at the beginning, all laws can be abused in one way or another, and this law would be no exception. Yet it is illegal to kill another person in any way at the moment, so there would effectively be no change; the criminal would only need to fear that his act would be found out and that he would be made to pay the price.
But surely, someone who, with love and kindness, administered the overdose, or disconnected the life-support systems, can hardly be regarded as a murderer? Are they not acting in the best interests of the patient and doing what the patient most wants them to do?

I will leave you with a snippet of poetry which my mother used to quote when she knew the end was inevitable:

“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain…….”

(Keats; Ode to a Nightingale)

The Zuma Inauguration

2009-05-09T12:18:00.003+02:00

I swore that I wouldn't listen to the radio or watch this spectacle on TV because I am heartily sick of the fanfare and noise that this whole thing has caused in this country. However, I was amused to read just now that the whole thing was marred by a downpour of rain, causing all the hallowed guests to run for cover. Serves them all right!!
One thing, however, has to be said: the stupendous amount of money that has been lavished on this ceremony leaves one speechless. For a humble man who was voted into power by the great unwashed masses of this country, Zuma has excelled himself in hypocrisy; whilst his supporters take shelter in their shacks, watching this amazing sight on their TVs (very often stolen), powered by electricity which is illegally re-routed from legal connections, they are no doubt cheering and drinking the health of the new president.
However, they would not know the taste of French Champagne at R100+- per bottle; theirs will be a diet of Black Label or cheap whisky. They are unconcerned that the cost of such an undertaking would have provided them with many many homes, or could have been used to good ends in elevating the poor. No, for some reason they regard Zuma as some kind of hero, to be addressed only as "Comrade". I rather fear that they may receive their just desserts when he drives his new administration into top gear and forgets all those who voted for him.
It is interesting to note, also, that while South Africa has taken a 'holier than thou' attitude to King Mswati of Swaziland and has banned him from receiving any of the good things of this country, someone like Mugabe, whose litany of human rights abuse can never be covered by a simple article like this one, has been present at this 'do'. Makes you think, doesn't it?

Women and Child Abuse

2009-05-07T13:38:00.003+02:00

A great deal is always said on the radio and on TV about the abuse of women and children in this country, and many talking heads have a great deal to say. However, it seems to me that they are missing one of the main elements of this problem: the content of programmes to which we, the viewing and listening public, are subjected.

It is a known fact that alcohol is one of the main factors causing this abuse and it is widely accepted that our per capita consumption of alcohol in this country is the highest in the world. Why then do we allow alcohol to be freely advertised in both media? We have succeeded in banning all tobacco adverts, and other such harmful substances, but we continue to be assailed with all manner of adverts for beers, brandies, whiskies, and the like.

The content of our TV programmes is, I feel, also very much to blame. We are given a diet of unleavened violence on E-TV (wrestling, third-rate Hollywood movies) and are daily battered with appalling sitcoms on all channels. Most of our stations preface their broadcasts with a warning that children should only watch under adult supervision, or that the following programme contains bad language, violence, explicit sex, or may be offensive to some viewers, but I doubt that anyone ever reads or takes notice of these warnings. If this were the case, then most of our programmes would never be aired. I would further suggest that all political broadcasts, especially those containing shots of JZ badly singing his Umshini Wami song, or dancing foolishly in front of a microphone, should also bear the warning that the following programme may contain content which is offensive to some viewers. I think this sort of thing is offensive to most of us!!

So, people, lets clean up our act and see where the real causes of the problem lie.

A Trip to Robben Island

2009-05-05T13:14:00.007+02:00

The Guesthouse is still in good repair

The old chapel on the Island

A general state of dilapidation and dereliction

(This is an excerpt from a much longer story, but deserves to be published here.)

Less than one week later found us on another trip which had taken some organisation and to which we all looked forward considerably. We hurtled down the highway towards Cape Town, where we parked the car at The Waterfront and sat in the shade of one of the large hotels and had a late breakfast. I went off and collected the tickets for the boat, which I had reserved some time earlier, and shortly after twelve midday found us waiting eagerly in a large room which was somewhat redolent of the arrivals hall of the international airport.

Clumps of tourists of all colours and nationalities milled around aimlessly looking at a barrage of photographs of political prisoners and their families, most of whom were now members of parliament and, to boot amazingly rich, as they stared back from the walls, defiant of an old order which had long-since passed away. Many of the names were utterly unfamiliar to the onlookers, but that of Nelson Mandela stood out; everyone knew who he was, and most of the sightseers knew his history.

Soon after twelve-thirty a whistle blew and a queue formed at the door to the jetty. One by one we handed over our tickets and walked slowly out into the sunshine and up the gangplank. For some reason, the large tri-maran which was supposed to be in service on this trip, had failed to materialise, and so we were herded onto a rather lovely old boat with lots of wood and brass, but which had to have been built sometime in the 1940s. Unlike the tri-maran, though, it was fairly small.

Ian and Heather took their seats inside the cabin and looked, somewhat fearfully, out at the sunshine on the afterdeck. Ron had climbed up on top of the cabin where she had found a seat quite easily, and I stood on the stern, camera in hand, eagerly waiting for the boat to pull away from the quay. We chugged easily out across the harbour over sluggish waters and watched with amusement how the seals basked in whatever sunshine they could find. Some were lying on the tyres surrounding the quays, some on rocks, and some could be seen proudly slipping beneath the tranquil surface of the green water. We ran smoothly through the harbour mouth and were soon riding long, gentle swells as we headed out to sea. The chatter ebbed and flowed over the sound of the diesel engines and there was a mood of eager anticipation amongst most of the passengers.

However, the swells, which at first had been long and lazy, gradually became larger and more urgent and the boat began to crest each one with a labouring sound of engines and then to corkscrew interestingly into the trough which followed. Those of us who had decided to stand in the stern soon had to hold on to whatever solid fixtures we could find in order to keep our footing and maintain our balance. This was all rather fun as far as I was concerned because I had never suffered from sea-sickness, but for some of the passengers it must have been a bit of an ordeal. However, it ceased to be quite so funny when one or two large swells actually washed over the stern, soaking our feet and legs right up to the knees. The boat was now pitching around to such an extent that it would have been impossible to move to a drier spot, so we had no choice but to stand and grin rather sheepishly as our feet were washed again and again with the boiling green waters of the Atlantic.

Just short of one hour later, we arrived, somewhat wetter, certainly wiser, in the small harbour of Robben Island, where we disembarked and were herded without further delay into a waiting bus. I had made this trip in 1994 when the island was first opened to the public and so felt I knew what to expect. It had been a pristinely clean and brilliantly white place, the chalk of its land reflecting the brightness of the day, its small houses all neatly painted, its gardens tended, and its ancient cars, most of which had never returned to the mainland, rotting away in silence by the side of the road. It was with some dismay, then, that I noticed that the same bus which we had used in 1994 and which had been in pristine condition, was still in use, if somewhat scuffed and elderly by now. Ron and I took our seats near the back.

The tour guide clambered aboard and the engine started. The guide turned out to be a rather squat black lady in a sort of uniform who barked at us through a microphone in a gabble of English that even the English would have found hard to follow. She seemed blissfully unaware that many of the tourists on board could only manage the most simple phrases in that language, and since there was no interpreter, she soon lost the attention of many people on the bus. Whereas we had had, in 1994, one of the prison guards who regaled us with some interesting stories about the island and his charges, she was obviously an employee of the company which now ran the island as a museum, and it soon became apparent that she was highly politicised. Even worse, she seemed to lack even the smallest vestiges of a sense of humour. For ten minutes, while the engine ticked over and we looked around the empty harbour area, she rattled away about Robert Sobukhwe and I was quite sure that most people on the bus had never heard of him.

‘Who was Sobukhwe?’ Ron asked me, at sea, like the rest of the bus.

I had to think hard before I gave her an answer.

‘I think he was head of the Pan Africanist Congress, but I’m not sure.’

‘What about Nelson Mandela?’ she asked.

But there was little or no mention of this icon; indeed for our learned tour guide, he seemed never to have existed. It seemed in some ways to be redolent of the re-naming of Johannesburg International Airport: instead of naming it after someone or something which would have meaning for the foreigner, the government had decided to call it O.R.Tambo – again a name which had little meaning for most people.

The bus lurched forward and drove slowly through the village, stopping for us to take photos of the old leper colony and the two churches and grumbling past the local village street which was now very dilapidated, its houses badly in need of paint, washing waving from lines, and deer nuzzling around the dry grasses of its verges. The only building so far which was in good condition was the guesthouse, which, unlike 1994, was now off-bounds to us as it was used by members of the government. We stopped for a few minutes to admire a large hole in the quarry in which Mandela and so many others had spent so much of their time, but once again, his name was scarcely mentioned by our guide, who rattled away, oblivious of the fact that few of us understood a word she said, about several people whose existence even I had forgotten. She seemed to be totally out of touch with the mood of her audience and utterly unaware of what interested them. The significance of the quarry was lost to most of the people on the bus. One tended to be reminded of the kind of propaganda to which the white population had been exposed for so many years under Nationalist rule.

About thirty minutes into what increasingly began to look like a boring tour, we pulled up in the middle of what was clearly a rubbish dump which boasted, however, two clearly marked toilets. We were told we would stop here for five minutes so that those of us who wanted could use these, and the rest could take photographs of the fine view of Table Mountain. There was indeed a good view but the surroundings were most unappetising; there was no café, no souvenir shop, nowhere for us to spend our Rands, only a derelict and rusty building on the edge of the water, and two toilets.

‘Talk about ‘things ain’t what they used to be’, I said to Ron as we looked around the rubbish dump.

We were once more herded onto the bus and driven fairly fast back towards the jail. In 1994 the tour had lasted some three hours and had taken in the gun emplacements which had been built for the second World War, and had also included a complete trip round the island. We had seen buck and many many penguins, but these were no longer on the itinerary. In those days, however, we had not been able to see inside the prison, because this was still in use.

The bus ground to a halt outside the prison buildings and we were once more herded out onto the hot tarmac. A long line formed and we filed past the cell used by Nelson Mandela for so many years of his imprisonment. What should have been the highpoint of the tour for so many people was no more than a tiny room with a bed, a desk, and a barred window.

‘Ja, well, no, fine,’ I found myself saying, almost under my breath.

‘What did you say?’ Ron asked, looking inquiringly at me.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

We were herded into a long, hot and rather foetid room where someone regaled us of the hardships of being a political prisoner on the island. Since he himself had been imprisoned there for some time, his words had a meaning and a poignance which was not lost on his audience. He also spoke a much clearer and better English and so was easier to follow. For the first time the audience seemed to be taking an interest in what he had to say. However, the heat was oppressive, the lecture was very long, and the room was noticeably devoid of any seating, so many of the group began to look somewhat tired and strained. It was with some relief, therefore, that we were herded once more into the sunlight and told we had less than five minutes in which to visit the seals which nested next to the harbour. To see these in the time allotted was quite impossible, so we shambled along on our way to the waiting ferry.

I had been watching with some alarm, as we made our sluggish way around the island, how the tablecloth on Table Mountain had been growing steadily during the day; I now saw that it looked decidedly ugly, and that meant only one thing: the sea was going to be very rough. Obviously the authorities had taken note of this and instead of our trusty old boat waiting for us, the old Susan Kruger, the ferry that used to make the trip ever day when the island was still a prison, had been pressed into service once more. The Susan Kruger was a fair size – more the size of a small cross-channel ferry in Europe – and she was waiting for us by the quayside. As we filed aboard we were warned not to sit up on deck as we were likely to get wet; we were also asked to remain in our seats once the boat left the harbour and not to leave them until we were safe and sound inside Cape Town harbour again.

Ian and Heather, perhaps afraid of sea-sickness, perhaps deaf, had chosen to sit outside on the upper deck and so we saw nothing of them until we entered the harbour almost an hour later. We left the relative calmness of Robben Island and headed out for the open sea. Ron and I were sitting opposite each other at a table next to one of the large portholes; I think she was somewhat afraid of sea-sickness herself, but even I was not really prepared for the trip that awaited us. As we headed into open water great green waves with white crests battered the superstructure of the boat from all sides; every so often one of them found its way down the steps to wash around our feet. It was something like being inside a washing-machine with the cycle set on ‘high’ – the only thing missing being the soap, but one could imagine even this as the waves foamed past our window, often blotting out the view entirely. The boat heaved and shuddered its way from crest to crest, sometimes tossing badly in the troughs, and conversation was almost impossible as it was totally drowned out by the sound of the diesel engines pounding away at the sea for all they were worth. People on the other side of the lounge seemed to rise and fall in an alarming way, and every so often the bottom seemed to drop out of our world as we crested one wave and crashed into another. This had become a ride worthy of the best funfair but the only thing was that, unlike a funfair which you know is only going to last a few moments, this was good for almost an hour. It was no surprise, therefore, to see stewards urgently running around with paper bags in their hands, which they gave to several of the passengers, who were beginning to look decidedly the worse for wear.

Nothing could have prepared either of us, however, for the sight of Ian and Heather when they appeared on the pier in Cape Town harbour. They were both absolutely wringing wet from head to toe and they both looked frozen. I began to laugh at the sorry sight.

‘What on earth persuaded you to sit outside?’ I asked as we walked slowly up the quay.

‘Nobody told us it would be that bad’, Ian replied, wringing out as much of his clothing as he could decently manage.

‘We sat out there because we felt that we were less likely to feel ill’ Heather remarked, lamely, taking off her shoes and shaking the water out of them.

Ron, although rather shaken, was still quite dry.

‘That was quite an experience,’ she said, somewhat ambiguously.

‘You mean the trip or the boat?’ I asked.

‘The boat mainly. I always wondered what it would feel like to be inside a washing machine, so now I know,’ she laughed.

We stopped off at one of the many restaurants on the Waterfront to have a restorative drink. Ian and Heather dripped quietly over the white plastic seat and onto the floor and the talk was largely made up of the sort of hysteria that people evince when they have been through a rather frightening ordeal and have survived. We all laughed like drains.

(Robben Island, once pristine and glowing, is now in a rather sad state of dereliction and dilapidation. Only two buildings remain in good repair: the guesthouse and the gaol; the rest is really rather sad and the area to which we were taken to take photos of the mainland was actually quite appalling.)

The Family

2009-05-04T16:01:00.003+02:00

This is my daughter (of whom I'm immensely proud. She's a bigshot in the government of NSW in Australia.

Top left: the last family photo of my mother, my daughter, my cousin and myself.

Top right: a quick shot of me, Ian, and his girfriend Heather, before we set sail for Robben Island.

A little postscript: my mother passed away shortly after this last photo was taken; she had had breast cancer for many years and finally succumbed to it on 18th August 2008. I miss her dearly as we were much more than just mother and son. We were friends and shared most of our interests and, perhaps because of that, always had a very close relationship. She was a talented artist, a qualified nurse and midwife, and a teacher of some note. She always believed that there was something better round the next corner, and lived her life on a note of constant optimism.

My cousin, Ian, lives in UK and is very talented with his hands, making all sorts of things; he is an excellent craftsman and something of a perfectionist, but can also be very funny.

My daughter lives in Sydney with her husband. She has a great love of art, is a talented musician, and loves animals. She is tall, beautiful, very motherly without being a matron, and is a very dear friend as well as being very cherished as a daughter.

My Animals

2009-05-04T15:44:00.004+02:00

SHANE

TITO

MRS KITT

Just a few pics of my pets at the moment: Shane is getting old now. He will be 10 at the end of this year, but has a lovely gentle nature and is a very faithful friend. He's my shadow, and woe betide anyone who tries to come between us!

Tito is now 3 1/2 and is a very talkative and noisy cat. He loves catching anything that moves, but seldom kills his catches, preferring rather to bring them to me for approval. The claws, like all Siameses, are really very destructive and it's impossible to have any decent furniture. But furniture can always be replaced; Tito can't.

Mrs.Kitt (as far as I know) is now nearly 12 and has been around for a long time. She has also had several different homes, but she has always come back to me, one way or another. She's a very quiet cat and is often quite invisible, except at night when she likes to hog the bed!

A Bad Day

2009-05-04T13:08:00.004+02:00

Life is never as bad as it seems, it seems. I got out of bed dreading today: I had so many things to do and then people coming for art lessons this afternoon, and the daily grind just disappeared into the distance with no let-up in sight.

However, the first thing that happened: the art lessons were cancelled. So, having mentally re-arranged my day, I set off for the post office and then to the vet to see how my favourite cat was doing. He has been in hospital for more than two weeks with one problem after another. and I feared that he might not be any better. However, as soon as I crossed the threshhold into the vet's rooms and my voice was heard, a distant yowling started from the bowels of the building. I went straight to his cage and found, to my great joy, that he was looking a great deal better and was becoming his old noisy self again.

The vet appeared and announced that I had come to take him home. Given the welcome that I received, I could hardly leave him there, so, basket and all, cat was brought home where he was put on my bed, made much of, and promptly went to sleep.

Having overcome that obstacle (and that one was the one I feared most), I then bundled the spare dog into the car with its food and took it to another friend to look after for another three weeks. I went shopping for special cat food and came home filled with new life and a desire to put the whole place to rights.

I have sorely missed that cat and am very pleased that he's back where he belongs. Now I just have to deal with the rest of the day, but the sun is shining.........

The History of South Africa and Apartheid

2009-04-30T17:27:00.001+02:00

A Brief, but Telling, History of South Africa: 1488 - 1860

It seems that the man who said it was right: there are two kinds of people in this world: the victims and the perpetrators. A victim is someone who always gets off on persuading his audience that he has suffered unmentionable wrongs at someone else’s hands; a perpetrator is someone who just gets on with life and makes the best of it.

There has been an awful lot of tear-jerking waffle from various quarters about Archbishop Tutu’s claim that whites are not grateful enough. Well, at last, we whites will apologise. Here goes:

In 1488 Bartholomew Diaz rounded the Cape. It seems he tried to land but found the few inhabitants to be very unfriendly and nationalistic, so he up-anchored and cleared off.
In 1497 Vasco da Gama decided to see for himself and landed at St.Helena Bay, Mossel Bay, and then Natal (hence it’s name because he arrived there on Christmas day).
In 1503 Table Mountain was scaled for the first time by a white man. Then the Portuguese lost interest and carried on to Mozambique. Had they colonised this part of the world, history would have been entirely different.

In 1580 Sir Francis Drake rounded the Cape and was most impressed with its beauty. However, he saw little reason to stop over as there were no Sun International Hotels in those days.

In 1602 the Dutch East India Company was founded, and, like the British company of the same name, sought a sea-route round the Cape so that the spice trade could be opened up. The Dutch had already colonised the East Indies and frequently sailed the route through all kinds of storms, taking many weeks to make the trip and losing a considerable proportion of the crew to scurvy.
In 1652 Jan Van Riebeek was dispatched here with instructions to establish a victualling station at the Cape. The first horses in Southern Africa were imported from Java. For this landing and these horses we humbly apologise because it meant that vegetables would be grown in this part of the world for the first time and carts no longer had to be drawn by hand.
In 1657 the Dutch, being a people of the land, established the first farms in the Cape. We apologise for spoiling the emptiness of the area.
In 1658 the Dutch brought the first blacks to the area; they were slaves captured on board a Portuguese ship. I’m sure the Dutch will offer an apology for further despoiling the racial purity that existed in the Cape; they had already screwed those that they couldn’t kill out of the Hottentots, but they needed labour for the farms, so there we are. I’m sure they’re sorry.
In 1688 the Huguenots arrived and consumed more of the limited arable land. Sorry.
Until 1780 no indigenous black people were found in what used to be the Cape Province; they had not migrated this far south. Perhaps they should have stayed where they were, because their arrival caused no less than nine wars during the following century. I think they should apologise.
Until 1803 the Dutch continued to import slave labour from Madagascar, Mozambique and the East Indies; we unreservedly apologise for doing this because the Coloured People were the result of this miscegeny.

Perhaps the biggest mistake made by the Dutch was to end the sponsorship of immigrants from Europe in 1707 because this meant that additional slave labour had to be imported. Wrong. Sorry.
In 1795 Europe was in turmoil: the French Revolution was at hand, in England the Industrial Revolution was turning a land of farmers into a land of shopkeepers; in the Cape the Dutch began to revolt against what they perceived to be an unfairly draconian rulership from their home country.

In 1814 the Cape was formally ceded to Britain.
In 1820 the British settlers arrived and began establishing the system of representative government. We’re sorry, we made a mistake.
In 1834 the British spoiled the entire system by abolishing slavery. Sorry – we should have let it continue; it was very profitable.
In 1835 the Great Trek began because the Boers (as they had become known) hated to bow to any kind of law, especially British. Rumour has it that when they reached the Orange River there was a notice on the bank warning those who could read not to cross; they crossed, and that was the beginning of the Free State, once Mzilikazi and Dingane had been dealt with. Of course, the Trekkers should have laid down and died, so they’re sorry too.

In 1852 the Transvaal was given independence; the British didn’t want it. Had they known what was under the soil they would have kept it, of course.
In 1854 the Free State was also given independence; they didn’t want that either.
In 1860 the first indentured Indians were brought to Natal; sorry, we should have left them at home. The problem was that India was already ruled by the British and the Indians didn’t have enough to do; in Natal the sugar industry was just getting under way, so what simpler answer was there but to bring the labour force to the field? We were wrong, we should have left well alone and the world could have looked elsewhere for its sugar.

Until the mid 19th century the British had only sought more land (they had so little of it at home), and the Dutch more freedom to do their own thing and build their enormous, if rather ugly, churches; however, between 1867 and 1871 various rich deposits of diamonds were found on a farm in Griqualand West, causing the encroaching Dutch and the beaten natives to fight each other once more in order to secure the ownership of this hoard. The British stepped in and annexed Griqualand West to restore peace. Sorry, we shouldn’t have done it. It would have been better to wait until each side had killed off the other; we would have got hold of the diamonds anyway.

Sensing more trouble to come, the British then went on and annexed the Transvaal which led within three years to the first Boer War which broke out in 1880. At this stage, South Africa was undergoing dramatic changes, brought about by the discovery of diamonds. Railways were being built to bring diggers and prospectors to the fields, roads were hacked through what had hitherto been deemed impenetrable mountains; the country was no longer a smattering of farmers eeking out a living around the Cape and fighting their way into the interior; it was now heading towards becoming a land of mineral wealth and value to the rest of the world. We whites should have known better than to allow this to happen. We should have left there and then. We are sorry.
The African, having nothing to offer but his labour, came in droves to the diggings and, being smart despite his rural background, began to make his fortune. We should not have let this happen. We are sorry. It caused rifts in families, untold strife, and a huge human movement whose wave is still breaking on our shores today. We should have imported our own white labour for the diamond fields and allowed the African to continue to farm his cattle, eat his mealies, and sell his daughters.

Then, as if this was not enough, gold was discovered on the Reef in 1886. More African labour left the kraals in search of wealth and fortune. We are sorry. We should not have allowed it. We should have mined the gold on our own and taken the spoils with us when we left. After all, finders keepers!

Because of the greed of the colonialists the cities of Kimberley and Johannesburg were founded in the middle of nowhere; resulting from the cupidity of the native black, steps had to be taken to accommodate those who sought work in the cities, and so, temporary shanty towns for all races were allowed to mushroom out of the veld. We are sorry. It was the start of a new problem.

1902 brought the end of the second Boer war; it was the end of tremendous suffering for both British and Afrikaner and, in retrospect, achieved little other than to unite the whole of South Africa in the Act of Union in1910. One of Britain’s great mistakes was to beat warring factions into submission, establish law and order, and then give the land back to those from whom it had been taken. We apologise; we should have kept it all for ourselves and forced those who came before us to live under the British colonial yoke.

In 1913 the National Party was formed. What had hitherto just been various small groups of people living off the land, fighting with each other from time to time but largely keeping to themselves, had suddenly become a country and a population which required organising and governing, something that the British were particularly good at, and some sort of order needed to be established to avoid the anarchy and lawlessness of the Wild West gradually taking over. In order to protect the rights of the wandering blacks, 912 million hectares of land was put aside for their sole use. For the first time, the blacks actually had the legal right to occupy and farm this enormous area.

In 1928 Iscor was formed. In order to prevent further strife between black and white, a form of segregation was attempted. It failed.

1929 saw the first National Party government come to power, but for various reasons it was a dismal failure, and in 1933 a coalition government was established under the then United Party. Because only a very small proportion of the land was arable and because both blacks and whites saw enormous wealth being wrested from the ground, large numbers of both races had abandoned the rural areas and descended on the cities, whose streets, they believed, were paved with gold. They both lived in incredible hardship and poverty – a situation which could not be allowed to continue.

1936 saw a further 6,2 million hectares of land added to the initial 912 million hectares for exclusive black use. We were wrong; we should not have allowed black legal tenure of any of the land and rather kept it for ourselves. Sorry.

By 1944 Jan Hofmeyr had lost a great deal of his support because of his promotion of the interests of black people in this country, and in 1948 the dreaded Nationalists came to power and Grand Apartheid followed soon after. We really are sorry about this one.

The dark years began with the coming to power of the Nationalists under D.F.Malan in 1948. Whereas previous governments had been interested in the welfare of all races, the Nationalists of 1948 were only interested in the furthering of Afrikaner interests and goals; anyone who was not Afrikaans (and that means the various black tribes, the English, the Indians, the Portuguese, the Italians, and the Jews) were all regarded as second-class citizens and all manner of horrible laws were passed to keep people in their place. The Afrikaner of those days was only slightly to the left of Hitler and we should, we now acknowledge, have stepped in once more and taken the country back under British rule. We are sorry we didn’t because out of this mistake came Apartheid and this country became more and more isolated as the years went by.

In the early 1950s Soweto (concertina name for South Western Townships) was laid out and established; it is still the largest black township on the African continent and was to serve as a huge dormitory area for Johannesburg. Much has been said and written about Sophiatown (most of it through the rose-coloured spectacles of time) and its untimely demise and the forced removal of its citizens to Soweto. Sophiatown was, in reality, a down-at-heel suburb of crumbling turn-of-the-century houses which were home to a great diversity of peoples; it was an area with its own vibrancy, but nonetheless an area where crime was rife and streets were ruled by gangs. Upon its demise the houses were raised and a new suburb, Triomf, was built to house the burgeoning Afrikaaner middle class.

In 1954 J.G.Strydom became prime minister. Much can be written about the Nationalists and their rise and fall; however, they can legitimately lay claim to certain interesting facts: they were the only government in modern times which had a penchant for erecting statues to people who were still alive and naming various projects (roads, airports, harbours) after their ministers. We had Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg, D.F.Malan Airport (overlooked by a rather frightening bust of the famous man looking like a large boiled egg with glasses) in Cape Town, Louis Botha (alright, he was dead) Airport in Durban; the Ben Schoeman Highway between Johannesburg and Pretoria, the Strydom Tunnel in the Eastern Transvaal, and so-on.

In order to alleviate the plight of the great unemployed masses of former years, the Nationalists created a massive, top-heavy, civil service. Whatever had to be achieved in their South Africa required books of paperwork to be completed; there were departments for this, for that, for everything under the sun. Every breath that the populace took had to be legislated; every movement required somebody’s permission in writing, and round every corner lurked an official, the Bible in one hand and the Might of the State in the other. It was bureaucracy gone mad. Every document was firstly and foremostly in Afrikaans, and every official behind every desk spoke only that language. Of course they did; it was the language God spoke, wasn’t it?

In 1958 H.F.Verwoerd came to power. We really are sorry for this one, for he, single-handedly brought about more damage than anyone else in the Nationalist hierarchy. The odd thing was that he wasn’t even South African. He had sufficiently aroused the ire of the British, so that in 1960 Harold MacMillan delivered his nail-in-the-coffin ‘winds of change’ speech in Parliament. For some years the colonial powers had been withdrawing from Africa and handing countries back to their local populations. Colonies cost an awful lot to keep going; they used manpower, a great deal of paper, and were very difficult to administer from far-away London or Brussels or Lisbon, so they were gradually given independence. After the required pomp and circumstance and the departure of the governor most of these erstwhile colonies immediately reverted to tribal warfare, rape, pillage, wanton genocide, and other little niceties that we, as whites, are very sorry to have caused by our departure. MacMillan’s speech was a warning.

By 1966 Verwoerd had become an embarrassment even here and so he was assassinated.
This brought B.J.Vorster to power; during his regency he managed the forced removal from District 6 (a slum area, much romanticised in plays, poetry and painting, where gangs ruled) and then its demolition; he established the Bureau of State Security, which watched over all of us in its safari suits and dark glasses, he allowed in a moment of extreme weakness the arrival of television some twenty years after it had been introduced to the rest of the world, and then was forced to retire iniquitously at the end of the 70s.

Whatever criticism we may throw in the direction of the Vorster administration, it was a time of great success financially for this country; so he must have done something right.
The amazing thing about the Nationalists was how, at each general election, they managed to be returned to power with a resounding majority. However on closer scrutiny it can be seen that they gerrymandered political constituencies in such a way that a small Afrikaans town had at least ten seats, whereas a large English-speaking area seldom had more than one. Of course, the ANC went one better when they introduced floor-crossing; there is no longer any need to win an election; they simply buy their support afterwards. We can’t apologise for that.

After Vorster came the Groot Krokodil and things went from bad to worse while he wagged an index finger at us through the TV screen. By 1990 most of the white population was armed to the teeth and in 1992, under F.W.de Klerk, came the famous referendum which brought about the end of Nationalist power. So in no uncertain terms the whites actually did say with a very loud voice how sorry they were for Apartheid and its attendant policies and harm.

The rest, as they say, is history. If you seek apologies from the Nationalists for what they did between 1948 and 1994, then you must go out and try to find one, because they all seem to have disappeared. Now we look forward to hearing Mad Bob’s apology, as he leaves Zim for the last time.

And that, in the words of John Vorster, is all about it.

Steam train excursions, trips and adventure - Blog Toplist

2009-04-30T13:48:00.001+02:00

Steam train excursions, trips and adventure - Blog Toplist

The Train

2009-04-26T11:48:00.000+02:00

It’s a cold, blustery morning with a hint of spring in the air; clouds hurry across a pale blue sky causing sudden showers to wet the pavements of the dull coastal town. It is the end of March 1959, a time when travel of any kind is still imbued with romance and excitement. Long distance air-travel is still something of a luxury for which the few still dress up; jets have recently taken the place of lumbering turbo-prop aircraft allowing destinations which were once a few days away to be only a few hours out of our increasingly busy lives. Each journey is preceded by days of anticipation and eager packing; there is still the sense of going somewhere, leaving and arriving amidst noise and bustle. We have not reached the stage of arriving at a huge sprawling airport with crush-proof baggage, dressed in jeans and running shoes, to join a long queue to have our papers stamped and then to be herded into cramped spaces numbered on our tickets. We are not transported from A to B, personal phones switched off and stowed in our hand-luggage; we are not force-fed with aircraft food off plastic plates, nor are we concerned with what movie may be playing to while away the few brief hours of our high-speed journey; we have not reached the stage of departing one side of the world and arriving on another within twenty-four hours, wondering how we arrived there or what we have missed on the way. In 1959 it is not the arriving that matters, it is the getting there which holds all the pleasure.

Few families own even one car and our towns and villages are not scored with enormous shopping centres and carparks; we take the bus to do the shopping, we go to work by train, we buy tickets instead of carrying credit cards for the purchase of petrol; we cannot plan our journeys by computer; we cannot press a button and have our tickets printed within a matter of seconds; the world we live in is much bigger, much more individual, its nooks a crannies still undiscovered and untrammelled by tourism; the age of the masses is yet to come.

England is still criss-crossed with minor railway lines which are still profitable; country stations still have tended flower beds and heated waiting rooms; we can still sit by the fire, and the art of conversation is still alive; we have not yet reached the stage where our lives are ruled by the television schedule, and we still regard the Sunday chicken as something of a luxury. We know who lives in our street and what they do, how many children they have; we still go to the cinema occasionally instead of taking in a movie; we dress for the theatre. It is 1959.

So it was that, on that blustery morning, the old black taxi deposited us and our various large, leather bags, at the steps that swept up to the main railway station. We had already bought and paid for our tickets and, unheard of as it is today, our seats were booked. We heaved the numerous bags up the steps and through the dark foyer onto the windswept platform to join the already large crowd of people waiting expectantly for the train. It is almost impossible to imagine today the smell of a railway station; in those far-off days there was somehow an odour of stale coal-smoke, damp clothes, the sea, and numerous other scents that whistled through the drafty entrance so fast that you were largely unaware of them. But they were there and they made up part of the excitement of going somewhere. Although nothing much was happening there was a constant buzz of hushed conversations, the occasional clang of a porter’s trolley as it unloaded someone’s luggage on the platform, the sound of a distant taxi arriving or leaving, but over all lay a kind of hushed expectancy, a waiting for something momentous to happen. The cold wind cut in eddies under the bridge and along the platform, causing us to hug scarves tighter and raise collars against departing winter. The large central clock beneath the sooty awning stood at eleven-forty-five and every few seconds we stole a glance beyond the bridge, round the curve of the line, hoping to see something.

Promptly at eleven forty-seven a hissing and clanking could be heard somewhere just out of sight, the other side of the bridge. This hissing grew louder and louder until it was overtaken by a kind of huffing roar; clouds of smoke began to appear through the arches of the bridge, and then, suddenly, with an almost deafening chuff, hiss, and clank, the enormous monster grew out of the bridge until it dwarfed the crowd on the platform. A belching funnel topped a mountain of dark green shiny paint and gleaming brass; massive silver pistons shot up and down, back and forth, a wave of heat struck us from the tender as it slid past, and then came carriage after carriage of dark red and gold, sweating from a recent shower, windows closed and slightly misted from the outside cold. Almost silently now, the enormous monster came to rest against the platform with a final hiss of steam as it curled up from somewhere underneath the carriages. Doors opened with a thud, leather straps waving in the wind, and the scramble to get aboard began. This was the beginning of a journey.

We manhandled our luggage into the corridor and left it by the door while we went looking for the reserved seats. Outside in the windy morning the announcer could be heard above the clamour and hiss reading out the stations of our journey; they were magical names even though they were distorted by the speaker-system and the amount of noise that the arrival of a large train always generates. “Chichester, Portsmouth, Yeoville, Exeter, Okehampton, Plymouth.” Inside, the carriages smelled of soot, steam, slightly of coffee, but most of all of going somewhere. The corridors were jammed with people walking up and down looking for reservations and the atmosphere was warm with the dampness of steam-heating. We found our reserved seats and heaved the luggage along to the compartment and then up onto the rack which stretched above our heads.

Our compartment was not full – there were still three seats vacant – but every seat had a little card screwed above it showing that it was reserved. The seats were of a dark red moquette with arms which pulled down between each place; the window was large and square and when you sat down it came to knee-level; the top section consisted of a ventilator which could slide along into the open position to allow a bit of fresh air to enter the compartment and each place was topped with a framed picture of some seaside spot. The air inside could only be described as a ‘fug’. We struggled out of our overcoats, folded them and put them up on the rack, for this was to be a long haul; we took our window seats and watched the platform expectantly, waiting for the inevitable whistle and the knowledge that, at last, the journey was beginning.

At ten years old it was the first time that I had been anywhere outside the routine of going to school or exploring the local woods and fields with my friends; it was also the end of an era of post-war greyness where life was depressingly the same, day in and day out. Around the corner, at the end of the year, was the beginning of the famous 1960s: the start of inflation, the end of the security of knowing just where we would all be at the end of each month, the era of free love, flower-power, and the end of many institutions to which we had all become accustomed. By the end of the coming decade many of the smaller railway-lines would be closed, steam would be largely a thing of the past, cars would be the rule rather than the exception, and people would begin to fly to ever more distant destinations, becoming more and more casual about it as time began to fly past for all of us. In a sense, 1959 marked the beginning of the end of innocence.

After precisely three minutes, the enormous twelve-carriage red and cream monster began almost imperceptibly to move, sliding out of the station away from the platform and pulled by this enormous streamlined relic of the early 1940s which belched and puffed great gouts of black smoke into the cloudy sky. The suburban back gardens began to slide past, at first slowly and then with increasing speed until one blended in with the next. Level crossings flew past outside the window, small stations caused the train to rock excitingly as it dashed westwards, and from each bridge under which we steamed small groups of children ran in and out of the cloud of smoke that marked our passing. We were finally on our way.

The grey of suburbia gave way to the sound of the click-clack of the wheels over the joins in the rail to the green of fields filled with new grass, shining with a recent shower of rain, and in the background we could see the hills and hedges of the South Downs which, in turn became once more a jumble of houses, gardens, and factories as we slowed into Portsmouth. Up and down the carriages bustled a man in uniform announcing that the first sitting for lunch was now open, so we stashed our bits and pieces and, as the train once more slid into motion, staggered along rocking corridors until we reached the dining car. This was a long saloon through which the passage led, seats arranged in groups of four on the left and two on the right, each seat facing a table set with a spotless white cloth on which was set the required number of places. Each place had silver cutlery, its own napkin and wineglass, and each plate, when it came, bore the insignia of British Railways. It was a heady experience to sit at such a table and be served good food while looking out of the window at total strangers who stood waiting for some other train, huddled against the cold and wrapped in raincoats against the chilly March showers.

As we left the big port cities of Portsmouth and Southampton behind us, the sun burst from behind the scudding clouds; occasionally the view from the window was hidden behind a streak of steam from the engine and the cutlery jangled merrily as we rocked and rattled our way through small country stations at speed. Like royalty we sat back and enjoyed our roast beef and our chatter as the rest of the world went about its daily business, shielded from us by a sheet of glass while we, in our normal indoor clothes (although somewhat smarter for the occasion) enjoyed the warmth and security of our isolation. The world outside was still turning, still doing its shopping, its farming, delivering post in suburban streets, but we were going somewhere; we had all the trappings of excitement and movement and the knowledge that this was a day unlike any other.

After lunch was over we returned to our compartment, warm and replete with good food and enjoyed the ever-changing scenery as the train steadily steamed westwards. Ploughed fields which had been brown in Sussex and Hampshire became red as we crossed Dorset; hills which had been low and rounded became higher, and roads which had been wide and flat became narrow and winding and edged with high hedges. It suddenly rained while we stood in Chard station but the sun soon shone again, somehow brighter this time, as we crossed into Devonshire and the shadows began to lengthen into late afternoon.

All was hustle and bustle at Exeter Central where we stopped for ten minutes or so, the loudspeakers on the platform telling us to change here for Dawlish and the southern towns, but we were soon on our way again, this time close to the wilds of Dartmoor with its barren hills and bare trees, and at the end of the afternoon we pulled gently into Okehampton. We gathered our bags from the luggage rack and walked down the corridor to the open door to the platform. Okehampton was a sleepy station whose only claim to fame seemed to be that it was the junction for the branch line on which we were to continue our explorations.

As the long cream and red monster huffed its way out of the station and into the darkening distance we crossed the platform to another smaller train, this time in the green livery of British Railways, which waited, four carriages behind a much smaller engine; small puffs of steam came from beneath each carriage and we seemed to be the only people on the platform. Opening one of the doors, we climbed aboard and stashed our luggage in one of the rear compartments, having been warned that the train would split at Tower Hill, the first two carriages taking the northern line to Bude while the remainder of the train would continue south-westwards to Padstow. Since there was an hour before its scheduled departure, my mother asked one of the men in uniform if we could leave our bags on the train while we went for a cup of tea.
“You’m leave ‘em where ‘e likes, m’dear. They’m quite safe,” he encouraged, as he walked down the platform.

As a ten-year-old who had never been anywhere, I couldn’t understand a word he said, but it was fine and we climbed the steps up the bridge and crossed the lines to the station cafeteria where we had a rather watery cup of British Railways tea served in apparently indestructible white china.

At just before six o’clock we climbed back into the train. Outside, the gas-lamps were already giving off their steamy, greenish glow, and the quiet countryside was disappearing into the approaching night. With a few creaks and groans the train began to move and soon we were slowly chugging our way along a winding track with the sound of the river Dart chattering away somewhere below us; we seemed to be virtually the only people on the train. The night air smelled of all the scents of spring: we could almost see the catkins on the trees and feel the whisps of mist which clung to the lower slopes of the moor.

Small country stations marked points of hesitation in our journey, and I remember clearly the brighter and larger appearance of Launceston as we stopped there for a few minutes. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, dark now, we shunted back and forth at Tower Hill, and then we were on our way once more and into the unexplored wilds of North Cornwall as night finally wrapped us in our own little cocoon of electric light reflected in the dark window-panes of the compartment. I was tired and sleepy with all the excitement of the day, but I remember well the three stations where we stopped. I remember the strange names they bore: Egloskerry, Tresmeer, Otterham.

At Otterham, we gathered up our bags, opened the door into the quiet night, and stepped down onto the still platform. Owls hooted somewhere nearby and small insects buzzed around the gas-lamps as we walked slowly towards the station buildings where a small man in tweeds and a battered pork-pie hat waited for us. The three of us made up the entire complement of humanity on this rather deserted and lonely platform. The stranger ambled up to us and took our bags.
“You’m bin ‘itch-‘ikin’, m’dear?” he asked my mother as we walked into the building. For a moment she looked surprised – lost for an answer. Perhaps, like me, she didn’t understand him either.
“Oh, you mean ‘hitch-hiking’”, she laughed as we walked out of the building towards the green Austin Somerset which waited just outside the station. “No, why do you ask that?”
“Well,’ he said, ‘train’s late. I’m waitin for ‘e for more ‘n twenny minutes,” he grinned as he threw the bags in the boot and opened the doors for us.

As we drove off into the unlit night and down endless winding lanes of apparently empty countryside, past Tresparrat Posts, and other little hamlets whose names I completely forget, I nodded with sleep in the leather back-seat. Our journey, the first of many for me, had come to an end, and with it came the end of one of the most memorable days of my childhood, but one which I would never forget and which I would always strive to repeat.

The End of the Day

2009-04-26T11:46:00.000+02:00

Outside all was quiet and peaceful; the garden slept in the deep heat of a summer afternoon and the pool burbled quietly away. Birds flew in and out of the sprinklers in the herbaceous borders, bees buzzed quietly in and out of the flowers, and the big dog slept against the sliding glass doors to the patio.

Inside he was putting the finishing touches to a painting, his thoughts far away as he brushed at the canvas. Although she had been dead less than five months, suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of her voice calling him repeatedly from somewhere inside the house. The dog immediately rose up, skidding on the tiled floor, his hackles standing on end; he looked into the darkened house and barked softly. The painter got up from his painting and went to investigate – but there was nothing to be seen or found.

Some days later, after a bad night when he had lain awake for a long time worrying about this and that detail of the future, he heard, through the mists of sleep, the phone ringing. He looked at his watch; it was only 6.45 a.m. and so he curled up again and went back to sleep. At nine he woke up, stretched, and reached for the morning pill, realising from the congestion in his chest, that he had to get to the nebulizer quickly.

He staggered into the living room, loaded the nebulizer, switched it on, and put it to his mouth to take the first relieving breaths of the morning. Suddenly, his mouth was filled with something horrid – something that struggled and moved around, and eventually bit him quite hard in the left cheek. He coughed and spluttered and spat the offending thing out on the floor. It was a spider which had found its way into the mouthpiece of the nebulizer and now lay, dying, on the floor.

He paid it little heed at the time, finishing off his time on the machine before going to make the customary morning tea. His mouth felt a little numb and vaguely unpleasant, but he soon forgot about it as he went about the chores of the day – one of which was to see who had phoned so early in the morning.

It wasn’t until much later in the morning that he became aware that his mouth was still tingly and rather numb, and he idly wondered why. He walked out to the kitchen and started the washing-up from the day before, listening with one ear to the radio which blared out its usual hash of reggae and popular music of the day, interspersed with the occasional news bulletin and the same adverts that had been spewing forth for the last two weeks from the speakers. He didn’t really have the radio on to listen to it, more for the company as he went about his solitary day.

It was after lunch that he first realised there might be something wrong. His mouth still felt a little numb, but nothing to worry about, but now he felt how the glands under his arms were enlarged, and a kind of drowsiness crept over him in waves. He stood up from the computer where he was working and took a few steps towards the kitchen with the intention of making a cup of tea. Suddenly, without warning, he found himself lying flat on the floor of the passage. The door frames seemed to be all the wrong way up and the windows, where he could see them, were all upside-down. He was quite conscious yet he knew that he couldn’t move, couldn’t even reach for the phone in his pocket, let alone remember what numbers to dial. He lay like that for some time. The dog came and snuffled at his face, eventually lying down beside him because he understood that, somehow, his master couldn’t move properly. The only thing he could do was to lie there and see that no harm came to him. Outside the silence of the midday persisted.

After what seemed like a long time, he was able to get up again and walk shakily to the bedroom, where he lay down on the bed. The dog followed him, licking his face and snuffling against him, but to no avail, because the dog couldn’t speak English, or any other language. He only understood that something was wrong with his master, and he wasn’t going to move.

Some time later, in the mid afternoon it must have been, he found enough strength to get to the kitchen and switch on the kettle. His mouth was no longer numb and he was beginning to feel better; but hardly had he found a cup and poured the hot water into it on top of the teabag, than he was once more overcome with giddiness and tiredness, and it was all he could do to get as far as the bed and fall, noisily, on top of it. The dog followed him, knowing in his way that there was something wrong, but being quite unable to deal with it.

He must have slept for an hour or so, and when he woke up the tea was still by the bed and the dog was lying peacefully on the floor. He struggled up and took a couple of mouthfuls of cold tea and then lay back, exhausted, on the pillows. The room had begun to come and go again in his vision. One moment it was dark and quiet, the next it seemed full of light and he could hear many voices just outside his ability to understand what they were trying to say. These voices the dog couldn’t hear.

He must have lain there for several hours, because the next time he opened his eyes, the light had faded to twilight and the evening was well advanced. He had a vague memory of the phone ringing somewhere in the distance, but he wasn’t quite sure where, or what he had done with the instrument which he normally carried with him. The dog was now restless, because it was past his time for eating, and he was hungry, but the man on the bed could not find the energy to get as far as the kitchen and dig out the food.

Later, when he awoke again, it was fully dark outside, and the whole house was in darkness. He realised, with a certain sort of alarm, that he couldn’t really feel his feet, and that other extremities seemed to have gone to sleep. The dog remained curled up at the side of the bed, not wanting to leave his master for even one minute. He tried to lean over and touch the dog, to ruffle its head and say that all was OK, but he couldn’t do it. With a kind of resignation, he realised that perhaps he would never be able to get up off this bed again – but somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

The voices were coming nearer, but he still couldn’t understand what they were trying to say. At times the room seemed full of light and he could see faint shapes moving somewhere beyond his vision, but he soon gave up trying to see them or to understand what they were saying. He must have dozed off again because when he woke later, it seemed that the night was well advanced. He heard, in the distance, the sound of a clock chiming three. And then, suddenly, the room was filled with light and he could see people he hadn’t seen for many years and he could almost understand what they were trying to say. It was then that he remembered the spider and the calls in the quiet afternoon, and he lay back, exhausted, and allowed the people and the room to gradually swallow him up into their strange embrace. He breathed his last, stertorous breath, at 3.30 a.m. and then lay back and surrendered to those who had come to fetch him.

Three days later the cleaning lady came in and found him, dead on the bed, the dog still lying faithfully at his side on the bedside mat. She let out a piercing shriek and ran for help. The dog didn’t move because as long as his master was still there, this was his place and he was not going to forsake it for anyone.

Two hours later, the ambulance had come and gone on its last trip, and a friendly neighbour coaxed the old dog to his final resting place at the local vet. The past was now over – finished. Nothing mattered any more.

The Haunted House

2009-04-26T11:44:00.001+02:00

In the autumn of 1970 my mother and I moved into a large house in Parktown; although not as ostentatious as some of the houses built by the Randlords in the last decade of the 19^th century, built in 1897 it was a very solid Victorian of typical appearance, single storey with gables to the front and one side joined by a covered veranda, and set in an acre of what had once been lush garden. It had an enormous lounge with a fireplace, an interleading music room looking onto the front stoep, a large dining room with a most interesting arched stained glass window which opened to the lounge, and several of the external windows were of etched glass. The lounge and music rooms both had intricate pressed-steel ceilings with a deep cornice and in the centre of each ceiling was a magnificent chandelier made of hand-blown Venetian glass. The floors, which at first glance appeared to be covered by lino, were made of the most intricate marquetry in a delicate pattern. It was one of the loveliest houses I have ever lived in.

The occurrences started as soon as we began moving in. The removal lorry was parked in the back garden and I gave directions to the men as each item of furniture was removed and taken into the house; in the meantime my mother was hanging pictures in the lounge and making sure each piece of furniture ended up in the right place in the right room. She was knocking a nail into the wall next to the stained glass window by the lounge fireplace and opening to the dining room but the nail refused to remain in position and kept on falling out. She clearly heard a voice behind her saying “What are you doing?” Thinking that I was in the room and had asked the question, she turned round to find herself alone in the house. When she looked out of the dining room window I was still outside with the removal lorry.

After I had been able to restore the living areas to their previous splendour (they had been painted in the most terrible colours by the previous occupants), we would sit by the fire in the lounge in the evenings quietly listening to the radio or to music on the hi-fi. We had at that time two cats which were never far away and these would curl up in front of the fire on the settee. However, sometimes, the cats, ever aware of their surroundings, would refuse to remain in the room; their hackles would rise and their fur would stand on end suddenly and, peering into the corner in the direction of the stained glass window, they would suddenly run out of the room. Sometimes if I looked up slightly I could see at the edge of my vision, a couple standing by this window and silently watching us. They were not malevolent, but they were definitely there. As time went by we became quite accustomed to sharing the sitting room with this nameless couple and so really ceased to notice them.

The front door opened into a large entrance hall next to the music room; the hall then led through an interior door into a passage which ran the length of the house between the living areas and the bedrooms to the door into the dining room. Outside the front door there was an electric bell which connected with a bell-pull in the main bedroom; neither of these appliances worked any longer and had probably failed with old age. However, sometimes and for no apparent reason, they would ring. My mother used her bedroom (she slept in the large front room) as a sewing room and often she would become aware of a woman in a long pink dress slipping through the closed front door and disappearing down the passage.

The piano was situated in the music room at an angle which permitted me to see both the front stoep and through the door into the entrance hall. Late one night I was trying to get my fingers round a Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody when, suddenly, I became aware of someone standing behind my right shoulder; it seemed he was urging me to let him show me the right way to handle the music. Afraid and ‘spooked’ I jumped up, turned out the light and went to bed.

Even friends of ours who were avowed sceptics and who denied the existence of the supernatural would often refuse to stay in the sitting room because they felt uncomfortable there; they felt as if someone was watching them.

When we had lived in the house for about two years I was introduced to a clairvoyant; he was a strange elderly man who lived in a very grand flat in the centre of Johannesburg. Wearing a copper-coloured corduroy suit over a dark red jersey, I visited him for the first time one winter night. When I knocked on his door he called from inside the flat and told me to wait a minute. From the other side of the door, in which there was no peep-hole, he told me that I was tall and blond and was dressed in a mixture of coppery brown and red. I was amazed, but was even more surprised when, as we sat across the table from each other, he described accurately the house in which we lived, even going so far as to detail the stained glass window which seemed to be the centre of these ‘happenings’.

He also told me about the two people who stood by the window from time to time: apparently they were a couple who had lived in the house about 1920 and who had had some very memorable experience in that room, hence their returning there quite frequently.

There was also, from time to time, a terrible smell of death which hovered around the second bedroom from the front door; on conducting some research I found out that an elderly man had been killed in the house by robbers who believed he had hidden a large sum of money under the floor. This happened in 1956, or thereabouts.

Say what you will, houses collect the feelings and scents of those who have lived in them, a bit like a piece of clothing absorbs the scent of the person to whom it belongs. Sometimes these spirits are downright evil and need to be removed so that we can enjoy peace but on other occasions they are merely the ghosts of those who once were who return to visit a place of importance to them from time to time. They mean no harm and we should learn to live with them.

Real Estate in South Africa

2009-04-26T10:23:00.001+02:00

For more information about properties for sale in the Cape, go to: www.countryplaces.co.za

A Few of my Paintings (for those who want to see them!)

2009-04-25T14:37:00.002+02:00

Riversong Oaks

Muratie

Cosmos

Richtersveld

Kolmanskop doorway

Evening train (Kenya)

Crossroads

Red Alder tree in our garden

If you want to see more, just let me know and I will post them with titles.

2009-04-25T14:25:00.000+02:00

WHERE WILL YOU BE WHEN JZ BECOMES PRESIDENT?

(I wrote this article in September 2006, but it is interesting to look back now on things as they were then.....)

I must appeal to all your readers, as ordinary Sethafricans, many of whom no doubt think that ‘circumstance’ is spelt ‘sirCUMstance’, to help us get rid of the self-servers in our government who invariably put themselves above both the law and the will of the people. While I must take off my proverbial hat to our financial moguls, who alone seem to be doing the right thing and keeping their noses clean into the bargain, I am thinking of the likes of our Ministress of Health who insists on spouting absurdities publicly (and looks like some sort of a smiling root tuber beneath an acrylic tea-cosy), her predecessor who is now Ministress of Foreign Affairs (please note most of these ladies have given themselves hyphenated names to announce their importance), our good Ms Fraser-Moleketi (hyphenated, of course) who manages to use a great many words in saying very little (bullshit baffles brains), the ridiculous antics of one Tony Yengeni who is enjoying the luxury of prison just 20 kms from myself, and the frightening (if not laughable) Jacob Zuma with his perennial rent-a-crowd and endless court appearances. Not only does he spout inanities publicly – not his fault, I suppose, because he was somewhere else when education was being dished out – but he has the nerve to invent wicked little ditties about machine guns and the lack of shame to actually get up and sing these songs in public.

Does he realise what will actually happen if he manages to make the Supreme Court go away, enters the race for State President, and finally gets elected?

I can tell you: the majority of Sethafricans will pack up and go to New Zealand, or somewhere far enough away that they will not have to witness the catastrophe that this country will rapidly become. While graft and corruption in high places is a problem at the moment, it will, under his presidency, become the norm; we shall be able to achieve nothing unless the right palm is greased with the correct amount of cash. To this end we are probably doing the right thing to keep our famous Ministress of Health because all we shall need in order to guarantee our safety after sex is a shower to wash away any little viruses we may have contracted. We will safely be able to do away with the judiciary (they will in any case have left, if they have any sense) because, with large enough crowds in the streets, we shall be able to disregard their findings with impunity.

You think that things are bad at the moment? Baby, you haven’t lived.

I can assure you of one thing: if Cde Zuma becomes the next president, my bags will be packed and I will be joining the queues at the airports (we don’t know what they will be called because they keep changing their names to remind us of various little political upheavals) for any flight, anywhere but here. His ascendancy to the presidency will herald the commencement of a new era in this country: the Age of the Comrade. Any old Tom, Dick, or Themba, will be able to seat himself in a palatial office and become a millionaire overnight, whilst the poor and dispossessed throng the streets with their begging bowls, if they haven’t died of AIDS, that is.

When P.W.Botha warned us of a future ‘too terrible to contemplate’ I think he must have meant just this; lucky man, dishonoured and forgotten in his house in Wilderness, he will probably have had the good fortune to die before his awful prediction comes true.

But seriously, before it’s too late, lets get rid of these mamparas from our halls of government; lets show the rest of the world that we are indeed a thinking and responsible people (even though we live in Africa), and, for pity’s sake, lets try to shut the stable door BEFORE the horse has bolted.

Otherwise, our future will be too terrible to contemplate.

The End of Innocence

2009-04-25T14:17:00.000+02:00

Where Was I on June 16th 1976? The End of Innocence.

On that fateful day in 1976 I was living in the Northern suburbs of Johannesburg and working as a medical rep in the Jeppe St area, calling on all the specialists up and down the street. I had been living in Johannesburg since 1968, when I arrived on holiday from UK and simply never went home! In fact South Africa was such a wonderful place in those days that the thoughts of going back to the dreariness of suburban England with its memories of Harold Wilson creeping onto our television screens like some ante-deluvian mollusc and delivering a speech through his nose were too awful to contemplate.

Although my generation, who had never been further than the boundaries of their own towns, decried South Africa as a police state and were all consummately knowledgeable about our every misdemeanour, often refused even to discuss this country with me, and although we lived here in the shadow of Apartheid, South Africa was a wonderful place to be. I can hear the murmurs off-stage of ‘only if you were white’ and the echoes of today’s trades unionists warbling about ‘The Struggle’ and about how dreadfully the blacks suffered at the time, but let me tell you: unemployment was much lower than it is today and relatively few people ever went to bed hungry.

Anyway, the purpose of this article is not to raise the issue of the unfairness of the system or the behind-the-scenes brutality of the Bureau of State Security (the head of which was an erstwhile client of mine); it is perhaps to debunk some of the outpouring of white guilt that we have seen in the last ten years, and to give the lie to those who mistakenly equate Apartheid with the Holocaust. We were not afraid to speak our minds (although only those of us who courted disaster on a regular basis would have shot off our mouths too loudly or too publicly) nor were we afraid to live our lives as we thought best.

Coming from a relatively liberal background, I had always seen and treated people as people and not judged them purely by the colour of their skins; for the first couple of years in this country we even had maids – until we became tired of being constantly ripped off by them and their families. I personally had many friends who were ‘not the right colour’ and was a frequent illegal visitor to Soweto where I enjoyed a freedom of spirit and a generosity which was certainly lacking in the white areas. The same people often came to my house unhindered, joined in our merrymaking, and were free to come and go as they chose.

However, all that came to an end from June 16th 1976 onward. By the end of that day my house had become more of a refugee centre than a home as cousins and siblings of friends arrived begging for asylum from the madness which had gripped Soweto. They were not politicos; they were simply children who ran away from what was beginning to look more and more like a war-zone; they were running to somewhere where they would be safe.

Perhaps June 16th 1976 was really the end of innocence for so many of us; almost overnight everything became politicised, from the language you spoke at home to the colour of your skin. Although the Apartheid system had imposed a whole raft of legislation about where you could and could not go, depending on what colour you were, we had always been relatively free to go where we chose and associate with whom we chose – provided, of course, we didn’t fornicate with them in the streets! I soon learned that public fornication was limited to the pillars of society of the day who would run across the border to Swaziland every few weeks to assuage their wicked desires! Let any visitor to Mantenga Falls show me a car with a registration number that did not belong in Randfontein, Pretoria, Krugersdorp, or Ventersdorp, and I would truly be surprised.

My decision to leave Johannesburg permanently (and never to this day to go back) was made first thing in the morning on June 17th 1976 when I had to duck into several doorways to avoid volleys of rifle fire in the central city. I made up my mind there and then that nowhere was worth that kind of sacrifice and so, very shortly afterward, I flung a few things in the car and left permanently for Cape Town. It was the civilised thing to do.

Since that time, despite whatever has happened over the years, we as a society have become more and more politicised; we have grown further and further apart; we have been divided into ‘us’ and ‘them’. Yes, for the sake of peace and the future of this country, those of us with any sense voted ‘yes’ in the referendum of 1992, and peace reigned, but it turned out to be a peace which allowed a small group to rise and become super-rich while their compatriots (they would say ‘comrades’) continued to suffer; it was a peace which heralded the dreaded ‘affirmative action’ whereby those with the knowledge and experience were forced into early retirement or exile whilst those without either of the former rose to prominence in our country; it was a peace which paved the way for crime to blossom and corruption to flourish, a peace which turned our South African world on its ear; the age of innocence ended for all of us on June 16th 1976 and that is why the day should be remembered with sadness – nostalgia for values which have now become lost and totally forgotten.

Freedom was certainly anything but free.

Child Molestation

2009-04-25T14:15:00.000+02:00

Our Favourite Hobby-Horse

Well, here we go again! On the e-tv news tonight (19/6/06) there was a story about two eleven-year-old girls in Cape Town who were picked up by a paedophile. Yes, you got it – Child Molestation par excellence. It seems that the great and heinous dereliction of duty was on the part of the SAPS who, despite the matter having been reported to them, have so far done nothing.

Now, if I understand correctly, the complaint was lodged by these two delightful children, not because they had been molested (e-tv’s word not mine), but in the end because one girl had been paid R5 more than the other for her services.

It is quite clear, therefore, that these children were not complaining about the terrible things done to them or the amount of physical suffering they were made to endure, but the cause of their complaint was simply that they had not been fairly paid for their services.

I can only say that, under the circumstances, the SAPS have my full support in ignoring the complaint altogether.

Child molestation is South Africa’s favourite hobby-horse, and, it seems, one that will be flogged way past the point of death. These two girls knew full well what they were getting into and, it seems, were none the worse for the experience; they were quite happy to accept money for indecent acts and the illegal use of their bodies. The only reason that the story ever saw the official light of day was that one was paid slightly more than the other.

It is high time that we re-evaluated what we consider to be a child; these were not children in the sense of the word that you or I might understand; they were prostitutes, plain and simple. They were quite prepared to sell themselves in return for a small financial reward and were not in the least concerned how their story would impact on the life of the perpetrator – the lonely man who picked them up, took them home, no doubt bathed them (I sincerely hope so), had his wicked way with them, and then paid them. This scenario had not happened once but quite a number of times without any complaint.

Now, bleeding hearts, come out of the woodwork and start chaining yourselves to railings and waving placards in front of police stations complaining that the police are not doing their jobs. Whilst I am no proponent of sex with under-age children, I am certainly not so silly as to believe that the guilty party is always the adult. In this case, the ‘children’ should be found guilty of entrapment and engaging in under-age prostitution and should be punished accordingly.

Let’s get it right just for once and allow the police to get on with the job of preventing real crime and arresting real criminals.

The Curse of Modern Telecommunications

2009-04-25T14:03:00.000+02:00

In these times of high-speed communication in all spheres there is one system that makes all our lives difficult: the Automated Voice Answering system.

In a country with a remarkably high rate of unemployment, one would think it sensible to employ human beings to answer telephones, especially when most large concerns now have these awful things called ‘call centres’. However, it seems that this is not the case. The greatest form of frustration that most large organisations subject us to goes like this:

You dial the number (generally prefixed by 0860) and, after two rings, a machine picks up the line and says:

“Good day; you are now connected to Grabitallandspring Banking. If you would like this message in English please press one, in Afrikaans press two, in Zulu press three, in Xhosa press four, in Sotho press five, in Shangaan press six, in Ndebele press seven, in Pedi press eight, in Tswana press nine, in Siswati press ten” and so-on.

You press a number. The machine begins again:

“For account enquiries please press one, for debit orders press two, for stop orders press three, for investment banking press four, for savings accounts press five, for transmission accounts press six,” etc. You press a number.

The machine continues:

“If you know the number of the extension to which you wish to speak please press it now; if your enquiry is of a general nature please press one, for our accounts department please press two, or hold for the next available operator.”

Uncertain of what to do now, you hold. The machine once again begins to speak:

“For security purposes this call is being recorded.” Some sort of canned muzak now takes over the line, punctuated every now and then with “Your call is important to us so please hold for the next available operator”. You wait. The voice begins again:

“Grabitallandspring Bank offers you the best and widest option of home loans available on today’s market.” You hold.

“Did you know,” the machine continues, “that over 500 000 people subscribe to our on-line newsletter explaining how to exhaust the public’s patience without us paying one single employee or using one extra man-hour?” The muzak is back for a few moments.

“Your call is important to us, so please hold for the next available operator.”

Nine minutes (yes, I’ve counted them) have now passed and I have yet to speak to a human being; I have almost forgotten why I phoned this number in the first place. Eventually, if I keep the connection open long enough and if I haven’t run screaming into the street, a human being whispers in an almost inaudible and usually incomprehensible voice “You’re speaking to Thandi; how can I help you?”

“Could you please speak up; I can hardly hear.” The voice continues to whisper and you press the phone into your ear so hard that it nearly comes out the other side of your head.

“I need to know to what address you are sending your statements because I have not received one for some months now.”

“What is your account number?”

“123456789”

“Please hold.” The muzak is back, the advertising is back; you can almost hear the tape machine whirring. Minutes pass before the line clicks and the voice once more begins to whisper.

“What is your identity number?”

“I’m sorry; I can’t hear you. Please speak up.” The voice repeats the question in a slightly louder whisper. Perhaps it is you who are going deaf?

“What is your identity number?”

“123456789”

“Please hold.” The line clicks and you are back with the muzak and the advertising. Two minutes pass.

“What is your address?”

You give the address and once again the muzak cuts in. Two minutes pass.

“Thankyou for holding. What sort of account is it?”

You have now been on the phone for at least fifteen minutes and have achieved nothing; the person at the other end of the line is probably in Calcutta because wages are lower there and the only body gaining from this exercise in frustration is Telkom, so, in sheer frustration and annoyance, you slam down the phone and decide it would be better for you to drive thirty kilometres to the nearest branch where you can wait in line and, eventually, speak to a living, breathing, understanding human being who at least knows what he/she is doing.

You may consider this absurd, but I can assure you it’s not. What you have read above is a verbatim transcript of a call to a well-known bank in an effort to obtain a statement on a particular account. To date no such statement has been provided; I have taken approximately five years off my lifespan, and Telkom has become immeasurable richer.

Perhaps we should all go to Mauritius and let the machines take over our lives back home; who knows, they may even learn to talk to each other?

Tribal Customs and the Spread of Aids

2009-04-25T13:53:00.000+02:00

At last someone has managed to hit the nail on the head (Why AIDS cases are so high in Africa – Mukaronda). A great deal of hot air and paper have been expended on various campaigns which hope to do something to arrest the spread of this terrible virus, and so far without success. It is heartening to read that someone has indeed tried to tell us that one of the main reasons these campaigns have failed is because African men are supposed to enjoy more than one partner at a time and that the use of condoms is strictly against cultural principles.

So now we have the main reason that these campaigns have failed; we have the cause but seem to be far away from any kind of solution. If you look back in history you will see just how short-sighted and foolish many of these customs are (the story of Nongause is a perfect example) and how they are at total odds with life as it is today. However, changing the beliefs and mindset of an entire continent is going to be very difficult indeed.

We have been regaled on a daily basis with the events of the Zuma rape trial and, while I have no axe to grind for either side, the incredible ignorance of both Zuma and the complainant is staggering. The judge has tried to apply European thinking to both parties, but I feel this is wrong. The complainant was probably utterly unaware that unprotected sex with any partner could expose her to a fresh infection because there are many forms of the virus; she probably thought that, once infected, she had nothing further to lose; Zuma’s attempt at hiding within cultural norms and thinking is also completely foolish, although he would not be at such risk as the complainant, unless the activity in which he indulged was so strenuous as to cause him injury. In any case, he had the good sense to shower afterwards! Ho hum!

In a country where the erstwhile Minister of Health advocated a diet of beetroot and African potato in preference to anti-retrovirals, despite the fact that the latter have been proven to be beneficial in lengthening the life-span of those infected with the virus, while the former is nothing more than a home remedy, speaks for itself.

We Europeans have learned, over many centuries, that certain behaviour is not only highly dangerous but also total anathema to today’s way of life. Once upon a time we also engaged in sacrifices and believed in appeasing our ancestors; the ancient Egyptians were always buried with their most treasured possessions and they even had food in their sarcophagi in the belief that they would need it to sustain them on their journey to the afterlife. We have come a long way, but it has taken us thousands of years to do so, and to believe that a people who were not exposed to the same history as ourselves could change their customs literally overnight is absurd.

As with the people who followed Nongause’s advice and slaughtered their cattle, bringing upon themselves terrible consequences, so with tribal custom and modern medicine. The one simply serves to negate the other and will continue to do so until a sufficient number of people have died, the race is decimated and people begin to wake up and see that perhaps a change in custom and behaviour is necessary in order to solve the problem.

Hopefully, Mukaronda can show the way and start to effect the changes in thinking that are long overdue. Only when one has had the misfortune to watch someone close die of this terrible syndrome can you begin to urge the living to do something positive to save themselves, and that something, unfortunately, consists of a great deal more than merely resorting to home remedies and ‘boereraat’. There is no place for ignorance in these enlightened times of 2006.

The Wild West in South Africa

2009-04-25T13:42:00.000+02:00

Democracy notwithstanding, we still live in the Wild West.

For those of you who have read and who remember your history lessons The Great Trek took place in the early part of the 19th century. As I understand it, the Trek took place because the stout patriarchal Afrikaner was loath to live under the unwanted yoke of British law and order, so in order to continue his lifestyle of bible in one hand and gun in the other, he upped stumps and sought pastures new out of reach of the stifling authorities of the day.

Despite many intervening years which should have acted as a poultice on this wound of unruliness, it would seem that old habits do indeed die hard.

The story I am about to tell all took place, in the Cape, between February and May this year.

On two occasions since my arrival here in 1968 I have had the somewhat chilling experience of driving along and seeing one of my rear wheels overtaking me. The first time I had this experience was in Durban on a late afternoon in spring when I had just fetched my car from the garage which had repaired the rear brakes. I was in the usual heavy traffic in West St when suddenly I saw one of my rear wheels pass me on the left and flatten a queue of people waiting for a bus.

The second occurrence was in February this year; I had just retrieved my vehicle from the garage which had repaired the rear brakes and was on my way home. Suddenly, in the middle of the N7, the left rear wheel and half-shaft of the vehicle bounced past me, crossed the road and sailed over a fence into a field of ostriches.

That was on a Friday; the towing service was called and the vehicle was returned to the garage responsible. However, they refused to accept delivery and instead instructed that the car be sent to an engineering shop a few blocks away. The engineering shop refused to accept the vehicle and so, when I went in search of same on the Monday morning, I found the car in the yard belonging to the local scrap dealers who are also the towing service. I paid for the tow and returned to the garage responsible for the repairs and suggested that they sort the matter out.

The following morning I learned that the car had been taken back to the engineering shop and, when I asked for an estimate for the repairs, I was told that these had already been finished, although I had given no authorisation for any work to proceed. However, because of other damage which occurred when the wheel parted from the vehicle, the car could not be started.

We now jump about six weeks to just before Easter when I once more retrieved the repaired vehicle from the garage. After driving the 22 kms back home, I discovered that the other rear wheel was overheating and that there seemed to be a problem with the gear linkage and the brakes on that side.

Another mechanic was called and ten days later the matter was sorted out. Although I had paid for the original repairs and the towing, no invoice had been received from the engineers.

At the end of April I received a phone call from the engineers asking why they had not been paid. I asked them to fax me an invoice and promised payment in due course. The invoice arrived almost immediately and was so enormous as to warrant further investigation. I immediately faxed a letter to the engineers asking them to explain how they could charge me more than three times the amount that the final garage had been paid for the same work to the opposite rear wheel. There was no reply.

Once more, last week the engineers phoned and asked when they could expect payment; I referred them to my letter, which they claimed not to have received. When I checked the fax number in the phone book with them, it appeared that this number was incorrect and I was given another number to which I immediately faxed the letter. Their invoice bore no phone numbers at all. I then made an appointment to go in and discuss the matter with the owner of the engineering business last Friday.

When I arrived there was no owner in sight; however, after a phone call he duly appeared. It was abundantly clear that he had not read the letter (he probably couldn’t read English anyway) and soon became even clearer that he had no interest in its contents whatsoever. His only interest was in being paid the full amount immediately.

When I attempted to discuss the matter he simply walked away, shouting over his shoulder that he had parked directly behind my vehicle in his yard and that I could not leave his premises until the amount had been settled in full. Any attempt to discuss the matter further or to remonstrate with him was in vain.

So there I stood, in a cold and windy shed at the end of the industrial area, without any means of departure, unable to offer him a cheque because he had made it quite plain that this was not acceptable, unable to pay with a credit card because he had no facilities with which to accept this, and with a mere R40 in my pocket.

I should be grateful, of course, that he didn’t hold me at gunpoint; I quite expected he would. Eventually I was able to talk my way out of the situation with one of his employees, who kindly removed the vehicle blocking my exit and allowed me to leave.

It seems that the old saying ‘The more things change the more they stay the same’ applies here. I am now laying charges of extortion and demanding money with menaces with the local police. It seems we are still living in the Wild West and that the old story about only those who couldn’t read crossing the Orange River was just that: only a story.

U-Carmen iKhayelitsha

2009-04-25T13:25:00.000+02:00

When this film was first on circuit, having won the 2005 Golden Bear award in Berlin, I had high hopes of being able to see it in a cinema; however, it seemed to miss most of the main venues and dropped into insignificance for most of us. I remember being present at Cape Town International Airport to meet someone off a flight when the director and cast flew back from receiving their awards in Germany and seeing how the entire concourse was taken up with their reception committee which was anything but quiet. So imagine my delight when I was able to find a copy of the DVD over the weekend! I immediately bought it and retired to watch the result.

Despite being an opera-fan for many years, I have only seen Carmen once, and that evening turned out to be something of a mission since the original opera has five acts; in sheer length and in its ability to turn the most comfortable theatre seat into an agony of shifting this way and that in order to stop one’s legs going to sleep it is only rivalled by several of the Wagner operas. Musically it does not rate with me as one of the greats since its many good melodies are interspersed with a great deal of operatic padding and stage-business and its orchestration definitely fits into the ‘light music’ category. No doubt in his time Bizet was popular, being accessible to most of the public, but a great composer he is not. When compared with Verdi, Puccini, Ponchielli, Saint-Saens (all of whom wrote at a similar time), his music is pleasantly singable but not particularly deep.

It was interesting to see how Carmen would translate into a modern idiom and especially into Xhosa and move itself from a romantic Spain of 1875 to a squalid Khayelitsha of the present. Of course, Romeo and Juliet was successfully moved from the middle ages to modern New York in West Side Story, and Carmen has been moved before with reasonable success as in Carmen Jones, again set in America. However, the Americans are not known for the sheer exuberance and amazing voices of our local black Africans, and so I was eager to see how this idea worked.

Apart from the fact that the natural noise of the streets is often allowed to drown out the score so that Bizet’s music becomes no more than a faint background, the singing is extremely good. It is a real thrill to know that there is such talent hidden away in the townships of this country and a great pity that we don’t see and hear more of it. Carmen comes across as a rather reclusive girl, hidden away in her cigarette factory, and does not really come to life as the temptress/animal that Callas made her until the very end of the opera. The famous Habanera is very low-key and, in my mind, could have been made a great deal more of, as also the gypsy dance on the table in the tavern, but the card song is brilliantly translated into a visit to the witch-doctor, and the very dramatic ending brings tears to the eyes.

The singing, as you can expect, is remarkably good and true to the original score, although, with the exception of Jongi (the soldier, Don Jose, with whom the original Carmen falls in love) and the girl from the country (Michaela), the soloists seem to have difficulty in sustaining the long top notes and some of these were slightly flat. The part of Escamillo (the bull-fighter, but in this version the singer) is all but written out and appears on only two occasions and is then little more than incidental to the actual plot. However, the bouquets really go to Jongi and Michaela, both of whom have wonderful voices that have depth, pitch and a strength capable of holding its own in any opera-house.

The original plot is a mixture of love, lust, betrayal, revenge, and death and this comes over well in U-Carmen, except for the fact that Carmen’s eventual allegiance to Escamillo and the jealousy that this causes in Jongi is not present in this version. It leaves the watcher wondering why Carmen suddenly appears to fall out of love with Jongi at the end of the opera, and therefore why he kills her. I kept on wondering through the DVD what European audiences must have thought of these somewhat overweight protagonists as they strutted their stuff about busy Khayelitsha. Carmen manages to zip herself into some amazingly tight outfits (no small task, if you’ll pardon the pun) and Jongi looks, throughout the opera, like a small turnip about to burst out of his uniform. The ageing Escamillo figure entirely lacks the aplomb and lustre of the star in the original.

Acted out against the backdrop of a very real and lively Khayelitsha with revenge being replaced by criminality and a yearning for money taking the place of lust, it is an extremely well made film and the translation from the original French into Xhosa is little short of brilliant. The truncation of the original opera tends to reduce it rather to a musical comedy in which normal scenes suddenly burst forth into music and the commonplace suddenly becomes the operatic drama, is not for everyone. However, in the context it works and one is actually left wondering whether the original or its translation is the better theatre. The only pity in my mind is that some of the better music gets thrown out, causing the plot to be a little hard to follow, and the end result to be a little ‘bitty’ and raising a number of questions in the mind of the watcher.

The Forgotten Highway

2009-04-25T13:11:00.001+02:00

Mitchell's Pass

The Forgotten Highway

Whilst we live in a very beautiful country, it is interesting to note that its main history is fairly recent, only really going back to about 1850. Before that date the hinterland was largely unknown and unexplored and tended to be the bailiwick of various African tribes who fought one another for territory; even the Voortrekkers made only a small impact on the land beyond the Witteberg mountains as they ran to escape the rigours of British rule. Those that headed eastwards along the coast towards Grahamstown had other problems, but this article is too short to deal with those.

Until 1850 the Great Karoo and the lands beyond the Orange River remained largely untamed and only intrepid botanists, missionaries, and other explorers ventured so far afield from civilisation. There was a reasonable road from Cape Town north to Paarl and Wellington, and thence a wagon trail along the mountains and through the old Roodezand pass to Tulbagh, where a small farming community had laid out a village at the head of the Bree River Valley, then by an even more tortuous route over the Witsenberg into the Warm Bokkeveld, through which the wagon trail led towards what is now known as the Theronsberg Pass. The trail crossed this pass, continued through Hottentotskloof, and entered the poort known as Karoopoort, described by W.J.Burchell in 1811 as ‘the door to the desert’, since it marked the exit from the Warm Bokkeveld into the Ceres Karoo.

Somewhere between 1827 and 1848 the course of the road was changed when Mostert’s Pass was opened through the gap in the mountains made by the river as it flowed down from Ceres, just a small settlement in those days, past the peak known as Mostert’s Hoek, to join the Bree River; this pass was later re-surveyed and engineered to become the present Mitchell’s Pass, which was opened in 1848. With each new development the road to the interior became easier and more frequented and in 1850 an inn was opened in Karoopoort.

There had been a farm in the poort which was noted as far back as 1774 by Thunberg, a Swedish gardener from Kew Gardens. The farm consisted of a thatched homestead, some cornfields, a fruit orchard, and a stream set about with oaks and poplars. The inn was a very basic structure built to the south of the present house and provided little more than overnight shelter to the weary traveller. However, it was an inn which was destined to offer its limited hospitality to many well-known people such as Rhodes, Le Vaillant, Dr.Livingstone et al.

In 1852 Bain’s Kloof was opened and this year really marked the beginning of the period in which the road to the interior became a highway. Travellers would take the train as far as Wellington (which was in those days the end of the line) and then would continue by wagon or on horseback through Bain’s Kloof, Mitchell’s Pass, and Ceres to Kafferskraal (where there is still a farm of that name) where there was an outspan. They would then carry on to Leeuwfontein (which still exists, but not under that name) where they could overnight, and then over the pass to Hottentotskloof, where there is still a picnic spot with water. The next stopping place would be at Karoopoort, where they could stay the night, before continuing into the Ceres Karoo, where there were outspans at Platfontein and Smitswinkel.

In 1870 the diamond fields of Kimberley were discovered and for a brief time the road, now known as ‘the Forgotten Highway’, became exceptionally busy. A weekly service between Cape Town and Kimberley was started by a company known as The Diamond Fields Transport Company and diggers, fortune-hunters, speculators, and traders in their thousands passed through the poort on their way to make their fortunes. Soon afterwards, a coach service was begun from Wellington via Beaufort West to Kimberley. At times there were as many as thirty wagons, nose to bumper, travelling through the pass, carrying wine, brandy, hardware, mining equipment, tobacco, biltong, dried and fresh fruit, vegetables, and skins. They were not only headed for Kimberley as there was another road which led eventually to Calvinia and thence northwards to Gordonia and Namaqualand. This road fell out of favour in 1877 when the Pakhuis Pass was opened, offering a more direct route from Cape Town; in the same year, the railway line had reached Touws River, making road transport less attractive and effectively beginning the decline of the Forgotten Highway through Karoopoort.

By 1895 the road was all but deserted, and in 1900 the inn closed. The Forgotten Highway was passing into history, overtaken by the railways and the need for speed and comfort. Parts of the highway can still be seen: Bain’s Kloof remains largely unchanged except for the tarred surface, and until 1948 it was still the main road from Cape Town to Johannesburg; Mitchell’s Pass, although much wider than the original, is still the only road from the coast to Ceres; the farms Kafferskloof and Leeuwfontein still exist and their outspans are still clearly visible; Hottentot’s Kloof is still there and still used; there is still a road through Karoopoort to Calvinia and Sutherland, and the original farmhouse, inn, and fig orchard are still very much in existence, as is the outspan under the poplar trees by the river; in 1981 the fig orchard was made a National Monument, and even today there is still a clause in the lease over the farm (it is still owned by the Sate) stipulating that free overnight accommodation must be offered to travellers; the farms Platfontein and Smitswinkel are still there for those who care to look, but the road with its motley crowd of hopeful travellers, has long since disappeared into the mists of time.

When next in the area, pause awhile under the poplar trees by the river, switch off your engine and you might hear the beat of hooves and grind of wagons as they toil through the poort; imagine how what is now a quiet and lonely spot was once the Forgotten Highway to the riches of the future.

Ceres: The Warm Bokkeveld

2009-04-25T12:56:00.000+02:00

Karoopoort Farm

Ceres: A Trip into the Wilderness and Paradise

Of all the towns in the Western Cape, Ceres, nestling in the south-western corner of the Warm Bokkeveld, is one of the few places which are not only attractive but also is an excellent spot from which to explore some of the most interesting areas of our wonderful country. Instead of writing only about Ceres itself, I am going to suggest an ideal three-day trip from Cape Town – a chance to get away from it all and see some of the very best that this part of the world has to offer.

Leave Cape Town on the N1 and travel north-east through the Berg River valley, leaving the N1 at Klapmuts (R44) and turning left round the bottom of the Paarl Mountain, following the signs to Wellington, which you will reach after crossing the Berg River and after only forty-five minutes drive. Turn left for Nuwe Kloof Pass; turn right again over the railway bridge at Wellington and at the first traffic light turn left again travelling down Church St. The road leads straight through Wellington and continues up into the mountains (R303). This is the original road built by Thomas Bain and opened in 1852 and was for many years the main highway from the coast to the interior. Follow the road as it twists and turns on its tortuous way up the Hawequa Mountains and pause at the top to enjoy the view towards Table Mountain over the Berg River valley. Continue with this road as it falls away down the valley between high peaks with the Witte River tumbling along on your right. At the end of the pass is an excellent bush pub where you can stop for lunch before you continue your journey across the Bree River valley. Pass the turn to your left to Wolseley and carry straight on until just after passing the Mill and Oaks on your right, the road joins the R46 and enters Mitchell’s Pass.

In 1848 the present Mitchell’s Pass was opened and took over from the original Mostert’s Pass, which followed the riverbed through the bottom of the valley. Today, Mitchell’s Pass is a relatively high-speed road and, despite being busy, winds upwards through some of the most awe-inspiring scenery of the Western Cape. From the beginning of the pass the road climbs steadily with the twin peaks of Mostert’s Hoek on your right; just before the end of the Pass on your left you will see the original toll-house which is now open for light meals; soon after this, almost without warning, there is a sharp left turn, a short downhill stretch, and you are right in the middle of the town itself. At this time of year the plane trees and oaks are already turning colour and losing their leaves and there is a definite chill in the air, unlike the lower regions where the end of summer still clings. Ceres is a good shopping centre with every kind of shop you could wish for; it is also a very pretty town through which the Titus river joins the Skaap river and then tumbles through the pass and joins the Klein Berg river to flow through Nuwe Kloof Pass and into the Berg River proper. The river in Ceres is lined with trees, rustling now in the autumn wind, and passes under the main road as you enter the town. There are many good accommodation establishments in the tree-lined backstreets and a stop here is highly recommended. Ceres also has a very good golf-course and wilderness area as you leave Mitchell’s Pass. Ceres is the centre from which most of our local fruit comes and an ideal place from which to explore areas such as the Warm Bokkeveld, the Koue Bokkeveld, Bo-Swarmoed, Agter Witsenberg, and the Ceres Karoo.

Once rested and refreshed, and having explored the town itself, you are now ready to hit the road again. Take the R46 north-eastwards out of Ceres towards the towering wall of Theronsberg straight ahead. Soon after passing the informal settlement which lies to the right of this road and the jail which lies to the left, take a right turn for Bo-Swarmoed and follow this secondary road as it meanders through fruit orchards towards the backs of the Hex River mountains; climb the Swarmoed Pass, keep left and re-join the R46 just after Hottentots Kloof, a small picnic area. Follow the R46 for a short distance until, keeping straight on when the R46 turns off to the right for Touws River, the road becomes gravel and is now the R355. You should have been able to cover this distance in less than one hour from Ceres.

The R355 then descends into Karoopoort, one of the most fascinating and historical roads of this part of the world. Because of the high volume of traffic to the interior (and this was the only road, known as the Forgotten Highway) an inn was opened in 1850 and the original homestead still stands. There had been a farm in the poort which was noted as far back as 1774 by Thunberg, a Swedish gardener from Kew Gardens. The farm consisted of a thatched homestead, some cornfields, a fruit orchard, and a stream set about with oaks and poplars. The inn was a very basic structure built to the south of the present house and provided little more than overnight shelter to the weary traveller. However, it was an inn which was destined to offer its limited hospitality to many well-known people such as Rhodes, Le Vaillant, Dr.Livingstone et al. The original fig orchard still runs alongside the road on the left and the whole area is a national monument. It is a magical spot which is well worth stopping for; park your car under the trees by the stream where the original Outspan was, and listen to the absolute silence while you imagine the creaks of ox-wagons, the crack of the driver’s whip, and later the rattle of stage-coaches as they made their way through the poort.

Continue on the R355, ignoring the right turn for Sutherland (this is a journey in itself), until about forty kilometres from Karoopoort you see a left turn marked ‘Kaggakamma’.

All the way from leaving the mountains which form the gateway to the Ceres Karoo at Karoopoort you are travelling through the wilderness known as the Ceres Karoo. On your left the Swartruggens mountains rise towards the blue of the sky, while in the distance on the right are the Komsberg and the Roggeveldberg; the central area, through which the road drives, straight as a dye is a vast grey plain relieved at times by small hillocks. It is a dry, dull, area where on a clear day you can see for miles and over which the endless sky arches. Apart from the occasional ground squirrel and pygmy meerkat almost nothing moves and distant cars can be seen as great columns of dust in the veld. Despite the apparent emptiness of the place there are several fascinating farms and old homesteads hidden in the spurs of the mountains on your left.

Turn left at the Kaggakamma road and start your twisting and turning climb into the Swartruggens mountains. As the road climbs ever upwards there are some wonderful views backwards over the plain. After about half an hour’s drive you will see a signpost on your right pointing to Kaggakamma. Be warned: although the restaurant here is open for lunch, the kitchen closes at two p.m. sharp and the service road to Kaggakamma is often stony and seemingly endless, although it is only eighteen kilometres. Kaggakamma, despite being very well-known, was to me a rather disappointing place perched high up on a plateau above the Koue Bokkeveld. Overnight accommodation is available here, although it is fairly pricey and very much for the four-wheel drive brigade.

If you choose to ignore the right turn to Kaggakamma, continue to follow the minor road as it twists and turns through the mountains to suddenly burst forth on the edge of a dizzying precipice. You will be warned to engage low gear here as you start the amazing drop down the Katbakkies Pass. At the bottom of the pass the road crosses a curious white pan through which the Riet River passes, and then soon afterwards it joins another minor road which leads, on your right, to Mount Cedar, the Groot River, and the Cedarberg Pass to Clanwilliam. Mount Cedar is a large, modern hotel on the banks of the Groot River and is well worth a visit. Overnight accommodation is available here and the hotel is fully licensed. On you left the road soon becomes tar again and leads past some of the richest fruit-farms of the Koue Bokkeveld before joining the R303 at Op Die Berg.

At this T-junction, Citrusdal lies off to your right along a road which is particularly scenic but also somewhat precipitous when it crosses the Middelburg Pass, and to your left is the road back towards Ceres. Turn left here and follow the tar R303 through the Koue Bokkeveld, the Skuurweberg on your right, until you begin the descent of Gydo Pass. On your right is a turning marked ‘Agter Witsenberg’ and, if you still have time, this is a fascinating detour. The road quickly climbs the Skuurweberg, crosses the summit, and descends into a wonderfully green area laced with lakes and smaller farms; tar all the way, it is definitely worth making the small detour.

Back on the R303, you now find that you are dropping rapidly down the side of Theronsberg – the Gydo Pass - towards the Warm Bokkeveld. There are various viewpoints on this road, and it is well worth stopping to see the whole of the valley stretching away below you; you can see the road running through Prince Alfred’s Hamlet and then on towards Ceres.

The round trip is well under two hundred kilometres and I would highly recommend it. Take your camera, and some padkos, because you will need both!

The road back from Ceres to Cape Town is no less interesting. Follow the R46 back down Mitchell’s Pass and at the end of the pass turn left for Worcester (R43). Pass the Mill and Oaks on your left and follow the road until the next left turn at Bree River (R43). Follow this road for only four kilometres and then turn right onto a road signposted ‘Slanghoek’. The road soon crosses the Bree River and once more becomes tar as it wanders through the lush wine-farms of the Slanghoek valley. The views are stupendous, there is a very good winery, and twenty-one kilometres further on you come to the old N1. Turn right here if you don’t want to have a look at Rawsonville (there’s not much to see) and follow the road until it joins the present N1 at the beginning of the pass.

There is a good restaurant and winery off to your right in the middle of the pass, otherwise continue straight, pass through the Huguenot Tunnel, and then it’s a straight run back to Cape Town.

You will not forget the wonderful places you have been to or the sights you have seen.

Hidden Corners of the Cape

2009-04-25T12:24:00.000+02:00

Left to right: the schoolhouse, Lenie Marais House, the road to Die Hel, the Gamka River

To Hell and Gone – exploring Die Hel

I have always been one of those people with strange ideas: many years ago I was a steepleholic – if there was a church steeple with a good view I would be the first to climb to the top, then there would be disused railway-lines and tunnels, or canals from the Industrial Revolution. Since we have few of these in this country it has always been a mission of mine to find places which the average person would overlook. In this article I would like to take you to some of the places hidden away in our wonderful country which the various guide-books hardly ever mention and which, to my mind, are well worth a visit.

Over the years I have crossed the famous Swartberg Pass between Prince Albert and Oudtshoorn several times and have always been strongly attracted by the sign at the top of the pass pointing downwards through the mountains to Die Hel. Perhaps the attraction of this road is the warning that there is no petrol available for the entire trip, or it could be that most of the books warn of a road which should not be undertaken by the faint-hearted. That is probably why, on a dreary damp morning in June, three of us sandwiched ourselves and enough supplies to keep an army going for a week into my small Mazda Soho and set out on our voyage of discovery.

We made Oudtshoorn in mid-afternoon; the clouds had lifted and a pale sunlight lit our way as, with a full petrol tank, we started the climb up the Swartberg Mountains. Firstly the road led through the endless tourist-traps (Crocodile ranches and the like) which have sprung up to the north of the town, and then, becoming more scenic wound through Schoeman’s Poort, hills high on either side, towards the famous Cango Caves. Soon after the caves the road changed from a good tar to a particularly slippery dirt and we began climbing the Swartberg proper. The pass climbs 1000 metres in only about 25 kilometres and has changed little since it was built by teams of prisoners over a period of four years, finishing in 1888. The clouds descended once more as we skidded through hairpin bends, climbing steadily all the time, until at the end of what seemed like an eternity we reached the top of the pass and stopped for a breather at the signpost to Die Hel, about 55 kms from Oudtshoorn.

There was little to see on this relatively flat plateau at the summit, but since the afternoon was rapidly sinking to dusk we headed westwards towards Die Hel, better known today as Gamkaskloof. The road was at first wide and gravely, leading past dark stands of pines and all the time following the Waterkloof River which flowed in the valley to our right. Then it began to climb and become steadily narrower. We crossed a ridge, descended to the bottom of a valley where we crossed a stream, and then ascended again towards the stars which were now beginning to come out. Apart from the fact that many of the bends are steep and narrow, the road, where it crosses streams (and there are five of them in all), is clearly not designed for long wheel-based vehicles as the dongas are narrow and deep. Guide books which actually mention this hidden valley warn that the road is not suitable for busses, caravans, or mobile homes. In the deepening twilight we crossed three long ridges until, cresting the final one, the awesome valley of the Gamaskloof could just be discerned far below us.

The history of this virtually unknown place has always fascinated me. First inhabited in 1830, Die Hel could only be reached by following the Gamka River from Calitzdorp, a trip of at least 35 kilometres through very rough terrain. Official history tells us that the valley was discovered by accident, but local rumour is somewhat different and tells of smuggling and all sorts of dirty deeds from the past. In 1841 the first farm was registered in the kloof and there was no road access until as late as 1962. Until the road was built there were just three routes in and out of the place: the riverbed to Calitzdorp in the south, the riverbed to Prince Albert in the north, and up a particularly hair-raising track (known as The Ladder) to Ladismith in the west. A few families found that this was the ideal escape from civilisation (no phones, no tax-inspectors, no police service) and they farmed here successfully for just over one hundred and fifty years. When the children were old enough to go to school they would be tied on the backs of donkeys which would then be slapped so that they trekked over the mountains to Calitzdorp. In later years a small school was opened in the valley. Due to the fact that only a few families ever settled here the problems of in-breeding were well-known; however, as long as one remained reasonably healthy this was an ideal environment in which to live. In 1991 the last inhabitants packed their bags and left and Cape Nature Conservation took over ownership and management of the area.

We ground our way down the precipitous road into the bottom of the valley in first gear, darkness closing in on all sides, and then made our way slowly through the valley to the cottage we had hired on the other side of the Gamka River. We soon had paraffin lamps lit, food cooking on the stove, a fire in the grate, and thought longingly of deep feathery beds under the thatched roof beneath the stars.

We were fortunate to be assigned to part of the original farm, Ouplaas, where we occupied Snyman’s House, just above the tranquil Gamka River as it gurgles through beds of reeds beneath the road and then winds onwards through the mountains to Calitzdorp. The cottages are comfortable and well furnished and the beds, although one of the bedrooms was only accessible by walking along the stoep, are superb.

Straight after breakfast, which we ate on the stoep so that we could admire the view of mountains and wilderness all about us, we scrambled our way to the deep and silent pool where the river cuts through almost sheer rockfaces as it comes down from the Gamkapoort Dam. The going is particularly tough, so if you have not brought along all your hiking gear you can’t really get very far, but the scenery and the silence was well worth a couple of hours out of the day. The old track southwards along the river towards Calitzdorp has largely been obliterated by flooding over the years but part of this is still visible and can still be followed by the more intrepid hiker.

However, before following the various hiking trails, which are quite well marked, we wanted to have a good look at the hidden valley itself. Before the present road was hacked through the mountains one would come to Ouplaas first in the widest part of the valley; one would then follow the track eastwards along the valley bottom, the mountains closing in steadily until one reached the narrow end where the precipitous ascent to the Swartberg pass disappears into the sky. Although the mountains themselves are largely bare, the bottom of the valley is green and wooded and, in places, so deep that the winter sun never reaches even the roofs of the little clusters of cottages.

Travelling eastwards, then, you would pass Cordier’s house on an open bluff to the right, then Mostert’s house up on the left, then Lenie Marais’ house on a bend up above the road also on the left. The houses were built from whatever materials were available in the valley; the foundations are of packed stone on which the walls of raw brick stand; the roof-trusses are made from poplar or olive-wood and the ceilings were made of reed, on which a clay packing was placed in order to make the ‘solder’ floor, the roof-space being used for storage, usually of foodstuffs and, of course, one’s coffin. The floors were always of packed earth which was then smeered with cow-dung mixed with thorn-tree sap (misvloere). Outside doors were always split horizontally so that the top half could be left open as an extra window and inside doors consisted only of an opening over which a curtain would be hung. Few of the windows were ever glazed, rather consisting of an oblong opening which was closed with wooden shutters; Lenie Marais’ house is the only building in the valley to have gables and it is interesting to note that this tough lady built the entire place herself.

Lenie Marais was the only ‘doctor’ in the valley, having a good knowledge of herbs and Boer remedies. If a conventionally qualified man was required, then Dr. Luttig would ride alongside the river from Prince Albert.

The first school of the valley being on the farm Boplaas, at the Ladismith end of the road and just beneath The Ladder, was erected in 1904. From Lenie Marais’ house the track then leads through Middelplaas where a second school was opened in 1928, the window-glass, benches and blackboard being brought into the valley from outside. This second school was closed in 1980, showing how, gradually, the small population dwindled as it left for the towns and the challenges of the outside world. The school buildings doubled as the local church with the teacher as preacher; local festivals were always held in the valley, but more important happenings such as weddings were usually held in Prince Albert or Calitzdorp.

The track then winds past eight other houses, some of which are almost hidden in the trees; there were only a total of five families in this secret spot, living on either side of the track which stretches for fifteen kilometres along the valley floor.

Anyone who has spent time learning the history of a village will tell you that the best way to un-cover the past is by spending some time in the local graveyard. There is a small and very peaceful one near the school and, although the inscriptions on the tombstones are now a little hard to read and at times very basic, a visit there is well worthwhile.

Thus Die Hel remained basically unchanged from 1830 until 1959 when Dr.Otto du Plessis arrived on horseback and promised the inhabitants a road over the mountains to the Swartberg pass. From that moment onward everything changed forever; bakkies were bought so that local produce could be taken outside and the products of civilisation brought into the valley. Tourists began to appear and the tranquillity of life in Die Hel became a thing of the past. Families started to leave, beckoned by the bright lights of the towns and the valley fell into dereliction and disrepair.

Die Hel was effectively saved from disappearing into folklore by Cape Nature Conservation, who gradually bought up one farm after another until only Boplaas remains privately owned.

The result is a spot, overlooked by most of the roadmaps, where time has stood still; it is a spot well worth a visit if you remember to bring everything you need with you (and take everything you don’t need back with you too); the scenery is stupendous, the road frightening and only for the intrepid, and the cottages, most of which can be hired at a very reasonable nightly fee from Cape Nature Conservation, extremely comfortable and well restored. Spend a few nights there – you won’t regret it!

South African Elections

2009-04-25T10:45:00.000+02:00

Well, here we are, the other side of the elections (I haven't heard them referred to yet on the radio as "erections', but I'm sure it will happen before the week is up! Well, congratulations to the South African electorate for managing yet another peaceful election; despite long queues at polling stations and some mysterious bundles of voting papers found in strange places and on the occasional person, the whole thing went off well.
Except for the result: ANC yet again.
I can't understand why a thinking and intgelligent populace would want to appoint as president a person who has so many question marks hanging over his head as to his probity. It seems that, not satisfied with the amount of corruption and nepotism that we have come to regard as normal, South Africans would want to continue in this vein. However, it seems clear to me that Zuma is about to rape this country for all it's worth!
You ain't seen nothing yet!!

The Real Hisotry of Apartheid

2009-04-25T10:42:00.000+02:00

The History of Apartheid in South Africa

Contrary to what other articles on your site aver, Apartheid (although the name itself was not coined until 1948) was actually started by the fortune-seekers who descended on the Big Hole in Kimberley in their search for diamonds. Although there were many nationalities represented there, you could say that the British were the ones who really started this interesting, and much discussed, system.

Before the discovery of diamonds in what is now Kimberley, most European races had little or no interest in South Africa at all, other than the fact that The Cape offered a prime opportunity as a victualling station for those involved in the spice trade. Even after the initial discovery of diamonds, the British government had no wish to further colonise what it considered to be a useless piece of land south of the Equator.

However, some five years after the initial discovery of these gems in Griqualand West, a situation developed which necessitated some form of strong intervention in order to prevent what was considered in Whitehall to be a looming problem. The inhabitants of South Africa, both black and white, had hitherto been an entirely agrarian race of people, living a simple life off the land and, generally, minding their own business. Yes, they were backward by European standards – they had no indoor plumbing, had produced no writers or painters worthy of mention, and the black nations were, apart from their nomadic farming existence, too concerned with fighting each other for land and its use – and Europe was really not interested in this rather barren and unexciting part of the world.

However, once it appeared that Kimberley was more than just another South Sea Bubble and was indeed here to stay, decisions had to be made – and most of these were at the behest of Cecil John Rhodes who, apart from being involved in Cape politics, had serious interests in the diamond mines from which Kimberley sprang. The news of the discovery of considerable amounts of alluvial diamonds, apart from attracting diggers from as far away as Australia and America, also became noticed by the local black tribes, who had one indispensible item that they could sell: their labour. With this in mind, they converged on Kimberley in considerable numbers and, in the beginning, actually owned certain claims in what is now known as The Big Hole.

However, where there is money in large amounts to be made, you can be certain that crime will soon follow. It seems to be an immutable fact of life that if you have something, someone will try to take it away from you by fair means or foul! It was not long, therefore, before IDB (illicit diamond buying) became almost as profitable as the production of diamonds themselves. It is believed by many that personalities such as the Barnato Brothers, and others who went on to become rich and famous, also derived quite a large portion of their early income from this source; but, the principal players in the IDB game were the blacks, who would employ whatever means they could in order to make a quick killing.

Because of this, black labourers were firstly made subject to unseemly and unpleasant body-searches as they left the mine each day in order to make sure that they were not leaving with more than that with which they arrived! Within a very short period of time it was decided by the major players in the Kimberley mine that the only way to protect themselves against the illegal removal of gems was to restrict the African labourers to their own compounds and to severely limit their freedom. It was at all events a matter of considerable importance that the value of diamonds be controlled, and the free-for-all system which had hitherto existed in Kimberley had urgently to be manipulated. This was actually the beginning of Apartheid. It had nothing to do with politics, human rights, or the suppression of the masses, but was simply instituted in order to protect the price of the product, which, without this protection, would have slumped considerably on world markets.

The same scenario took place on a larger scale on the Rand. Kruger and his government were not interested in prospecting for gold, but, being almost bankrupt, the Transvaal (as it was then known) needed every bit of revenue it could lay its hands on, and so taxes were levied on the mines, and these were paid without demur by the Randlords, as they believed that the placation of the Transvaal government would allow them to continue their efforts unmolested. Even then, Britain was particularly reticent about any kind of interference or colonisation of the area.

By 1895 an interesting phenomenon had occurred in both places: segregation of a sometimes purely voluntary and personal nature. Both towns had, by now, considerable populations of both black and white, but each population lived in its own area, and, apart from the occasional drunken revelry, it was destined to remain so. When the Transvaal was finally annexed by the British, it was their wish that no form of racial segregation should be enforced or made law, and they went to some lengths to ensure that this should not happen. However, those at the ‘coal face’ had other ideas, and so, this was really the beginning of Apartheid, or separation of the races.

Whilst the British standpoint changed little in the ensuing years, in true British fashion they sought to rid themselves of what they considered to be a tedious burden and so passed the Act of Union in 1910. This allowed South Africa to become pretty much autonomous; England was not unduly concerned about the black vote, or black freedom; it had other more pressing concerns to deal with, and for some years a more or less free society was allowed free reign in South Africa.

However, in 1948 the Nationalists came to power and, despite an earlier attempt which failed after a few weeks, they steadily began to entrench separatism, or Apartheid as they called it, and by the time that Hendrik Verwoerd took over, Apartheid had grown to be what was later considered a blight on this continent. Verwoerd (who strangely enough was Dutch, not Afrikaans) had his own ideas of how things should work and, this said, he was only slightly to the left of Adolph Hitler. It was his idea of Separate Development, and his translation of the biblical role of the races, his idea of white superiority, which inevitably led to the excesses of later rulers.

The rest, as they say, is history, and need not be re-hashed. One can only be thankful, as a resident of this country, that personalities such as Mandela and De Klerk finally came together, saw the wood for the trees, and established the democracy that we now have. It’s taken a long time!

English and its Usage

2009-04-25T10:40:00.000+02:00

Some Interesting English

Not too far outside Cape Town in an area which is largely Afrikaans-speaking is a new shopping centre. Right, so there’s nothing very interesting about shopping malls, but this one bears a fascinating sign at the entrance (apart from the ‘No Smoking’ signs and obvious litter-bins which everyone seeks to avoid); this sign actually says, in English, ‘No Sauntering’. Now there’s an interesting word which has really lost favour in the English we speak today. Sauntering.

The Oxford Dictionary tells us that ‘sauntering’ means: walking in a leisurely way or without destination, strolling. Now I would have thought that one of the main purposes of any shopping mall, or centre, is to encourage shoppers to amble from window to window in a rather haphazard way; the various shops are there to excite the shopper to come inside, to tempt with their window-displays, to persuade us to buy things that we don’t really need, and when we get them home, to wonder why we bought them in the first place. Now, if we are forbidden to ‘saunter’ within these precincts, then most of the rent-paying shops will disappear.

Perhaps the developers had an altogether different scenario in mind; one can imagine hoards of over-weight, trouser-clad, knock-kneed farmers and their wives, who always seem to be sewn into skin-tight clothing over which spare tyres bulge indecently, getting out of their bakkies and four-wheel drives and positively hurtling through the centre as if pursued by armies of killer-bees in their headlong dash for Pick ‘n Pay or the local restaurant and then making ultimate speed for the exit before they are slapped with some kind of horrendous fine – perhaps three weeks in Mauritius, or a month on Marion Island.

What the sign should say is ‘No Loitering’. Now that is altogether something different. ‘Loitering’ means to linger, or hang about – and that conjures up a totally different picture. A loiterer is one of those rather dubious-looking people who hang around supporting various pieces of architecture with no apparent intent except to regard the valuables which they may relieve us of as we go about our legitimate business. These days it is doubtless loiterers who are ultimately responsible for blowing up auto-tellers, bag-snatching, conducting various imaginative scams on idle shoppers, and generally being a nuisance to those of us who wish to saunter.

I cannot honestly say that I have ever seen such a sign on any other centre, but, for the developer’s sake I would like to suggest that for future buildings we amend the sign to read: ‘No Sauntering, Goose-Stepping, Frog-Marching, Bicycling, Skate-boarding, Smoking, or Driving any vehicle within this shopping precinct.’ For the sake of safety this caveat would also apply to those harassed housewives who allow their toddlers to take charge of shopping trolleys; many is the time that one of these ungainly items is left blocking an entire aisle for those of us to fall over as we look for the Anchovy Sauce or the Canned Artichokes (which are always in an area of the supermarket reserved for frozen fish), or search hopelessly, with a somewhat bemused and abstracted expression, for the Parmesan Cheese or the Pappadums (which are always with the processed meats). While we are at it we should also ban those whose main intent when visiting the supermarket is to hold a conversation involving at least four people right across the entrance to the electrical goods or the toiletries section.

In short, we should really learn to stay at home while programming some remote contrivance to do our shopping for us. That would save a great deal of time and the need to ‘saunter’ anywhere would be blissfully obviated.

Robben Island

2009-04-25T10:38:00.000+02:00

ROBBEN ISLAND – 1994 – 2009

As far as I remember, Robben Island, that infamous jail of political prisoners, was first opened to the public in 1994.

No-one would ever have heard of this place had it not been for the fact that Nelson Mandela was incarcerated here for many years. Robben Island is a small piece of land, 8kms from Table Moutain in Table Bay. It is remorselessly flat and uninteresting, except to the penguins who nest there in huge numbers. However, having started its useful life as a place where the governing body of South Africa threw its otherwise unwanted persons, it later became a leper colony (not much difference really), and then reverted to a security prison for political offenders.

As a result of the famous Rivonia Trial, Mandela and several of his cohorts were banished there in 1964 to chop up large lumps of chalk for the rest of time.

It was with considerable curiosity, therefore, that I made a pilgrimage there to see it for myself in 1994.

It was a day in early May (our Autumn) and the sea was deliciously flat, apart from the occasional enormous swell, as we thrummed our dieseliferous way in the old Susan Kruger – a boat which did not yet bear the legend ‘Winnie sat here’. The bay was deceptively calm and sunny and it looked like a very short distance from the Island to the nearest shore; however, various prisoners over the years found this to be a particularly horrid swim – not only because the distance is totally deceptive, but also because the water is enough to freeze the knackers off a brass monkey. There was no need for sentries, or bars at the windows of the jail, for the sea was a deterrent in itself.

The island consisted of a rather empty harbour, a number of pre-historic motor vehicles which had never left once they were delivered, two rather solitary churches, a street of nice white houses, a large and rather imposing guesthouse, and the usual ubiquitous curio shoppe.

Unfortunately, because the prison was still in use, we were not allowed to see the famous cell in which Mandela was incarcerated. However, this was more than made up for by the amusing remarks of the tour guide (an erstwhile warder of the prison), and a visit to the fortifications made there in case of attack in the Second World War. We visited many penguins, saw a few buck, a great deal of coastline, and then chugged our way back across the harbour.

Last year (2008) I had occasion to visit again with my daughter, and rather looked forward to the expedition. Once tickets had been exchanged, and a fairly antique boat had been boarded (the famous Tri-maran was not in service for some reason), we made our way across the bay. However, the swells became more and more mountainous, and those of us who were unfortunate to stand in the stern of the boat, had a free shower bath long before we reached the harbour.

Full of expectation, and suffering from severely wet feet and legs, we staggered along the quayside towards the waiting bus. Hey presto – it was the same bus that had carried us in 1994, but this time somewhat dilapidated and down at heel.

We managed to squeeze ourselves into two seats and prepared to set off. However, our guide (no longer the prison warder of previous times) had other ideas. She clambered onto the bus – large and Black and possessed of the ability to speak Afroglish enormously fast and very loud, despite the fact that most of the passengers barely spoke a word of ordinary English, - and proceeded to regale us with long eulogies of Robert Sobukhwe.

Unfortunately, most of the passengers had no idea who he was, who she was talking about, or the history behind that name. In her mind the Pan African Congress must have loomed large, but in most memories of the non-South Africans on board, the name meant nothing. It was a bit like O R Tambo Airport – nobody, other than fervent ANC members, had the faintest idea who he was (nor, I suspect, could they have cared). They all wanted to hear about Mandela, but there was scarcely a mention of such a person.

So, somewhat bemused and overpowered with rhetoric which fell just short of a toi-toi, we made our way slowly into the interior. We saw the two churches and stopped for a brief photo-opportunity through the rather grimy windows of the bus, and then carried on past the street of once-white houses. These had been made much more homely by the addition of washing hanging from every conceivable eave, nook, cranny, and line; weeds grew in profusion in the streets and the occasional deer munched peacefully on the pavement.

Trundling on, and somewhat bemused, we ended in what seemed to be a large chalk-pit with a hole in one side. This, she explained, was where political prisoners were brought to hew stone, and the hole was used both as a latrine and for the storage of rations. Hardly surprising that we now have an epidemic of cholera!

Cameras clicked and flashed and in a few minutes, after a further diatribe about Sobukhwe, we continued to the most glorious rubbish dump I have ever been privileged to see. It was made glorious only by the fact that it had a wonderful view of Table Mountain and two large prefab toilets. She graciously invited us to take photos there and announced that we would be stopping for five minutes.

Having regaled ourselves of the sights (and the interesting smells of the toilets), we climbed aboard the ancient bus and made our way back to the prison where an erstwhile warder herded us into a rather ungainly line and led the way to the cells.

It was almost impossible to make out what he was trying to say because the wind had now freshened, but we followed like sheep to the slaughter. The prison appeared well looked-after and, in considerable heat and humidity, we filed reverently past the famous cell where Mandela spent so much of his time. Having glanced briefly inside, we were then herded into a long, narrow hall which was almost devoid of seats and were treated to a long lecture on the hardships of being a political prisoner.

I must be fair on our guide and tell you that he had himself been a prisoner there for several years, so what he had to say was at least germane and had about it the ring of truth, as opposed to the paeans of praise that had hitherto been heaped upon Sobukhwe.

Tired and rather sweaty, we clambered onto the bus once more and made our way back to the harbour. I think we saw one or two penguins on the way, but the gun emplacements which had earlier been a great attraction for me, were no longer considered to be of any consequence.

Dragging ourselves along the quayside, many gazes lit on the formidable tablecloth on Table Mountain, and those of us who know these climes, knew we were in for a bit of a rough passage.

The famous Susan Kruger waited for us, her engines beating away on idle, as we were herded aboard. The attendant warned us not to sit upstairs in the open as he felt it might be a fairly unpleasant trip. Nevertheless, my cousin and his girlfriend chose to sit up there because they felt that inside they may have been seasick.

Once clear of the harbour, we thrashed, crashed, lurched, leapt, churned and crunched through one enormous wave after another. The portholes had become totally opaque, giving the impression that we were indeed like a load of washing inside a machine which was set on ‘maximum’. Water streamed down the steps from the deck, and soon attendants were rushing hither and yon with nice little brown paper bags for people to vomit in.

After nearly an hour of this, even the hardiest of us was eager to see the relatively calm waters of Cape Town harbour. My cousin and his girlfriend eventually disembarked, soaked to the skin despite their raincoats, and we dripped our way towards one of the many bars of the waterfront in search of a restorative drink.

I had to consider that Robben Island, like so much of this wonderful land, had seen better days, and that, all else besides, we had paid a fair amount of money for a cold salt-water bath!

Humour in the English Language

2009-04-25T10:36:00.000+02:00

Humour: the Development of Modern Language

When I was at school – several lifetimes ago, it seems – correct English was the language spoken over the air by BBC announcers; it was the language to which we all aspired and which we were taught to speak and to use on a daily basis. It was known as ‘Standard English’ in those days, and was often a pleasure to hear. It was not quite the same as ‘Rada’ English with its terribly rounded vowels a la Audrey Hepburn, or English as spoken by the Royal Family who managed to make ‘house’ sound like ‘hice’, or ‘May husband and Ay’!! It was a good solid language, free of dialect and mispronunciation, and seemed to roll off the tongue with a good deal of ease.

I have lived in South Africa for many years and have, at times, cringed at the way the language can be mutilated, and also, sometimes have been forced to chuckle at the words and phrases used which are peculiar to this part of the world.

However, since 1994 and the advent of Democracy, Standard English has steadily bitten the dust as radio announcers have become monthly darker and darker skinned; it has now virtually been completely replaced by what is known as ‘Afro-glish’ and, to my absolute horror, when the language was being discussed on the radio some weeks ago, certain mispronunciations which are quite murderous have now been accepted as Standard South African English. I will give you some examples:

1) The verb: DETERMINE (de-TER-min) has now been more or less totally replaced with a new form: DE-TER-MINE (with the accent principally on the last syllable); I presume that this new word is intended to convey a process by which termites are removed from mines, and therefore has little or nothing to do with the original word!

2) Two nights ago I actually heard on one of our many many talk programmes the word CAPPABLE. This, of course, was intended to be CAPABLE, but once again, appears to mean something which is able to be capped, or a person who could wear a cap, given the chance!

3) CIRCUMSTANCE (surcumSTANCE) has long been a problem over the airwaves and has been almost totally replaced by ‘cirCUMstance’. It don’t think a suitable translation of this would be accepted on the site!

4) AGREEMENT, as in ‘an agreement between the parties was reached’ has long been pronounced as ‘AGriment’ and I can only conclude that this new word refers to a kind of mint which can be cultivated for re-sale.

5) A simple word like PEOPLE (peepul) has been replaced almost totally by PIPPUL, meaning a collection of persons, but sounding quite otherwise!

6) PEACE has become PISS, giving rise to some very interesting, and often hilarious visions – i.e. ‘the PISS process is well on track’ – meaning, I suppose, that the various delegates held some sort of unspeakable competition around the negotiating table! Or, the concert was in aid of world PISS; does one assume that the delegates were all drenched, then?

7) It has long been the habit in this country to plant an H in the middle of a word where there was intended to be none, or to actually sound an H which should be aspirant.

8) Finally, the word VEHICLE has universally become ‘veHIcle’, and I really am not at all sure what that is supposed to convey! (Pardon the pun!)

The overweaning irony of the situation is that there are many people in this country who can speak perfectly good English but who are now cast aside in favour of affirmative action. The anomaly of the situation, however, is that while those who really struggle with English are allowed to mutilate it on a daily basis on our official broadcaster, we are not permitted the same leniency with languages such as Zulu and Xhosa, which are always correctly spoken because the announcer is always drawn from the relevant linguistic group.

Try this for size: ‘He was dimmed cappable of reaching an aggrimunt because sirCUMstances led to the successful conclushin of the piss process and would de-terMINE its outcome accordingly’.

If it weren’t tragic, and very annoying, it would actually be funny!

Why You Should buy into the Property Market Now

2009-04-23T11:48:00.000+02:00

Buy a Home now and Make Money

We are living through one of the greatest economic problem periods of modern times, and one, which, unfortunately has been brought about mostly by banks, financial institutions, and government policies.

The lead-up to this was the frenzy of borrowing which occurred during the mid years of this decade, where we saw house prices rising at an incredible speed in most areas and in most parts of the world. How many banks called you to advise you that you qualified for a credit card, or a gold card? How many lending institutions told you that the cheapest form of credit lay in your home-loan? As house prices rose, we were all encouraged to consolidate our debt by taking out ever-higher loans on our houses, which were increasing in value on an almost monthly basis. Thus many people re-financed their homes, some to pay off credit debt, some to make improvements to the home, some to help pay for children’s education, and some simply to go on holidays that they would never have dreamed of ten years previously.

Everyone had money, but no-one stopped to think that this was no more than monopoly money; it was just a paper figure – a matter of borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, and that eventually, we would have to accept the fact that the money was no more than just paper, or actually, plastic.

And then the bubble started to burst. It was not just an American phenomenon, although the USA has been hit worse than other countries. First of all, house prices stagnated, then began to drop. Secondly, in the American market, bonds which had been granted at low, or below prime interest rates, suddenly reverted to normal interest rates, leaving the borrowers unable to make the monthly repayments. This caused many people to default on their home-loans, and, in the end to lose these homes.

There has also been a strong knock-on effect: builders have gone bankrupt, banks have collapsed, hardware stores have suffered enormously, many estate agencies have closed their doors, and many proud new home-owners have found themselves out on the street.

Because of the sharp downturn in property prices throughout most of the world, but particularly in the US, many people have found themselves in a position where the amount they owe on the home vastly exceeds the actual value of the home at today’s prices, so they are not only out on the street, but they also still owe a myriad of institutions enormous sums of money. Despite government intervention to halt this spiral of decline and despair, the slide has continued into this year, and may go on doing so at a slower rate in the two years to come.

But all is not doom and gloom. Some wise person once said that every cloud has its silver lining, and for those of us who were not adversely affected, or still have sufficient moneys at our disposal, here is the silver lining: if we are able to take on a housing loan which is affordable, or better still, if we have cash, there are enormous bargains to be found in the market.

In some areas – according to Standard & Poor’s/Case-Shiller 20-city housing index – many cities across the US have suffered double digit declines in the value of homes, a far worse decline than was seen in the early 1990s. The worst hit part of the market, according to them, is the Sun Belt (Las Vegas, Phoenix, and Miami) where property prices fell by an enormous 29% in the last year. However, this decline has not been limited to the Sun Belt; it has been felt throughout the US. However, Standard & Poor believe that the rate of decline has slowed in the last two months, and that some sort of ground level will be reached within this year. (Guardian UK, Zoe Wood, 30/9/2008.)

In the UK the picture has been largely the same. According to Bloomberg.com, as of January 6th 2009, house prices had suffered the biggest drop since 1991 and consumer confidence declined as banks rationed credit and homebuyers shunned the property market. Although interest rates are declining in most the world today, this decline has failed to re-ignite the fires which were built under the property market from 2002 onwards. Banks are far less keen to offer mortgage finance to would-be buyers, simply, in many cases because they do not have sufficient funds.

As more and more buyers are defaulting on their home-loans, more and more homes are reverting to the ownership of the banks, and are available at almost knock-down prices.
In many cases, the bank is only interested in retrieving the money it has lent in order to buy the house, so in the instance of a property being mortgaged to only half its value, that same property can be obtained through a cash offer of half its original price.

That means, in simple terms, that a house sold for $1 million could now be purchased for only $500 000. The bank’s interest in this transaction is devoid of philanthropic reasoning; unfortunately the institution is not concerned that the original buyer may have lost everything; as long as it gets its money back, that’s fine. You, on the other hand, as the new buyer, stand to make a very good profit when the market begins to recover, which it will, at the very latest, in two years time.

To make this easier to understand, let’s draw a picture:
In 2002 Joe Average bought a house for $200 000. In 2003 the value of his house had risen to $300 000, and in 2004 to $400 000, but the amount he had borrowed in order to buy the home had only been $150 000, which had been made available to him at less than the normal rate of interest in the market, as an inducement for him to buy rather than go on renting. As banks and financial institutions saw what was happening in the market, Joe was encouraged to apply for more credit. Either he could increase the amount for which his house was mortgaged, or he could accept a credit card or two. If push came to shove, he could always consolidate his debt by increasing his home-loan in order to pay off the credit card.

In 2005 the value of his home was set at a cool $600 000, so in order to pay off outstanding credit card amounts, take a holiday for himself and his family, and leave himself with a reasonable amount of cash, he remortgaged the house for $550 000. The bank had not been too strict in its qualification of him for this loan; it had not taken into account that the other amounts he owed on various cards, his car, clothing accounts, etc, far exceeded what he was likely to be able to repay. The $400 000 he had borrowed was soon gone, and the interest rates were rising, banks were beginning to curtail their lending criteria and his income had not kept pace with the increasing cost of living. Because oil had become so expensive, most other consumer items had also increased in price by the same amount. The heady days were over and he began to worry about where the next cent was coming from.

But no-one was really worried; there was far more plastic money in circulation, which meant that everyone benefitted. The price of new cars reached an all-time high, and seemed to be set to go on increasing; property had increased enormously in the last four years, so why should it not continue? More and more money was flying around in a circle, but at some stage, those notes would land on someone’s desk, and the bills would have to be paid.

By 2007, Joe’s monthly budget had increased from its original level in 2002 to a point where he was constantly short of money by the third week of each month. He decided that the best he could do was to put tenants in the house, become a tenant himself somewhere cheaper, and sit out the storm. Things were bound to get better.

But there were no tenants to be found who would pay an amount even equal to his home-loan payments and the taxes on the house. Within six months he had defaulted on the loan and his bank had re-possessed his house. Not only was Joe out on the street, but he also faced the problem of paying off the amount still owing on the property, which was ultimately sold by the bank for less than was outstanding. The highest offer on his home was only $450 000, so he still owed the bank $100 000.

Not a happy situation, but one in which far too many people find themselves today.

However, in many parts of the world today, the situation is even worse. As banks and financial institutions are top-heavy with repossessed properties due to debtor default, and as buyers stay away from the housing market in droves, house prices have fallen dramatically, especially over the past year, and therefore it’s possible to pick up a good house today for far less than it would have fetched eighteen months ago.

Canny buyers are therefore attending auctions, or scanning the list of repossessed properties, and many people are thus able to make a killing. Not only are they entering the market as owners of a very attractive home, but their home is an investment which will more than pay off in the next couple of years when the market has stabilised.

The South African economy, although far removed from that of USA, and consequently less affected by this phenomenon, is an interesting case in point. Up until the introduction of the new Credit Act in 2007, the populace was freely invited to borrow far more than the individual could realistically repay. Suddenly everyone had at least two credit cards (and these were often used to pay each other), but the rate of credit in many cases exceeded 27%, and no matter how much was paid on these cards, the outstanding balance continued to grow.

So people increased their housing loans in order to pay off their credit cards and other debts which had somehow accumulated. The price of oil had vastly increased until mid 2008, and it was now costing almost double to fill the tank of an ordinary vehicle. But before the new Credit Act came into law, many people had been encouraged to buy expensive vehicles in which they had almost no cash equity. Electricity had increased from 2007 to 2008 by at least 25% in most areas, the cost of living had risen slightly above the price of fuel, and now what the average person had spent in the supermarket on a weekly basis had almost doubled. Incomes, however, had not. The writing was on the wall, but many people were encouraged to borrow still more in the belief that their home-loan could always be increased.
Since the new Credit Act has been in force, however, they have failed to qualify for the amounts needed, and so they have begun to default on their home loans.

So, make hay while the sun shines! Go to the auctions, peruse the lists of repossessed houses and get back into the market, because there will be large sums of money to be made by those of us who are canny enough to invest wisely. I know that, to many of us, there is a certain amount of guilt in profiting from someone else’s misfortune, but the market remains the market, and if we don’t do it, then no-one else will.

There’s plenty to be made out there, so get wise and start looking.

A Town in the Middle of Nowhere

2009-04-23T11:25:00.002+02:00

A TOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

There is a long straight road in Southern Namibia leading across the Huib Highlands and then down into the desert; it runs from Keetmanshoop through uninteresting and apparently endless savannahs to Aus, a distance of 228 kilometres, and then plunges into the very heart of the Namib for the last 129 Kilometres to Luderitz. The guide books warn you not to attempt the last section of this road, the section through the desert, in the afternoon, because of the tremendous heat and the high winds which blow the sand so hard that you can arrive at the coast driving what was once a respectable vehicle and is now just a sand-blasted wreck, it’s inhabitants looking and feeling like old fried eggs leaking sweat onto the leather upholstery. It is not a trip to be recommended to anyone unless you have a love for emptiness, for towns which are barely noticeable as you pass them, and a keen desire to test both your own endurance and that of your vehicle. All the way the wind seems to be against you, every hill seems to lead upwards, and at the end of the road is a rather dreary little town built around several rocky promontories with a harbour filled with the emptiness of diamond-boats waiting for better weather, and the odd small tanker.

However, some 10 kilometres before you crest the last rocky outcrop, just before you pass Luderitz airport (and you could be forgiven for not noticing it because it is just another flat piece of desert with a hut at one end), lies Kolmanskop. These days the town is just a collection of deserted buildings through which the wind and sand whistle endlessly through the long hot afternoon; no-one has lived there since 1956 (let’s face it: only the most intrepid would have considered it home even before then), yet it is one of the most memorable and fascinating places in Namibia. It is a spot which will always live on in my memory – a reminder of days long past, of people who went on with their lives in other, more hospitable, places.

In days of yore, when people still travelled by rail, there was a regular service from Keetmanshoop, on the main line between Upington and Windhoek, which wandered at its own speed through Seeheim to Aus, and then chugged through the unspeakable heat of the desert down to Grasplatz, Kolmanskop, and eventually Luderitz. The train runs no more.

In 1908 there was no such place as Kolmanskop (or Kolmanskuppe as it was first known); there was a stop on the railway at Grasplatz and it was here, as Zacharias Lewala bent himself to his task of removing the ever-encroaching sand from the line, that he saw glinting up at him a shiny stone. His supervisor, August Stauch, suspecting that this was no ordinary stone, immediately got himself a prospecting license and then sent the stone for analysis. He was right: it was a diamond, and that chance discovery marked the beginning of the Kolmanskop diamond rush. In those days, before the whole area became the Sperrgebiet, multitudes of fortune-hunters descended on this inhospitable spot; at night, once the endless wind had dropped, they could be seen crawling through the desert in the light of the moon, sifting the sand for diamonds. There was no need to mine or to dig because the stones were so plentiful that they lay around on the surface for all to see.

The German government lost no time in declaring a forbidden zone (Sperrgebiet) from the mouth of the Orange River northwards for 360 Kilometres and inland for 100 kilometres. To this day, several governments later, the area is still forbidden and those who hope to stop at the roadside and do a bit of quick prospecting face harsh penalties.

By 1920 a booming centre had sprung up on the dunes at Kolmanskop; it was far more advanced than the port town of Luderitz, just over the hill, and boasted luxuries like a hospital, a concert-hall whose acoustics were renowned, a casino (this was long before Namibia was ruled by the Nationalists, you understand), a bowling alley, a school, a gym, and a power station. The town had its own furniture factory, its own butchery, bakery, its own soda-water and lemonade plant, and it even had its own swimming pool. The homes were lavish, their occupants having every luxury (including ice), the hospital possessed the first X-ray machine in Southern Africa, and the town became known for its culture, its tea-parties, and its lavish entertaining. What it did not have, however, was water, and this eventually contributed to its downfall. Almost everything had to be imported from Cape Town, including fresh water, at considerable cost. But who cared when the surrounding desert yielded over 1000 kilos of diamonds between 1911 and 1914 alone?

Kolmanskop was one of the richest communities in Africa – riches which were certainly not shared with the local 800 odd Ovambos who helped wrest the riches from the desert. However, brief candles burn brightest, and the boom was not to last long. By 1928 richer deposits had been found nearby at Elizabeth Bay and the town began gradually to die. In the diamond-slump of the mid 50s Kolmanskop uttered its death-rattle and the last inhabitants packed up and left, probably not even looking over their shoulders, in 1956.

Today the town (or the ruins of it) is well worth a visit. The once grand colonial houses have been taken over by the encroaching desert, their plaster wind and sand-blasted, great cracks appearing in their walls. Permits can be obtained to visit the place from Luderitz and those who care to stagger through the soft sand, their hair blow-dried by the scouring wind, their cameras lagged in protective bags or clothing, can pause a while to look through ruined windows at the endless desert, can listen to the sound of sand shifting inside the empty rooms, and with a great deal of imagination can conjure up a vision of this once prosperous and extremely rich community which has now been totally reclaimed by the forces of nature.

Only the silence and the soughing of the endless wind in the empty timbers remains.