An Accidental Activist

An Accidental Activist now at Angry African on the Loose

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 04:40:00 +0000

No, I haven't run out of stories. I just decided to merge my to blogs - An Accidental Activist and Angry African on the Loose. I'll continue telling my story there, but you will also be subjected to my (almost) daily rants. Hope to see you there.

Angry African on the Loose

I am Proudly South African (2001)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 15:05:00 +0000

How do you get people to buy South African goods when they have this perception that something made elsewhere is so much better? This was the question behind the Nelson Mandela initiated Proudly South African campaign. And I was asked to get this off the ground. It wasn't as easy as you would expect.

Nelson Mandela got government, business, civil society and trade unions together back in 1998 to get them to agree to a joint effort to create jobs in South Africa. His Presidential Job Summit was a breakthrough. Getting everyone on the same page was key to moving us forward. It didn't come up with too many tangible things, but just getting everyone to share thoughts was a big step in the right direction. And they agreed to many things that should be at the forefront of this new partnership. One of the things they agreed to was a short little paragraph about initiating a Buy South African campaign. Doesn't sound like much does it? Should be easy to get off the ground right? But nothing happened until 2000.

The problem was that business hated it, government was indifferent and the trade unions were split. But I worked for one of the key supporters of this idea - Ebrahim Patel. Ebrahim was a genius. A hard man and difficult to please, but a genius. And I loved working with this guy no matter how difficult it was. But I'll leave him for another day.

Ebrahim was the reason why I joined COSATU and because of him I was made Convener of the Trade and Industry Chamber at NEDLAC. NEDLAC was where government, labour, civil society and business negotiated almost everything that had something to do with the economy and social development before it goes to parliament. And the Trade and Industry Chamber negotiated and developed anything from trade deals to competition policy. You name it we negotiated it and did it. NEDLAC is light years ahead of anything I have seen in any democracy in the world. Making people actually part of government policy decisions processes. Imagine that. By the people and for the people.

So it was only logical that this Buy South African idea eventually landed up in our laps. And it was my job to make this argument. Well, at least according to Ebrahim. So I made the arguments and threatened and threw my toys until they agreed. Not because they wanted this, but because they thought it would be best to humor me instead of facing a possible mass action (read protest) against them. But they had something up their sleeve as well.

They were pretty sure that this thing will never get off the ground. There were just too many people against it. And the new President, Thabo Mbeki, wasn't that eager for it either. It would be a legacy of Nelson Mandela and he was trying to get away from under the shadow of this great man. So they decided to set up a task team that would get this campaign off the ground. Knowing that it would never happen - not if they had anything to do with it. And who better to lead this task team then me. Yep, I pushed so hard that they thought the best way to get back at me is to set me up for failure. So I was the 'lucky' one who got selected to lead this campaign. Thanks Ebrahim.

They gave me total freedom to include anyone in the team that I wanted. They were sure that I would fill it up with unionist who would be supportive of the idea. But no. That wouldn't work. I needed those who were against the idea even closer than those who loved it. Keep your friends close and enemies even closer. So I selected key people from government and business who were totally apposed to the idea. I had to convince them if we wanted any chance of success.

They also gave me an almost unlimited budget to work with. And like anyone with too much money I hired a few consultants. Rupert Barnard and Kaiser in Cape Town were perfect. They didn't give a damn who liked it or not. Their aim was to make it work. And get paid a bucket load if they could pull it off. But the opposition pulled out their first trump card at our first meeting - WTO requirements.

As a member of the WTO, South Africa agreed that the government will not do anything that supports South African companies above foreign companies. All should be treated equally. But we needed the support of government because they had the money. And they could influence business. And we needed business to implement it if we wanted it to be viable.

So we came to standstill almost immediately. We couldn't move until we knew whether it would be allowed under WTO rules. We argued this way and that way. We did research and more research. And still we couldn't come to an agreement. Four months went past and we still didn't get any closer to an answer. And then it hit me. I picked up the phone, called the WTO and asked them if we could do this campaign under WTO rules. They said it would be fine and even put it writing for me. Needless to say, but the other guys were less impressed with my tactics. Or rather the answer that I got. But they had to go ahead with it - they were part of the team. Now we had government on our side - and their money as well. One down, one to go.

We blew money left right and centre to convince everyone that this is a good idea. We benchmarked similar campaigns in Australia, US, Canada and even Indonesia. Our problem was that none of the other countries included environmental and social standards to their campaigns. We wanted the products to not only be of good quality and be made in South Africa, but we also wanted it to be done in an environmentally and socially responsible way. Yes, we were way ahead of everyone else at the time. So we just made it up as we went along.

But consumers would be key to this all. They had to believe in the campaign and buy the products in the end. So we blew some more money on consumer studies to see what would drive consumers to support this campaign. And although we didn't know it at the time, this would be a breakthrough for the campaign. But not in a way we would have expected.

Those in business opposed to the idea found another obstacle they could throw our way. They couldn't agree on a name. Business wanted it to be called Made in South Africa. But the unions wanted it to be called Buy South African - the original name they agreed to in 1998. But business was adamant. They would not go for the Buy South African name as it was to prescriptive and they wanted it to say more about the product - that it was Made in South Africa. And the unions refused to budge. Stuck again.

We used this in our favor for a little while. Getting other key things passed like the budget, management structure and marketing plan. But we knew there would be no campaign if we couldn't get them to agree on the name. And time was running out.

And we struggled. Again going this way and that way. Trying to convince each side that they should just go with the other name. But no one was willing to budge. Then one night I was reading through some consumer research when it hit me. What were the number one reason people would support this campaign? Easy. Over 80% of people said they would do it because they were proud to be South Africans. We had a name - Proudly South African. They couldn't fight it. They would not be very proudly South African if they did. They caved in and we had a name. Business was on board.

The rest was easy. We removed one obstacle after the other. And more and more people came on board. And the name was a killer. A few more twists and turns and we had everyone on board. We were ready to rock and roll.

That was the most difficult time for me. We had to employ people to run this. My job was only to get it to the launch stage. It took 18 months of my life. It consumed everything. I had to out maneuver opponents and overcome obstacles every day. It drove me crazy, but I loved it. It was time to let go. My little baby has grown up and was ready to leave home. I was proud. I was Proudly South African.

I started a revolution - well, sort of (1993)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 02:48:00 +0000

Trotsky would have been proud. I started my own little revolution during my time at the University of Stellenbosch. Okay, most of it was unintentional and more like the Oasis song 'I started a revolution from my bed'. It all started when I became a tutorial lecturer in Political Science at the University of Stellenbosch.

I didn't want to be the standard lecturer. I wanted to teach and engage. So I made two simple rules that my students must follow. Firstly, they didn't have to come to class if they wanted a degree. I would just give them whatever mark they wanted if that was their intention. For those who wanted to study - be careful, I will challenge you and try and get you outside your comfort zone. The intention was to get them interested in learning and not focus on the end goal. The second rule was even easier to follow - it better be Liverpool I see if you wear any clothing that highlights some commitment to a sport or team. Anything else and you are out of there. And I am not joking, many students were thrown out of class for breaking this cardinal rule. Hey, even us revolutionaries needs to draw the line somewhere. Come on, Pope John Paul II was a Liverpool supporter as well - so I wasn't that much of a revolutionary.

Anyway, here I was at the Bastion of Apartheid, the University of Stellenbosch. Banished from most of the more popular anti-Apartheid movement meetings on campus because I questioned how committed they were - see The (student) spy amongst us for more detail. Just like old Trotsky, I was fighting my own fight. The problem was that I wasn't much of a Trot, I just had as many hang-ups when I was young.

I had my first taste at starting a revolution when I went on my yearly rant against the Student Representative Council. They were a pretty useless bunch. No power and no backbone. They were very much in line with the US system of voting - whoever is the prettiest and made the most populist promises will win - for a student this meant the one promising the biggest party will be gauranteed the popular vote. I used one of my classes to point out that voting should at least reflect some or other relevancy (this was before reality TV shows). And that the SRC was irrelevant. They pandered to the Nationalist government who controlled the University of Stellenbosch. They never spoke out against any of the injustices of the university rules or questioned the political alliances of the ruling mob at the university. One student piped up to say that her sister was on the SRC and worked really hard. My response was to say that I am sure she worked really hard. But that is different from working on something relevant. Planning the next big party did not translate into something relevant. And that I was sure that the Apartheid government worked really hard at oppressing people. But it didn't make them right. Hum, she didn't like this and decided to go for the 'I-want-a-degree' option and left my class. And I ranted on about what we needed was for students to take responsibility and show their unhappiness with the system. And in any way they felt was the most relevant - just as long as they show they didn't believe or support a political structure that had none of their interests at heart. It was a mistake to let them decide what the 'appropriate action' should be. A big mistake.

I meant for them to have a protest vote. Maybe a placard ot two. I actually expected them to do nothing. Go out for a few drinks after class and talk about the revolution like good Trots. And then go home and do nothing. Like good Trots. But no. They had other ideas. Unlike Trots they decided to do something together in unity. (Trots usually split into two groups when two gather). I didn't realize that the revolution started while I was in bed.

I took my normal route to the office and quickly realized that they went completely overboard. Every road sign and wall were sprayed in anti-SRC or anti-establishment slogans. Graffiti everywhere. Not a protester in sight, but their handywork were everywhere. Oh, yes. I was in trouble. People knew it was me behind this protest almost immediately. How? Well, the bloody students sprayed a path that started at the SRC offices and that ended at the entrance to my class. Like Hansel and Gretel leaving little breadcrumbs for everyone to follow. Right to my doorstep. I could feel a headache similar to the Trotsky ice-pick coming my way.

I got to class and my revolutionaries were waiting for me. All smiles and high fives. They were so chuffed with themselves. I sat down and stared at my desk. Where do I start? Do I give them the 'we'll fight them on the beaches speech'? Or do I just walk away and go have a drink? After a long pause I looked up and said, 'okay people, rule number three. What happens in the class, stay in the class'.

How to get a job at Oxfam - 5 easy steps

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 04:57:00 +0000

Erm... Hum, that's a lie. I tell you, joining Oxfam was one of the most stressful times in my life. No, let me rephrase that. Trying to get a job at Oxfam was the most stressful time of my life. Bloody hell, it was difficult. And took forever. Well, it all started back in 1999.

We started looking at Oxfam as a serious option shortly after I got back from the WTO Battle of Seattle. They were (and remains) pretty much the Exxon of non-profits - the biggest amongst giants, and polluting everything and everyone along the way. (Sorry, more detailed Oxfam bashing will come in future blogs).

All I had to do was send off my artificially enhanced resume and they'll throw jobs at me. It was going to be easy. Hey, who wouldn't want to hire me? We were so sure that by 2000 we would be sipping Gin and Tonic on our estate in Oxfordshire. I just had to find the right job to match my experience and skills.

Step 1: Find the job... somewhere... anywhere... just find the bloody thing.

But finding the job wasn't as easy as what we thought. Where the hell do we start? Hey, their website of course. Uh, no. It was still early days on the Internet. Oxfam tend to forget that for most people in Africa the Internet doesn't exist. And those few who had it was (is) still using bog standard landlines to connect. Trying to access the Oxfam website was like trying to read War and Peace - you knew it was possible, but it wasn't going to happen in a day. Nope. Just click on the Oxfam website and go out to play a game of footie outside. Follow this up with dinner and a trip to the bar and you might be fortunate enough to have opened the front page. Never mind the job search section. And we would have had a blackout by this stage in any case. Or the line would have been disconnected. Meaning that we have to start the process all over again. If you haven't been to the bar yet - start going, because you will need the drink to stay calm.

Oxfam, and almost every other bloody website in the world, forgets that the more complex and colourful your site, the more likely it would mean more time needed to upload. Not a problem if you have broadband (or DSL in those days), but a huge problem if you still used landlines. The site might look pretty, but my reactions weren't.

So off to the papers and magazines, right? That should be easy. But where do you start? Oxfam hardly published their jobs in our local paper Eikestadnuus. The Economist? Hardly - only the really senior positions that no African will be asked to fill. I needed something a little lower down the ranks. But I was in luck, The Guardian (Oxfam's favourite daily) had a deal with my weekly newspaper - The Mail & Guardian. And some of those Oxfam jobs actually slipped through cracks and made it into the newspaper. And then I hit another snag. Most of the jobs was already closed off for applications by the time it was advertised in the M&G. Back to square one - the damned web.

We eventually narrowed our searches down to about ten different places - a handful of newspapers (local and global) and a few (African) user friendly websites that posted the Oxfam jobs on their sites. Now we were ready to rock and roll. Oxfam here I come.

Step 2: Apply... and apply... and apply... don't stop for anything.

Which job should we apply for? There are so many. Do I want to be a researcher or a campaigner or a field worker or a policy adviser? And do I want to research or advise on debt or coffee or disasters or multilateral trade or what? And do I want to work for Oxfam International or Oxfam Great Britain or Novib (Oxfam Netherlands) or Oxfam Canada 1 or 2 (typical of the Canadians, they had to have two - a French one and an English one). I can't even decide which socks to wear or whether the socks should be matching or whether to wear socks at all, how am I going to pick one from this smörgåsbord of options? (Like the spelling? I checked it up on Wikipedia). This needed some serious thinking and consultations.

Well, after careful consideration by the Get-The-Damn-Job Committee, weeks of meticulous planning and re-planning by the Just-Make-A-Bloody-Decision Task Team, and independent advice by a group of even more independent consultants headed up by McKinsey & Company, we came up with a plan. We decided to take the shotgun approach.

This carefully worked out strategy is based on the principle of beggars can't be choosers. Instead of aiming at a specific target, this Einsteinish theory argues that either you are good enough for all the available jobs or that you might find one sucker at Oxfam that will be dazzled by your amazingly crafted resume. And who wouldn't see the stretched truths and value added pieces of fiction that litters your resume. The shotgun approach reasons that at least one of the pellets will hit a target. No one said that it needed to be the right target. Remember, Oxfam is the target and it doesn't matter which targeted Oxfam it hits. It just needs to hit something.

So we carefully crafted applications ranging from CEO of Oxfam to shop assistant in Mable Hall. Something had to give. Sorry Jack, a target will be hit.

Step 3: Aim low... remember where you come from.

It did became very apparent that I wasn't going to be employed as CEO. Or in any senior position that matched my South African position in any way. I am not trying to brag, but I got to a very senior position in South Africa in a very, very short period of time. So I initially expected the job at Oxfam to be on more or less the same level. But no. They weren't going to employ someone from Africa into a senior position. I mean really. What do we know of the world? The fact that we work and live in the places that they are meant to work for didn't matter to them. No. The colonialist blood ran thick. They employ their own people at the top and might throw a few of us in there to show their diversity. But they were pretty English and white at the top. And remains so.

But it didn't bug me too much. I was a Director in South Africa and I wouldn't employ any of them at a senior position in South Africa. So I guess it was just more than fair that they play the same game in their backyard. I just swallowed hard and went for a few positions below what I wanted. But this was about getting the opportunity to prove myself. Getting that break. And once I get it I will work my butt off to prove my worth to them. The revolution will start once I get in. The job I get was going to be a Trojan horse.

But, of course, I had a family to feed. It took some hard decisions and harder words from my wife, but she decided that it was something she wanted all of us to do. So tighten the belts a bit and stop thinking of the estate in Oxfordshire. Maybe the counsel estate will have to do.

So we focused a bit more on the lower end of the scale. And got cracking on those applications again. And enjoyed it while we could. Once we accepted the lower end job we wouldn't be able to enjoy the luxury of licking stamps. And we prepared for the move. I was sure that it was going to happen any day soon.

Step 4: Hang in there... this might take a while... just don't stop.

What is taking them so long? This is like watching a kettle boil or asking an Englishman for directions. It takes for bloody ever. Now remember, I started applying for Oxfam jobs back in 1999. I expected it to be all done and dusted within a few weeks. A few months at most if we include the visa applications. But really. Months went by without as much as a word from Oxfam.

I was sure that it had something to do with the telephone system. So we checked and double checked our connections. Checked if our emails are being delivered and Oxfam wasn't on a overly sensitive anti-spam system of our service provider. But not a peep from them. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Fuck all.

That's when I read the fine print. Apparently they don't send you a note to either confirm that they got your application or if you were unsuccessful. Obviously the last one couldn't be relevant to me. Why would they not want to hire me? It must be the postal system. I am sure our government got a sniff that I might be leaving and would do all in their power to stop the brain drain. That was the only logical explanation. And the few rejection letter that came my way was delicately planted by government agents working on keeping me in South Africa.

So I just kept on applying for more jobs at Oxfam. Sometimes ten at a time. Week in and week out. And I smiled every single time I got a rejection or no reply. I knew that every time they rejected me or ignored me I was getting closer and closer to that one job. This was just the law of averages. You have to go through so many disappointments before you could get to that one job that was just right. So I knew I was getting closer to the one. I forgot that I learnt in science that no matter how many times you test the law of gravity - the result will remain the same. (okay, just in case the geeks are trawling this blog - the law of gravity doesn't work 100% in quantum physics). But you get what I mean - repeated failure doesn't always get you closer to success. But I had to believe.

Step 5: Get the interview... not the job.

And then I got the call. All the way from Phil Twyford, Advocacy Director for Oxfam International. He wanted me to come up to Brussels for an interview for a position as lobbyist at the European Commission. Man was I exited. I prepared like hell. read everything that I could. Studied like I've never studied before. Flew over to Brussels and completely froze at my first interview. I was way over prepared and when they stuffed up my schedule I didn't react the way I should have - I panicked and just plainly had a bad interview. Okay, it wasn't that bad. But I did feel that I wasn't on top of my game. I was not focused enough. I wanted the job a little too much. But it was a lesson learnt. Don't go for the job. Go for the interview. That's why they invited you in the first place. So we were back at square on after almost 2 years of failed applications and one interview. Man did I feel shit and almost gave up. But we started sending off those new applications the next day.

This time we didn't have to wait too long though. Nope. The next one came a few months later. This time by another Phil. Phil Bloomer who was then the Head of Advocacy at Oxfam Great Britain. He wanted me to come and speak to them about the position at the WTO. This time it went like a dream. I nailed everything and then some. They loved me. I knew more about the WTO than all of them put together. And, as a previous WTO negotiator, I had a trunk full of contacts. But I still didn't get the job. They loved me but they needed someone to start immediately and although I knew more than anyone else, they just couldn't wait the few months that it was going to require to get me my visa. For some or other reason the WTO wasn't willing to postpone their Ministerial meeting for a few months either.

My last words to Phil was to say thanks for the opportunity, but, make no mistake, I will be working for you guys very soon. And it was just a few months later that I got another call from Phil. He wanted me to come over and talk to them about a job as Policy Adviser, Private Sector. And that was the one we were waiting for.

The law of averages worked. It's a numbers game. I had to apply for about 500 jobs to get 3 interviews to land one job. Did it get me down? Yes. Did I felt like giving up at times? Yes! Did I feel shit when I didn't get the job? Absolutely. Would I do it all over again? Without a doubt. It was as easy as pie.

Rant & Rave: We Eat Meat - Get Used To It

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 13:28:00 +0000

Being green or protecting wildlife means almost nothing outside US and Europe. There are bigger issues facing people in places like Burundi, Guyana, Yemen and North Korea. They continue to struggle to survive each day. The cheapest bidder always wins when you live off less than $1 a day. And you don't know if there will be a tomorrow if you live in South Africa or Botswana - HIV, TB or malaria can strike at any time. And who cares about the rainforest if you could be killed by a landmine or sniper in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Or care about sustainable farming when you have no food in Zimbabwe. Or about the poor wild animals if you are a refugee in Tanzania trying to make it through another day.

People are starting to bitch about the wildlife in east Africa being threatened by refugees. The influx of people, a half a million in Tanzania alone, has had an enormous impact on wildlife. And these refugees are hunting any animal with a bit of meat on to eat or trade. One of the reasons is that the aid agencies don't provide any meat for refugees. No, it is all beans and cereal for them - with a bit of vitamin fortified foods thrown in.

Come on people, this is Africa. We need our meat. We think chicken is a salad. How can you for one minute think we can survive on beans and cereal? We're not British you know. I don't know any African vegetarians. I am sure there might be a few. But they don't hang around the fire often. We need meat like you need to breathe. Without that we just aren't human or even feel half alive. Please leave your morals at the door if you want to criticise us - we have enough on you to let this one slip by.

A very good friend of mine, French unfortunately, once tried to convince me that the world can feed everyone if we only turned cattle farming into farming of plants - sorry wheat and stuff. All nice when you have your red wine and baguette, but where do you think the cheese come from? And many of us in Africa judge wealth by the ownership of cattle. Too much of a culture shock for us to stop breeding and eating cattle. It's so foreign to us - it's like me asking you to stop earning money and just work for a nice fresh Cesar salad - with a bit of Ranch dressing, if you're lucky. All very nice, but you won't be doing that soon would you?

No, we want our meat and you better get used to it. And we don't want the stuff you call meat in the West. We don't want the hormone and steroid injected animals thank you. No, we want our meat to be fresh - living outside and as wild as possible please. You eat your manufactured mush and we will eat our meat. And we will kill it ourselves and not have this 'I don't want to see it' baby attitude. Own it people (thanks Dr Phil). If you want to eat it - see it.

The aid agencies says that they can't afford to give people meat. Apparently it is not cost effective and the refugees will get everything they need from the beans and cereal. Well, if you don't pay up then you must shut up. We can't help it that you can't afford the meat. We need it to be who we are. Without it we just can't be African. And don't judge us. You can't be you without your guilt and a superiority complex (yes, you are and have one even if you 'work for the poor' - we've seen the photos). And you can't live without your precious air. Even if it is slightly polluted. You are who you are and we are who we are.

Which brings me to my last point. We do not believe in saving the environment and wildlife just for saving it. It only has meaning and 'currency' if it means something to us. We'll look after it and protect it if it is valuable enough for us. We have always looked after our environment and kept the balance with nature, when we've had the luxury of living a normal life. (But it has been a bit more difficult to maintain since you colonized us). But when we have to decide between us and death or a meaningless life? We choose us. And that includes doing what we have always done. Eating meat. Live with it.

The Battle of Seattle and me (1999)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 17:13:00 +0000

I was as exited as hell. Minister Alec Erwin, Minister of Trade and Industry, asked me to be part of the Ministerial Team to go to the WTO round in Seattle. Not only was it an incredible honour to represent my country, but this was going to be my first trip to the US. USA here we come.

It was a long, long flight to Seattle. It's a 14 hour flight to Miami and another 7 hours to Seattle. And a few hours hanging around Miami waiting for our connecting flight. It took me just more than 24 hours to get from Cape Town to Seattle. Remember, those were my smoking days.

No luck in having a smoke in Miami. Welcome to the US - where smoking was already banned. I was held up by security for a while. I guess my diplomatic passport didn't do the job. Yep, got one of those, but only for the duration of Seattle WTO round. No time for a smoke. I was slowly dying by this time.

Actually it wasn't that bad. I am like Pavlov's Dog when it comes to flying. I fall asleep the second I feel the engines starting. So I slept pretty much for 20 hours plus. I was wide awake by the time we got to Seattle in the middle of the night. Time to hit the bar then.

Dennis George, from another trade union federation, and myself decided to go for a few beers and see if that would get us ready for bed. The theory was that we will either get tired or pass out if we drank enough. So we sat in an almost empty bar and had a few bad beers - my first Bud was my last Bud. The only other people in the bar was the barman, one fat middle aged with a walking stick and a beautiful girl in her 20s. They weren't together.

The girl got up to leave and started walking in our direction to get out - we sat close to the exit. Dennis looked at her and as she came closer - well more of a stare than a look. You need to know Dennis... She almost passed us when Dennis mumbled a hello. She stopped and turned towards us - and looked at us for a few seconds. And then she asked if she could join us.

That was odd. Neither Dennis or myself are much to look at. Our beauty is more internal... Dennis bought her a drink and I just looked at her trying to figure out why she wanted to join us. So I asked, 'what do you do for a living?' She was a 'private exotic dancer', she said. I was trying to figure it out - and then it hit me. 'So, what does a private exotic dancer do?' 'Anything you would like me to do. In private.' Confirmed - she was a prostitute.

With that out the way it made it easier to talk. I wasn't going to pay. I would have to leave if she wasn't a prostitute. I am happily married and have no interest in other women. But with her being a prostitute it meant that she wouldn't want to sleep with me in any case - I wasn't going to pay! No interest from either party. We could just sit and chat. And I told her so.

We had a nice chat. She came from somewhere I can't recall. Somewhere in California I think - San Something. She came to Seattle to 'work' the WTO delegates and already had a few 'hits'. I asked her how much she charged - $400 per hour. Bloody hell! Three strikes and I am out - love my wife, won't pay and can't afford anyway. But Dennis had other ideas.

Dennis started talking about the possibility of them coming to a financial agreement that suited both of them. He was trying to negotiate a 'living' price - like any a good trade union negotiator should. But she got down to $250 and wouldn't move from their. Still way off the $50 Dennis was willing to pay. South African trade unionist were cheap - we didn't get paid that much. But Dennis was arguing that he wouldn't take more than 15 minutes at most and that made it $200 per hour. I think he was pushing with the 15 minutes claim - that was just subtle bragging.

I started losing interest in their discussion and concentrated on my beer and the guy in the bar. He was having this incredible chat with the barman about his shares. And the barman was talking about his shares. The middle aged guy was a fisherman (with a walking stick?). Two average guys talking about their investments. So different from South Africa where only the rich can even think about investments - never mind actually investing. Welcome to the US where they talk about their investments and not about surviving another day.

The middle aged guy got up and started walking towards us to leave. He was about to exit when he turned around and looked at the prostitute and tilted his cap and said, 'evening mam. Send my regards to your family' and then walked on. She didn't hear him. I asked her if she knew the guy that walked past and she said that she doesn't know him from a bar of soap. 'Well, I think you just missed a customer as he was talking to you and said something about your family'. She jumped up in a flash and ran after him with all the composure she could muster. They spoke for a few second and then got into the lift and disappeared. She didn't even say goodbye. Dennis was shell shocked. 'Hey Dennis, you'll thank me in the morning when you look at your wallet'. And with that I went off to bed. Alone. To sleep.

The next day was boring. We sat around and discussed tactics for the following day when negotiations was due to start. I was to focus on the African group of countries. The African countries negotiated a common position before we came over and it was my job to ensure we stick with this deal. With that done - time to explore the city and have a few beers.

Hit the jackpot at the first bar. I saw a group of people with steelworkers t-shirt drinking together. Well, I was a trade unionist and decided to join them for the evening. Had a ball. Shared trade union stories - they were all on permanent protest against a company that fired them a few years back. I didn't tell them I was a WTO delegate as it became clear that they were in town to protest at the WTO meeting. It also became clear that they expected a huge protest the next day. People from all over will be in the streets - treehuggers, activists, trade unionist, anarchist all joining together for the first time to protest against something you could all agree on - their hatred of the WTO. It was late in the evening when we parted - and they gave me a steward's badge for the protests planned the next day. I was now both a delegate at the WTO meeting and a steward and marshall at the protest against the WTO meeting!

President Clinton was going to have an official welcome on day one - and I was asked to represent South Africa with Minister Erwin and Kevin Wakeford from business. Needless to say, they expected me to dress the part - suit and all. But no, thanks to my steelwork friends, I knew that the protest was going to huge and dressed like a protester instead - khaki trousers, boots, suede jacket, cap and backpack. Easy to turn into something more presentable if I tucked in my shirt and took off the cap.

Of course Alec Erwin was less impressed with my choice of attire. We all got together in his, much fancier, hotel room before we left. I walked into his room and he stared at my clothes for a while before saying, 'Mr H, I know you like a more casual approach to clothing, but you do know that we are going to the official opening to represent our country. And we are going to meet President Clinton'. I smiled at him and said, 'we'll have to see who makes it into the building first'. He had a perplexed look on his face but just shrugged and said, 'lets go'.

Alec and Kevin had suits on - and their WTO delegate umbrella and id cards (hanging around their necks). That was the standard WTO delegate dress for the day. Needless to say, they stood out like a sore thumb in the streets where everyone was wearing protester clothing. We turned the corner to the building where the WTO meeting was to be held and just saw a sea of protesters. It seemed as if all 50,000 protesters turned our way and, seeing the suits and umbrellas advertising their WTO status, they all shouted 'delegates!' And then they surrounded our little group of three. Shouting and screaming insults - and making sure we don't get any further.

Okay, they didn't surround our group of three. They actually surrounded the group of two - Alec and Kevin. You see, I looked like a protester with my clothes, backpack and lack of WTO umbrella and id card (tucked away in my backpack and pocket). Alec and Kevin couldn't move. They were surrounded. I looked at Alec and Kevin, winked and moved into the crowd. See ya later, suckers!

Everywhere I walked there were little groups of delegates surrounded by protesters. None of the delegates were allowed to move and no one could get close to the WTO building. But I was free to walk amongst the protesters. Especially with my steward badge and all.

It was a see of faces and dresses. Turtles, dolphins and even a few cows. It was something to see. Everyone standing for anything joined together for one day of protesting against a common enemy - the WTO. And the teamsters did their bit as well. Surrounding the place with trucks and buses. Making it impossible for anyone to get in or out. Man, it was beautiful and looked for a minute like the dawn of something new and powerful - people's power.

I walked around to see if there was a way in. But the teamsters did their work pretty well. The trucks and buses blocked every angle. And they had people manning every opening to ensure no one got in. But I had to get in. That was my job.

I got to the building where Clinton was going to open the meeting. A few buses between me and the building. And a few protesters on top of the buses. And then the riot police waiting on the other side. Only one way in - over the buses we go.

I got on top of a bus and looked around. Good choice. No one else on this one. Just two cops on the other side waiting. But that shouldn't be a problem. I have a WTO id card. I jumped down the other side and the cops came running towards me - their riot gear shaking and weapons aimed and ready. I shouted at them that I am a delegate. They stopped about 2 meter away from me and told me to get back 'sir'. What? I repeated that I am a delegate - just let me get my id card. But they told me to get back. Their orders were to not let anyone in. What? Not even delegates! These guys were taking orders way too seriously. The first order of the day was to not allow anyone get through, but they forgot to tell them that they should allow the delegates through! (Tip for their superiors. Speak slowly, clearly and in single syllables. And remember. these guys don't interpret orders. They just execute it - to the t).

They were getting agro and I knew that the best move would be to go back the way I came - over the bus. By now a few protesters have started to take notice of me on cop side of the buses. And they started to shout encouragement! Booing the cops. They still didn't know that I was a WTO delegate. I moved back to the bus and a few protesters extended their hands to help me back up. 'Great stuff', 'yea, take them on', and 'way to go brother' greeted me as I got back into the crowd. I was a hero amongst the protesters for a little while...

But I had to get in. That was my job. I started moving towards the front of the main WTO building. But a human chain blocked my way in everywhere. I played the game - walking around as a marshall and steward telling people to strengthen the lines. All the while looking for a way in.

Things were starting to look bad though. The crowd was losing control. The anarchists started burning tires, throwing bricks and stones at windows, and climbing on top of building shouting and taunting the cops. I have been at enough protests marches in South Africa to know that this was only heading one way - a clash.

I got close to the front of the main protest facing the riot police. I was about 3 people away from the front when people started to sit down. Bad move. I have learned from experience that you don't sit down in front of cops when they want you to move. And then came the teargas. It was like being home in South Africa back in the 80s all over again - protesting, riot police, teargas and stones versus rubber bullets.

The guy in front of me got hit by a teargas canister and it went off in his face. He started wailing and puking almost immediately. I grabbed my handkerchief, wet it with my water bottle and covered my face (a lesson learnt from many protests in South Africa - be prepared). It burned, but it was easier to breathe this way. And then I grabbed the guy that got hit by the teargas and started pulling him towards the side - towards the WTO building.

Make no mistake. I didn't do it to help the guy. I saw him as my ticket to get into the WTO building. I dragged him to the human chain and shouted at them that I needed to get him to a medic - and flashed them my steward badge. They opened up and the medics were just a few meters away. I threw the guy at the medics and shouted at them to help him.

I sat down, washed my face with the bottled water and then took out my delegate id card. The cops were moving towards me - ready to either arrest me or kick me back into the protesting crowd. I got up and flashed them my delegate card and shouted, 'will you now please let me in?' They stepped back, pointed to the entrance of the building and shouted 'go!'. I grabbed my backpack and walked over to the doors wiping the teargas tears from my face.

I got into the building and headed for the escalator to go upstairs to the meeting area. It was one hell of a long escalator. I looked up as I got on the escalator and just saw cameras flashing and rolling. Damn. The press. They have been starved of people to interview all day. No one made it in and here I was - a prey to pounce on. Someone to interview at last.

But I wasn't meant to speak to the press. I had no training. What do I do? Push past them or say a few words? I quickly decided that I will speak to them. It has been about 3 hours or more since the South African team last saw me disappear into the crowd of protesters. I was sure that they were all back at the hotel room by now. Watching CNN to see hat was happening. I will talk to the press to let them know I am okay. I am alive and well. And that I made it in. So I straigtened my clothes and neatened my hair. Bring on the cameras baby!

I hit the top and froze. There were cameras and microphones everywhere. People shouting questions left, right and centre. I couldn't register. Then I heard a question coming through my cloudy mind, 'sir, what's like out there?' And I said the first thing that came to my mind, 'well, the first thing that went through my mind when I smelled the teargas was home-sweet-home'. And it went out live for the world to see.

And the press loved me for that. I gave them a soundbite and that was what they wanted. I was their favourite for the rest of the day. I don't know if it was because of my quote or whether I was one of only a handful of people they could interview. But I enjoyed the media attention and had my 15 minutes of fame - stretched to a few hours because of a lack of competition!

So I spend most of the day and evening talking to the press and drinking coffee. Nothing to do. The police had to clear the streets before I could leave the building again. But I did get a great t-shirt. Man the Americans are fast. I got a t-shirt that said 'my trade minister went to the WTO and all I got was this lousy trade deal'. Still got it.

I eventually went to the hotel at 2 am. The cops escorted me all the way there. Two cop cars in front and one at the back. Me in the limo in the middle. So different from the day of protesting. But by now the streets were empty. Not a soul except for the cops.

I got to the hotel and headed up to Alec's room. I wasn't sure whether he would still be awake, but had to check in to make sure. Just to show him I am back. I could hear the tv inside and opened the door. He was still up with most of the team hanging around. He looked at me and shook his head saying, 'home sweet home Mr H?'

Okay, so it wasn't the best thing to say with the world watching. But who made it to the meeting and who didn't?

___________

(Note: a few other things on my Seattle experience.

Day 2 was even more unbelievable. There were absolutely no one in the streets. You could hear the riot police marching through the streets in typical military style. Their beat echoed off the buildings. Like police patrolling the streets in a police state. A sign of the future world to come?

I was walking the empty streets by myself for a little while - just to take in a bit of Seattle. And I saw my first sex shop. It had Barbie and Ken in S&M clothing in the window. I was dumbstruck and stared at it not knowing what to think. It was so foreign. Barbie has never been the same since. A sign of the future South Africa to come?

And of course, all of this happened while my wife and daughter was at home. We told my daughter that I was going to Seattle. She was almost three and didn't get what I was doing there, but she got the fact that I was in Seattle. My wife was cooking when she heard my daughter call from the TV room, 'look mom, Seattle'. My wife came into the room and saw the absolute chaos happening in Seattle. She knew that I would be one of the people in the rioting crowd. I always want to be in the middle of it - not participate, but try and get a sense of it all. Just take it in and observe people and their behaviour. And she did what she always does - she started worrying. She didn't go to sleep until I phoned from the hotel many, many hours later. A sign of our future together when I travel?)

I always thought that my home-sweet-home comment was just relevant to that moment in Seattle. But it only hit home how true it was when I moved to the US many years later. It still felt like home-sweet-home. Both the good and the bad

Lusaka - September, 11 (2001)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 02:13:00 +0000

The damn electricity keeps on shutting off in Lusaka. This country exports electricity to South Africa. But they can't even keep their own grid up. And that is a problem for a charity who operates only on the Internet - we depend on electricity to keep us up and running.

I was in Lusaka to work with the charity OneWorld.net. OneWorld.net provides an internet platform to get the activist news out to the world. It has offices and feeds from around the globe. And their African office is in Lusaka, Zambia. And it is not always easy to stay up and running or get the stories out.

One of the more amazing partners is of a guy from the Democratic Republic of Congo who used to get out stories of what was happening while the civil war was going on. The government, or whoever controlled the area at the time, shut down all communications. But he knew it was important to get all the stories out to the world. Each night he would slip over the border and go to a neighbouring village to hook up and post the latest story. He took his life in his own hands as the border was a no-go area. They would kill him on the spot if they ever found him. But he managed to do it each and every day. Never got caught, but had a few close calls. And he never got paid a cent for doing any of it. He was just committed to justice and his people.

So we all got together in Lusaka to discuss and plan on how we get these stories out and support all the people in the field who post these stories. But it wasn't easy. The electricity shut down at least 3-5 times a day. And the phones went down when the electricity went down. No connection to the outside world during those 'dark' times. And we had to post, post, post whenever we had the lucky break of having electricity.

I got a call from my wife at mid-afternoon. The line was bad. Mobile phones hardly worked and landlines were patchy. She said something about New York and an attack by terrorist. But the line was really bad and I couldn't make out everything she was saying. I looked at the others and told them what she said. They just shrugged and carried on what they were doing. My wife sounded odd, but I took that as just her having an off day. I said goodbye and turned to the other asking what they thought of that. We all thought it must be some other attack on a building in NY and nothing much to do with us. Most likely a minor story of a radical right-wing American trying to blow up a government building again. And so we carried on doing what we were doing.

We stopped working early evening and planned to get together later for a few beers and something to eat - in that order. I went to the guesthouse I stayed to clean up. I got to my room and flicked on the TV without looking at it. It was news and nothing new ever happens in our little world today. Nothing that I had to worry about in any case. I got a cold beer and sat outside on the stoep (veranda) and had a few cigarettes while sipping away on my beer. Just sitting and enjoying the beauty of early evening. And amazing African sunset and people's voices everywhere. The highlight of my day when I was at my happiest to be in Africa. You could feel the life and vibrancy of Africa at that time of the day. People coming from work and getting together for a few beers. Loud voices as they talk about soccer and all the good things in life. Coming back from their daily commutes and laughing about how good life can be. People didn't watch much TV until much later - if at all.

I went back in to wash my face and hands to get ready for the night out. I walked back into the room and looked at the TV. It seemed as if it was another one of the imported American movies with things blowing up and destruction everywhere. I thought I had it on CNN...

So I switch the channel over to CNN. And it stayed on the channel it was on before. I stared at the TV trying to make sense of it. What was CNN showing? And slowly it started hitting home. The information was coming through slowly. Everything was happening in slow motion. Things were coming at me, but at a pace I still couldn't handle. The pieces of information just hit me one after the other. Like a boxer being hit one shot after the other. I was punch drunk. It was information overload. Too much information. It couldn't register to make sense. I shook my head to try and clear it up. Bu it still didn't make any sense. I was lost in another world. This wasn't my world. I closed my eyes and slowly opened it again. Hoping to wake up. But it wasn't a dream. It was something else. It was as if my life was changing before my eyes. And I couldn't control or even comprehend what it was. What is this? What is this? Then everything sped up and hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat down on the edge of the bed and just stared at the tv. And just kept on staring. And staring. What the fuck is going on in our world?

A pilot's ear (2001)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 01:53:00 +0000

Disclaimer: Let me just say that the last blog was a bit of a heavy one to get off my chest. It took a bit out of me. And it was even more difficult to write the next one. People responded to how it made them feel. And I appreciate that. But I hope it didn't create too much of an expectation. How do I follow that one up? Well, I can't. Don't expect every blog to be as heavy as that one. This blog is about my life. The good and the bad. Some heavy and some fun. Some life lessons and sometimes just stories. Sometimes relevant and sometimes just things that stuck with me. Just stories of things that happened to me and how I got here. So, let's get back to some more story telling.

A pilot's ear

'Good morning Mr C! Got your ticket ready for you'. I can still hear those words. Always the same words. It was the British Airways air hostess at Cape Town International. Always with a smiling face and a quick chat before I head off to the lounge and some coffee.

You see, I used to fly often. No really, I used to flew a lot. Two to four times a week from Cape Town to Joburg and back. For 5 odd years.

I lived in Stellenbosch, the most beautiful town in South Africa and just outside Cape Town. But I had to go up to Joburg to negotiate trade deals and trade and industry policies at NEDLAC (National Economic Development and Labour Council - ) - and that meant having to be at all the chamber, committee and ministerial meetings. As the lead negotiator at the Trade and Industry Chamber, I sat on 12 odd committees and had to be at the Ministerial meetings. All in all about 30 meetings a month. I get tired just thinking of it.

It could have been easier if they managed to arrange the meetings a bit better. It was the same bunch of people attending most of the meetings. Me, Mark Bennett and Herbert Mkhize from the trade unions, Raymond Parsons, Michael MacDonald, Roger Baxter and Andre Lambrechts from business, and Alistair Ruiters and Bahle Sibisi from government. Always the bunch of us stuck in a room together. Nine men writing history. The other 8 all lived within an hour from Joburg. I stayed 2 hours away - a 2 hour flight.

But I had my own way of getting them back. I refused to stay over in Joburg. Which meant that they had to fly me in from Cape Town for each meeting. And I refused to drive in Joburg. Have you driven in Joburg? It is crazy. And that doesn't include the hijacking either. It's like Nascar for dummies. So they had to send a car to pick me up. Okay, so I was just lazy. Didn't want to drive. Never liked it, so why go through all the stress of doing it in Joburg if I could get away with not doing it at all?

Living in Stellenbosch also made it more difficult to stay over in Joburg. Stellenbosch is the most beautiful town in South Africa, and Joburg the ugliest city. Stellenbosch is Stratford-Upon-Avon and Joburg is Birmingham. Stellenbosch is Carmel-by-the-Sea and Joburg is Philly. And I had a family in Stellenbosch. My wife and daughter meant everything to me - especially because of my relationship with the rest of my family. And I couldn't wait to be with my wife and daughter 24/7. But my decision also meant that I had to fly in for each meeting and they always wanted to start early to make sure they get both breakfast and lunch. Yes, food is at the heart of negotiations anywhere in Africa.

There was only one way to get there in time for the breakfast meeting - take the first flight out of Cape Town. Oh brother that was early - 6 am. That meant I had to get up at 4 to make it in time for my flight. And due to scheduling and traffic, I had to take the last flight out of Joburg - 9 pm. Landing at 11 pm. Home by 12. And up again at 4. See why I needed the breakfast? I never had dinner. Crazy schedule - but I loved every minute of it.

I always flew British Airways just to annoy everyone a bit more than needed. I didn't actually mind flying South African Airways, but I knew people got pissed off if I flew British Airways - I was a traitor for using the foreign airline. It always helped to get your opponent a bit hot under the collar before a round of negotiations. And it paid off - I mean air miles. Thanks to all the air miles, my wife, daughter and myself enjoyed a few free trips overseas. I had more air miles than anyone I knew - just over 700,000 air miles at one stage.

And I got to know the airline personnel pretty well. I did this same schedule for almost 5 years. Same flights every Tuesday and Thursday - and sometimes on a Monday and Wednesday. Always the same flights in the morning and evening. And I learned that being friendly meant that I never got hassled. Quite the opposite. They treated me like family. My ticket was ready by the time I got to the airport. I always got the same smile and call when I walked into the airport, 'Good morning Mr C. Got your ticket ready for you'. Never waited in a queue. It pissed everyone else off. Those waiting in the queue. Here I walked in and had my ticket ready and handed over with a smile and a wink. I just walked past those plebs in the queue, smiled at the air hostess, and thanked her. And, sometimes when there were no queues and I had enough time, I would hang out with them and talk a bit. About family, life and sport - whatever took our fancy.

From there it was straight to the lounge to have a coffee and chat to the guy working there. Nice guy. He always helped me get an upgrade. I flew business class each and every time - even though I booked in on economy. Man I was spoilt rotten by them.

And it continued once I got on the plane. They knew me and knew that all I wanted to do was get in my seat and sleep. I was like Pavlov's dog. I fell asleep the minute I feel the engines vibrate into action. And only woke up when we stopped on the other side. I didn't even wake up when we hit the tarmac. And the air hostesses always left me alone. Just a friendly smile and maybe a quick orange juice before they start the engines.

But I knew I was flying way too often when the air hostess woke me up on one of my many flights with an odd 'request'. I was bit bewildered. My internal clock told me I haven;t slept my usual 2 hours. she looked at me and said, 'sorry Mr C, we know that you like sleeping on the plane, but we know that it is your daughters birthday tomorrow. And we know you won't be flying tomorrow - you never do on family days. Could you maybe give this present to your daughter from all of us at British Airways, Cape Town International? and please wish her a happy birthday'. I was still half asleep and now flabbergasted. I gave her my best embarrassed smile and mumbled a thank you. They have never met my daughter - how did they know? Because I told some of them during our many chats. See, my daughter was born on a public holiday in South Africa - 1 May. Labour Day. And everyone thought it was odd as I also worked for the trade unions. So that was how they remembered. But still. Have you heard of an air hostess giving anyone a birthday present for their daughter. And they never met her before.

There was one last sign that I was flying to often. I started developing ear problems. I thought it was ear infection. And eventually it became too much. I just had to go to the doctor. And he made an appointment at an ear specialist. He didn't know who I am or what I do. I was just a guy with an ear problem. He looked at my ear. Stopped. Looked at my ear again - this time a little bit longer. He stopped, cleaned the tools and looked at me. 'Sir, are you a pilot?' he asked. 'Why?', I asked. His reply, 'because the only people with ears as stuffed up of yours are pilot ears. It's the continuous changing in air pressure and different conditions - dry air etc. And you only get these ears if you fly regularly, at least a few times a week. We call it pilot's ear.'

So that was it. Start staying over in Joburg or... I went home, went to the forest to pick up pine cones for the fireplace with my daughter, had dinner with my wife and daughter, tucked in my daughter, read her a story, got up and went to write my resignation letter.

My dad was an ass

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 15:17:00 +0000

My dad inspired me. Inspired me to not be like him. I am sure other people had worse dads. Hey, my old man never beat me up or anything like that. But he was a tough old bastard who wasn't always there for my family - even when he was present.

I remember as a little kid doing Greco-Roman wrestling. Don't laugh even if you can imagine me in that little 1930s bathing suit and weighing 44.1 pounds - the lightest weight division was 44-49 pounds! My grandad loved the idea that I wrestled. He loved wrestling - he was into professional wrestling. And don't dare say it wasn't real. He had ways to convince you even at the age of 80. He didn't need much to convince people of his views - at nearly 7 foot and 270 pounds. But he was my mom's dad and I was close to him. He came to every wrestling match he could attend. Or rather when my dad was willing to take him. He was poor and old and couldn't do it by himself and had to rely on my dad to bring him.

I made it through to the regional championships in my first year - I was six years old. I was too light by less than a pound, but they felt sorry for me (being the youngest there) and allowed me to go through and wrestle. And surprise, surprise, surprise - I won. And there was no one there to watch me. My dad had a game of cards he said he had to go to. So no one came. When the bus dropped me off I ran over to the house where he was playing cards - ready to show him the trophy I won. I ran in beaming and shouted, 'look dad!' He just looked at me and said, 'well done'. And then returned to play his hand.

I can remember the number of times he attended my events - sport or whatever. It was less than a handful of times. He always had something to do at the office or out in the field. See, he was high up in the prison service in Apartheid South Africa. In fact, he was head of political prisoners for many years at Pollsmoor where many of the political prisoners were held. And he was a bastard at work as well. People used to get paid to hand out lashings and other corporal punishment to prisoners. And he made more money doing this than from his weekly wages when he was young. And he was always right at work. No one dared to question him. It was his way or the highway.

And this was where our differences really came to light. His political views and mine. His approach and mine. He supported Apartheid South Africa and I supported the struggle against Apartheid. I was open to change and he fought change everyday. And it all exploded in the late 80s and early 90s when it became clear that Apartheid was going down faster than the Titanic. He couldn't stand the fact that his world was falling apart. And he couldn't stand it that he was wrong. And he couldn't stand it that I was on the side that was fighting his believes.

I hoped that it would all become a bit better - at least once Apartheidi fell. His world view was proven wrong and it was time to look ahead now. He was retired and well off. He had everything in place to just enjoy the rest of his life. But no. He had to continue to make it his job to wind me up whenever we saw each other. To always say something racist about the new government, my job, and especially my hero Nelson Mandela.

But I could handle that. I just switched off and concentrated on giving my mother all my attention. She suffered on her own when I moved out so it was only fair that I gave her all the attention when I visited - she didn't get it from him when at home. But then we had our first baby - a little girl called Emma. And things changed completely. I did not want her to be exposed to any racism and expecially not to my dad's racist comments. So I made a rule - no one was allowed to make any racist remarks when visiting my house. Respect my space and family and I will respect you. But he couldn't. He continued to make his remarks. And so we just stopped seeing him and banned him from our house.

I saw my mother once in a while, but I went to see him and my mother together as little as possible. I would rather meet her on her own at the movies or a restaurant. I just couldn't face him anymore. He was everything I didn't want to be. And just seeing him made me become more like him. Full of hatred and distaste. And I didn't want to be like that.

Then I got a call in the middle of the night. It was my sister crying her heart out. My mother just died. My sister was visiting my folks and she woke up from a loud bang. My mother just shot herself. Fucking guns. I hate them. Even when they are locked up in a safe - just like my dad did. I raced through to my parents house and from then on had to sort out everything. The funeral, identifying her body, police investigation, picking up her stuff at the shops, keeping everyone from cracking, speaking at her funeral. I hated it. I felt it was wrong - I was the youngest of four kids so why did I have to do it? I didn't want to do it, but I did. Because someone had to do it. My dad wasn't going to do much. He was to distraught. And thinking of himself and how he feels.

But now I had only one parent left. I tried to talk to him. Say that we only had each other left now. That we should be the family my mother would like us to be. That we should leave all our shit behind and look ahead. That we should just focus on each other and the good things we saw in our family. Be what we would like to be for each other. Stop the shit and look at the good. And he agreed. We cried a little and looked ahead.

But it didn't last. He went back to the woman he was with when he cheated on my mom. Not thinking for a minute that it was going to drive my sisters crazy. They believed that my mom shot herself because my dad cheated on her. Me? I just don't know. She never left a note and I want to remember the good years we had - not a few crazy minutes. But my sisters took it hard. Blamed themselves for not taking her away from him. And when he went back to this woman. Well, I had to choose and I chose my sisters.

I went to talk to him. I told him that this wasn't going to work if he brings her into the family. That he should do what he feels is right, but he should never bring her into contact with me, and especially not my sisters. And he ignored me. It exploded the day before we left South Africa.

He phoned my older sister to say that he was going to marry this woman. And my sister cracked. Again. And I had to take it up with him. No one else was going to do it. So I phoned him and told him to stop the crap. To please just think for a minute about my sisters. And think about his responsibility as a dad. I can't even remember what he said. I really can't. I have been trying to figure it out for years now. But I just can't remember. But whatever he said made me explode. I have never been that pissed off with anyone. I shouted at him and told him to leave me and my sisters alone. That we are done. No more chances. And that I will personally come to beat him to a pulp if he doesn't leave my sisters alone. If he can't look after them then I will. And I will come back to South Africa at a drop of a hat if he ever, ever messed with them. And then I threw down the phone.

That was 2002. I saw him once in 2004 for about 30 minutes at a family gathering. And made sure that he wasn't at the next one. And I spoke to him once in 2005. But it was civil. As if I was talking to an aunt many times removed. he meant nothing to me and I was just being polite to him. Trying to not actually engage with him. Not calling him dad or anything for that matter.

And then I spoke to him in 2007. Less than 24 hours before he died. They phoned me to say that he had only a few days left - if that. They were keeping him alive. He has been suffering from his terminal case of leukemia for a few years. And it has now caught up. There is nothing more to do. Everything was failing. And so was he. And they told me he was waiting for my call. He just wanted that before he died.

So I phoned him. He answered, but I could hardly hear his voice. He was going and so was his voice. I kept quiet for a little while. Thinking what to say. I knew he was waiting for this call. But what was I going to say? What do you say to someone that never inspired you? To someone who was never there? But I also knew that I was like him - stubborn like hell. And I knew I owed him everything. I am who I am because of who he wasn't. He inspired me to become who I am. The anti him.

I took a deep breath and whispered slowly, 'It's okay dad. It's okay. Just take it easy. Don't worry. It's okay. Just let it go. We're okay'. I could hear the barely audible whisper back, 'thank you'. I said good bye and told him I will phone him again the next day. But there was no next day. He took himself off the machines and medicine - just after I phoned. And he died a few hours later on the same day.

It's okay though. It's okay.

Trevor Manuel, Comrade Parsons and me (1997)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Sun, 06 Jan 2008 02:14:00 +0000

This was going to be my first big moment as NACTU negotiator. My first time out against the big boys. I had to represent the trade unions at a round of negotiations on the government budget. And they guy I was going to have to face from the government side? One of my favourites and a big hero I looked up to during the fight against Apartheid - Trevor Manuel, Minister of Finance.

Unfortunately, I was also going to face Raymond Parsons from business. Raymond has one of those personalities that drives me absolutely crazy. An English South African with just enough of an Oxford accent to annoy the hell out of me - and with the same patronizing Oxford attitude that hints at knowing better than any of us and pity us for not being as bright as him. He also stood for everything I despised at that stage - a rich white guy who headed the white South African Chamber of Commerce during the Apartheid years. And when Apartheid ended? All of a sudden he never supported it and always fought it - just behind closed doors. Doors so bloody well closed that no one knew about this fight - not even him. Needless to say, we did not get along. But at least I will have Trevor there to calm me down as he was bound to be on my side. Hey, the trade unions joined him, the UDF and the ANC in the streets during the fight against Apartheid.

But first I had to learn something about budgets. I was a political scientist, not an accountant. I didn't even do our budget at home - what do I know of the government budget plans? And I had two days.

Well, two days later I was ready. As ready as I was going to be. Did I know anything about the budget? No. But I knew just enough to be dangerous. I knew that the government was going to cut the tax on certain goods that they qualified as everyday goods. But I knew the goods was actually luxury goods for the majority of South Africans - video machines, video cameras etc. And that it was going to cost them 200 million Rand. For the same amount, they could cut the tax on paraffin and have a huge impact on poverty. The poor spent over 30% of their income on paraffin. And they will save around 15% or more - if the government agreed to cut the tax on paraffin. And business actually supported us on this. As is typical in all negotiations, we had to give to get, but we gave enough for them to agree to support us on the paraffin issue. So all the social partners of government agreed on the tax cut on paraffin - trade unions, business and NGO's (they almost always supported our position). So it was a surprise that government decided not to cut the tax on paraffin, but rather on these 'everyday goods'. Let's rock 'n roll.

As always, I got to the meeting early. I got a cup of coffee and got my notepad, pens, cigarettes and ashtray ready. Oldest negotiating trick in the book - back when you could still smoke when and where you wanted. Light a cigarette the minute you start losing your train of thought or see the other side coming out on top. Especially because neither Trevor or Raymond smoked in public anyway.

I waited for about 10 minutes. I just lit a smoke and in walked Raymond. We didn't know each other that well at that stage. In fact, due to a mutual dislike, we never got to know each other that well at all. We exchanged a few pleasantries and I continued to smoke. Waiting for Trevor.

Trevor and his right hand (wo)man, Maria Ramos, walked in about 20 minutes later. Now remember, this was my first every negotiations and I was about to face one of my heroes. I was shitting myself with excitement. Trevor looked straight past me and leaned over to Raymond with a big smile and said, 'nice to see you again Comrade Parsons'. What the hell? Comrade Parsons? Did Trevor just call this guy Comrade? I was shocked into silence - not that I said anything at this stage in any case, but I was stunned.

He turned to me and mumbled a hello. No handshake - never mind being called Comrade. I just sat there staring into space. Then it hit me. He knew this was my first time. He was going to try everything to intimidate me and bully me into submission. He is here to win an argument - every battle and the war by the time we walk out of here. What the hell do I do now? This guy has negotiated against the Apartheid regime to convince them to hand over power to the people. I am fresh in a new job and was still at university a few years back.

Trevor and Raymond started talking about the budget and took a few friendly jabs at each other. Friendly banter. No serious negotiations. Raymond was obviously playing the good cop and did not need anything from these negotiations. He was here to make Trevor feel good about business. But that was not the trade union style. I was going to sink or swim.

'Excuse me', I said uncertainly. Neither of them even looked at me. Trevor continued to share his thoughts on his budget with Raymond. Raymond just smiled his irritating little smile and nodded his head in agreement. A little bit louder, 'Excuse me'. No recognition that I even existed - nothing, nada.

Sink or swim, Henk. Sink or swim.

'Excuse me, Minister Manuel, can I ask you a question'. This time it was loud enough for them to stop talking and look at me. They couldn't ignore me this time. Trevor looked up from his notes and stared at me from under his glasses. No 'yes' or any recognition that I hold some interest. My mouth was halfway open to say something when Trevor interrupted me and said, 'you do know I am not here to negotiate with you'. What was that? He is pushing the boundaries here and almost being openly hostile. I didn't even know how to start responding to this.

Sink or swim, Henk. Sink or swim.

He turned back to his notes and started talking about the budget again. All the time looking up at Raymond every few seconds. Acknowledging Raymond, but not me. It didn't help that I sat to his right and Raymond straight ahead of him - but Trevor picked his spot last. And I could see why. Damn this guy is good.

I swallowed - maybe loud enough for other to hear. This was my time. I had one chance and nothing more. I had to make my move now. I lit a smoke, took a deep drag and looked at the burning end. I never once looked at Trevor or Raymond, but I could sense that they were looking at me. Or at least glancing - I could hear Trevor's voice being a little bit clearer each time he glanced at me. I put the burning cigarette down in the ashtray and slowly started packing my stuff into my bag. Not looking up at them or acknowledging them at all. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. This was my play.

I took a sip of my cold coffee and took another drag of my cigarette - I hope they couldn't see my hands shaking slightly. And then I slowly got up and picked up my bag. Stubbed the cigarette out and then looked up and smiled. I nodded my head at Trevor and mouthed a goodbye to Raymond - acting as if I didn't want to interrupt their discussion - even though they stopped talking at this stage and was looking at me. I took my jacket and started making my way to the door.

Trevor looked at me and said, 'where are you going?' I stopped and looked at him - and then I gave him the friendliest smile I could manage at that stage and said, almost apologetically, 'I am sorry Minister Manuel. I didn't mean to interrupt your discussion. Please do carry on'. And then I turned back as if I was about to leave again.

Again Trevor asked, 'but where are you going?' - this time a bit louder to show me that he wants an explanation. I stopped and said, while slowly turning to face him, 'well Minister Manuel, you said that you are not here to negotiate with me. So I am leaving. The trade unions didn't send me here, all the way from Cape Town, to listen to your discussion with Raymond. I am sure it will be interesting, but I can read the minutes of the meeting if I wanted to know what you two are discussing. I am going back to the trade unions to tell them that you didn't come to NEDLAC to negotiate with me. We were clearly under the wrong impression, thinking that we were meant to be equal partners and negotiate the budget - and for that I am truly sorry'. And with that I turned around and walked out the room.

I was as nervous as hell while I did all this - but it never showed in my voice. He walked straight into my quickly hatched plan. It was a huge gamble, but I knew I had to show him that I am not here to be pushed around. Not by him or anyone else. This will set the tone for future negotiations and everyone will push me around if I caved in at my first one.

Once the door closed behind me - I just stood there for a few minutes taking a few deep breaths and lighting another smoke. After a few minutes I started walking over to the receptionist to ask her to get me a taxi. The door behind me opened and I heard Maria Ramos call my name. I turned around and walked to meet her halfway. She explained that the Minister would like me to come back inside. And, she said, while lowering her voice and quickly looking left and right to see if anyone else could hear, he would listen to my questions. 'But will he answer them?', I asked. She gave me a quick smile, but was obviously not impressed by my attempt at humor. 'He'll answer', she said, 'but will you come back in?' I nodded and followed her back in - this was way better than I could ever have hoped for. I didn't expect him to back down. I just didn't want to come away looking like a complete loser and/or idiot.

I sat down and made myself comfortable - coffee, smokes and notepad. Trevor looked at me and said, 'you had a question'. I looked up at him and said the line I prepared in my head many times in the last two days, 'Minister Manuel, you decided to not zero rate paraffin, but decided to zero rate what you call everyday goods instead. Tell me, Minister Manuel, when last were you in a township? Because the last time I checked most people didn't even have electricity - never mind the money or need for 'everyday' products such as video machines or video cameras. But paraffin, now that is a completely different story...'

An African adventure - thanks to Air Cameroon (2002)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 00:00:00 +0000

I had the most amazing, and unbelievable, airline adventure in 2002 - all thanks to Air Cameroon. I couldn't make this up even if I tried. And it all started when I got a call from a few African NGO colleagues asking whether I would attend the UN Africa Regional Conference on the World Summit on the Information Society (WSIS) in Bamako, Mali (what a stupid, boring line to include in this story. But hey, read on - it gets better. I promise). The request to go to Bamako came from the African Caucus - an informal alliance of African NGO's workers. We linked up at the prep meetings for the UN Conference on Financing for Development (UN FfD) - and was formally represented at the Monterrey Conference. It was not only an honor, but I was excited about my first trip to Mali - and it wasn't going to be in Timbuktu (you knew that was in Mali, right?) But first I had some travel plans to arrange.

I phoned around and everyone else was going to fly Air France - via Jo'burg to Paris to Bamako. That sounded odd. Why fly all the way to Europe to get to Mali? My travel agent also recommended this, but I insisted on her finding a more direct way there. The alternative she came up with? Air Cameroon. Hey, that sounded excellent - I am in Africa and should fly with an African airline. I booked my place and was ready to go.

I flew from Cape Town to Jo'burg to catch my connecting flight to Douala (Cameroon), and from there onwards to Bamako. Two stops and I am there. I was going to have fun with the other guys who flew Air France. They were going to leave after me so I will be there in time to have some cold beers ready by the time they got to the hotel.

I landed in Jo'burg and checked in for my flight to Douala - I got a nice window seat. Thought it was odd that the flight only left at 2 am, but that was fine. The last flight before this was at about 11 and the next one out at 6, but it gave me some time to first buy a few things (biltong, for one) for the flight. I did my shopping and grabbed something to eat. Everything shut down at about 11 and I hung around and walked from one area to the next. Also found it odd that I saw hardly anyone else hanging around. And then I looked at the boarding notice - my flight now only leaves at 5 am. Oh man, I had to hang out at a dead airport for another few hours. And nothing is open. So I ate my biltong, drank a few cokes from the vending machine, and smoked as if I was about to give up the next day (that took a few more years).

At last my flight was ready to board. One would have thought that we would get a good gate - especially with no other flights taking off at that time of the night/morning. But no, we got a gate stuck somewhere in a corner. After another slight delay we got onto the bus taking us to the plane - I was surprised to see no one being slightly pissed off about the delay in the flight. But that is the African way - we take things in our stride. No reason to lose your temper over something you can't control - war, corruption or delayed planes, it makes no difference to us having to live our lives anyway.

I was ready to sit down in my comfortable seat and catch up on some sleep. I was to scared to sleep at the airport - what if I missed my flight? Air Cameroon doesn't fly until he next day again. But, as I was about to take my seat, the air hostess came over to say that I can't sit in this/my seat. They had to keep that section open to balance the plane! 'But I had this seat allocated on my ticket! Where do I go now?', I responded. 'You can sit anywhere you like, sir. We don't hold people to their seat allocations', she said. Okay...

I got a seat and settled in for some sleep. I am like Pavlov's dog when it comes to planes and sleep - I fall asleep the minute I feel the vibrations of the engine. I woke up as we hit the tarmac. Douala, at last. But oddly enough no one else got ready to leave. I got up, got my stuff and started to go to the exit. But Ms air hostess stopped me with a 'where do you think you're going, sir?' 'Douala, of course'. The response - 'we're not in Douala, we're in Kinshasa'. What the hell? After a few exchanges of views and news, I was informed that they had people who wanted to get on the plane in Kinshasa and a few people that wanted to get off in Kinshasa. And this is just part of their service to their clients - we stop where you want us to stop. A bit like most African taxi's - the Toyota Hiace type.

Now I was starting to get worried. What about my connecting flight from Douala? I called the air host (by now I was too scared of the air hostess) and asked if there is a way to let Douala know that we are going to be late - we already got delayed in Jo'burg. He looked at me and smiled, 'no problem, sir. We use the same plane'. Air Cameroon only had 3 working planes at that stage...

Many hours later we arrived at Douala. It looked unbelievably modern from about 10,000 feet. Extracting gates and all. Way ahead of Cape Town and Jo'burg back then. But the closer we got the clearer the detail. None of the extracting gates worked. Half stood rusting away and the other half just sat there with their missing wheels and windows. And the tarmac didn't look that smooth either.

But we landed safely and got out quickly. Man, it was hot. I have never been in more humid and hot conditions in my life. Couldn't wait to get into the airport to the cool crisp air conditioning. Hum, this didn't work either. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero worked. But at least our flight got delayed. Again. But they gave us some crap coffee and bread to keep us quiet. As if I was going to argue with a guy standing a few meters away - in full army gear and an AK47 in his hands. Nope, I was as happy as a clam to keep my mouth shut and go with the flow.

We did eventually board our plane, and I got a seat - any seat - and settled in for the last trip to Bamako. And again I fell asleep. And again I woke up as we hit the tarmac. And again I got up to leave. And again the air hostess stopped me (the same one from earlier). And again I was told that we are not in the city that was indicated on my ticket. No this time they stopped in Abuja as part of their commitment to client needs. And then we stopped in Abidjan. And then we stopped in Dakar. And then we stopped in Bamako - many, many hours later than indicated on my itinerary.

The meeting in Bamako (and Bamako itself) is for another day. But the return flight was more or less the same as getting there. Same detours, same air hostess and same seating arrangements. Except for two things.

As always, I went to the airline a day before I was to leave Bamako - just to confirm my flight. As expected, they weren't open as indicated in the hotel brochure. I hung around for a few hours until they opened. I confirmed my flight leaves at 8 am. They said no. I confirmed that it was to be tomorrow. They said no. Apparently, the flight will leave sometime the day after tomorrow - but not sure what time. Still trying to fill the plane. I gave up. I didn't even bother to ask what I should do. I just turned around and started walking. The person behind the counter shouted for me to call them early on the day of departure. I just nodded my head, waved my hand, lit another smoke, and kept on walking.

We did eventually depart - and got to Douala after our detours. The air hostess told us that the plane will leave again at 7 (it was now 5 am). I laughed and jokingly asked whether that was 7 am or 7 pm. She looked at me and with a serious face said she will check. Of course it was 7 pm...

I had to call South African Airways in Jo'burg to say that I will miss my flight, but this was before I had a mobile phone that could work anywhere. And no phones at the departure gates either. And I had to pay $10 just to get out to the public side. Like hell I was going to do this. I got out my UN Conference badge and swung it around with the blank side showing. Found my way through some back corridors and found a door leading to the outside. But there was some seriously armed security guards hanging out there. I just kept on walking as if I belonged and with a 'bonjour' here and a nod there I got through to the other side. No luck in finding a phone either - there weren't any working phones. But Africa saved me again - as always. Someone overheard me asking for a phone and came over and offered me their mobile phone. I made my call and offered to pay - but he refused. He even bought me a beer. Very, very typical of my experiences in Africa. Someone somewhere always comes along to help me out or just share a beer - here I got both at the same time.

I was offered more crap coffee and bread - back in the departure lounge. But by now I was dying of the heat and humidity. I found my way up to the roof with a few beers and two friends. That lasted all of 10 minutes before armed security came to remove us. Apparently we weren't allowed up there. Off I went in search for an air conditioned office. I couldn't find anything. But I did find an air conditioned computer room. And I stayed there for the rest of the afternoon until we left. Yes, I was asked to leave a few times, but I didn't understand any language they spoke at that stage - neither French or English. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero.

I got home and after a few years started sleeping without waking up screaming and sweating. And managed to laugh about it after years of serious counseling.

And those guys who left on Air France? They left after me, but got to Bamako a day before me. But I had it lucky. A few of them was booked on Air Cape Verde for their return flight. Guess what. There was no Air Cape Verde.

Umlungu - becoming a white bastard (1997)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 01:34:00 +0000

It took me a while to gain the support of everyone at NACTU - being the first white guy ever to work for NACTU wasn't as easy as what you might think. Back in the 80s NACTU specifically decided not to join COSATU because of the white leadership within the trade union movement that dominated COSATU unions. They decided to go on their own and keep NACTU a black only trade union federation - black consciousness needed this approach early on. So not everyone was celebrating when I was asked to head up NACTU's negotiations at NEDLAC. But the fact that I was white soon became a secondary issue - and actually counted in our favour.

The majority of business and government people around the table were white - and from older stock. They believed that I had something in common with them at every level, including politics and social interests - just because we shared a skin colour and language. We used this often and effectively. Most negotiations took place during coffee or smoke breaks. And it was easy for me to become part of the group of white guys talking rugby, braaivleis (barbecue) and... well, positions at the negotiating table. They shared information with me that they wouldn't do with any of my black colleagues. And I took this information back to strengthen our position and develop new tactics - we won more often than not.

This helped me develop a deeper trust within the union movement. How people viewed me changed from being an outsider to being a trusted Comrade. I even got my own nickname - umlungu. Umlungu is an offensive name for a white person. I was literally called white bastard. The reason? Well, in the eye of the white guys I became a white bastard for joining NACTU and not joining their side. And it was an endearing way for NACTU to say that I was their 'white bastard'. I was on their side and got them info from the real umlungus.

Of course this didn't work well when in public. Being called umlungu in the streets of Jo'burg didn't always go down well. Imagine walking downtown in a rough area and where over 90% of the people are be black, and then someone shouting 'hey, you white bastard!' Needless to say, we had a few close calls where we had to explain to people what we meant - and that there was no reason to help beat up the white bastard.

It also had a bit of a novelty factor. People wanted to see the umlungu that works for NACTU. And the news travelled far. I was asked to do a short introductory speech to a group of trade unionist in the UK - they were donors so we jumped when they asked us to jump! I spotted a guy sitting at the back staring at me and smiling - I could also spot from a mile away that he was from South Africa. I went to speak to him afterwards and he told me he was on a training trip from COSATU. It was odd, we weren't from the same federation - so why was he here? He smiled as I asked him and replied - 'I just wanted to see who this Comrade umlungu was that joined NACTU'. We had a good laugh and shared a few beers.

The nickname stayed, but the colour of my skin became less and less of an issue. To such an extend that no one even noticed it anymore - not even myself. It came back every now and again when someone would be shocked to find out who I worked for - but we got to handle that in our own way. I'll never forget the first time it happened.

I was having a beer with a good NACTU friend of mine when she noticed two guys from COSATU sitting next to her. She knew them. She leaned over and started chatting to them and asked if they wanted to join us. The standard introductions followed, and when they asked me what I did for a living I responded, without thinking, that I worked for NACTU. You should have seen their faces - clearly shocked that I was white. And without thinking they both responded immediately with 'but you're white!' The response from my friend was priceless - without blinking she immediately reacted by swinging around to me and saying, 'what, he's white? An umlungu?' Her face was one of mock shock - and then she burst out laughing and couldn't stop laughing. You should have seen their faces. Bewildered doesn't even start to explain.

I never felt so proud of being a white bastard.

Rant & Rave: Don't Bitch About Bush, You've Got Zuma

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 15:46:00 +0000

I am extremely proud of being South African. What we have managed to do over the last 15 odd years have been unbelievable. From the most despicable Apartheid regime to a stable democracy and sound economic growth. From the bottom of the world pecking order, to the leading global voice on justice. A leading light in a world at war. We have shown the world how everyone can live in peace and harmony - and celebrate differences instead of letting it divide us. The region I come from has shown the world how Muslim, Christian, Hindu and Jew can all live together, celebrate our differences and enrich our lives in this melting pot we call home - instead of trying to wipe each other out.

Yes, like all other countries we have challenges. Crime, poverty and HIV/Aids being the biggest. At the heart is poverty - or at least the lack of shared wealth. Too much is still in the hands of a small (mostly white) minority. We have the systems in place to address this - affirmative action specifically aimed at benefiting the previously disadvantaged. These policies have been integrated into our procurement system in innovative ways, as well as in the workplace. At the same time the government has brought electricity, running water and housing to millions of people. We are very much a work in progress. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless. Change doesn't happen overnight.

And we have won the rugby world cup - twice!

We have shown how democracy can be a powerful way to bring real benefits to all people in South Africa. Since 1994 we have experienced mostly all the good and great things of having a democracy.

And then there was Zuma.

Zuma has just been elected as the leader of the ANC - the political party I supported and voted for in South Africa. He is now in a perfect position to become the next President of South Africa. The 'Comrades' at the Congress celebrated his win as proof that democracy works and that anyone can be elected as a leader in a free and fair election.

Zuma is an idiot. I have met him a few times and he is not the brightest spark. He has the charisma of a damp dishcloth. And the morals of a rat. He didn't deny sleeping with the young girl that was not only HIV positive, but also a family friend. Whether there was consent or not is irrelevant. You would expect more from someone who is supposed to be a leader we look up to - who should be a shining light for us to follow. And the fact that he took a shower afterwards to 'ensure' he doesn't 'catch' HIV speaks to his intellect. And I am not even going to go into the corruption charges. How the hell can the ANC Women's League justify supporting this guy during the election? And we all saw Zuma speak at the COSATU Congress - how could you even think for a minute he would be a leader for the workers or the people?

I know that people don't like Mbeki, but you don't drink cyanide just because you don't like Coke. Pick something else that won't kill you. Okay, cyanide will kill you quicker than Zuma, but the outcome will be the same - Zuma will drag everything that Madiba and all our great leaders have worked for through the mud. We will be the laughing stock of the world. Mbeki is a statesman respected across the world for not bending to popular demand, but sticking to what is just and right. Well, most of the time - he is fallible (read his HIV/Aids policies). Mbeki is a giant compared to Zuma.

What really gets to me is the fact that these same 'Comrades' will be the ones bitching and moaning about Bush and other world leaders , but especially Bush. As they used to say at union meeting - 'Comrade, you are out of order'. You lost your right to criticize the democratically elected leaders from other countries when you elected Zuma as your leader. Bush might be an idiot with policies we don't like or agree with, but he was democratically elected (twice) by his people - just like Zuma. So, stop your bitching about Bush or Brown - or even Mugabe - you got Zuma. YOU voted him in. YOU are responsible. YOU will be the laughing stock of the world. YOU just lost your right to bitch.

The birth of a Comrade (1996)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 15:00:00 +0000

My meeting with Cunningham for the LRS (Labour Research Services) job went unbelievably well. We hit it off straight away. He was one sharp cookie - and piercing eyes that could see through anything. He asked me questions from every angle. It was like watching Ali hitting his victim from every angle. One-two, one-two. And I had to open up very quickly and admit that I knew nothing of NACTU or what the job entailed. Hell, I didn't even know if he was a General Secretary or Secretary General. But that I had the commitment and passion to be part of the changing South Africa. I wanted this job more than anything. I wanted to be part of the best story ever to be told in the history of South Africa. The story of the rebirth of our country.

Well, he bought that hook, line and sinker. It was true, but I did pull out all my poetic skills to convince him that I was the right one for the job.

We sat around talking about the job and the kind of support they needed for a while. We had some crap coffee and a few cigarettes. He was an easy guy to be around and had great stories to tell. But I knew that he wasn't telling me everything of his past and you could see in his eyes that he have been to places some people should never go to - I later learnt that he was a responsible for APLA Intelligence during the liberation struggle. APLA - the Azanian People's Liberation Army - was the military wing of the Pan Africanist Congress in South Africa. APLA was one of the most vicious military wings in South Africa - especially between 1990 and 1994 when the ANC was already unbanned and everyone of note was negotiating for a new South Africa at CODESA. They killed 4 people at a golf club in 1992, 5 people at a hotel in 1993, 11 people in a church in 1993, and 4 people at a tavern I used to go to as a student in 1993. And he headed up their military intelligence.

We got up - wanted me to meet a few other people. First up was Mahlomola 'Shloksh' Skhosana - the Deputy General Secretary. He was fast asleep behind his desk. He sat straight up with his eyes closed. Cunningham just walked in and started talking - as if Mahlomola wasn't asleep at all. Slowly he woke up and wiped his eyes, and started talking as if he was never asleep at all. Odd, but I got used to this later on - he can fall asleep anywhere and still know what is going on around him. What a nice guy though - one of the biggest and warmest smiles you can find anywhere. And not a bad bone in his body.

Two other guys walked in while we were talking to Mahlomola - Joseph Maqekeni and Manene Samela. You could see straight away that Joseph was one of the original good guys. Workers loved him because he was like a father - and that's why he was elected President of NACTU. Always friendly and always listening - and happy to play a secondary role to strong, dominant power players like Cunningham.

Manene was another story. He was huge - from worker stock. In fact, the treatment his mother received from her employers was a major inspiration for his involvement in the trade union movement - fired after 23 years with no pension, just because she got old. And she only saw her kids once a year when she went home for the holidays. Manene had a look in his eyes that made it clear that he was not one to be crossed - ever. He was the General Secretary of the South African Chemical Workers Union (SACWU) - the largest NACTU trade union member. And SACWU was involved in a long running turf war with CEPPWAWU - their main competitor from the largest trade union federation in South Africa - the Congress of South African Trade Unions (COSATU). And it was an ugly battle - huge unions fighting for their members worker by worker - shop floor by shop floor.

At this stage Cunningham hasn't introduced me to anyone yet -not even to Mahlomola. He just started talking to Mahlemola about the LRS and Gordon Young when Joseph and Manene walked in.

No one paid much attention to me - especially when Joseph and Manene walked in. They were now talking trade union talk - another clash with CEPPWAWU and Manene was clearly upset and ready for a fight. About 5 minutes into their chat Joseph looked at me with a slightly perplexed look on his face as if he only realized I am in the room now, but for the life of him couldn't see why I would be there at all. I stood out amongst the men in the room - a young strange white guy not talking at all. Cunningham saw Joseph looking at me and turned around and said - 'Sorry Comrades, this is Comrade H - he is going to work for us on NEDLAC. He'll be our lead representative.'

Just like that. As if it meant nothing - just a matter-of-fact statement from him. And a life changing moment for me. I was shocked - I got the job! No real interview. No long list of questions. No checking of my referees. No multitude of people to interview me. Just a few words from Cunningham and I had it.

I think the surprise and utter ecstasy showed in my face as everyone looked at me and smiled. Joseph looked at me, gave me a big smile, slapped me on the back and said, 'Welcome Comrade H'. Then he turned to Manene and started talking about the turf war again.

And now I was a Comrade. A real Comrade, named by real Comrades.

But I was starting to run late. I still had to catch a cab back to the airport and get home to tell my wife. Those were the days before cellphones and I was dying to tell her the good news. I got the dream job - the break we needed and the chance we wanted.

As I left I got my first 'comrade' handshake from people who had real credentials in the struggle against Apartheid - not just some leftie student who thought it was cool to be radical. It starts like a normal handshake, then shifts to a quick grip similar to someone doing arm wrestling, and then shifts back to a normal handshake - hands always touching and the movements quick, clear and to the point - just like my new comrades.

Meeting Mr Cunningham (1996)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 16:54:00 +0000

I got my big break - an interview with Gordon Young for a job as Developmental Economist / Researcher at the LRS (Labour Research Services). The LRS was the leading trade union support organization in South Africa. Well respected by overseas donors and at the center of policy making in the trade union movement. And it played a huge role in the anti-Apartheid movement during the struggle years.

Of course I knew nothing about all this when I got the call from Gordon Young. Hey, I applied for a job that was advertised in the wrong newspaper. And I was only a minor player in the anti-Apartheid movement at my university. How was I supposed to know who they were? I would have thought that it had something to do with taxes if someone mentioned the LRS to me.

But I managed to wing it at the interview. Gordon and myself did not hit it off straight away. I think that he thought I was a bit of a lightweight. He was right of course, but he also realized that I knew research methodology inside out. And that, combined with the lack of competition, got me through to the final round of interviews. With the LRS partner - NACTU - that I will be working with.

Again, I knew nothing of NACTU. Absolutely nothing. Thanks to my Apartheid education, I was never taught anything about trade unions in South Africa - not even at university. Never mind the smaller of the three trade union federations.

My initial research also let me down. I thought NACTU stood for the National Azanian Council of Trade Unions. It made sense. NACTU was closely aligned with the black consciousness movement and had close ties with organizations such as the Pan Africanist Congress of Azania (PAC) and Azanian People's Organization (AZAPO) - two of the dominant black consciousness organizations in the fight against Apartheid. But I was wrong - although they were somewhat aligned with the PAC, NACTU stood for the National Council of Trade Unions. And their members had the freedom to choose who they wanted to support politically.

But I didn't do that much research, thinking that I can wing it again as I did with Gordon. All I knew was that NACTU was a trade union federation and that the job would focus on supporting them with research.

Gordon told me I was to meet Cunningham in Johannesburg. If he liked me I would get the job as he would indirectly be my boss. Hey, they pay my salary - I just work for the LRS.

I started picturing Mr Cunningham. He sounded like a typical middle aged white English guy - most likely from the 'old country' - England.

I got on the plane to Johannesburg from Cape Town to meet Mr Cunningham at the NACTU offices. Grabbed a taxi from the airport and off I went to Fox Street in the center of Jo'burg. I was shitting myself as I have only been to Jo'burg a few times, and the horror stories people told me sounded like something from Gotham City - muggings, car hijacking, stabbings etc. Not the place for a young white boy from a small town. But I made it to the NACTU offices in one piece.

As I entered the NACTU offices I immediately realized that I have never seen so many black people in one office. Everyone was black. It was a bit of a cultural shock - but a pleasant one. At last I found a place that looked like it represented South Africa. Anti-Apartheid slogans and pictures were posted all over the walls - clenched fists and all. I thought it was odd that a white middle aged English guy would head up all of this, but this is South Africa and anything is possible.

So I sat around and waited for Mr Cunningham to come and call me for my interview. A tall, thin black guy in overalls walked past me and stopped. He looked back at me and said - 'You must be Henk'. He came over and introduced himself. 'Hi Comrade, I am Cunningham. Cunningham Ncgukana'. He wasn't even middle aged.

Wrong degree, wrong timing, wrong newspaper, wrong colour - right job? (1996)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 02:18:00 +0000

Like most students in South Africa, my wife and myself decided to go on a working student holiday to the UK after we finished our studies. We had fun, but decided to come back after six months - we missed home way too much.

Now it was time to get a job. We both took jobs that paid the bills, but not what we had in mind as a career. Every day we will go through the newspapers and see what is available in line with our interests. We had different interests and had to look at different newspapers to make sure we cover all angles. Whenever we had a chance we would look for jobs for each other as well.

But it was a tough time to be a political scientist. No way in hell was I going to work for the Apartheid government - even though they already unbanned the ANC and released Nelson Mandela. I had the wrong degree to take any other job and had to settle for battling it out until something better came along.

And with so many exiles coming back, there were very few jobs open in more radical and left-leaning organisations. And, of course, I was a minor student activist at one of the most conservative universities in South Africa - not the right qualifications at that time in South Africa either.

I was browsing through the Cape Times, searching for a job for my wife, when I came across a very small ad for a developmental economist / researcher job for a trade union support organization. This was very, very odd. Not only because it was in the 'General' job section, but because of the newspaper that the ad was placed in. The Cape Times was the South African equivalent of the USA Today - full of short stories, bordering on tabloid news, and leaning slightly to the right. (Why did I read this? Hey, we only had two daily newspapers in the area I lived! And it was before the Internet took off.) Hardly anyone was going to see this ad stuck in a corner in the wrong newspaper.

This gave me the perfect incentive to try for the job. Hey, the competition was going to be weak and I might actually stand a chance. So I rang the number and it went through an agency they were using - Action Appointments. The person who spoke to me, Annelie Marais, sounded slightly taken aback when I said I was interested in the job. She eventually came out with her problem - after a few minutes of throat clearing and obviously stumbling around for the right words - and said: 'Sorry sir, but our client is looking at an affirmative action appointment'. I didn't get it straight away, but she made it clear - her client wants a black person for the job. I was dissapointed, but thanked her for her time and said goodbye. I was just the wrong colour for this job.

I had no problem with affirmative action. In fact, I have always been a big supporter of affirmative action and would later become part of the group who would write this into policies and laws as we rewrote almost every piece of legislation in South Africa after winning the election in 1994. But it was the first time this was used against me - so it was a bit more personal.

I mulled it over for a few days and decided to give her another call. This time I mentioned to her that we spoke a few days earlier and that she mentioned that this position is an affirmative action position. I went further to say that she is the agent and do not make these decisions - she should at the very least forward my CV with all the other applicants and let the employer make the call. I would be more than happy to stick with their decision - but it was not her decision to make. She was very nice and tried to talk me out of it, but in the end agreed that because the ad did not say it was an affirmative action position, she would give my CV to the client - I also had a suspicion that she didn't have too many CV's to start off with due to the newspaper she picked. (Annelie and me became good friends later on, but we never spoke about how we met the first time).

And a few days later I got a call from Gordon Young, the founder and head of the Labour Research Services and highly respected in te labour movement, saying that he would like to interview me for the position of Developmental Economist / Researcher.

This was my big chance - and the process of trying to get this job was another experience all together.

The accident (1985)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Wed, 26 Dec 2007 04:03:00 +0000

As I mentioned before, I grew up in a very traditional racist Afrikaans house in South Africa. We always lived in pretty white-only areas and were almost completely cut off from the reality outside our little neighbourhood. Yes, we had a black maid working in our house and a black gardener, but it never occurred to me that there was anything wrong with the way we lived. It wasn't discussed in our homes, or in church, or in school, or on television, or in newspapers, or even in general conversation at the braai (barbecue). All of these where controlled by the Apartheid regime - everywhere where you would expect issues to be raised were controlled by the Apartheid regime. When you live in a controlled environment, you pretty much never know what you are missing - a 'great' controlled social experiment.

A question that I get asked often is 'how did you land up this way? And it is difficult to answer. There wasn't a single 'big event' that influenced me. It was a combination of many little things. And it added up. It is still the same process today - every experience adds a little bit of new insight and knowledge... and a realization that I still have much more to learn and still don't know anything!

I'll just highlight a few things that played a role in my initial 'transformation' while I was still at school. It didn't change me overnight, but it did point me in the right direction and laid the foundation for my future behaviour.

It started with my mom. She wasn't a liberal by any stretch of the imagination. But she wasn't a racist the way my father was a racist. She always told me to never except anything as a given and to always question everything until I am satisfied with the answer. And I did. Maybe she didn't want me to question the 'establishment', but she gave good advice.

Another major influence was my history teacher at school. Again, not a liberal at all. But he was a good teacher. We were never taught anything about the ANC, Nelson Mandela or the struggle against Apartheid in history classes - it was all about the white history. And specifically the 'struggle' of the Afrikaners against pretty much everyone. I loved history. Always did well and studied hard. Mr Grant knew that I was interested in history and always gave me a little more attention than the other kids. And then one day he stopped me as I was about to leave his class. All he said was 'you know, there is another history of South Africa that I am not allowed to tell you about' - and then walked out the class. That was it. Nothing more. But enough for me to start asking questions and dig around a bit more to find out about this 'other' history.

Music also played a major role in my transformation. It didn't play a role in my early years as most of the music my parents played was pretty crap - Afrikaans music sucked back in those days, and still do. And then one day someone slipped me a tape with some music of Billy Bragg, The Smith and The Cure. That made me sit up and take notice, but not much. Springsteen did it for me. I was listening to Born In The USA when my brother walked in and gave me some of his old Springsteen tapes - Nebraska and The River. And I was hooked. I started listening to every word he had to say. Although he sang about the US and 'his' people, I knew that the same issue was true for most blue collar workers in South Africa. And most of them happened to be black.

All of these influences played a role. But they never connected. The light switched on when I was involved in a very typical but minor motorbike accident while going to school. It was rainy and I was running late. And I was about to write a history exam. I had Springsteen blasting away before I jumped on my bike. No Surrender was playing, and I had these words stuck in my head while driving to school - 'There's a war outside still raging, you say it ain't ours anymore to win'. Bam! I hit the car in front - never saw it stop. I went flying, bounced off the back window, and was knocked out cold by the time I hit the road.

It was only for a few minutes, but when I woke up I had this group of people looking down at me and talking among themselves. And for some reason the first thought that crossed my mind was 'why are they all white?'

And by accident I became an activist. But it all came little by little. One experience after the other. Always questioning a little bit more. Always digging for more information behind the story. It's still the same today - open to listen to and learn about new views, but being critical of anything and everything.

I had many similar accidents in my life that made me who I am today. No big plan - just a few 'minor' accidents that happened to shape my life.

Thank you Mom. Thank you Mr Grant. Thank you Bruce. And thank you Yamaha.

Rant & Rave: Do They Know It's Christmas?

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 15:16:00 +0000

I really don't like Christmas songs. No one will like Christmas music if the topic was anything else. Imagine the same tune but another topic. Would you buy or listen to Boney M if they didn't play Christmas music?

But there is one specific song that really gets to me. Band Aid's Do They Know It's Christmas?

I know they mean well. And their heart is in the right place. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions - well, that's what my mother used to say.

There is one specific line that sticks out and gets to me. 'And there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas'. Uh-duh. It is summer in most of Africa at Christmas time. Of course there won't be any snow in Africa this Christmas. Or the next. No matter how many times you sing the song - there will be no snow in (most of) Africa at ANY Christmas.

It used to baffle me at Christmas time when people used to send us cards with snow scenery - snowmen, Father Christmas on his sleigh, snowflakes falling etc. What's that all about? We never got snow - Christmas or any other time. It never really got cold enough in winter for snow - never mind at Christmas time during the summer. It was a completely foreign concept. So when they started singing about it during Christmas it bugged me even more. Never got it. I was 30 before I saw it snow for the first time - in Europe.

But maybe it isn't the song or my childhood memories driving my dislike of Christmas songs - especially Do They Know It's Christmas? Maybe what gets to me is that more than 20 years later we still have all this shit going on in Africa. People suffering at a time when the world is indulging. Things are a little better than 20 years ago, but for the majority of Africans it is still marginal. So many of them work hours we can't imagine and under conditions we will never survive. And they don't bitch and moan. They just live their lives and carry on. They DO know it's Christmas time, but just don't see the point. It's not much better than in 1984. Except it is now Sir Bob.

The (student) spy amongst us (1989)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 03:16:00 +0000

Like all good young Afrikaners fresh out of school, I started studying at the University of Stellenbosch in the late 80's. Well, it was the only university that my dad was willing to pay for - anything else was seen as way to 'left' for him. He did agree for me to study political science, hoping that I would be like all good Afrikaners and become part of the Apartheid regime's 'braintrust' - Stellenbosch University was the intellect behind Apartheid. Even the building that I studied at was named after one of the leading Apartheid politicians - Prime Minister BJ Vorster. Vorster was so right wing that he even opposed South Africa supporting the allies during World War II.

I was already leaning slightly left by the time I started university and decided to join the most prominent 'leftie' group at university - NUSAS (National Union of South African Students). NUSAS was the only liberal student group for white students during Apartheid. It was a pretty good organization at most universities - allowing for information you wouldn't find in too many places.

The first meeting I attended was to discuss a major protest march on campus. The leading light of NUSAS in those days where a guy called Mark Behr. He was handsome and laid back - a prerequisite for any student activists who wanted to lead an organization. Just enough knowledge to pass superficial debates, but enough looks and attitude to get laid. The meeting went fairly well - a lot of talking and organizing. And it did result in a pretty good march the next day - well attended for Stellenbosch University. But I just had this gut feeling that Mark couldn't be trusted. I didn't say anything as I couldn't place my finger on it - and I was a junior.

But my problems started the next day when we got back together to discuss the march. We didn't get into what we were trying to achieve or what we managed to do. We got straight into discussing the next march. I tried to raise the point that maybe we should decide what we want to achieve and how best we can achieve this. But I was told to keep quiet. Hey, I was a junior and it was only my second meeting.

I tried to talk to Mark afterwards and said that maybe we should arrange for either the local trade union or the UDF (United Democratic Front - the ANC ally) to march with us to show unity. I can't repeat his words - he said it in Afrikaans and it was clearly racist, even though he tried to make it sound as if he was an 'independent thinker'. My initial distrust turned to dislike. I left NUSAS after 2 meetings.

A few month later Mark made headlines - he reportedly got shot at while studying. Boy, did this make him popular. Here is a guy who is so powerful that the Apartheid regime would actually go so far as to try to kill him. Stellenbosch University had a bona fida anti-Apartheid superstar - the man almost got killed. I didn't buy it. The glass was on the outside of the window and they couldn't find the bullet hole.

I shared my thoughts with a few people I knew that were still at NUSAS. But they didn't take my bait. They supported Mark and thought of him as the 'real thing'. In fact, a few of them made it clear that I was only going to create more trouble for myself if I don't shut up. My parting words was - 'I don't trust him and it will all come out at some stage'. In the meantime Mark remained the darling of the student activists, and the 'hit' solidified his reputation.

But it did all come out. Many years later Mark came clean. He was a spy for the Apartheid regime. Yes, during those student days we shared.

It was a shocker to everyone. We knew there were spies everywhere. Every hostel had at least one. But we knew who they were - or most of them at least. But everyone was shocked that Mark was one. (Of course not me - I rubbed it in). He betrayed all of those who trusted him and worked with him. He went to his 'handler' and shared their most secret talks and made them targets for the Apartheid regime. He was everything they despised, and more because he made out as if he was one of them.

But what struck me was the timing of his announcement - 1996. It was odd. Why now? Because his first book just got published and a little publicity never hurt anyone. That's Mark, always staying in the limelight and looking after number one.

Things have changed over the years for Mark. He moved away from South Africa and went on to study at Notre Dame. And living a quiet life in Santa Fe.

Oxfam maths - it just doesn't tally up (2003)

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 02:22:00 +0000

The Oxfam Coffee Campaign - or Mugged - was the major Oxfam campaign in 2003. And it was timely. Coffee prices were at an all time low and coffee farmers were suffering. And it helped bring to life the struggles farmers face in the current multilateral trade system - a global trade system that held very little benefit for the small farmers.

It had all the ingredients for a successful Oxfam campaign - a product that people consume in abundance (coffee is the second most traded commodity in the world - only oil beats it), an alternative with a catchy name - Fair Trade, the faces of African farmers on all materials to get supporters going, and well known brands that people could brand as the 'evil predators' - Nestle, Kraft, P&G and Sara Lee. A lethal combination and the bread and butter of campaigning. And luck was on my side - a few things went my way and I was asked to head up the campaign a few months after joining Oxfam in 2002. (Previous campaign lead Sophia Tickell left within a few months of me joining Oxfam).

I thought we had a good campaign. We asked coffee companies, or Roasters as we called them, to commit to very specific actions to help address the coffee crisis. And many of the companies we targeted did take up our challenge - not all of them, but at least a few did. I thought we should 'celebrate' our first year of the Mugged campaign by doing some proper quantitative research to assess whether the Roaster did what we asked them to do. It was going to be easy - tick the box and move on. We even came up with the idea of giving companies a report card to show the progress they made. And the campaign anniversary took place in September when so much focus would be on the report cards kids receive at school - easy publicity.

But there was a major problem I did not even think of - what will happen if one or more of the companies passed? For me it was easy - if you pass you pass. It would show people that progress has been made and that we can be part of the change we want - that their support and our campaign can make a real difference. And that we are grownup enough to tip our hat to those companies who recognize their mistakes and made the changes we asked them to make.

We did our best research and even developed a 'bean count' system - 0 was ' just not coffee' and 5 was 'the fairest brew'. And the nightmare began when we realized that the most boycotted company in the UK, and major campaign target, Nestle passed the test. Most people just couldn't stand the possibility of acknowledging anything good at Nestle - never mind saying publicly that they did okay in doing what we asked them to do. It just wasn't cricket.

Still, for me it was easy. We had to do what was right - report our findings. I had a daughter that just started school and wouldn't want anyone to move the goalposts for her when it came to school. And I couldn't do it to someone else - even if I didn't like them. So I stuck to my guns and argued that we should do what was right and acknowledge that companies made progress and that they got a pass on their report card. Mind you, they didn't get A's in our initial research - they got C's. A pass, but not a good pass - 'room for improvement', 'work harder' and 'showing promise' would be the taglines that would accompany the report cards. Not glowing grades, but a pass nevertheless.

I had to go on a trip and left the work for others to complete - do the graphics and get the campaign materials ready. Boy, was I in for a surprise when I got back. Someone senior (and someone I respected and liked) decided that we just couldn't give companies any credit and changed the maths. Instead of grading them on the things we asked them to do, Oxfam changed the grades and decided to make one of the four things we asked them to do count for 70% of the grade. Why? Because almost all of them failed this part of the test. It didn't matter that Oxfam believed that this one part wasn't more important that others. What mattered most was to fail the companies. All of them. And they did. Nestle got 43% in the report card.

I learned a harsh lesson. I might have taught research methodology at university, but when it came to social maths you can't beat a campaigner. Truth and fact was truly in the eye of the beholder - Oxfam.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention. I refused to budge and refused to lead the report card campaign. It did happen. Just not with me leading it.

I wasn't born to be an activist

noreply@blogger.com (HPD) — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 19:12:00 +0000

I wasn't born to be an activist. Quite the opposite, really. I was born to be the stereotypical 'good, racist Afrikaner' in Apartheid South Africa. My family supported Apartheid and all of them worked for the Apartheid regime at some stage in their lives.

My dad was a Brigadier in the South African Prison Services, and one of his last assignments was to look after political prisoners at Pollsmoor prison. But I will leave my dad for another day. Both my sisters worked at the prison services and married guys who worked at the prison services. And my brother worked for the prison services on Robben Island - where Nelson Mandela was jailed.

I grew up in a home that did everything the Apartheid government wanted us to do. We were part of the Dutch Reformed Church - the Apartheid government in prayer. We watched rugby - then the sport of the white Afrikaner. I went to school at Paarl Gymnasium - one of the best Apartheid schools in South Africa. I attended the University of Stellenbosch - the 'brain trust' of the Apartheid policies and politics. We read the Apartheid government approved newspapers and watched their TV. I benefited from the education they provided and the money they paid my dad. I was made for a life supporting and working for the Apartheid government.

I was well on my way to become one of them. I did everything they expected me to do. I was a young racist Afrikaner, ready to take my place in their world. Well, at least the small world within the white community in South Africa.

Somewhere along the line things didn't work out the way they planned. I became everything that Apartheid was against - an activist with a social conscience who loves being an 'African' on the global stage. Instead of being the man they wanted me to be, I became the man I wanted to be. It hasn't always been easy. It hasn't always been fun. But it always felt right. From Stellenbosch to Seattle, Mali to Monterrey, and Lusaka to London - no matter where the road took me, it always felt right, and it always felt as if I belonged.

That's the beauty of life - you can be who and what you want to be no matter where you come from.